God's Callgirl (45 page)

Dan rested on my table like a cherub, rolls of fat covering its surface to the very edges. He used gentle direction to get maximum benefit and pleasure from his time with me. Because he was obese and his voice had been made soft by congesting fat, I imagined he probably received a lot of sympathy and condescension—all totally unnecessary and unwanted by Dan, who was an ingenious and deliberate man, very well adjusted to his size—at least then, in his youth.

He wasn’t like any other client I’d ever met; no one compared with him when it came to plain sensuality. Dan, I concluded, had grown a huge skin so he could enjoy it more. He was ecstatic when I stroked him gently on his neck, his ears, his scalp—I might as well name every part of his body. His immense enjoyment was magnetic: it drew me into its peculiar spell, like entering a different dimension, where solid objects become fluid. My sensitivity went up a notch or three to match his. I had entered the world of Dan the Great.

The hour waltzed by with energising intensity. I felt his every thrill at my touch—on the rolls of fat hanging from his arms, his oversized but delicate fingers, the roundness of his calves and thighs, the mountainous layers of his back, his abdomen, his huge chest, and of course his penis. Compared to the rest of his body, his penis hadn’t put on much weight at all; it had kept a dignified distance from the rest of Dan’s developments. I don’t know what Dan thought about this. The only time he saw his penis was in the mirror. However he felt about it, his obesity made intercourse impossible. Orgasm, of course, was still readily available, especially with the help of a friend like me. Dan’s delight could not be described. I felt it through my fingertips, through the ripples that travelled like miniature tidal waves through his flesh when he came.

So this sensitive giant came down to earth with a violent thud after his shower, when he perched on the edge of my massage table. But Dan was a man not easily flustered. He had firmly adjusted to being different, had been through all that self-recrimination crap. He apologised, and I apologised for the let-down, and he was content to sit on the chair after that.

With men like Dan, who could abandon themselves to the exquisiteness of total sensation in every part of their body, I could find myself weeping strange tears of excessive sensuality. To be with such men was like lying in a field of pleasure, vibrating with overwhelming music, at the point of orgasm again and again—when all I might be doing was stroking a leg.

EVERY WHORE NEEDS
a good removalist as a client. I had a strong and generous one, Brett, who amazed me with his stories about his happy home life: his nice wife, his baby girl.
I never asked him why he needed me; I think he chose to come to me the way another person might choose a different menu, to keep life interesting. Brett was an intelligent but uncomplicated, practical man. The constant lugging of furniture was hard on his body and the strong therapeutic massage he asked for helped to keep him in good shape. He wouldn’t dream of leaving it at that, though. Never. His relief massage was the icing on the cake—or was it the other way around? Would he have come to me if I wasn’t in the business of offering relief? I couldn’t tell.

WHEN ALBERT ARRIVED
on the scene, a truck driver with the face of a child, I didn’t know how to handle him. He answered my advertisement,
Skill plus caring,
and said he needed caring, but would I please spank him? I was so innocent about this form of sexual arousal that it appalled me, but then I remembered the pleasure I once used to get from whipping myself around the legs. Whipping was what Albert wanted, hard on his buttocks with his trouser belt. He told me it was good for his circulation and looked at me so full of hope that I reluctantly obliged him.

He lay face down on my table and I brought the leather belt down on his sizeable buttocks, which were pimply and unusually rough-skinned. His body quivered with pain and satisfaction. He thanked me and asked for more, please, and harder.

I had strong arms and soon red welts appeared on his trembling flesh. ‘Harder!’ he called again. There was no doubt that he was getting something out of this. Then he asked me to call him a bad boy as I struck him. ‘Bad boy! You’re a very bad boy, and I need to whip you!’ I repeated as I tired myself out. Finally he began to whimper and I
stopped. There had been no satisfaction in any of this for me, except to gratify my curiosity. What was this all about? And where was it leading?

