The Final Retreat by Stephen Hough

Author:Stephen Hough [Hough, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781909631281
Published: 2018-09-06T04:00:00+00:00

33 Fred Astaire

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Prostitution can be an easy way for a young person to make money. A wad of tax-free cash in hand without leaving the bedroom except to let in the punter. The best ones make you believe that they are attracted to you. They tip you over the edge to climax whilst either pretending to join you or sidestepping the moment like some Fred Astaire, leaving room for another dance later the same evening. They pretend that they find your flabby body sexy and the hairs sprouting out of your nose and ears endearing. They learn the technique of exhaling when kissing to avoid the retch of bad breath, or they manage to avoid kissing altogether. Speed is of the essence because most men, after reaching an orgasm, want to leave the scene of the crime quickly. An hour-long appointment can be cut short after fifteen minutes if climax is accomplished. The man with a premature ejaculation is a hooker’s delight — the engine of his car outside still warm, libido’s fast-food fix.

Many of the boys I see are students, textbooks laid to one side ready to be picked up again after pocketing the pound notes. An hour on the sweaty bed and calculus or chemistry or graphic design can be resumed with little effort. Not so the students who slave in the kitchens of dingy restaurants, arriving home exhausted after midnight on minimum wage or less. I feel that even if my boys are not enjoying it they are benefiting from it. I am the kind old uncle helping with the tuition fees, even if it pains me to think of myself as old in that situation.

How desperate it all is. How pathetic I know myself to be as I climb back into my car and drive home smelling of their cologne and their drying sweat and sometimes with even a whiff of faecal matter. I am in a state of constant denial, excuses on top of excuses, hands over eyes, torn in every direction, self-pitying and self-condemning in one desperate cry. I am the judge, the prosecution and the defence in a shambolic, tawdry equivocation. My soul is dead, a cheap cigarette butt ground to dust with a heavy heel.

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