Five years ago, Rod Singer was an insurance salesman. working in a small city over-populated with insurance sales agents that meant his earnings were poor and his suits looked jaded with frayed cuffs.
Gwen his wife practically despised him and the other women into whose arms he fell for lively conversation and pelvic exercise tended to be rather third-rate.
Five years on, and oh, what a difference!
Rod Singer is on the A-list for garden parties, wedding invitations and top municipal gatherings such as the annual opening of the town's public swimming pool, the closing of the ice-skating rink in late spring and the Mayoress's widely-acclaimed annual Summer Flower Show.
These days, the happy and expensively dressed, Gwen allows him to talk to her friends and she drives an iridescent purple latest-model Porsche and usually has her male friend ten years her junior at her side.
Just as he did as an insurance salesman, Rod now immaculately suited and wearing a gold watch and gold cuff links, still knocks on doors by appointment and is invited in by the lady of the house.
Rod doesn't sell insurance, these days. Instead, he signs up such women (the strike rate currently is 58 per cent) for an intensive three-week course at the Rod Singer Tweaking Academy for Maturing Women.
Three thousand dollars sounds exorbitant for a three-week training course, and for one not offering live-in facilities. The academy's clientele are either desperate women or women aware that desperation for them will begin as soon their husband with increasingly frequency says he's too tired to have sex.
The academy is a front for sexual stimulation and upgrading of technique for women whose husbands stare in the mirror at nights dismayed that their hair is falling out and their libido is melting away.
Often, these men have entered or are about to enter the 'let's rip off as many as I can stage while I've still got fire-power below." In other words, slipping into the dreaded twilight era in the face of a looming downhill slide in their ability to perform and suffering the misery said to accompany that malaise.
That status will confirm what every woman on this planet knows, that every man's brain is connected to his dick and in his mind that is paramount to everything else.
During pre-enrolment negotiations to the academy, every woman gets down to the basic thought: Three thousand dollars for six two-hour sessions of therapy sounds incredibly expensive.
Rod sighs, and his answer is always the same: "Look, consider the alternative - how much will it cost you to find another replacement bedmate with the ability to perform strongly and consistently?"
The replies vary, some embarrassingly close to the bone. For example, 'If I picked up a hobo off the street I would be ahead, and probably giving head and having my efforts appreciated'.
A well-trained salesman, Rod would nod, smile and say nebulous things such as 'rightly so' and 'I understand' but if necessary, to win over any woman not yet convinced about shelling out all that money, he'd say, "Difficulties would surely arise if you dragged in a hobo off the street and he obviously had BO and then you find in shock that he was wearing dirty underpants. Such an experience is definitely not for you,"
Then he'd toss a verbal grenade.
Picking up his briefcase, he'd walk to the door, turn and releasing his Number One smile for the first time of the interview, "You just think about it. Take your time. Only make your decision before your husband runs off with some jezebel half your age or begins sending fishing buddies straight to you after catching fish to service you sexually."
That indicates how Rod maintains that 58 per cent response.
* * *
Creation of the academy occurred by chance.
Rod was ass-fucking one of his newly signed up prospects for an insurance policy five years ago when she burnt his brain with her brilliance.
She said: "I never allow my husband to do this. You have the natural ability to woo the pants off any woman. You should be teaching women some of the things you know about sex instead of wasting your time and theirs by selling insurance policies that none of us really want."
"We all want to be fucked by younger men - younger and younger as we get older and older, I would think. At an earlter stage, there are also heaps of married women wishing to know how to revigorated their husbands who are under-performing in bed."
Bingo!
Being a risk-taker, Rod resigned from his job and called in workmen to convert the loft above the double garage into a home office and a bedroom with en suite.
The most expensive fitting was a huge flat screen affixed to a wall on which Rod planned to show excerpts from porno films for educational purposes.
He took out a bank loan and said he'd buy Gwen a new car and promised to renew it with an upgraded model each year provided she renewed her promise never to go into his insurance processing clearance depot above the garage or question his female and sometimes clientele who'd mainly be insurance company administrators arriving for computer and systems training.
Gwen had replied that of course she wouldn't go nosing around in such a boring workplace - and what sort of car did he have in mind?
After his first three clients had passed through the academy, Rod was able to refine his systems and feel much more confident in his new role. A session would begin like this:
"Good morning, Mrs Huntington. So lovely to see you again. Please sit here and relax. No operations are done here nor are orifices clinically inspected (he laughs and the nervous client might twitter).
"Allow me to pour you this little glass of exquisite French wine."
"It's rather early to begin drinking, Mr Singer."
"It's only a small glass."
"Oh, oh (hand delicately resting above her breasts), "This wine is absolutely gorgeous, out of this world."
"Exactly, and this is how you and I have to remodel you so that your husband says the very same thing about you. You'll recall when I signed you up and you handed over your big wad of cash that I promised big things would happen, well you now have the concept in your mind of becoming a person who seems out of this world, figuratively speaking.
"Mrs Huntington - Rosemary. I have no academic qualifications nor have I trained as a therapist."
"Yes, you told me that at the outset, but said you were a specialist in the field because you have had sexual relations with a large number of women and though astute questioning you have come to know from those women what they want from men as they age."
"Excellent. So, there's no suggestion that I am a fraud as I make no claims other than field experience through numerous sexual relationships. Is that correct?"
"Quite, that is my understanding absolutely."
"Rosemary, you have to change your name."
"What, I love my name!"
"A new image requires a new name. What above Rose?"
"Absolutely not. My father told me once that half the prostitutes he visited when in the military were called Rose."
"Fancy that. There must be a marketing message in that, somewhere.
"Then let's call you Rosa."
"Rosa?"
"Yes."
"Rosa sounds nice, in fact very modern."
"Exactly! Good girl."
