The receptionist barely spares Emily a second glance when she checks into the swish city centre hotel. That's the thing about being an older woman, no one notices you. Certainly, no one under 30, even if they aren't staring at their phone, you're just part of the furniture.
Nice room, Emily notes appreciatively, with a view of the city, not that she expects to be looking out of the window. She retrieves a list from her handbag, instead of the usual shopping items its contents are mildly shocking. Well, only to a few but Emily has led a somewhat sheltered life.
A stab of anxiety, last-minute nerves? It took a lot of effort to arrange this liaison. Exhaustive online research, deliberating over who to choose, and even creating a spreadsheet to compare their strengths and weaknesses. This encounter hasn't come cheap, but the insurance policy had paid out a substantial settlement and when did she ever spend much on herself?
Emily looks at her watch, too late to back out, and anyway, she's experiencing a thrill of excitement not felt since her early 20s. A G&T from the minibar calms her butterflies. Time to get ready. Not fond of looking in the mirror of late, Emily wants to present her best self and hopes the outfit is appropriate.
She neatly folds a sensible skirt and top, stowing them in a wardrobe. Keeping her (best) knickers and bra on, Emily dons a slinky chemise and slides her feet into black, high-heeled courts. Practises walking across the carpet, small steps work best, she likes the way the shoes alter her stance, lift her bottom, and flatter her legs. She's applying lipstick when there's a knock on the door. Despite expecting company, Emily jumps. What if it's room service, and she dressed so seductively?
Fortunately, it's a strikingly good-looking young guy. Christ, he's bloody gorgeous, thinks Emily, caught distractedly between relief and desire. Old enough to be your son, nags her guilty conscience. Emily resolutely shoves it to the back of her mind; suddenly aware she's mutely staring at him.
"I'm so sorry, you must be Conor."
"Indeed," somewhat incongruously given the intended purpose of the visit, he proffers a handshake in old-fashioned greeting, "May I come in?"
"Yes, of course." Flustered, Emily ushers him into the room. Tall and well-presented in an open-neck white shirt and dark suit, quietly confident, personable, and polite; quite the package. She could have chosen someone her own age, but instead opted for a younger man; perhaps making up for lost opportunities.
"Emily Drew?" Conor enquires, raising an eyebrow, implicitly indicating he knows it's an alias.
"Yes," she blushes, despite herself. Get a grip woman, in another world you're in charge, managing staff and controlling budgets. Which reminds her, "did you get the, um...?"
"The money is in my account, thank you." He sits in a chair and gestures for her to occupy the one adjacent. I'm glad someone else is taking charge, thinks Emily, feeling exposed in her lingerie, perching on the edge of the seat, hands tightly clasped in her lap, knees and feet together, like a convent novice. That last word is particularly apposite to Emily being in this situation, completely out of her depth.
"What can I do for you?" The handsome stranger's enquiry is solicitous and professional. Emily warily hands Conor the list. How can he possibly appear so relaxed and calm? He nods and raises an eyebrow. "I can certainly fulfil such modest requests," Conor smiles reassuringly. "Would you like to begin now? I'm exclusively yours for the duration, Emily. To enact your fantasies, ensure you feel safe and keep your secrets."
"Could you take your shirt off please?" Emily speaks hesitantly, finally accepting this is happening; she's hired a sex worker and he's here, doing her bidding.
"Sure," without a trace of embarrassment, Conor complies. Six-pack abs, muscular pecs and biceps; not, thankfully, a steroid-fuelled, bodybuilder physique; more akin to a classical sculpture. Oh, to be so at ease with one's body.
"Wow," Emily is at a loss for words.
"Thank you." Conor accepts her compliment gracefully; gently pulls her towards him, skin warm and smelling faintly of cocoa butter. Immediately moist between her thighs, Emily's nipples harden. She's never previously been this close to someone of colour. Holds impeccable liberal views on equality yet doesn't know anyone who isn't white in the very ordinary country town she inhabits, an hour's train journey away. Conor kisses her lingeringly, tongue questing between her lips. She surprises herself by responding with unabashed passion.
"It feels as if I'm dreaming," Emily is entranced, "I'm so aroused, the first time in many years. My late husband..."
"You don't have to reveal any personal details," murmurs Conor, guessing Emily inevitably will, his job so often involves customers confiding intimate secrets they've not told another living soul.
"Lovely man, we shared so many interests and two wonderful children, but in the bedroom..."
"Underwhelming?"
"Lights out, him on top, minimal foreplay, wham, bam, blink and you'd miss it, roll over and off to sleep."
"You didn't try to..."
"Liven things up? Yes. The usual, stockings, music, candlelight, he simply didn't get it. Hence the list - we never did any of that." That last revelation dents Conor's consummately professional inability to be shocked.
"Surprised is an understatement, this is vanilla stuff, no bondage, no roleplay..."
"Partly my fault I suppose," Emily continues, shamefaced, "I should have persisted but felt rejected. He wouldn't let me go down on him, 'too subservient'. Wouldn't give me oral either, 'unhygienic', thanks very much! Didn't think to ask what I wanted. "I've never gone on top or done it doggy style, no knee tremblers in the park or sex on the kitchen table. Sorry, this isn't meant to be a pity party, I just feel stupid, at my age with less sexual experience than many teenagers. Only had two lovers in my entire life and the one before I married was just a student fling to relinquish my virginity."
"Emily," Conor takes her hands. "We can complete your wish list and more. Take it easy, let me lead, and don't beat yourself up for something for which you're blameless."
"I'm not too old?"
"What's old? I have a regular customer of 72 who is still hot to trot. You're in your prime, desirable and attractive." Emily would like to believe him but is sceptical; default expectations pre-set to disappointment.
