The Sexopaths

  ‘Right now I’m completely naked.’

  ‘I can believe that.’ He raises his eyebrows at Monique. ‘So you’re coming to our house tomorrow night?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Well… I think that was what was arranged.’

  ‘Oh, yeah… you’re the couple? Your wife’s pretty fanciable, by the way.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m with a client.’

  ‘Oh right – sorry to…’ The line disconnects.

  He frowns and spins the handset on the smooth table surface. He says:

  ‘What did you make of that?’

  ‘I think she is quite a character.’

  ‘She was naked with a client.’

  ‘Well – like I said, she did not have to answer.’

  ‘She sounded kind of off her face. And she didn’t remember at first. Are you quite sure about her?’

  ‘Maybe we can call her again tomorrow, during the day, when she’s less distracted.’

  ‘I don’t know – what is there to say?’

  ‘So you can get to know her?’

  ‘She said she fancies you. How come?’

  Monique giggles. ‘She asked me to email her a photo of us.’

  ‘And you did?’

  ‘Just from my phone… the one I took of us in the café-bar at the airport at Riga.’

  Adam shakes his head disbelievingly. Sure – it’s a nice shot… but where might this end? He protests:

  ‘What if she posts us on her Facebook page?’

  ‘I don’t think so, my darling.’

  ‘Did she ask anything about me?’

  ‘Just whether I was making the appointment on your instructions.’

  ‘Cheek.’

  ‘It is usual, apparently – like the old hitchhikers’ trick where the girl flags down the car while the boyfriend hides in the bushes.’

  ‘And did she believe you?’

  ‘I said I was very bi-curious.’ She laughs, but not in quite the mad way Adam would have expected at such a remark.

  ‘Monique...’

  ‘It was just to put her at ease about us.’

  ‘Seems like you’ve succeeded, on your part at least.’

  He wonders if he sounds a little rejected. He asks:

  ‘Just how much detail did you get into when you discussed the ‘arrangements’?’

  ‘Things we might like.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes. I said I thought you would like it if we tied you up and took turns to suck you.’

  Adam swallows. His pulse takes a leap that he can feel in his underwear. He grips his chin with one hand, in exaggerated fashion.

  ‘And you don’t mind that?’

  ‘Why should I?’ There’s a glint in her eyes, sparked by the confession.

  ‘And, er… how about things you might like?’

  She takes a gulp of wine, then apes his interview style in her response:

  ‘I’d like you to fuck her while she’s in a sixty-nine position with me.’

  ‘Bad girl, Monique.’

  For a second he wonders if the observation sounds too congratulatory, and revealing of the secret thoughts somersaulting celebrations inside his head. He reaches for her hand and she reciprocates, squeezing his fingers reassuringly. He says:

  ‘Are you certain about this?’

  ‘Mais oui. Et tu, mon cheri?’

  He delays his reply for a diplomatic second. ‘I guess – as long as you feel fine.’

  ‘I do. It is exciting.’

  ‘I just wouldn’t feel great if it were another guy involved. After this Russian business…’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And you don’t want a couple to come?’

  ‘Can you get that?’

  Evidently you can, thinks Adam. ‘I imagine it’s possible.’

  ‘It is okay, my darling. Don’t worry. This is what I want for us. It is a turn on for me, that it is a turn on for you.’

  Adam nods once in acceptance. ‘Okay.’

  ‘So – do you want to change her for another one, or cancel altogether?’

  ‘Right now I want to take you upstairs.’

  ***

  The doorbell chimes, a polite pause between its two notes. Adam glances nervously at Monique. It’s like they are both in a waiting room and now he is first to be called. Carefully he puts down his shot glass and slides off his stool. He takes a couple of paces but then has second thoughts and turns to down the tequila in one. Fashionably shod where he would usually go barefoot, his steps betray his progress through the wooden-floored hallway. As he reaches the front door, the bell rings again, with more urgency this time. He feels the alcohol kicking in – the darts player’s palliative it enables him to raise a steady hand to the latch.

