Chapter 22: Just a gigolo

"There's many a good tune played on an old fiddle." Gervase Brazen had made this pronouncement when he heard I'd joined the firm.

"Well, I'm not looking forward to have to kiss some leathery old cheek, or waltz around a dance floor with a partner on a Zimmer frame."
Gervase laughed. "The women you will be escorting may be in their sixties, and older, but over the years they have looked after themselves. They have been pampered by the best cosmeticians, beauticians, and plastic surgeons. They have had personal trainers, watch what they eat, go to the gym and work out. They are probably more skilled at shagging than some young slapper you pull in the local club or pub, and they don't have tattoos or pierced bodies — or the pox, or worse." We were sitting up at the bar in the 4th Wessex club room in Reading Barracks. The bar stayed open as long as there were customers, as it was not bound by the licencing laws that oversee civilians.

"Look on these ladies you are going to escort as stringed instruments. They may be in need of a bit of tuning, but when you get plucking their strings you will soon have them singing sweetly, and with only a bit of effort on your part they will soon reach their grace notes." He supped from his pint glass. "I have some experience of playing on older females' ... err ... apparatus, and you will be pleasantly surprised at how supple and lively they sometimes can be. You will also find how grateful the ladies are when your virtuosity brings them to a crescendo." Gervase flashed his watch. "This Rolex is the proceeds of about two months of string playing."
I flashed my 'Rolex.' "This Rolex is the proceeds from a barrow in Petticoat Lane." He nearly spilled his pint laughing.

Gervase Brazen had been an escort for just over a year, and he filled me in on all the aspects of being a successful, and well paid, 'companion'. The first thing I learned was to never to use my real name, and then only use a Christian name. Gervase went by the working name of 'Gerry' so I chose 'Paul' as my mine. Gervase also explained the rules of engagement for escorts.

"An escort never asks personal questions about the client, or the client's family; and don't give any of your details to them, not that they will usually want to know anything about you. Don't peer at photographs when in a client's house. Never initiate any sexual stuff. If a client wants more than just escorting they are quick to let you know. Sometimes a client will be quite sexy on the dance floor; rubbing her quim into you and grinding her hips, but don't think that's an invitation to jump on her bones in the taxi home. In any case Lorna will give you a card with your client's details, including which client may want extras. And remember you can refuse if you want to, although you may find you won't get many referrals for your services later on."
He paused for a moment. "There are one or two clients I would like to refuse, but it is bad for business. One of them is a right cow, who takes a delight in humiliating her escorts."
I felt a bit anxious. "How does she humiliate them?"
Gervase laughed. "You don't have to worry about her for a while. I'm her favourite escort at the moment, and I will have the pleasure, which it isn't, of plucking her strings until Christmas, when my two years with the ARO are up. By then you will know the ropes, and will probably have no trouble with her. I expect Lorna will hand her over to you."

"Yeah, but how does she humiliate you. She doesn't have you kissing her feet in public, or stuff like that?"

"No, in public she is just bloody rude and objectionable, and has me running about hither and yon. It's in the bedroom where she employs the full on humiliation."
Just after the start of 1996 I discovered which client it was that enjoyed debasing her escort, but by then I had been placed on the spring course for promotion to sergeant, and was so chuffed about that I faced the prospect of being humiliated with aplomb.

After talking to Gervase I was a bit more relaxed about my new trade of escort, and he was absolutely right in what he had said. There is many a fine tune played on an old fiddle, and I have to confess that over the 18 months I worked as an escort I certainly played on plenty of old fiddles, and with only a few exceptions, thoroughly enjoyed the tunes I got out of them – and the gifts of money, watches, and jewellery likewise.
I didn't keep statistics on how many women I escorted, or how many of them I slept with, or how much money I made, from gifts from grateful clients and the pay days from Lorna Gordon. I can say that I paid off the mortgage for the house at #23 Kitchener Road from the proceeds of plucking old instruments, and had some spending cash left over.
I can also say that I went to Ascot, twice; Wimbledon; Henley, twice; The Fifth Test against the Australians at Lord's (boring); the ballet at least twice (equally boring ... I didn't know where to look when all them blokes were prancing around the stage with their bollocks and choppers straining at their tights. No wonder they call it 'Poof's Football'); the Royal Opera House several times; the Royal Albert Hall; most of the London theatres; several of those award ceremonies, with red carpets, and wall to wall totty in short skirts and their tits all on view (who were mostly escorts themselves), and enough dinner dances at places like the Savoy, The Dorchester and The Ritz to know the names of the Maître D's, the waiters and waitresses, and the bartenders. I never had to put my hand in my pocket at any of these dos, where I had the best food, the best wines, the best seats, and all I had to do was occasionally slip a length into a sexagenarian slit.

