The Sexopaths (9 page)

‘Anyway – it was that Irish
woman who was trying to get off with me – I caught her looking at my
swimming trunks earlier.’

‘Mmm.’  She’s dozing off,
but she slides her hand across his stomach, squeezes and holds.  ‘I don’t
blame her, my darling.  Apparently she is a famous writer…  love
you…’

‘Love you, too.’

Blog by Anonymous – 2

OMG!  I have
to dash to the shops – but I’ll finish this ciggie first.  My
rabbit’s batteries are flat and I’ve run out of pants.  I promised Sarah
six pairs by today and I’ve only done three.  Some punters just like them
worn round the house, but Sarah wants ones that I’ve been wet in – she
makes twice as much money out of them – I’ve looked up the prices on her
‘Wet Panties’ website.  She passes them off as her own.  As if she
could get through that many herself!  Can you believe it says “You’ll be
cumming back for more!”  And some weirdos obviously are!  You should
read the reviews – they wear them and jerk off on them and stuff like
that.  She sells sweaty ones too – ones that have been worn in a
work-out.  I don’t know who she gets them from – she’s not the gym
type.  She says in The States you can buy lollipops that have been
inserted you know where, with the wrappers put back on.  Which reminds me,
I must remember to buy some sandwich bags – so my ‘work’ stays
damp.  I suppose I could try to forge them, but she’d go loopy if she
found out.  And I can’t think how I’d do it, anyway.  She doesn’t
allow perfume.  I guess she sprays them with her own scent so they all
smell like they’re from her.  The other night I was with this couple
– when I was getting dressed I noticed her pants on the floor by the bed
– I could have taken them but the guy was watching me – he just
wanted to fuck me again, I could tell.  But I was already over time and he
wasn’t offering me a tip to stay longer.  I don’t like it when it’s the
husband that’s made the wife set it all up, like it’s something she wants to do
and he’s just going along with it to please her – do they think I’m
stupid, or something?  Mind you, I think these two were having an
affair.  It was in a suite in The Immoral (geddit?) and they had separate
luggage and loads of sex toys and massage oil and candles.  She was trying
to please him too hard, I reckon.  When I arrived – she met me
downstairs in the bar for a drink so she could ‘get to know me’ – he was
already in his ‘sexy’ underpants blindfolded and tied to the bed where she’d
left him.  You should have seen her expression when I started giving him a
blow-job straight off!  I turned round and sat on his face and made him do
some work.  She joined in then and started to get into it – but she
made sure she was first to shove him inside her.  I could tell he was
disappointed about that.  I let her make me come – may as well get
my money’s worth!  She knew what she was doing.  Then she brought out
this giant electric massager – I’ve seen them advertised like they’re for
your muscles not for sex (!) – I thought they wanted to put it up me
– OMG!  But she just used it on herself – maybe he didn’t know
how to make her come – so I took over and she seemed to like it –
she wouldn’t let me take my head away at the end, her nails were like cat’s
claws digging into my scalp.  I’ll maybe give her a call
.

‘Oh my God!’

As Adam admits her into their
room an uneasy giggle escapes from Monique’s puckered lips.  She stretches
to plant a passing kiss on his cheek.  He moves neither towards her, nor
away, but the impression he gives is of a reluctance to accept the
greeting.  She’s clad in an oversized white towelling robe and matching
hotel flip-flops.  She slips past him and turns into the bathroom, leaving
the door open.  She leans across the basin, blinking at her reflection, as
though to check she’s still herself after some peculiar dream.  The ‘v’ of
her chest and her throat are revealingly flushed, as if she bears the scars of
a steaming bath.

‘What happened?’  Adam stands
behind her, feeling it would be normal to put his hands upon her shoulders, but
somehow hesitant to do so.

She shakes her head, making
tentative eye contact via the mirror.  ‘Nothing – nothing.  I
mean – that was just crazy!’

‘Monique – you were naked
with a guy.  I saw your bikini bottoms lying there.  Never mind the
top.  I had to sit and wait next to them!’

‘I know – I am sorry
– he insisted.  But they had told us that.  You were naked,
anyway.’

‘Yeah – but with a fucking
bloke!’

‘It was okay – there is
nothing to worry about.  I had the same as you.’

