DESCRIPTION.
sexually frustrated student develops a relationship with a brothel owner while navigating the ups and downs of sex in a small English town.
Helen was a 21-year-old university student. She came from a good family and was expected to do well in life. She was the type any mother would choose for their son's wife. You could rely on her to use the right knife, make polite but witty conversation and be a lady in all matters. Her degree in some social study was more for accomplishment's sake than use, as her family connections would open future doors for her.
During her studies, Helen became very familiar with her student town. In summer the place thronged with locals and tourists for it was a pretty place with winding streets, old rickety Tudor buildings, cobbled lanes and a multitude of small shops.
Like in all towns, most people kept to the main central streets where the shops and cafés were located. As people roamed outwards you'd hear mutters of "There's nothing down here, let's turn around." These streets were the home of those shops no one quite understood how they made a living, the barometer repair shop, the electronic appliance shop selling overpriced toasters from ten years ago that sat in boxes faded by years of sunlight, the cobblers still trying to eek a living in a world where most simply discarded damaged shoes.
Helen liked this area, it got her away from the crowds and she'd like to ponder how the banjo repair shop that only opened 2 days a week stayed in business. Among the so-called pointless shops stood one she could never fathom. It had no sign above the door and its windows were obscured by a large green curtain that never opened. It might as well have been a place of residence if it weren't for a small opening times sign in the corner. She never plucked up the courage to go in in case it was an undertaker, insurance broker or accountant. Inquiries at uni had led nowhere, most hadn't bothered exploring down there, those that had never even noticed the place.
It wasn't until she overheard a conversation in a café between two old ladies that she learned of its true function, a brothel. Helen was taken back, she always pictured brothels as having red light hanging in the window and a half-dressed prostitute smoking in the doorway. Surely these women were mistaken.
Helen became obsessed with the mysterious shop, nothing was mentioned anywhere online, no adverts, no reviews not even a rumour. So why did that old woman say "the brothel on park road" were they even referring to the same place? Surely they must be. She remembered there was a small café of questionable hygiene standards nearby. Not the type of place she normally goes but if she sat by the window perhaps she could at least see if anyone ever went inside.
On a quiet Sunday morning, Helen sat by the window and ordered the full English breakfast. The café was quiet bat one man reading a paper as he worked his way through a pile of toast and coffee. Helen gazed out the window as she slowly made her way through the sausage and bacon, but no soul left or entered the shop. Perhaps it was too early, but Helen was growing frustrated, "Excuse me, stupid question I know, but what is that shop across the street, the one with the green velvet curtains?"
"That's Rachel's, it's a massage parlour. Used to be really popular one time but now they get six customers a day if they're lucky." Replied the café owner.
The man in the corner lowered his paper, "Internet killed it, back in the day half the local students lost their cherry there. Now they just swipe and meet a girl for free. Just middle-aged guys now."
"Rachel usually pops in here on weekdays around 12ish, if you're interested in meeting her."
Helen returned home excited, she had cracked the mystery and was actually getting the chance to meet a real-life prostitute. What could she ask? Are there no-go subjects? Is it even polite to ask anything?
Thursday came, the only free lunchtime she had. Helen made her way to the café, sat down and ordered a plate of ham, egg and chips. As she waited for her food, out of the corner of her eye she saw the door of the brothel open and a tall smartly dressed woman emerge. Her appearance was more typist than trollop. A beige skirt to the knees and white top neither would raise an eyebrow let alone a dick.
She smiled as she entered, and up close looked older than Helen had imagined, probably early 50s. "The usual please."
"Quiet today?" Asked the café owner.
"Dead, only one client one of the regulars."
"Same here, 4 this morning, one only wanted coffee. We should move to the high Street " laughed the owner.
Rachel looked over to Helen, "Student? Thought you lot had a canteen?"
"We do, just like to get out away from the crowds."
"I only come here because I can keep an eye on the shop."
Helen assumed it was an attempt at humour and smiled, "that place across the road, I've often wondered what it was."
Rachel paused "well we can't exactly put a neon sign up. We cater for gentleman's needs."
"Is it more an evening thing?"
"Hell no, their wives would want to know where they were. If you're curious pop over when you're finished eating, and I'll give you the tour."
Helen jumped at the chance and accepted. "If you don't mind me saying, you're not what I'd expect."
"I'm the madam, my working days are long gone. We have a younger different girl every day. Legally that's all we're allowed"
"Legally?"
"If one girl works, we can pass off as a massage parlour. He's paying for a massage, wink wink, but any more girls then it's a brothel and that's illegal."
Both finished up and made their way across the street. Stepping into the foyer she was met by a locked door, a small CCTV camera caught her eye followed by a buzz as the door opened.
"It stops kids and drunks, got to play safe."
Inside looked much like the lounge of any small house, with carpets, pictures on the wall, a sofa, and even a TV.
"This is the waiting room. If he's new it gives us a chance to make sure he actually knows what we do, occasionally some think it's a sports massage place."
"Don't people mind a brothel in the area? What about the police?"
"Only time we see police in here is when they're not getting it at home. Truth is people would rather have us here, nice and discreet, than prostitutes walking around town."
A side door opened and a younger lady appeared draped in a bathrobe. Her black lace lingerie clearly visible "oh, thought I had a client. New recruit?
"No, just giving her the tour"
