Adventures of a London Call Boy (4 page)

Chapter Nine

Bar work had its advantages, though, at least for a while. I slept in late, I ate for free, I met lots of people.

But there was one quite specific advantage that I should mention.

Barmaids.

Barmaids are, of course, a long-standing sexual cliché: busty German wenches serving Bavarian brew to lusty males; wholesome farmers' daughters bunking up with Chaucerian students. Most men have one fond memory or another from their youth of a favourite barmaid.

Nowadays, the key with barmaids is to get them when they've just arrived. The psychological and physical effects of working behind a bar are not attractive. Girls whose work includes spending large chunks of the day snacking on bar food and crisps, and most of the evening supping beer, end up flabby and bored very soon. Although bored women are fair game, they've got to at least show an interest and be worth the hard yards.

Meanwhile, in their defence, the experience of being leered at by sweating drunks makes them quite rightly wary about men as a species. But newly arrived barmaids, as well as tending to be the very cream of the student, actress, wannabe-model crowd, are generally looking to make friends. There are a lot of people in London desperate to make friends. Barmaids have at least gone a step further and taken a job that makes it easy. And furthermore, most of them are up for casual and often rather quite adventurous sex.

After a week I'd managed two quickies in the cellar with a little Danish blonde who was in town to perfect her already excellent English. She also seemed to revel in what most would have considered quite uncomfortable positions. I can't quite remember how it got started. I expect the landlord, a cheery old Welshman who spent almost no time in the pub he was meant to run and an awful lot of time boozing the profits away in one mate's premises or another, decided to let me show her the ropes. I suppose it was his idea of a favour for holding the fort while he disappeared for the evening.

We were busy and a pump ran dry. The girl asked me if I'd show her how to change it. I nodded to the other guy on and went downstairs with her.

In the cellar I realised that I had walked into something from a Carry On film. Not only was it extremely hot, but we were in a room full of pumps and hoses. I tried to avoid one horrible pun or another as I explained to her how to unhook the line and reconnect with a new barrel. I saw her looking attentively at me and carried on biting my tongue. After the demonstration, I asked if she knew what to do.

‘I bet you're thinking this is like some kind of porno,' she said, to my complete surprise.

‘I'm sorry?' I managed to blurt.

‘You, a little blonde girl. In the cellar full of pumps.'

‘Right. I hadn't really thought of it like that,' I said, lying.

‘Or Carry On.'

‘How do you know about Carry On films?'

‘I'm here to learn English, right.'

‘By watching Carry On films?'

‘Yes. Look, I know what you're thinking.'

‘I'm thinking we should probably get back upstairs before they think something's up.'

‘Yeah right,' she said. ‘I think it already is. Come on, do you think we have time?'

‘For what … oh, right.' I checked my watch. ‘Well I've always got time to brush up on a little Danish,' I said, almost cringing myself. She laughed, and reached out. We kissed, only briefly, before she went for my fly. Meanwhile I hitched up her pinny and tore her tight black trousers down to her ankles.

‘This might be uncomfortable,' I said, as I turned her round and bent her towards a barrel. She laughed again, while I slipped her G-string down from her perfect buttocks. The first time was brief, but she enjoyed being fucked like that enough to make another more or less laughable excuse to invite me down there later that evening, and by the end of the week I'd managed to screw her several ways over a barrel, with our heads squeezed under the low ceiling and her attempting to come without letting her gritted-teeth shouts reach either the staff room or the bar upstairs. I've always loved an adventuress, particularly one with as flexible a little frame as she had.

At the same time I'd also been getting on very well with the assistant manageress, a sharp-eyed American girl financing an MBA somewhere in the city. She clearly didn't need the money, as her flat over the canal suggested that someone with a lot of spare cash was bankrolling the whole deal. She and the landlord made the unlikeliest of professional pairings, but it seemed to work. She came up with one bright idea after another to bring in the punters and the cash, while he boozed it away and let her have run of the place.

Alongside the MBA and the bar work, she'd obviously decided to let rip with a set of fantastic perversions that she had brought with her from across the water. We had our first encounter one evening, later after a shift, as we sat on the sofa in the pub waiting for the boss to return. She was chilly and professional with me at first, but relaxed after a couple of VTs, and soon we were chatting like old friends. I invited her to continue the fun at my place, once the boss was back, but she insisted on showing me her flat. We made love that evening, pretty much standard vanilla milkshake stuff, but the second time round there she began to unleash. Firstly, she had me tie her up with a long leather strap. The second time, she produced a metal bar with two ankle loops, which she had me secure her in before I fucked her with her ankles spread wide over her head.

The next time, she told me we needed to step up a gear. I tied her fully this time – ankles on the bar, hands tightly tied to the bedposts, before gagging her and beating her buttocks with what I can only describe as a paddle, before I finally got to fuck her.

The next time, she produced candles: once she was tied, the wax had to be picked off, soft and applied to her nipples; once it dried, it was to be torn off. Then the same on her pussy. I wasn't wholly convinced, but it got her sopping wet before I screwed her. For the second round, it was to be dripped on, slowly, with her hands and feet bound to the corners of the bed. I was fairly sure that this would cause damage, but even then I was never one to turn down a reasonable offer.