‘I’m not sure that’s any
consolation.  And you were twice as long as I was in that massage room.’

‘I don’t think so?’

‘You were – I heard you go
in there after me.  I was getting that bloody honey malarkey in the same
corridor – then I finished and went to the waiting area.  When you
came out to see me you still had the honey treatment left.’

‘Maybe – I don’t
know.  Look – sure – it was a bit weird.  I think it is
what they are like here – they are not hung up on nakedness.  I mean
– we saw the film of it on the hotel channel – it was a male
masseur and a woman… naked.’

‘I thought that was just to make
it look good.  And where were the female masseuses?  The guy I got
was not my idea of a good time.  To distract myself I had to think about
those awful Tory politicians who had an affair.’

Monique lets out a burst of
nervous laughter and uses this break in his interrogation as an excuse to turn
and embrace him.  They hold one another, standing stock still, her raised
chin resting on his shoulder, his lips brushing her hair.  Adam watches
the scene in the mirror.  He too is still wearing his robe – they’d
gone down to the health club with their swimwear beneath their bathrobes.

‘Nothing happened, my darling. 
I love you – I would not let anything happen.’

‘I blame that bloody
Vladimir.’  He imitates the Russo-Latvian’s accent: ‘“
Before you leave
zis place, you must experience ze legendary Russian sauna
.” Wait till I see
him.’

‘What will you say?’

‘That they must be a bunch of
fucking perverts.’

‘Did you not like your
treatments?’

‘How could I – I mean… a
guy doing it?  And to you.’

‘But we’ve been to plenty of
places where you’ve had a girl masseuse and I’ve not minded.’

‘I can’t help it – it’s how
I feel.’  He unwraps his arms from her form; she’s bulkier than usual
through their double layers of towelling.  ‘Come on – let’s go
through.’  They file into the bedroom and settle side by side on the
expansive bed, fingertips touching, just bridging the rift that jags between
them.  Adam continues:

‘I didn’t like the way that guy
came to get you when you were talking to me.’

The Russian, a fairly fit-looking
dark-skinned short-bearded fellow of forty-something had appeared in the
doorway behind her, and proprietorially placed his hands either side of her
waist (she had a towel around her at this point), glanced at him where he sat
in the relaxation area, smiled understandingly (although what sort of
understanding it was meant to be – it was the look of a seasoned tutor
drawing one of his charges away from an unimportant distraction), and prompted
her to return with him into the labyrinthine back-rooms for the last stage of
the round-robin course of treatments to which they’d been subjected. 
Neither of the Russian masseurs apparently spoke any English, nor any of the
presumably Latvian staff at the reception desk of the spa area.  Monique
had asked on his behalf if it would be female masseuses, to which they’d
received the incorrect reply ‘yes’.  Maybe they thought she was asking if
women could go inside.  And – true – someone, maybe Vladimir
the local conference organiser, had mentioned the night before you have to be
naked, but they couldn’t really believe this was some essential rule, more of a
preferred option for the aficionado.  Consequently, they’d both arrived in
swimming gear – he sporting shorts, she a bikini – and had soaked
for a while in a spa bath with a couple of other (male) guests, both of whom
wore trunks, but whom with hindsight had probably finished their treatments.

Monique replies in a sympathetic
tone to Adam’s complaint:

‘I know.  I felt that, my
darling.  And I was lying there all the time knowing you’d be going mad
because you’d had it done first and so you’d know what he’d be doing to me.’

‘I don’t know if I like the sound
of that.  My massage wasn’t that…
concerning
– it was only
when I was face down on the wet slab that I was worried – he was pressing
me onto it and I was terrified I’d get an erection – but my guy never
touched me… sexually, obviously.’

Monique doesn’t answer.

‘Yours did?’

‘No – well –
no.  I mean, it came a little close.  When you are naked… everything
is so… near.  There were a few things – but I never responded.’

‘Christ – I can’t believe
this.  You mean he was trying to get off with you?’

‘No – no – oh, I
don’t know.  Look – it was meant to be a nice thing and now it is
going all wrong.’

Adam stands up and pads to the
windows – sliding glass doors that give onto a balcony, below which are some
bare treetops and just beyond these a deserted sandy beach sloping down to the
flat grey Baltic sea.  Beyond, there’s already a hint of autumn dusk as
the sun begins to dip for the horizon.  Adam realises they don’t have so
much daylight left.