Albert climbed off the massage table with the demeanour of a child who had been beaten for being naughty. Now he walked over to Mummy, to have her forgive him and hold him on her lap and soothe him. ‘There, there,’ I said, as he sat his large bottom gingerly on my knees, ‘you’re a good boy now and Mummy loves you.’ Only then was he able to receive a massage, having his sore bottom soothed with soft creams and gentle strokes.

I saw Albert a few times, but each visit his demands for more severe punishment grew—he wanted me to hit him harder and harder. In the end, I couldn’t do it any more. I hated playing a game in a loop that was going nowhere. Albert was devastated. I felt for the child in him who had grown used to this so that he now could not imagine anything better, but I was clear that this was not my way of treating people.

IT WAS DURING
this honeymoon period of my career that I finally learned to masturbate. After all the resistance I’d carried, I found it surprisingly easy. ‘How come a sexually free woman can’t masturbate?’ Hal used to say, chiding and challenging me. I had always thought of masturbation as something you did only if you were desperate and lonely. It’s not natural, I thought, and so I made myself dependent on a lover if I wanted to orgasm.

One Saturday evening, when I was home alone but tuned into the excitement of all those people out on the town, instead of feeling that I wanted to be there with them, I dressed up in lacy panties, scanty bra and silk dressing-gown,
lit a few candles, grabbed a long mirror and put it on the floor. I took my very special rose-perfumed oil and knelt in front of the mirror with my knees apart, my gown open. As when performing for my men, I liked gradual excitement, gradually exposing my breasts and my delicate parts, my nipples and the soft lips of my vagina. My hand removed only part of my gown, part of my bra, as if an invisible lover were slowly undressing me. I found myself taking the part of a man, exciting the woman in me. I became wild with the beauty and the passion of my own body.

I made up a character called Father Kennedy and fantasised that he had a darkroom where he loved to fuck Sister Mary Carla on his developing table.

Father Kennedy watched me walk towards him. It was recess time at the primary school where I taught seven year olds. The wind caught my veil, waved it above my head as if in welcome.

I had pinned my black shawl behind my back, in work mode. I was aware that my clothing, plastered to my body by the wind, would reveal my shapely legs and hips, and my nipples, standing out at the tips of my small, firm breasts.

As I advanced, he remembered that the pockets of my habit were literally bottomless—I had cut out the fabric—and that his hands could reach through them, down and down…

He waited for me near the door to the room where he developed his photos—where he would take me. Wishing to seem casual, he moved towards me only as I drew near, then wheeled to saunter beside me.

He was in his cassock, buttons all the way from chin to hem. His dress was designed to obliterate the shape of his body, but the wind made a mockery of all pretences. And so he put the wind into his back, hiding himself from any curious gaze.

Unobtrusively, his right hand found its way into one of my large pockets and he saw my eyes grow large and luminous as his fingers found what they wanted.

Now he must take me inside, or reveal to all the world that his penis was pushing at his cassock.

In the ruddy light of his studio, he gently laid me on the table in the middle of the room and lifted up my skirt to lick my eagerly opening vagina.

It was easy for him to lift up his cassock and insert his gleaming penis. He undid the buttons of my bodice to expose my heaving breasts. My nipples yearned for the touch of his fingers, the lick of his tongue, the gentle suck of his mouth. My breasts cupped in his hands, he bent over me and kissed me full on the mouth, stopping my scream as I came, lifting my body towards him.

A bell rang to announce the end of recess. I buttoned up, unpinned my shawl and modestly draped it around myself. A kiss goodbye and I left the dark room to rejoin my charges.

Father Kennedy bent languidly over his developing tray. His pictures of the parish church were coming along well…

My orgasm was prolonged, sweet and satisfying.

The glow of achievement stayed with me in my dreams that night. I dreamt of being a novice nun once more, who went to the forest every week with some of her sisters to meet the young men studying for the priesthood in the monastery next door. Everyone was involved in one massive explosion of sexual energy.

I woke from this orgasmic dream in the middle of the night feeling exhilarated, and laughed aloud at my choice of symbols for sexual excitement. I knew real priests usually to be the most unimaginative and uninteresting males you could possibly meet. The sublimation of their sexuality seemed to leave them dried-out, or else holy in a way that made me want to puke.

