No help for it but to see Jenny. Pondering her charms. Probably less likely to turn heads in a crowded room than my supermodel escort of last week, but somehow more capable of soothing my restless body. An hour with Jenny, two weeks of feeling happy. With anyone else, thrilling but less nourishing.
Eventually, succumbing to alternative charms. Checking the escort website, searching for new girls within ten miles, adding some to my hot list. Scanning the hot list, picking out the most exciting. Phoning the first, no answer. The second, same. The third, responding.
Fixing the time. Arriving. Her apartment perched above tatty shops in East London, the area indistinguishable from countless others. Shops for car tyres, hardware, greasy food, laying bets on horses, cheap drinks.
The door opened by a woman looking nothing like the photo on the website, but very attractive. Her English good. Sorry, it’s not me you’ve come to see, it’s my friend, but she’s busy with a client, can you come back in half an hour?
Resisting the impulse to turn straight around and leave, thinking, this is why I need a woman, stop me being so irritable. Returning dutifully in half an hour, the door opening, the same woman appearing, come in, she’s ready now. Taking me to a small bedroom.
In the corner, a waif, bleached blonde hair, smoking, smiling shyly. The first woman telling me, she doesn’t speak English, but she knows what to do, I’ll take the money.
Looking again at the waif, thinking, she’s barely of legal age. Difficult to tell. Definitely not to my taste to be doing this. Reaching out my hand, touching her shoulder, fond like a father, making sure she understands that there’s no problem with her personally.
Turning to the first woman, saying, sorry, she’s lovely but not what I had in mind. The first woman protesting. Trouble feeling imminent. Pushing firmly but unagressively past her. Walking out the door, down the stairs, and along the pavement. My body feeling dirty, in need of a shower.