  ‘Hi Jasmin, I’m Adam.’

  He feels curiously detached as he considers that this is a call girl he’s letting into their home, and how normal seems the process.

  ‘Hey babes.’

  He holds out a hand but she plants a kiss straight on his lips and brushes past him. He tastes mint and cigarette, and for an infinitesimal moment he’s startled as her unexpectedly familiar scent fires neurons in his brain that flash up an image of Xara. Then he hears the sudden rattle of a diesel engine and the vision dissolves: a taxi is turning in their driveway. The driver is female and she sights him across her shoulder as she pulls away. He has a sudden urge to call after her, to explain that this isn’t for him – that his wife is here too and that she has arranged it all. But Jasmin intervenes. She tugs at his sleeve and says:

  ‘It’s okay babes – she’s my friend.’

  He turns to face her. His first impression is of disappointment; already her local accent has lowered his expectations. And while her web portfolio oozes airbrushed perfection and promises beauty, the skin of her cheeks is flawed beneath its cosmetic rendering; as Monique had perceived, she’s older than advertised. Stretched lines draw a hardness across her eyes, pale blue pools that seem slowly to be taking in their surroundings.

  She’s not far below his own height, elevated by significant heels, and she begins to reveal more as she removes a fur beret to shake out a twisted cascade of blonde hair, and then unwraps herself from within the matching calf-length sable. Adam reaches out to assist, and she fixes him with an empty stare as he relieves her first of an over-size designer handbag, and then extends an arm to receive the heavy coat. And now he sees why she can ply this trade: she may not be so pretty, but her body – all curves within a tight black skin of silky jeans and matching top – he just wants to go to bed with. His heart takes a bump and he senses sweat at the armpits of his freshly laundered shirt. He says:

  ‘Monique’s waiting through in the kitchen. Can I give you our envelope first?’

  ‘Sure, babes.’ She appears at once alert and disinterested.

  ‘This way.’ He beckons her into his study and picks up an unsealed white envelope from his desk. ‘I think that’s right. For two hours, plus a hundred extra for a couple. Six hundred.’

  She thumbs the sheaf of notes. She frowns and after a moment says:

  ‘No – it should be more.’ There’s a harsh note in her voice.

  He can’t think why it’s not the correct amount – he’s checked half a dozen times on the Angels365 website. He wonders if this is her standard opening gambit. He says:

  ‘I took it from your web page. Look, I can go out to a cash machine.’

  Then she smiles. ‘Oh – I got it wrong in my head. Sorry, babes – this is right. I was thinking of something else.’ She crumples the envelope into her bag like a discarded tissue and then suddenly places a palm on his sternum. ‘Nice shirt, babes.’

  He’d like her to kiss him again, to re-establish the connection she made on arrival. Now her stare seems to invite him to touch her, but he knows he must say:

  ‘Come and meet Monique. And have a drink.’

  ‘I don’t normally drink, but… let’s see.’


  As he leads her through into the kitchen she traces a nail down his spine; only reluctantly he steps away in order to introduce Monique.

  ‘Voila Jasmin. But of course you nearly know one another.’

  Monique slides from the barstool, explosively bombing the tiled floor with her own killer heels, and totters forward to greet the girl. Their heights are virtually identical. They start with air-kisses but their proximity draws them together into what Adam recognises as an ice-breaking embrace; they visibly relax as one. He guesses there were more nerves than either chose to display, and in their unspoken way they’ve just confessed these underlying anxieties. Despite Jasmin’s provocative touches, now he feels like the outsider. This is furthered as Monique indicates the barstool beside hers, where previously he sat. So while the girls make themselves comfortable he pours champagne.

  ‘Cheers, then.’

  They reciprocate. He watches with interest as Jasmin drains her glass. He extends the bottle.

  ‘That’s not bad going, since you don’t normally drink.’

  ‘I’ve decided I like you both. And I love champagne, babes.’

  Adam looks apologetically to Monique, expecting her to recoil at this intimacy, but she pays no attention, instead turning to face the girl. She says, engagingly:

  ‘So – here we are!’

