"Well, I suppose I just wanted to be... well sort of to have... well you know a bit more, um, success with um..."
Rosalie sighed. "With the ladies, dear?"
"Um, yeah". Andy coughed to cover his embarrassment, shuffled in his chair across a shawl-covered card table, and glanced up nervously at the 'gypsy sorceress'.
"Well darling, I've got charms for charisma, potions for confidence...". She gazed skeptically at her balding, pallid, poorly-dressed middle-aged client, who even now was ogling her cleavage and scratching his impressive beer gut. It was going to take more than a confidence boost for this loser. "Look, I'm not sure how much you're looking to spend, but I do have something that can give more...
guaranteed
results". No need to tell him that this particular spell had very little power, unless one happened to be a direct descendant of a certain ancient British tribal king.
At 52, Andy Jenkins had not had an eventful sex life. A few teenage fumbles, a couple of unsatisfactory short relationships in his 20s, and a disastrous and largely sex free marriage in his 30s. The cause of, and solution too, these recurring problems, was his lifelong solace. Andy was, not to put too fine a point on it, a massive wanker.
The result of these decades of desperation was that ten minutes later, Andy emerged blinking into the sunlight of the London street with a considerable portion of his life savings spent on an enchantment that neither he nor the sorceress had more than a tiny expectation of working. "All you have to do is look at a woman you desire, and think intense sexual thoughts", Rosalie had told him. That part shouldn't be too hard at least.
As he walked towards the Tube station Andy was dimly aware of a pair of young women grinning out of the corner of his eye, but he was used to mocking looks and jokes of that kind. He hurried his way down the stairs, past the barriers and on towards the platform.
