Friday, 4 June 2010

THE COMMANDER - a short story by GC

“It’s Brian, to see Ingrid,” he said lips close to the entry-phone. The door to the house in the Soho mews opened and he climbed steep, narrow stairs. A big, middle-aged woman in baggy sweater and trousers showed him to a chair in a part-kitchen, part-waiting room. For a moment he panicked thinking that this might be her.
“Ingrid won’t be a minute. You make yourself comfy. Would you like a drink, love? No? Well, why don’t you take your coat off?”
Brian Turner had deliberated for days what to wear to his first ever encounter with a prostitute. He was dressed for golf and indeed that morning had carried his golf clubs to his car even though his wife was visiting her mother.
At the station he put on the coat he had placed in his boot the night before. He hoped it might make him invisible. He felt unease at planning his only infidelity in nearly 40 years of marriage and wondered when the guilt would come.
It was while surfing for free porn that he had stumbled across the PuntersRUs website, which published ‘consumer’ reviews on prostitutes.
With the same dedication he had employed in a lifetime as an accountant, he studied the jargon and the anonymous field reports. Ingrid of Soho Dreams was highly recommended for those seeking a full girlfriend experience.
That’s what he needed, a girlfriend. It didn’t count he was married and had two grownup children. Brian Turner, 67, was bored and lonely. His life had stopped the day he retired five years before. Since then his identity seemed to have slowly evaporated.
The kids had their own lives. His wife Shelia hadn’t shared his bed for 10 years. “Your father’s snoring means it’s better he sleeps in the spare bedroom,” she had told the children. Not that he had any desire to take a midnight trip across the hall landing. Love had flown but he had neither the wish nor the will to follow it. Habit was the tie that bound them now.
It was 2pm as he entered Trafalgar Square from Charing Cross station. From his Google Map calculations it would take him about 15 minutes to reach Soho Dreams. His appointment was for 2.30. He hoped he hadn’t swallowed the Viagra tablet too early. He had bought a box of the blue pills – for a joke – when they were being sold in the golf club car park a few years before.

“Hello, love, sorry to keep you.” The slight, blonde woman in a short, black diaphanous nightdress was 40 years his junior. But rather than his resolve draining away, Turner felt a long forgotten sense of being in charge of his own life. His website research had been thorough and there must be client rights attached to the receipt of services charged at £150 an hour.
Ingrid led him next door to a small dark room dominated by a large double bed and a mirror where the headboard should have been.
He counted the money out and they both undressed. Standing, awkward, it seemed right to embrace. The girl being much shorter than him laid her head on his chest. He ran his fingers down her perfect spine. He felt the Viagra kick in.
“Is there anything special you like?” she asked. He had opted for the inclusive deal. When she applied a condom with her mouth, he smiled for the first time since Christmas.

Turner appreciated Ingrid’s enthusiasm for her job, as one professional to another. But his knees rebelled when they gave ‘doggie’ style a run. So they returned to ‘missionary’ but this time with Ingrid’s legs on his shoulders. This brought him nose-to-nose with the mirror at the head of the bed. In the gloom the wrinkles were deeper, the hair greyer, and the eyes without their glasses weepier.
Yet the face, with its ankle necklace, was that of a man who was not yet finished with living.
He had kept his watch on. Halfway through the hour, he was already tired. So he described a position to the girl, which his research suggested required less energy than had been consumed to date.
“You mean ‘spoons,” said Ingrid.
It was a mistake. It was difficult to keep contact. To do so required he wrap his arms around the girl to keep her pressed into his groin.
This intimacy – hugging a stranger – unsettled Turner. If only love was on the menu. The Viagra was beginning to flag. He quickened his thrusts.

Turner lay back as a naked Ingrid, sitting cross-legged on the bed, carefully wiped him with tissues. “Should I go now?” he asked.
“Unless you want to. There’s still time. Would you like another massage?”
“Do you kiss?”
“No tongues.” She leant forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.
Turner looked at Ingrid seeing her with fresh eyes. She was not as young as she had first seemed. Certainly older than the 27 she advertised herself on the website.
There were creases at the corner of her eyes and lips. The roots at her hairline were black. Her small breasts were not pert as per description but sagged a little. The imperfections added to her beauty not as a girl but as a woman. A woman with whom he had acquitted himself sexually by his own reckoning, better than he had thought possible.
“I’d like to touch you,” he said. She misunderstood and handed him the baby lotion and turned on her front.
She laughed when he put on his glasses. “Hmm, that’s nice,” she said as he traced the butterfly tattoo on her shoulder.
“What’s your accent?” he asked.
“I’m half-Norwegian, half-Portuguese.”
As he stroked the girl’s body he asked her questions, only half-listening to her plans to become a vet. Time must be up soon and the knowledge made him bolder. Turner encouraged her to turn over.
He had never seen the bald truth before. Fatherhood wasn’t a badge of knowledge. He couldn’t understand how the aperture between her legs could have functioned from every point on the compass.
“Will you show me, you know, your pussy? And well, how, you know?”
Ingrid opened her legs wider, held her lips apart and having licked the middle finger of her other hand began vigorously rubbing what he knew must be her clitoris.
“Amazing,” he said. The glistening bud reminded him of the rubber ball in the base of his first computer mouse.
Brian Turner, who would always polish the cutlery with his serviette before commencing a meal at the poshest restaurant, moved the girl’s hand aside and replaced it with his mouth.

When Turner returned home he went straight to his bedroom and logged on to the PuntersRUs website. Before he could file his first field report – what would be a glowing account of his hour with Ingrid – he pondered on a commanding punter’s nom-de-plume to launch his new hobby.

1 comment:

What do you think? GC