She was, at least, even handed. Over the week, for each of the several occasions on which she demanded to be spanked, tied or penetrated in unusual fashion, I was equally beaten, whipped and singed. The candles that filled her flat were not just for adornment; nor was the riding crop. I can't say I was as keen on the pain as she was, but as a means to an end it suited me fine. I guess we both got different things out of it: if dirty bondage games got me into a dripping wet, welcoming pussy, all the better. Meanwhile, I think she used the sex to talk me into more and more surprising little tricks. Only when I found myself at work with a customer enquiring as to whether a cat had scratched my neck and then another asking whether the pub had a H&S policy for burns did I realise that perhaps things needed calming down a little.

Chapter Ten

Then there was the other advantage: the customers.

The combination of office girls working in largely female environments and gallons of white wine has always been an explosive mixture. As a single barman, it's hard not to take advantage. I'd had a word with one of the bouncers, and occasionally I'd find myself in the secluded little alley out the back having guiltless fun with one customer or another while he sneakily looked on. As well as being harmless, the sex was often effortless. I think drunk girls see oral as some sort of safety measure. On a couple of occasions it took little more than a brief exchange of words to find myself throat deep in an account handler or sales exec. Occasionally, after an early shift, I'd knock off at six to, well, knock off with the same girl; after all, it's rude not to return favours.

It was Celeste who suggested that I might have an addiction.

‘How many girls have you had sex with in the last month?' she asked me. She was propping up the bar, considering a cigarette, while I lazily wiped a glass and eyed up the female half of a business deal who looked like a distinct possibility. Celeste and I had shared a flat for a year or so, after she'd fallen out with an old school chum who wanted to move a boyfriend in, and I'd decided I no longer wanted to share a house with six other people and only one bathroom.

‘Are you jealous? We could share,' I said to her.

‘No. Moron,' she sneered. ‘But seriously. You don't know, do you?'

I thought briefly. ‘Ten maybe. Fifteen? Possibly.'

‘Shit. Cesc, that's ridiculous.'

‘It's been a good month. You know the joke, right?'

‘Joke?'

‘What's the difference between a car tyre and thirty used condoms?'

‘I don't know,' she said, trying not to look like she cared.

‘One's a Goodyear, one's a good month.'

‘Ha ha,' she said, without a smile. ‘Seriously, though. It's a lot.'

‘Maybe. By the way, are we counting head?'

‘Yes.'

‘But eating's not cheating.'

‘You don't have anyone to cheat on. And it's still eating,' she added vaguely stirring her Tanq' and tonic.

‘Anyway, shut up. Someone will hear. I'd hate to give the wrong impression.'

‘You idiot. Anyway,' she continued, fiddling with her unnecessary indoor shades, ‘you've got a problem.'

‘It would only be a problem if I couldn't get any. I don't even think there's such a thing as sex addiction. An addiction would be your smoking. I'm sure your smoking is a comforter. Did your first boyfriend have a really small, two-tone dick? With a Marlboro tattoo up the side?'

‘Screw you.'

‘You know it's bad for your health. Maybe if you didn't smoke you'd have better sex.'

‘I'd rather go into a convent than give up.'

‘You see, Celeste, you're the one with the addiction. What would you do if they banned it properly?'

‘I'd still smoke,' she said, determinedly.

‘You'll be fined, you know. Or jailed. You know, Celeste, I'd like to see a pretty girl like you in a women's jail.'

She stuck her tongue out at me.

‘That's a real long tongue you got. You're gonna need it where you're going.'

‘Piss off,' she said.

‘Seriously though, what about the fine? It's a lot of money.'

‘I'd smoke if the punishment was death. I'd rather die than quit,' she said, now annoyed at me.

I grabbed her cigarettes and made to throw them into the sink.

‘Hey!' she said, grabbing my wrist.

‘See. That's an addiction.'

‘I could quit if I wanted.'

‘Celeste, you just said that you'd rather die than quit.'

‘Rather die than have them make me quit, I said. I could quit if I wanted to.'

I broke off a second to serve a customer, an older guy, a big Irish builder off the site, who looked over towards Celeste as if he were about to make a come-on.

‘Don't bother, mate,' I said.

‘What?' he asked.

‘She's,' I whispered across the bar, ‘how can I say this. She's a woman in comfortable shoes, you know.'

‘Oh. I see.'

He sipped his beer and rubbed some brick dust off his black coat. After a moment he moved along the bar and looked at Celeste.

‘'Tis a waste, my dear. What you wanna go muff rubbing when there's good cock in the world.'

‘I'm sorry?' said Celeste, bewildered, while I tried to contain my laughter. Before she could berate him, the man had turned away, shaking his head, and had sat down with his pint across the other side of the pub.

‘Cesc, what the fuck was that about?'

‘Who knows, Cel, who knows.'

‘I'm going for a cigarette,' she said, flustered.

‘See,' I said. ‘An addiction. This,' I said, looking at the customer who'd been eyeing me up, ‘is simply good luck.'

Chapter Eleven

The luck couldn't last, of course.

