The Sexopaths

  ‘My darling – you are alive!’

  ‘A dormouse couldn’t sleep through that racket.’

  ‘My apologies – come… have something while it is hot. I have a surprise for you.’

  ‘A bacon roll?’

  ‘No, my darling, much nicer – I have made us appointments for treatments at the spa – in about thirty minutes.’

  ‘No Russian guys I hope.’

  ‘My darling – I have checked – the staff are all female – you have nothing to worry about!’

  How wrong she was. It had all begun as normal: they’d come up in the lift wearing swimming gear beneath their towelling gowns, and Monique had her gym kit too, they’d checked in at the spa reception and after a couple of minutes had been introduced to their respective therapists, thence to be taken their own separate ways for the next hour. He’d not had much chance to size up his blue-uniformed girl – the treatment rooms were just a few yards away, and in seconds he was in semi-darkness – she was small, slim, Chinese, versus her more heavily built (and surprisingly heavily made up) Malaysian-looking colleague who had shepherded Monique into the adjoining booth; she’d acted primly, although he was immediately surprised that she didn’t leave the room for him to complete the usual protocol of insinuating himself between the cunningly folded towels that preserve one’s modesty; instead she simply waited while he handed her his gown and kicked off his white hotel slippers. At the sight of his shorts she’d appeared as though she was about to speak, but instead indicated he should lie face down on the massage table. She’d adjusted the music, increasing the volume, and then chosen some oil, which she’d begun to apply upon his arms and shoulders, standing at his head end. From what small talk they’d managed upon meeting, he’d gathered she didn’t really speak much English, and thus he’d settled for silence, which she had seemed quite comfortable about. It was after about five minutes that she next spoke, and then just the words ‘You like?’ in hushed tones, close to his ear. He’d nodded and she’d continued, gradually extending her reach down his back. It didn’t seem to be the usual order of things, but Adam was enjoying the soft touch, and who was he to know where a trained masseuse ought to begin? His mind began to wander back to yesterday’s trauma – thoughts of Monique he wished he could erase: how close it seemed she had come to having an affair; realising now how deeply her words to another man had cut him, and if these wounds could ever heal. The girl meanwhile, oblivious to such mental turmoil, was nevertheless doing her best to soothe his pain; again she asked ‘You like?’ and again he’d confirmed he did. She’d stepped in a little, now touching him where his hands were folded above his head, her groin pressing lightly but distinctly against his knuckles each time she stretched over him. He couldn’t but help recall Monique’s description of the Russian masseur, his bulging pouch squashed against her hand, her claimed uncertainty as to whether it was deliberate; now he’d shared some of that doubt. Next the girl had circled around the massage table and, with sprightly alacrity, alighted upon it and settled with her knees planted either side of his hips. Her childlike weight upon him, she’d resumed the back massage, now – in a move he recognised, but not from a professional therapist – sliding her body forward in time with her strokes, pushing down upon his lower spine with what could only be her vulva, at once soft and firm, a vital force that transmitted through the flimsy material of her trousers. Once more the question, ‘You like?’ What else could he have said in reply? (With hindsight, he realises she’s been getting him nodding, the old salesman’s trick, psychology: they keep saying yes to minor points… when it comes to the close there’s only one possible answer.) He’d tried to recall if ever before during a ‘proper’ massage the therapist had climbed upon him – reaching the conclusion that this did not have the makings of ‘proper.’ After a few more minutes she’d slipped lightly to the ground, and – confirming his suspicions – had pulled at the waistband of his shorts. He’d protested, saying, ‘It’s okay, I’ll keep them on,’ but she’d replied, ‘Need massage here, these too much,’ patting him on the buttock, ‘Have towel for you.’ True, the shorts were bulky Vilbrequins, long and entirely unsuitable for the occasion. He’d acquiesced, allowing her to pull down the garment, now becoming conscious of his partial tumescence as he raised his hips. No towel had materialised and instead she’d worked the length of his legs, progressively approaching his more sensitive regions…

  ‘You stay extra hour.’

  He’s unsure if it’s a question, a request, or simply for his information – maybe Monique has booked for longer? But he thinks not. ‘I need to speak to my wife.’

  ‘You like?’

  ‘Yeah… yes…’

  ‘Time turn over.’

  ‘Okay – you said a towel?’ He manoeuvres himself around, revealing to her just how much he does like. She produces the said item, but it’s hand-towel sized at best, and offers scant protection, if anything emphasising his nudity. She returns to his upper body, and in fact massages his face and neck for a while – he feels it’s as if to subjugate him – then gradually transfers her sweeping movements southwards. She pauses for more oil, then slides her hand from his stomach beneath the towel, swiftly locating the base of his penis and drawing her slippery grip slowly up, and then back down, squeezing gently. He raises himself up, a declining palm outstretched, ‘No – no, thanks.’ She smiles and moves onto his thighs. He lies back and lets out the shocked breath that had taken refuge in his lungs.

