Buy Me, Sir

She nods. “That’s some kinda crush. You have real balls spelling that out for me. I admire that.”

“So tell me,” I push. “Tell me how I’d get to Harley’s Tavern. Tell me how I’d get a shot, presuming I could be… good enough…”

“You really want to know how to line yourself up as Alexander Henley’s next hooker? For fucking real?”

“Please.”

She smiles. “I’ll point you in the right direction on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

She unplugs the vacuum. “On the condition you look through his browsing history first.”

I nod. “And if that doesn’t put me off?”

“If that doesn’t put you off, you’re even crazier than Sonnie says you are.”

I picture Sonnie saying it and it makes me grin. “I might well be crazier than Sonnie said I am. A whole load crazier…”

“We’ll find out,” she says. “The TV room is through here.”Chapter TenAlexanderI didn’t cheat on my wife. Not once in the entire decade we were married. That may well surprise some, including her, but it’s true.

I took my marriage vows seriously, for better or worse, and with that came… sacrifices. Sacrifices I was prepared to make for the sake of having a family. A real family – not the pathetic excuse for one I’d known growing up.

Just how many sacrifices I’d have to make didn’t become entirely apparent until after the rings were exchanged, when Claire dropped the bombshell I imagine so many newlyweds are unexpectedly burnt by. But I thought you’d change… I thought things would be different, now we’re… married.

My wife Claire was a lot less keen on a rough anal pounding once that band of gold was on her finger. She no longer felt the urge to sidle up to me at social events and let me know how keen she was for later. My wife Claire turned her nose up at my dirtier sexual advances.

Can’t we just do it like normal people, Alex? I’m too tired for all that tonight, Alex.

Can you be quick, Alex?

I’ve got a headache, Alex.

And then we had our two beautiful boys.

Not now, Alex.

Not that, Alex.

Why do you have to be such a fucking pervert, Alex?

I had some choice answers for that question, but I digress.

My point is, I understand restraint. I’m capable of restraint. Or I was.

I’m determined I shall be again, which is why I walk into my office on Monday morning with a steely determination to plough myself into my caseload, and why my other phone is still at home on my bedside cabinet.

I’m done with Claude.

I’m done with paying for dirty sex.

I’m certainly done with this grotesque bargaining-waltz I’m obliged to perform for the sake of sharing the same escort agency as my grubby shit-stain of a father.

Cold turkey. It’s the only fucking way.

And so it begins.

I tell Brenda she has free rein of my diary and focus back on my client list like a rookie with a point to prove all over again. I organise catch-ups with my key networking associates, reinforcing once again why the industry not-so-affectionately labelled me the Puppet Master, and I give my clients my absolute undivided attention. I manage to get three driving offences thrown out of court in the first three days, and convince the local authorities that prosecuting Mr Rand for cannabis possession is a waste of both their resources and mine.

I scope out upcoming matches for Portsmouth football club, swallowing down both my pride and my own preference for rugby to ensure I give my boys a good time on our Sundays, and then order them a couple of shirts to be delivered to Claire before I’ll see them next.

I manage three days without jerking off to porn. Three nights of lying in bed at night, wide awake with a raging hard on I refuse to fucking finish.

Day four since shooting my load and I’m irritable and foul-tempered, desperate to empty myself inside some dirty little bitch’s asshole and find some fucking relief.

That’s why I finally switch on the other phone. Not to go crawling back to Claude and his seedy new meat auctions. I don’t go in for the new meat – virgins don’t hold any special interest for me. Not only do they not have a fucking clue what they’re doing, they also have no fucking clue what I’m doing. I’m not in the market for fucking up some naïve little plaything, staring at me doe-eyed, in blissful ignorance as to what exactly she’s signed up for.

No. I switch on my other phone to re-engage with my other pastime. The only thing that’s ever been a semi-effective balm to soothe my self-loathing.

It’s a band-aid on a bullet wound, but hell, I need something.

Something more than this.

I call the number as soon as I’m safely back through my front door. My cock is so fucking hard it actually hurts, my balls tight and aching, my temples pounding for relief. It’s Annabel who answers on the third ring, and the warmth in her tone takes me aback.