It was a Friday night in the bar. I should have realised that something was up when the regular bouncer didn't show. As it was, we were too busy to take too much notice. Paydays were always crazy. Even with direct debits and credit cards, there still seemed to be something about the end of the month that led to wild collective festivities.

The media firm from around the corner was also celebrating something and had block-booked the sofas by the window. I had no idea whether it was a leaving do or a birthday; I didn't pay too much attention to the cards on the table, but I did notice the attentions of the birthday or leaving girl. Her colleagues were egging her on to come to the bar and find fairly pointless excuses to shoot the breeze with me, while buying swimming-pool quantities of booze for herself, her friends and half the bar. She was tall and slender, freckled, neatly dressed and generous with her tips.

We flirted fairly aimlessly as I collected glasses and her friends and colleagues nudged and prodded in schoolgirl fashion. I'm used to this sort of thing; I suppose it comes firstly with the looks, if you'll excuse the vanity, and secondly with the type of work I do. Barmen are fairly neutral, for flirting or something more. Often we're called upon to put pressure on the real object of attentions, which is fine by me. I've no problem helping stir listless men to action provided no jealous boyfriends come looking for a scrap.

After she'd pushed her way assertively through the scrum at the bar she bought me another drink, which I totted up behind the counter. Then, after a fairly meaningless exchange, she flicked her light red hair behind her ear and pouted tipsily and suggestively. I nodded in the direction of the fire exit and snuck out around the front of the bar. I cast the bouncer a wink, while a couple of my colleagues asked where I was going.

‘I'm just checking on the disabled toilets. Apparently there's a problem with the taps.'

It was a fairly standard and believable excuse, or so I thought. Once I was out of sight, the other side of the mêlée at the bar, I ducked through the fire door, left it open, and waited a second as she followed me. It was dark outside, the bins blocking the view from the road.

I leant against the wall and waited.

‘So aren't you going to introduce yourself?' she asked.

‘I'm Cesc.'

‘Che …'

‘No.'

‘Ke …'

‘Still no.'

‘Fuck it,' she concluded, walking towards me and grabbing my T-shirt. Dutch courage, clearly. ‘I'm really not fussed what you're called.'

She kissed me, drunkenly and lustily. I grabbed her buttocks and pulled her towards me.

‘We'll have to be quick. They're expecting me in the disabled toilets.'

She pulled away momentarily and gave me a skewed smile.

‘Whatever,' she said, putting her hand on my crotch. ‘Come on then.'

I pushed my hands up along her thighs and found, to my pleasant surprise, the side ties of her knickers. Two quick jerks and they were off, revealing a perfectly shaved, silky smooth peach beneath. She was obviously well prepared. She undid my fly and reached for my cock. While I played with her with one hand and she massaged me even harder, I pulled out a trusty Trojan from the wallet in my back pocket. She took it from me, opened it, put the teat between her teeth, and bent over to perform a cunning trick that I love, rolling it down my shaft with the roll against her teeth as my cock moved to the back of her pretty little mouth.

Then she stood up suddenly.

‘From behind,' she demanded, moving past me toward the wall.

I followed her round and reached between her legs, pushing her skirt up over her buttocks, spreading her thighs apart and then pushing my cock up and into her. She gasped as I thrust my way further in. She pressed her hands and face against the wall while I held her hips steady with both hands, settling into a steady rhythm. Then I reached round and found her clit, using her moisture to run my index finger up and down it. She came surprisingly quickly, clearly aware of the need for haste, and despite her trembling I managed to control myself, before moving my hands back to her hips to concentrate on my own pleasure.

At which stage, sadly, the door opened. The movement caught my eye, but not hers.

It was my deputy manageress. For a moment I wondered whether she might want to join in and prepared to hold on for a while.

I stopped and the red-haired girl turned too.

‘What the …' she began.

‘I'm sorry missy, but fucking the staff is not included with the price of a drink. Even as much as you had.' The girl as good as jumped off me, a horrified look on her face, before hitching her skirt back down. She shook herself down like a riled cat, before huffing her way back inside the bar. I realised that her knickers were tucked into my pocket and briefly thought about offering to return them.

‘And as for you,' added my deputy boss. ‘You're fired. Put your fucking cock away and get out.'

‘Are you sure I can't put it to some good use? It's like a rock …'

‘You disgust me. Get out.'

‘You can't fire me. You're not the landlord.'

‘If I say you're fired, you're fired. Now get the fuck out.'

Shit. I thought. Sacked, and I hadn't even come.

I also realised that I'd been stitched up. The new bouncer, as well as being a giant who could barely walk because of his muscle-pumped frame, was also a born-again moralist of one strict religion or another. He saw part of his work as a doorman as making sure as little surreptitious sex took place as possible, starting with me. If only I'd realised that it wasn't my usual mate I would have left off the wink and probably gotten away with it.

That evening was the start of a bad run of luck. It's not fun being out of work, particularly when your last two references have gone up in smoke, in one case quite spectacularly, with me doing my best impression of a randy penguin.

Celeste saw it as proof of my addiction. Apparently, once a repetitive habit affects your work, that's a sign of addiction.

‘Crap,' I said, but it had started to get under my skin.