"Too old George."
"Don't be silly old is in nowadays."
"How do you mean?"
Looking me right in the eye he said quietly. "I am on the lookout for mature escorts, any interest?"
A week later George phoned.
"He's twenty eight from Holland. We know him well and he's generous and respects the escort."
"Where's he staying?"
"The Marriott in Grosvenor Square."
And that is how at the age of fifty two I became an escort again.
*
Paul, the Dutch guy, was waiting for me in the lobby of the Marriott when I arrived at twelve-thirty. As always I was dead on time. The plan was for us to have lunch at Scotts and then spend the afternoon in the hotel.
I had dressed carefully following George's suggestion that Paul is stylish and would probably appreciate an elegant tartish look. As a result, I wore a figure hugging, black sheath dress with a fashionably, very pronounced silver zip up the back. It was low cut and gaped a little when I leaned forward and the pencil skirt was tight across my stomach, hips and bum. I wore black, lacy top holdups and a matching black bra and thong with four inch killer heels. I threw a cashmere wrap round my shoulders and was ready to leave just as the car arranged by George arrived outside.
"He usually books a girl for all night, but he is leaving early Thursday morning so it's just an afternoon job," George had explained. "Ease you back into it gradually Chrissy."
"Hi I'm Christina," I said walking up to Paul who I recognised from the photo George had emailed me; his agency is fastidious with their checking of clients.
Paul put his hands on my upper arms and kissed me on both cheeks. "And I am Paul, it is lovely to meet you Christina."
He was quite good looking, with an athletic build and straw blonde hair that was rather unkempt and a little like that of Boris Johnson. He spoke perfect English and we got on very well; he was easy to talk to and easy to like. In Scotts I felt a little embarrassed as I was sure people stared at us assuming that I was the older woman with her toyboy; little did they know that I was the older hooker with her client!
After a really lovely and horrendously expensive lunch washed down with even more horrendously expensive white wine I imagine with the fish that we both had we left the restaurant at just after four. As we walked along Mount Street Paul took my hand.
"This ok Christina?"
"Yes Paul perfectly I replied feeling nicely wanted.
When I first started doing escort work all those years ago I used to wonder why the, generally, super guys with loads of money paid for sex. Why not just get a mistress I thought? Over a time I found the answer. It was twofold.
One, mistresses are too risky. 'No matter what they say at the start, they always want more as it goes on and then that can fuck up everything including the marriage,' I was told several times, usually just after sex.
Time was the other reason. 'It just takes too long to find, get to know and then trust someone,' one of the guys explained.
The other aspect of my profession that I found intriguing was why they did it and what they were after? The clients were all successful in their own spheres, they had to be to pay the outrageously wonderful fees demanded by the agencies, most were happily married with a family and they were usually good looking and sexually, at least pretty proficient. They had plenty of money and opportunity so why 'buy me?'
Again it was twofold. Firstly the reassurance that they could still make it with a young bird or in my case now an old biddy and secondly, which may be more important than the first, they wanted affection. On the wish list that the agency put to them, kissing and cuddling, was their top priority as part of the sex process.
George had instilled it in me the first time I worked for him and had reminded me very clearly over the past of weeks that the clients were not primarily buying sex. If they wanted merely that they would go to a hooker and have a quick fuck in a flat somewhere. What they wanted, what George was selling and what they were buying was a girl-friend, a lover a companion for the period for which they bought me.
So I was happy to hold his hand and even to stop for a moment or two and kiss him.
"Would you like a drink in the bar first?"
"Not really fussed Paul that wine was lovely at lunch and I feel a little woozy already."
"Well I can't have you passing out or falling asleep on me can I so perhaps we had better go to the suite?"
Over the next few months Paul had me, literally and by bookings, several times and I never found out what he did or where his money came from and of course I didn't ask. Escort girls learn not to ask personal questions; if a client wants you to know something, sooner or later they will tell you. Whatever his occupation, he was good looking in a 'Third Reich' sort of way, had impeccable manners, great style and oodles of money. He was generous, highly articulate, interesting, fun to be with and a bloody good fuck. When such a number of boxes are ticked by a client, being an escort girl, or if you prefer a whore, 'why not call a spade a spade' I often smiled to myself, can be quite pleasant.
As we strolled across the large lobby to the lifts he slid his arm round my waist. I half expected an advance from him in the lift, but he was far too cool and sophisticated for that even though he was softly rubbing me near to my hip bone despite several others being in there.
"So," he said as we went into the suite. "Had enough to drink or could you manage some champagne?"
Smiling I said that I could and lo and behold there was a bottle on the sideboard of the lounge chilling in a silver bucket full of ice. I wondered when he had ordered it.
Standing in the centre of the lounge, we drank that and then we kissed. He kissed well. Not overly passionately or too much open mouth stuff to start with, but enough to show his enjoyment. His arms were round me and he whispered.
"Is this ok Chrissy I have been dying to do it since I first saw you," as he took hold of the fob of the zip and slid it down.
"My pleasure Paul," I smiled back.
I was now not nervous at all as I had been when we met and in Scotts. He was a pleasure to be with and I was enjoying myself. Like all good hookers I am able to put 'normal' life out of my mind when with a client. For the duration of my time with him all that exists is him, me and where we are. I don't think of the dubious morality of being about to fuck a perfect stranger for money or of anything going on in my real life. No when I sell myself to a punter I am totally his body, soul and mind.
