An encounter with a Russian call girl leaves our sexual ambassador suffering an attack of conscience
A warning before we start. This month’s column has a rather gloomy, poignant feel to it, as it involves me failing to have an orgasm while in bed with a high class prostitute. That would be bad enough on its own, of course, but my sadness has nothing to do with the £300 I wasted. It doesn’t even spring from the crushing Catholic guilt I’m usually afflicted with after sexual encounters of this kind. No, this was all about the Russian girl, and what she showed me of herself without even meaning to.
Using whores at all… I know it’s bad. But it’s a product of my midlife crisis. I’ve simply been through too many hard break-ups over the years to risk having another proper relationship. Whenever I used to meet a girl, I’d wonder what it would be like to go out with her, to be a couple holding hands and having fun, to roll around the sheets a bit. Now all I think is, “Why bother trying? Sooner or later, you’ll be listening to each other cry.” There’s just too much pain involved. And I don’t want to hurt anyone any more, including me. Plus, I’m depressed. I’m flabby and broke and 12 months into a novel that may never get finished. Prozac might be the answer but I don’t want to try it. I don’t react well to chemicals.
So it happened again. I found myself in front of the computer, browsing through the escort agency websites. These women, they look so beautiful. They have their photographs shot quite professionally, in proper studios and sometimes even on beaches. They pout and arch their golden bodies. Their job is to entice you. It’s like the whores you see in the windows of Amsterdam’s red light district, except these ones only had to look sexy for the time it took to press a camera shutter, so they don’t seem weary and soiled and wasted. Looking at their perfect smiles, you can actually believe they’re happy.