  ‘You like?’

  ‘I think you know the answer.’ He opens his eyes. She’s bending over him.

  ‘You wan sex massage?’ She gestures, delicately, thumb and forefinger joined.

  ‘Who is your friend? The girl with my wife?’ The make up could be the give-away. He wonders if he’s got the warm-up act and the other is called in to finish the job.

  ‘You pay extra hour?’

  ‘I’m confused.’

  She takes his penis again and executes the slow motion mime she has just rehearsed. The sensation of pleasure is exquisite, almost overwhelming. ‘No…’ Once more he raises his palms and she retreats. She climbs onto the table, astride his thighs, massages his chest and shoulders. He’s convinced now that the strokes are not those of the trained therapist, effective though they are. Every so often she strays back under the towel and repeats the upward and downward sweep, pausing to squeeze harder beneath the glans. Each time he indicates she should stop, yet the urge to yield to her persistence is almost beyond his control, resistance excruciating, his body imploring him to let go.

  Her face again comes down close to his. ‘Stay extra hour?’

  ‘Why?’ It’s the stupidest question he can imagine asking.

  ‘Make love.’

  ‘With you?’

  Before she can elaborate the door handle rattles and she springs off him like a scared cat, quickly straightens the towel and stands to attention beside him. The towel provides inadequate cover – he sits up and raises his knees – what if Monique comes in and finds him with no shorts on? But his – their – panic quickly subsides: the door remains closed. It could of course be locked, but why would the girl have jumped so? He wonders if it was a signal – perhaps from Monique’s therapist or the older woman who’d first met them at reception? Maybe time is up, unless the extra hour is paid for. The girl relaxes, looks at him, smiles, but quickly he slides off the bed and folds her into an embrace: its platonic nature seems to enjoin her to reciprocate, and they stand for a few moments; he feels relief, the adrenaline drains away, as if her tiny form absorbs his pent up energy. She hugs him like Camille, and he wonders what love little she knows. He releases her, steps back to retrieve his shorts and gown from a chair. She looks chastened, disappointed. He says:

  ‘Thank you. I shall bring you a tip. Will you be here for a while?’

  ‘I stay little while.’

  He muses that an hour ought to be no problem. She opens the door for him to exit to reception – there’s no sign t
hat it had been locked – and she rounds the unmanned desk to mark something in a ledger. The gym is opposite, beyond the corridor that leads to the lifts, and through two layers of glass he can see Monique, working hard upon a cross-trainer, sideways on to him. He says to the girl:

  ‘Thanks – I’ll come back soon.’

  The girl bows her head as he turns and hurries to speak with Monique. The gym, evidently soundproofed, swims with the urgent beat of an American pop track, while Monique, lost in its ether, pumps her glistening limbs in time; he thinks, it’s not like her to want to sweat out all those lovely aromatic oils.

  ‘You were a long time, my darling.’

  ‘Was I?’ Was he?

  ‘I nearly looked in – just in case there was something naughty going on!’

  ‘What? – you’re psychic – I think I’ve found us a Chinese replacement for Jasmin.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well – she offered me a sex massage – her words.’

  ‘What!’ Monique stops treading, the machine’s momentum forcing her to go through its last few motions before she is able to turn to face him.

  ‘I thought you might want to see if she would… you know – like Jasmin?’ Even as he speaks, it’s dawning on him that Monique isn’t reacting the way he’d anticipated.

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When she offered you a sex massage?’

  ‘Er… nothing. I said no. Thanks. But…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well… wondered about… the Jasmin thing.’

  ‘And you did not encourage her?’

  ‘No – I discouraged her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well – she wanted to get my shorts off – she’d said she needed to move them to massage my backside… then she tried to take them off but I wouldn’t let her.’

  Monique is staring at him intensely. ‘And when did she ask if you wanted a sex massage?’

  ‘I… I’m not really sure at which point – I mean at first she said she’d phone a friend if I wanted it – but then later I started to think she meant herself really – she was asking me to book an extra hour.’

  ‘What do you mean later – how much later? Why did you not get up and walk out as soon as she said it?’

  ‘Well I… she was making out as if someone else would come – I didn’t want to offend her.’

  ‘What about me? What about offending me!’

  ‘Monique – it didn’t feel like that at the time…’ He searches for the right thing to say. ‘Look – I’ve just turned down a… sex massage.’

  She looks at him nonplussed, places her hands on her hips. ‘My darling, I should think so!’

  He gathers that he should not go on to state how ninety-nine percent of men in his position would have accepted the offer, and that his great will-power can only be attributable to how he feels about her. How quickly the tables can turn! He says:

  ‘Well – it’s no so different from that Russian massage – and, anyway, I didn’t have sex – look I’ve come straight through here to tell you about it.’

  She softens, though retorts, ‘It is nothing like the Russian massage.’