Nuns were not much better off. Too often, their Godgiven female juiciness dried up into pale wrinkles. The sculptor Bernini saw it differently, judging by his statue of
the saintly Sister Teresa in the Vatican, but how many nuns looked like that these days? Nuns like Teresa of Avila and Hildegard of Bingen have been dead a long time.

TO MY UTTER
surprise, my anus became spontaneously orgasmic. It happened when I was having a normal evacuation. Sitting there, I became aware of the pleasure of feeling a large stool roll easily down from my bowel into that last section before it left my body. Tears came involuntarily into my eyes and streamed down my face as this most ordinary of functions became the apex of pleasurable sensations. I sighed with ineffable pleasure as the last stool plopped into the water. My body was letting me know that all was well with the bowel that had once been so constricted and dried-up.

I understood, then, why my men liked being stroked around their anus so much, even the most conservative, and some even liked a tiny poke in there (clean holes only), and how homosexual men would find anal intercourse entirely satisfactory. Not that anyone had ever enjoyed anal pleasures with me. When I was with one of my pimps, one guy tried, but it hurt so much and I cried so miserably that he gave up, lucky for me. Only once did one of my own clients make a pass at my anus, when we were doing it doggy fashion. ‘Wrong hole, mate,’ was all I needed to say.

GOD’S CALLGIRL WAS
happy. With my clients I had what few achieve in a marriage: a life where my innermost essence found expression. I was the giving goddess who took nectar from her God in the shape of many men.

I felt pleasure in being with most of my clients and a true heart connection with some. I appreciated my customers—at least, what I got to know of them during the short periods we spent together in such out-of-the-ordinary circumstances. They certainly seemed appreciative of
me,
which was even more important. Not many words were spoken, but there was respect, appreciation, friendliness and humour. ‘I like your special touch, Carla,’, ‘I feel at home with you,’ and ‘You give me a decent massage as well as making me feel great,’ were some of the words that satisfied my constant question:
Am I on the right track?

These men gave me their money but none of them ever took me out to dinner or wanted to be seen with me in public, and I went to bed alone all those nights I was separated from Hal. It was enough to be loved by several men in secret, to be pleasured to orgasm every day, or twice a day—some of my men dared to say that
they
should be paid instead.

My independent nature learned to appreciate having the house to myself at night. Victoria often chose to stay with her father; it was easier for both of us this way. I was forty-four but looked at least ten years younger. I never felt the need to dissociate from my work by taking drugs, or by smoking or drinking. I was radiantly healthy and could be forgiven for thinking I had it all, for ever.

THE VASE CRACKS

PHIL LAY ON MY
massage table, a burly man, thickset and about fifty-five years old. He had his eyes closed and was breathing rather noisily. Phil was one of my regulars and I had poured all my care into his back, his neck and his legs. He now turned over and I got busy with the front of his legs, his chest and the most important part of his anatomy—his penis.

I knew bodies. Phil’s had been in an agony of longing this last half hour. I could tell by the unconscious slightly upward thrust of his pelvis, propelled not just by my touch but by his myriad of unused sperm—hormones unsatisfied by constantly deferred lovemaking. Phil came to me because I could relieve him of this stress while giving him the most intense pleasure he’d ever experienced—a heightened sexual climax. Years of practice had taught me where the tender spots were, where to be firmer; when to be slow, when to be fast. I knew how to build up a wave of energy slowly and let it drop, then pick it up again, and again.

Phil came closer to climaxing: I expected a feeling of the greatest wellbeing begin to surge through him. Phil’s longing—and my hands—made him come. It was a great orgasm. Surely better than when he last had sex with his wife, which, Phil had confided, was several months ago. He should have
been happy, but I heard a sound I’d not expected: with one hand over his eyes, Phil was suppressing a heart-rending sob. His naked, vulnerable body shook helplessly as he lay beneath my wondering eyes, penis flaccid now and every ounce of spare fat shivering around his frame.