There was one particular client - in fact she was the first client that I escorted and was also the first one who asked me for extras - who I grew very fond of, named Mrs Felicity (Flic) Beaumont. She looked to be in her late forties early fifties but I suspect she was nearer mid sixty. She was beautiful; even at that age she had the soft unblemished skin of a young girl, her hair was that silvery blonde shade that probably hadn't changed in colour or style since her teens, and her eyes were large blue lagoons. She wasn't tall, just over five feet I would estimate, with a slender frame but with well developed, and still firm, breasts. Her legs were long in proportion to her body, and they had been sculptured and strengthened by years of horse riding, and she glided rather than walked. Her vagina was the most perfectly shaped I'd ever seen, fringed with soft, silver blonde hair. She swore that she had never had any cosmetic surgery done down there, and there were no visible scars on those perfectly formed pouting pussy lips. If Flic Beaumont had been 20 years younger I would have carried her off to my lair and lived between her alabaster thighs.
She had the sort of bone structure that showed she had been a beautiful baby, a pretty little girl, a stunning young girl and then an absolutely stunning young, then middle aged and finally elderly woman. Flic would still be beautiful as a corpse; and with this perfect physicality was coupled a beautiful nature.
But for every grace note released from the vibrating strings of a Stradivarius violin, like Felicity Beaumont, there is a bum note from a battered, off key cello, aka Mrs Josephine Butters.

In fact Madame Butters was the client from hell; the one Gervase had warned liked to humiliate her escorts. She had probably been a good looking girl as a teenager, but she hadn't worn too well. She didn't possess the underlying good posture and bone structure of a Felicity Beaumont, and had tried to counter the ravages of time with implants, Botox, hair stylists and beauticians. To be fair, she could pass muster when fully clothed, unfortunately she liked to shag bollock naked, and having to mount a haggard old biddy with a leathery twat, skin like an elephant's, tits with the scars of implants, stretch marks, a flabby floppy belly, and cellulite that couldn't be eradicated by the most skilled of plastic surgeons, is something I wouldn't recommend.
Her hair had been bleached and coloured so often it resembled straw, and her gamey body odour could not even be entirely overcome by Chanel Number Nine. For the amount of money I received for the ordeal of copulating with this harridan I would grit my teeth, lay back and think, if not of England, then of Dawn on Still Waters, when having to earn my corn by shagging Josephine Butters.
In public she would have me running about like a blue arsed fly; lighting her cigarettes, getting her drinks, bringing her handbag, which she always left at the table so that she could order me, loudly, to fetch it –I was like a bloody Golden Retriever.
When dancing she would wrap herself around me and grind her pelvis into my groin, acting as if she was going to ravish me on the dance floor. It reminded me of that tart Emma in Aldershot, all those years ago, but whereas with Emma I would be embarrassed because her action turned me on, and I would have a stonking hard on, with Madame Butters I was just embarrassed that people knew that later that night she would be shagging me for real.
The real humiliation came in the privacy of her bedroom. She would order me to lick her out, and also rim her. She particularly relished 'sixty nine', and practically sucked my head into her large voluminous twat, while complaining that my prick was so small she could hardly feel it in her mouth, which was as large and voluminous as her twat.
During the sex act she would always be on top, and would viciously grind down on me, still grumbling how she really wanted someone to completely fill her cunt. I don't think even Big John Holmes could have managed that.
If at any time I showed the slightest sign of distaste at what she wanted me to do she would say.

"Remember you are only a lump of hired meat, Paul. Do what I want or you don't get paid."
That was the truth, and probably the most humiliating thing she could say.
After my performance I had to immediately get dressed and leave; not even given the time to take a quick shower, as most of my other clients allowed. Josephine would bring out a wad of notes from her bag, and I would have to go on hands and knees and crawl to her to receive it. It was usually £200, which covers a deal of humiliation. She regarded and treated me as some men regard and treat whores, and when going back to barracks after servicing Josephine Butters I knew how a prostitute felt.
I cried all the way to the bank.