  She dips her head and peers inquiringly at Jasmin, rather like a doctor glancing up from a patient’s notes over the rim of her reading glasses, as if to ascertain the veracity of unlikely symptoms claimed by the patient herself. He’s been expecting a coded sign of approval, or otherwise, but her focus from the first moment has been on the girl. There’s no indication that she’s troubled by the presence in their suburban sanctuary of this visitor whom, by most, would be viewed as a denizen of the dark underworld, summoned to corrupt their relationship.

  ‘You have a gorgeous house, Monique.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s so beautifully decorated. Was it done by an interior designer?’

  Adam intervenes to save Monique’s blushes. ‘It’s all her own work. She’s in advertising.’

  ‘You’ve got fabulous taste. It’s really cool.’

  Monique returns the compliment. ‘I love your top. Is it the autumn range from Ghost?’

  ‘Yes – how do you know?’

  ‘I think I saw it in one of my magazines. I adore their clothes. I coveted it the moment I opened the page.’

  Jasmin proffers an arm and Monique responds by stroking the fabric from her shoulder to her elbow. ‘It is so soft – it must feel wonderful to wear.’

  ‘You can try it on if you like.’

  Monique giggles. Her eyes narrow and Adam can see she’s turned on by the idea of swapping clothes with the girl. Already he senses a private airspace is taking form about the pair, admitting the champagne bottle but not the barman.

  ‘I have one of their dresses from the spring – it’s see-through and clingy in all the right places. It would suit you. Very alluring.’

  Jasmin smiles and raises her glass for Monique to clink. They drink and then Monique says:

  ‘It must be one of the perks of your job – that you can wear sexy clothes for work.’

  Jasmin casts her eyes down for a moment as though she would disagree. ‘It’s not always appreciated by the punters.’

  Monique seems unfazed. Yet to his ears it’s a shock epithet, ringing of the uncomfortable reality of this moment. Are they not punters? Or is Jasmin so inured to its use that she doesn’t even notice.

  ‘They just want them off!’ Monique sounds tipsy.

  ‘Who wants meat in its wrapper?’

  This time Jasmin’s choice of words elicits a reaction from Monique. Sympathetically she replaces her hand on the girl’s sleeve.

  ‘Oh – Monique, don’t worry. I’m used to it. It’s better that way. I can’t have punters taking a shine to me. Getting to know me.’

  Monique involuntarily lifts her hand. Suddenly Jasmin is forced to backtrack. ‘Monique – I don’t mean you. You two.’ Without looking at him, she includes Adam with a sweep of her champagne flute. ‘You’re a lovely couple – I really like you – it’s really nice to be here. You’re really chilled.’

  Adam feels like he’s kicking his heels. He doesn’t need to know about the girl’s problems. Why hadn’t they just led her straight upstairs, an option they’d discussed? But Monique is tenacious in pursuit of knowledge.

  ‘Do you get some awful… punters?’

  Again Adam finds the word disconcerting, doubly so coming from Monique’s lips. Now they’re about to share confidences like a pair of brothel-sisters. Jasmin shakes her head, though it seems as much an affected shrug as a negation of the question. She says:

  ‘Ninety percent are regular guys.’ Now she indicates Adam with a tilt of her head. ‘Like your husband.’

  He feels sure his cheeks are burning, but Monique doesn’t look his way. Meanwhile Jasmin completes her equation:

  ‘Ten percent are scum.’

  Monique’s eyes widen. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Huh… they try to con you – or not to pay what you’ve agreed. Or they want to do disgusting stuff to you… or you to do it to them…’

  Monique responds to the pause with an encouraging nod.

  ‘I mean – last week… there was this punter, foreign – wee greasy guy, fat, rude. I got to his hotel room and he started trying to barter down the price. I wouldn’t budge and he was calling me a slag and that. I undressed in his bathroom and when I came out he was sitting with his cock out – some tiny cock! He wanted me to suck him off in front of the mirror. I asked if he’d showered and he just ranted at me again and said he was paying and I’d do as I was told. I knelt down and started giving him a hand job but he smelt awful and he got me by the hair and tried to push me onto it. I just went mad and shoved him over the back of the chair and grabbed my stuff and ran for it. He was spitting and screaming he was going to have me maimed.’