‘We said we’d go for a
walk.  Shall we go?  I feel kind of cooped up right now.’

‘Ok.’

A few minutes later they’ve
pulled on tracksuits and overclothes, gloves, hats and mufflers and are
pressing thoughtful footprints into the narrow strip of firm wet sand at the
edge of the gently lapping water.  Much of the beach looks to Adam as if
it’s rarely troubled by a high tide, a broad swathe of well-trodden
micro-dunes, evenly punctuated at one hundred metre intervals by dark-green
tardis-like toilet cubicles, matching changing shelters, benches and neat blue
waste bins, the sort of targets that within their first week in the UK would
have found themselves overturned, stamped to death, or sailed out to sea and
pelted with rocks.  Also incongruous is a pair of heavy-billed Hooded
Crows dipping in the shallows, turning over small piles of washed-up seaweed,
seemingly perfectly at home scrumping in seagull territory.

‘You have been saying how you
fancy all these Latvian girls.  I thought it would be ok for me to feel
– I don’t know… attractive, have a nice time.’

‘But not screw the masseur!’

‘I didn’t screw the masseur!’

‘I feel like you’re trying to
tell me something like that.’

‘I promise.  Look – I
shall tell you what happened – probably nearly the same as for you.’

‘But when you came back to the
room – the way you looked.  Like you were really turned on.’

‘Well… I was.  I am. 
But I want you.  I was hoping you’d waited – I’d thought that we
could go down to the steam room in the relaxation area and make love.  I
was disappointed you had gone.’

Adam squeezes her hand.

‘I couldn’t stand it, being
there.  Just sitting staring at your bikini thinking about you in one of
those rooms with that guy.’

‘I know – I am sorry.’

‘What did he say when he asked
you to take it off?’

‘Nothing – he just pointed
and gestured.  He couldn’t speak English or French – or
German.  After that I gave up trying to talk to him and it was just sign
language.’

‘Maybe conveniently for him.’

‘No – I think really.’

‘Anyway – what do you mean
about me saying I fancy all the girls?’

‘You point out how nice they
are.  Dark and tall and good looking.  It was the same last time we
came to the Baltics.’

‘Yes – but I only mean in
an observational sense.  I can’t believe how most of the girls here are
almost the same height as the guys – it’s really noticeable.’

Monique shrugs a little,
declining to argue this particular point further.  She says:

‘And then they flock round you
after your talks.  And that one from the university who interviewed you
yesterday.’

‘I know – but… I mean, it’s
my job to be nice to them.  We’ve had some great trips out of this stuff I
do.  Until now.’

‘Don’t say that, my
darling.  Nothing has happened.  We have had a nice time.  We
shall have a nice time when we get back to our room, I promise.’  She
leans across and kisses him.  ‘But you do keep joking about the massage
parlours – on Monday in Vilnius you were pretending to leave me and go
into that one near the hotel.’  She nudges him.  ‘Oh – I know
you were joking – but I think what if you were out here alone, what would
happen.  All these girls around you – I can see it makes you a
little high, the attention – it is natural.’

Two thoughts compete for Adam’s
processing power.  One, should he question how come she empathises so well
and, two, whether he has brought this sauna episode upon himself.  The
latter prevails: on reflection he probably has overtly admired some of the more
stunning conference attendees while in Monique’s company, perhaps poorly
disguising his interest by highlighting an outrageous outfit here, or an
unusually wild hairstyle there.  But these are minor battles to be fought
another day; right now his frontline defences face an invasion, perhaps already
are overrun. He says:

‘So tell me what happened after
we got split up.’