  ‘That’s probably only because the guy didn’t speak English.’

  Monique refuses to show she’s amused, if she is at all. She says:

  ‘How dare she ask you – when I was in the next room to you?’

  ‘I did point that out… she didn’t seem to understand.’

  ‘You mean if I hadn’t have been…?’

  ‘No – I was trying to say we might consider a threesome.’

  ‘Oh!’ She flicks the sweat from her brow in an angry gesture of Gallic frustration. ‘They are prostitutes! Did you see the girl who I had? The make-up – and she had no idea how to massage!’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s their fault – I guess most people are so poor…’

  ‘This is supposed to be a respectable hotel – I can’t believe you did not walk out!’

  In turn he can’t quite believe her reaction, and it seems there’s more to follow as she spots the girl moving into view through the double windows that separate them from reception. She says:

  ‘Is that her?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  She launches herself past him off the footpads of the machine and before he can stop her she’s hauling open the heavy door of the gym. Hampered by his too-small slip-ons, he shuffles after her. ‘Monique – what are you going to say? It’s best to leave it!’

  ‘I hope there’s not a reason you say that.’

  ‘Of course not, but… she didn’t do anything wrong…’

  He’s too late. Monique marches up to the desk, he trails helplessly in her wake. The girl flicks the briefest of glances past Monique in his direction, then fixes her gaze demurely upon the adversary that bears down upon her. Monique demands:

  ‘Did you offer my husband a sex massage?’

  The girl shakes her head. ‘No, madam – no sex – jus’ massage.’

  ‘You did – my husband told me. How dare you do such a thing?’

  Adam hangs back, feeling rather like a guilty schoolboy who has split on a pal. The girl maintains her innocent stance, saying:

  ‘No madam – no understand.’

  ‘You do understand, and you will listen to me.’ Monique points a finger close to her face. ‘If you don’t tell me the truth I am going right now to the hotel manager. Now did you offer a sex massage.’

  The girl casts down her eyes. ‘Only ask, madam.’

  ‘And then what?’

  The girl looks across at Adam, the semblance of a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. She says:

  ‘Your husband good man. He no wan’ sex massage. You have very good husband, madam.’

  Monique visibly relaxes, the harsh edge of her aggressive pose softens; suddenly he sees her as the girl’s big sister. ‘You are a bad woman. It is not good to ask somebody’s husband if they want sex. You remember.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  Monique turns and strides out of the reception. Adam gives a backward glance at the girl but she has her eyes cast down. They reach the lift. Adam says, tentatively:

  ‘I was going to give her a tip.’

  ‘What! You are not!’

  ‘I feel like I deprived her of her commission.’

  ‘My darling, you must be crazy.’

  Adam looks at her for a second. ‘You make me that way.’

  They step into the lift and now she embraces him, seeking out his lips for a prolonged kiss. While they wait to arrive their floor, his thoughts spill out into words, inadvisably, he expects:

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d be so bothered.’

  ‘Adam – what on earth do you mean? You are my husband – of course I would be bothered. That is to put it mildly.’

  ‘But – what about with Jasmin?’

  ‘My darling, you know that was different – that was for us – and we were both in control.’

  He raises his head to signify his understanding. They reach their room and he admits them with the keycard extracted from the pocket of his gown. He’s feeling a bit awkward about the tip, or potential lack of. Monique goes straight to her phone, which is resting on its charger. She picks it up and flicks at the screen. Adam half-watches, at once disconcerted – his disquiet renewed by the confounded device’s unremitting grip upon her; he’s back to earth with a bump from the dubious but at least distracting sanctuary of the past hour’s roller coaster. Monique turns to him, offers the handset. She says:

  ‘I have something to show you.’

  He takes it and looks at the screen. Two bubbles: a text from Monique, timed before he’d woken this morning, and a reply, late at night in France, sent while they were upstairs at the spa.

  The outgoing: ‘Lucien – not a good idea to text/mail or meet. Best. Monique.’

  The incoming, curt: ‘Bye, Monique.’

  No kis
ses; neither outbound nor inbound.

  ‘It is done.’

  ‘Thanks. Just one more request.’

  ‘My darling?’

  ‘Would you change your voicemail greeting?’

  Blog by Anonymous – 9

  OMG! Almost ready! It’s really exciting! It’s like a massive weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Just a few things left to do. Then I spread my wings and fly. It will be a shame about M, though. I really might have had something special there. But you know, I think if I’m being honest with myself, for her it’s got more to do with being a bit mixed up in her head – of trying to understand what she wants and what she needs… and what she should settle for. I don’t really believe it was about me.

  Still, maybe she’ll come and visit?

  CHAPTER 10

  Mid October – Edinburgh, Scotland

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  Adam, daydreaming, recumbent on the settee, is startled as the jagged inflection in Monique’s voice rips suddenly into his relaxed sensibility.