  ‘That’s scary. You must have been terrified.’

  ‘I should have known better – got out right at the start. But he was hardly going to come after me with his trousers round his ankles and that excuse for a dick. More the dick than the trousers.’

  They all laugh at this – Jasmin seems quite unperturbed. Adam is interested in the practical aspect of her escape. He says:

  ‘What about you – clothing-wise, I mean?’

  She glances at him for a second, then returns her attention to Monique. ‘I was in heels, and stockings and suspender belt. I’d suspected I might need to make a dash for it – so I’d stuffed my dress and bra and pants into my handbag and brought it through. All I had to do in the corridor was wrap my coat round me. I got the jerk’s money, too.’

  ‘You should receive danger money,’ says Monique.

  ‘I suppose I do, in a way.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a bodyguard?’

  Jasmin shakes her head. You can have someone you phone to say you’ve arrived and when you’ll call them again – so they can raise the alarm. You do it in front of the punter, so for all they know you’ve got someone waiting downstairs. If you’re with an agency you just call into them.’

  ‘But you are not… with an agency?’

  ‘’365? – it’s just a website for independent escorts. There’s no controller. Not that you can speak to.’

  ‘So what do you do, for safety?’

  ‘To be honest, Monique, I don’t usually bother. When a punter’s booked into a hotel… you kind of think they must be safe… they’d know they could be traced.’

  Unless they’re a psychopath, muses Adam, in which case they’d have thought of that.

  ‘So did you phone someone – when you got here?’

  ‘Tonight – the taxi I came in – she’s a really good friend. My regular transport.’ And as if reading Adam’s thoughts, she adds:

  ‘It’s okay – she’s discreet. And she doesn’t normally work this side of town
.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ asks Monique. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’

  ‘Sunny Leith. I’m staying at my mum’s for a few weeks just now… while I’m getting my finances sorted out. So I can rent my own place again.’

  ‘That shouldn’t take too long?’

  ‘You’re not tax people, are you?’

  She says it only half-seriously, but Monique reacts quickly.

  ‘Of course not!’ She clasps her hands reassuringly over Jasmin’s. ‘I can show you our pictures on our company websites.’

  ‘It’s okay – I mean… I know you’re genuine.’

  ‘Do you see many couples?’

  ‘There’s been one or two around town.’

  Their glasses are low and Adam tenders refills. The warming champagne is lively and bubbles overflow onto Jasmin’s fingers. She reaches towards him, presenting her glistening knuckles.

  ‘Suck?’

  He hesitates, suddenly self-conscious about performing the slavish act in front of Monique. Jasmin transfers the offer to Monique, who is quick to oblige.

  ‘If that’s what you like doing with champagne, we’ve plenty on ice.’ Adam tries to recover lost ground, but he knows he failed her little test.

  Jasmin holds up her glass. ‘See? – I don’t normally drink on a job. I must feel good. You have such a beautiful place. I’d love somewhere like this.’

  ‘How do you manage, living with your mother?’

  Jasmin understands the nature of Monique’s query. She replies:

  ‘I can do incalls. When I know the place is going to be empty. My mum works part-time for the Co-op.’

  Adam pictures a shabby flat draped with damp laundry, daylight intruding around the edges of ill-fitting curtains, lingering cooking smells.

  Monique asks: ‘Does your mother know what you do?’

  ‘Nobody knows. Well, Liz – my taxi driver – but she would never tell anyone. Girls on the website, obviously we’re acquainted.’

  ‘Are you okay about being here tonight?’

  ‘Sure – I’ve not been trafficked, you know.’ She says it with a smile. ‘This feels good.’

  ‘How did you begin?’

  Adam doesn’t doubt this is the question Monique has been itching to ask.