They’d begun the process,
initially directed together by one of the short squat muscular female
attendants, recalling a pre-fall Soviet Olympian, into a scaldingly hot sauna,
having each been given a ridiculous-looking tall brown conical fur hat to wear. 
The erstwhile shot-putter had muttered something in Latvian or Russian and
indicated towards their swimwear, and Adam had suspected this was a further
instruction to take it off.  As there was no one else in the darkened
sauna cabin, Monique had been happy to remove her bikini top.  He,
however, had decided to keep on his shorts – he felt humiliated enough as
it was, wearing the ludicrous hat; being naked too was too much to bear. 
Then a guy had appeared – until then they’d assumed it would be females
carrying out the treatments.  This turned out to be the younger of the
two, tall and muscular, with a shaven head, wearing a caveman-style skirt that
seemed to be made of the same fur-like material as the sauna hats.  He’d
indicated for them both to come outside, had pointed for Monique to sit in the
waiting zone, and had led Adam to an adjoining wet area where he indicated to a
low bench.  Evidently Adam was to lie down.  But first of all it was
made clear he had to remove his shorts.  He did so, then lay face first,
and within seconds found himself screaming out
‘You must be KGB!’
as a
barrel of ice was poured on top of him, and smeared – if ice can be
smeared – over his back and legs.  Next he was invited to rise and
enter a shower cubicle.  The guy came half in with him, reached up, pulled
a rope, and released a powerful deluge of freezing-cold water upon him,
unsuspecting and still in shock from the ice torture.  Next it was back
into the sauna – en route passing the waiting Monique, who pulled a face
of trepidation, having overheard Adam’s protests.  Once inside, Adam was
made to lie on his stomach, and undergo some kind of thrashing treatment with a
large handful of leafy switches, which the guy apparently kept dipping into a
tub of menthol-infused liquid.  This wasn’t entirely unpleasant, though at
times it crossed the boundary between pleasing tickles and stinging
whips.  After five or ten minutes Adam was led back through the inner
atrium – now no sign or sound of Monique – and into a corridor with
a number of unmarked doors.  Inside one of these was a dimly lit, marble
floored wet-room, in the centre of which stood a dining-table-sized stone slab
reminiscent of a mortuary.  Now – face down initially – Adam
was subjected to a warm soapy bubble-massage (he had no idea where the bubbles
came from), the firm hands of the guy covering most of his body with
well-practised strokes.  It was at this point that he’d said his only
English words: ‘It is heaven, yes?’ to which Adam had replied ‘Maybe if you were
a girl.’  The guy hadn’t answered, but continued with gusto, in particular
pressing upon Adam’s buttocks in a way that unavoidably stimulated his penis
against the slippery surface below, and required all of Adam’s concentration
upon the aforementioned politicians to preserve his modesty.  And there
was an urge somewhere within him that invited him to yield to the undoubted
physical pleasure to which he was being subjected.  A female masseuse in
this situation might have provided him with something of a challenge.  And
now as well he began to think about Monique – about this being done to
her – would it be by a girl? – or a male as he suspected, having
glimpsed another, older man moving about the sauna environs, attired in the
same Neanderthal garb as his own therapist.  Would he be the one in
charge, the one who decided who took which client?  The face-up part of
the bubbles session couldn’t finish quickly enough for Adam, after which he was
invited to rise and be sprayed by a warm hand-held shower, and then given a
large towel in which to wrap himself.  The final leg of the bizarre
pentathlon took place in a naturally lit room, frosted windows along its back
wall, where he was directed to lie naked upon a plastic-covered massage table,
and was smeared back and front with what smelt and felt like a mixture of runny
honey and aromatic spices.  After this he was covered with polythene and
left to his own devices, the guy indicating something on the wall-clock as he
left the room.  Evidently the process was to end here; when no one came to
release him from his plastic cocoon he kicked himself free and found his way
into the empty and echoing central atrium, where he showered, and then hung
around feeling like he’d missed the last train and had nowhere else to go. 
His shorts had been placed on the back of one of the slatted loungers, and this
was where he noticed Monique’s bikini, a small scarlet bundle cast upon the
tiled floor as if in passing.  He’d checked to confirm it comprised of
both pieces.  Her voice had reached him only once – a brief giggle
and something like ‘Oh – I see, okay,’ followed by the slamming of a door
– he’d guessed the ‘bubbles’ room.  This was while he was in the
‘honey’ room.  By his calculations, while he’d had to endure the bubbles
for no more than ten minutes, by the time Monique had appeared leaning in from
the corridor to speak with him, her ‘bubbles’ session must have lasted at least
twenty – and then she was drawn back for the final ‘honey’ application by
the smirking Russian, the latter clad now in only a dark thong, having at some
stage dispensed with his hairy girdle.