Teenager in the Parlour
(Erotica)
First time John came into the Blue Eden, I thought I had never had a younger punter. He looked fourteen or fifteen. I even worried that we might be closed for indulging under-age clients. He was in fact almost eighteen, tall and lanky, with blue eyes and a patchy face, which seemed to have only recently become acne-free. Endearingly he blinked every time our eyes crossed. Follow me downstairs sweetheart, I said in my most beguiling voice. First, if you want to cultivate a clientele, you act kind and unthreatening, even syrupy, but it was easy with this young innocent, as his baby face attracted one’s sympathy like succulent flowers, the bee. This was his first time, he whispered looking at the frayed carpet at our feet. I nodded. It wasn’t even my idea, he said. His father, he explained, was the one who had planned it all. His name wasn’t John, he stammered, it was Jonathan, but dad advised against giving your real name when you visit massage parlours. He got a place at Trinity, Cambridge, but they had agreed to a one-year postponement. He was going on a gap year. He wasn’t sure where and to do what, but he had an idea he wanted to go to Spain to learn to play the guitar properly. At least to listen to great guitar music, he conceded.
And dad had said, No son of mine is leaving home for a whole year a virgin. You need to be made a proper man, he had said.
‘I’ve booked you a nice sexy one,’ he said. ‘You’ll love her, she is sweet and will teach you the ropes.’ And had given him a small wad of tenners. He had not said so in so many words, but it was clear to John that the girl he had booked for him was one he had personal (and carnal) knowledge of. Me. Jodie. He said to tell you Bob recommended you. You remember Bob, don’t you? In the last year alone I have been visited by three dozen Bobs and at least fifty Johns. One of the rules of the job is that once the punter fucks you, you don’t give a fuck about him. Oh yea, Bob, I said, nodding. Lying comes naturally. I took a good look at the boy. I remember Bob all right, I said. Tall and blue-eyes_. The youngster beamed at me. Yes, that’s him.
He wasn’t too keen to kick off, which was unexpected in a novice. I put that down to shyness combined with a degree of apprehension, but once he made up his mind, it went well enough. What he lacked in experience, he made up for in enthusiasm. Yes, not unexpectedly praecox reared its ugly head, but I said he could have seconds. He beamed at me. While waiting for his battery to recharge, with the elation of having had his cherry popped, he became quite voluble. You’re so easy to talk to, he said. He never had a proper girl friend, he was so focused on getting good GCSE’s and A levels. He had never given much thought to girls. Do you mean you’re gay? I teased. He looked at me intently, and said, There have been times when I have wondered, but now that I have known you, both in the biblical sense and social sense, I know that I am not. Great talker, he was.
He visited again a week later, this time on his own initiative. It was on his third visit that he told he was in love with me. I had to make an effort not to laugh. You mean you love fucking me, I said. No he said vehemently, he was not a kid. He had given the matter much thought, he really had looked at all the possible issues, and had come to the conclusion that there was nothing else to do, but to marry me. He wanted to rescue me from this shameful life I was leading. He was going to be 18 in two months, when he would be able to marry who he pleased. Obviously he was giving up Trinity College. A university degree is much overrated, he understood that now. He’ll get a job in a computer repairs, but his aim was to have his own shop. I would be the glamorous face at the counter. You can’t imagine how happy I’ll make you, he said. ‘I will be devoted to you! Everyday I will love you a little bit more than the day before. I will never mention your life of shame before we met.’
‘There is one little snag,’ I said, keeping a straight face, ‘I have a partner and we love each other very much. We have no plans to _’ He did not let me finish.
‘He can’t love you, that man,’ he screamed. ‘If he did he wouldn’t let you do this wretched job. No, you’ve gotta leave him.’ That seemed like an order. It’s remarkable how even the youngest, greenest male, still wet behind the ears, feels able to hector a mature grown-up woman.
‘Look John, I am fond of you,’ I don’t know if this was true, ‘come and visit me as often as you can afford to, but you go to Spain or wherever you want to, come back in a year and then be off to Cambridge. You will no doubt find a girl you can love_’
‘Don’t patronise me,’ he said angrily. ‘It’s you I love I don’t want anybody else. If I can’t have you, I’ll stay a bachelor.’
He did not take his gap year, and came to see me quite regularly. I don’t think stacking baked beans on the shelves at Tesco’s permitted him more. When he talked of being in love with me I shushed him up, threatening to get him banned from The Blue Eden if he continued.
After a couple of months things cooled down a bit, and I began receiving him with the same indifference as I feel towards the others. Naturally, keen to maintain my sales potential, I have a good list of to-dos, like remembering a few facts about regulars, where they worked or how many children they had. Our visitors believe we care about them, and fill us in on their outside life. But in view of the strange circumstances of his first visit, it was not difficult for me to remember a few facts about him, although occasionally I’d get Trinity and King’s mixed up. Mercifully he too had lost interest in me. He popped in every now and then when he was feeling horny and could afford it. We do not come cheap.
What happened next, I picked up after the event, for I am not omniscient. John had told me once that he thought the chap at the desk was a very nice man, that he always treated him with kindness and courtesy. I knew better, but I just nodded. My young client had often wondered whether he should offer Sam a tip, and had once asked me for advice. I had forgotten about this, and cannot remember what I told him. Probably that he did not need to, but there was nothing to stop him. Anyway, at Xmas time, he found a shiny two-pound coin among his small change and thought that this made for an acceptable tip. So, on his way out, as Sam was opening the door for him, although he had the coin in his hand, he began stammering.
‘S-sam,’ he began, ‘I was wo-wondering whether I c-c-could offer … eh … invite you for a drink some time… I mean_’
‘Why sure, John, that would be lovely.’ And Sam suggested they could go to the Café Voltaire round the corner on Friday night.
As I said, I am not omniscient, but by a circuitous route (which I need not go into) I discovered that they found they had more than Detroit Swindle in common. They both loved Pratchett and Gaiman, Korean horror films, Turkish cigarettes and Belgian beer. Now I have always known that Sam, my partner actually, was AC/DC, and as I worked on my back. We had rather more to keep us together. He ACied away, but happily DCied at home. He revealed all to me straight away that night. I shrugged. You’re welcome to him, the two of us went back a long way, I was sure of my man. I just laughed.
But it was no laughing matter. John stopped visiting me, but that was all right. The problem was that my Sam seems obsessed by my erstwhile young admirer. He swears that he is just making hay while the sun shines, but he has almost stopped wanting me. He keeps telling me that the young man is looking forward to moving to Cambridge next October.
