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My phone rang as I walked into my apartment. It was Brooke.
“His name is Willy. Four hundred, cash. On East 78th Street.”
I wrote it all down. I hadn’t expected another job, but I couldn’t turn it down. I was technically still on call. And this was getting kind of fun.
“He likes to take his time, though, honey, so don’t rush him, and you can draw it out.”
“You mean he likes to extend sessions?”
“Sometimes. Give him a chance.”
* * * * *
Willy lived in one of those old-fashioned brownstone-style apartment buildings on the Upper East Side where the doorman comes in the elevator with you and manually runs the machinery. There were two apartments per floor. I was struck by two things when Willy opened the door: he was old, at least sixty, and I would have bet money that he was gay. Very effeminate and genteel, he was still eager to pay $400 an hour for my time.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, kissing me emphatically on the lips.
“Thanks so much,” I replied, kissing him back. I tried not to think about the fact that I was kissing someone older than my father, focusing instead on the fact that he was definitely good looking, in an aristocratic British sort of way. Oh, and he had the most heavenly British accent.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Could I just get some water?” I answered, without thinking.
“Just water?” Profoundly disappointed, he held a bottle of wine out in my direction.
He looked so dejected at the prospect of me just having water that there was no way, professionally, that I could refuse. “Okay.”
“Red or white?”
Willy bustled about, preparing a glass of red for himself and a glass of white for me, while I called Brooke to let her know I was there, looking around his ornate apartment. It was very old money and full of antiques. It also looked very English, with dark wood bookshelves running from floor to ceiling, framed photographs and old fashioned prints on the wall.
Wine in hand, Willy sat down next to me on the couch. He looked very dapper. I was impressed that someone like this was paying for someone like me. He handed me my wine.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re having me.” I smiled back in what I hoped was a charming fashion.
He looked bashful. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Really?” I must have looked surprised, since Brooke had said he was a regular, but he nodded sincerely. I wondered who was lying. I sort of figured it was Willy, although I didn’t know why he would. Maybe he thought admitting to being a regular sounded sleazy? “Your accent is pretty sexy.”
“You like British accents?” He seemed flattered. He wasn’t a bad looking guy at all, even if he did look remarkably effeminate and might have been old enough to be my grandfather.
He leaned over and kissed me again, on the lips. I kissed him back, careful not to spill my wine.
“Yes. I’m sort of an Anglophile.”
He smiled at that. I didn’t know what to say next. “Do you drink a lot of tea?”
I cringed inwardly at the apparent lameness of my conversation skills.
He laughed. “Not much. I’m more of a coffee drinker. Which are you?”
“I don’t drink much coffee.”
“I like strong coffee and weak tea.”
That seemed profound in some way, but I wasn’t quite sure how, so I changed the subject. “How long have you been in New York?” I asked.
“Not too long. Not too long.” He leaned over and kissed me again.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes. A lot.”
“What made you decide to come here?’
This was becoming a familiar tactic for me. The more you talked, the more comfortable you got, the easier sex would be, and the less time there would be for it.
“I came to New York to relax.”
“To relax?” I laughed. “Most people leave New York to relax.”
“I came to get away and to relax.”
“To get away from what?”
“Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.” He smirked.
“Were you a troublemaker back in England?”
Willy grinned wider. “You could say that.” He leaned over and kissed me. “I feel so much better having you here.”
“What kind of trouble?” I knew he wanted to make out, but I wasn’t willing to give up on our conversation quite yet. An hour can be a long sixty minutes.
“I just ran around with a rowdy crowd.”
I found that hard to believe considering the extreme propriety of the décor in his apartment. “Oh yeah? Like who? Anyone I’d know?”
“Not really. Well, you might have heard of some of them, but I’m not sure I want to tell you.” He grinned naughtily.
“Oh, come on, please.”
“All right.” Willy paused, biting his lower lip in thought. “I used to get wasted with Duran Duran.”
Okay. So there was that. There wasn’t much I could say by way of response. It wasn’t like I had a similar experience to share. I was pretty impressed. I was also mentally trying to calculate how old that made Willy. “Wow. Do you hang out with them now?”
“No, this was back in my youth.” He kissed me again, longer this time. Conversation was over for now. I took off my jacket and kissed him back for several minutes.
“Let’s go to the bedroom. We’ll be more comfortable there.” He took my arm and led me to a room, which, all flowered wallpaper and antique furniture, reminded me of a cross between an English Bed & Breakfast and my grandmother’s guest room.
“Do you sleep here?” I asked.
“Yes, why not?”
“It just looks very British,” I replied. I couldn’t say that it felt more like a stage set than a real bedroom.
He lay down on the bed and patted for me to lie down next to him. We started kissing. He was sort of attractive in a distinguished, British aristocrat kind of way, and I wouldn’t have minded making out with him so much if he hadn’t had this really annoying habit. He would stick his tongue out for a second or two right before his mouth reached mine. I found it extremely disconcerting. I tried to ignore it as best as I could as we lay next to each other, intertwined, kissing and stroking each other.
The clothes came off and all the usual pre-sex moves took place – the groping, the intensified kissing, the thrusting – except for one. Willy just wouldn’t get hard. He wasn’t entirely flaccid, but he definitely wasn’t anywhere near capable of sex. I wasn’t sure what to do. I figured it was my responsibility to get him hard, but I didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t want to embarrass him by drawing too much attention to it, at the same time that I felt like I had to do something about it. We kissed and groped and held each other for a few minutes before Willy pulled away.
“I don’t like watching the clock.” He sounded defensive.
I had no idea what that meant. I just sort of stared at him blankly.
“What time do you have to leave?” he asked.
“You’ve got me for the rest of the hour.” There were about thirty minutes left at that point.
“And if I want you for longer?”
Wow. That would be cool. Easy money, baby. “I just call Brooke to let her know. I can stay as long as you want to pay for.”
“I don’t have any more cash.”
“That’s fine,” I said, feeling professional. “We can do credit cards.”
“Perfect,” he replied, seemingly relieved to have the pressure off.
“How long do you want me?”
“Shall we say two more hours?” he asked hesitantly.
“Great. Let me call Brooke. You’re just going to have to fill out a credit card form.”
I called Brooke as he filled out the form.
“Congratulations,” she said, “you just hit your first thousand.” For a credit card transaction, the minimum was five hundred an hour. So Willy had just paid $1400 for three hours of my time. Unbelievable. Now I just had to figure out how to kill three hours with a man who couldn’t get hard.
I don’t know what it was, but Willy couldn’t, or didn’t, get hard. We fooled around, but there was no sex. He couldn’t even get a condom on properly.
“What would you like? What turns you on?” he asked me.
I let him eat me out and finger me. I tried all my usual foreplay moves on him, but it didn’t work too well. I just couldn’t get him hard.
“What would you like to do?” he asked.
“We could watch some porn?” I suggested. I was shooting in the dark.
He put some on in the background, but it was bland Playboy channel tripe, so it didn’t get either of us off.
I suggested taking a bath, thinking about Jeff from Long Island. We took a bath, but the tub was too small to do anything but lie next to each other and talk.
“So what’s your story?” I asked.
“Did too many drugs, got divorced, came to New York to relax.”
I thought about the pictures of grown children in his living room. I wondered where they were and how well they knew their father. I didn’t ask.
[to be continued…]