Crisp packets, empty cigarette cartons, scraps of paper, disposable coffee cups and other assorted detritus was blown along the grubby, grey street in the brilliant Spring morning sunshine as James hurried along in the same direction as the pirouetting litter.
He too was being led by his own invisible winds; a breeze of turmoil had compelled him to Alexander Street, searching the doorways for number 415. The buildings were tumbledown old but gaudily painted. Eventually he stopped before the right numbers. It looked like every other two-storey house in the street. As he stepped up into the porch he glanced down at a pile of discarded cigarette butts. He almost wished that he smoked so that he would have a reason to delay his entry. He took a breath and pushed open the unlocked front door.
The house was quiet. Eerily so. He stepped further in. On his left was a doorway with no door. He challenged his cowardice then entered the room. It had once been a lounge but was now a reception area with a normal looking desk, on top of which was a telephone, a laptop computer and other normal-looking objects. James hadn't known what to expect but everything appearing so extraordinarily normal surprised him. There was a sofa, a coffee-table strewn with magazines and a potted plant growing high in the corner. He stood and waited. A woman entered carrying a cup, she looked surprised to see him.
"Oh, hello. Can I help you?"
"I, er, I'm, um..."
James had been fearing the worst and was immensely relieved to see her. When he'd had the idea of visiting a prostitute he had thought long and hard (this was his own personal pun) about how to go about it. He'd scanned the online adverts searching for somewhere he wouldn't get ripped off, stabbed, robbed or catch a disease. This place had a professionally worded description, its own discreet website and he even found online reviews by satisfied customers who left gold star ratings.
He knew he couldn't expect a supermodel. Really he was just hoping for someone who was kind and wouldn't ridicule him. He was anxious that the experience wouldn't leave him permanently traumatised and in an even worse psychological state than he was already in.
And yet. The woman sitting down behind the desk was perfectly older than he'd dared hope (for a long time he'd been developing a cougar kink to his masturbatory fantasies) and she flashed him a wonderfully calming, friendly smile as she flipped open a diary on the desk while blowing across the surface of her steaming drink.
"Are you James? The ten-thirty? You're early, honey."
"I didn't want to be late."
"You'll have to wait, I'm afraid. Would you like a coffee? A tea?"
Out of all the myriad questions he'd been expecting to be asked, this was not one of them. The normality of the scene was flabbergasting him.
"No. Thank you. I'm fine. Thank you."
"Please take a seat, you have a little while before your appointment."
The woman gestured to the sofa and James wanted to run: Out of the door, up the street, past the Japanese noodle shops to the bus-stop, jump on the next bus and head home to the safety of his bedroom. He sat down. He twiddled his thumbs. The woman laughed inwardly, she'd seen plenty of nervous clients but she'd never actually seen someone twiddle their thumbs before.
"The kettle is hot," she said, "I can make you a drink."
"No, thank you. I'd probably just tip it all over myself."
He laughed and raised his jittery hands. The woman was careful not to laugh but smiled in a reassuring way. They both sat in silence while she began to type on the laptop.
James tried and failed to not stare at her while she worked. He became aware that he was rubbing his palms quite vigourously on his thighs so he forced his hands to stop. They instinctively went back to twiddling. The woman before him was in her fifties, dressed in an elegant (and deliciously tight) office skirt and blouse. Her statuesque face was enhanced by a practiced dash of blush to accentuate her cheekbones, a touch of dark colour on her lips and a smoky eye-shadow that drew out the vivid hue of her affectionate eyes. The effect on the young man was startling and he was beginning to be very pleased with his choice of prostitute.
He looked under her desk and became, for the first time that morning, still.
James had long since been a devotee of opaque tights, leggings, yoga pants, sheer pantyhose, stockings, hold-ups and knee-socks. He was, he knew, a 'leg man' and this refined lady was sporting one of the finest pairs of pins he'd seen online or off. The fact that her fine, svelte, touchable legs were encased in gorgeously soft-looking, sheer, coffee-coloured nylon was driving the boy to distraction. Incongruously, she was wearing a dark pair of sneakers (she'd spent enough years tottering in provocative but painfully high shoes to earn the right to say to hell with heels).
Perhaps picking up on his intense attention, the woman at the desk crossed her legs. The quiet rasp of fabric being rubbed together seemed to fill the young man's head like a symphony. Her feminine subconscious gave her a spidey-warning (a primordial defence mechanism that most women have ~ we can sense when we're being ogled and maybe under a possible threat). She looked up from her work and the young man quickly looked away at a blank piece of wall. She re-crossed her legs and watched his eyes flicker, darting a furtive glance under her desk.
This was the first time she'd really paid him any mind. She picked up her coffee and sipped while she looked him over. In his early twenties, James was just blossoming into a very handsome man after a prolonged adolescent awkward phase. He was tall but no longer gangly, he was broad but not chubby, he looked fit but not in an artificial 'work out twelve times a week' way. She was happily gazing at him when an alarm bell rang somewhere in the back of her ever-cautious mind: This one's so cute he's probably trouble.
"You must be a kinky one," she said.
The sudden sound made James jump.
"Must I?" he replied.
"Are you?"
"I... don't know."
He was frantically wondering if he'd been caught perving at her sexily long legs under the desk.
"We have two kinds of people that come here," she explained, "Those that are here for obvious reasons, not to be unkind but they find it difficult to attract women because they're, well, too fat, too ugly, too annoying, too arrogant... bad breath, bad attitude, whatever. We have disabled clients, senior citizens... sometimes it's just that they can't be bothered to pretend to be interested in a partner. These people just want sex, straight up, in and out. And good luck to 'em. It pays the bills. And then there're people like you."
James wondered exactly what 'people like him' were.
She got up from behind her desk, bringing her coffee, and joined him on the sofa. He immediately began to feel overheated and regretted wearing a teeshirt under his shirt and jacket. He tried not to allow his beady eyes to wander lasciviously over her nylon-covered legs but he couldn't help himself.
"If there is something special you want," she said as she unconsciously smoothed out the hem off her skirt just above her knees, "If it's something wet or dirty... spit, piss, shit, puke, you know, if you want to put something up a bottom or have it put up your bottom, you should tell me."
The naive lad was shocked.
"Is there any way we can do this without anything going up anyone's bottom?"
"We may have to get out the rubber sheets. There'll only be a small extra charge but it's only fair that you give me some warning."
"I..."
"It's okay, I know, you're here because you want try the things your girlfriend won't do."
"I, I, I don't have a girlfriend."
"That's a shame, honey, did you split up over this kinky stuff?"
"I'm not ki- I..." James' eyes were fixed to the floor, "I've never had a girlfriend."
She didn't know if she believed him. Now she was closer she could see was even more pleasing to look at. If this was California, this pleasant looking young man would definitely be an aspiring actor, he'd be a shoe-in for some soppy teen romance. He was (she recalled the word from her own distant teenage infatuations) dreamy.
"Really?" she said.
He nodded.
"I have anxiety, chronic anxiety. I can barely bring myself to talk to people, even people I know, my family... and when it comes to pretty girls, I just fall to pieces. I..."
"But you're talking to me?"
"Yes, I am."
He raised his eyes off the floor, the full beam of his desperate but vivacious eyes hit her and she was stunned. He looked so adorable. She felt herself flirting before she knew it was happening.
"Is that because I'm not a pretty girl?"
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
Despite her many years, she blushed. She touched her hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. She looked away and sipped her coffee. James gulped audibly.
