Rainy Days and Mondays

London, UK - a disturbed young man - Thursday, September 28th, 2006 : goo

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On tonight's menu is a lovely polish girl named sascha with dissapointing breasts and a surprise caesarean scar. She will be polite and friendly but ultimately her performance will be lacklustre. She will chew gum throughout.

I think it was Karen Carpenter who first said "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down". But i think we can take her opinions with a pinch of salt. Not to speak ill of the dead you understand. Me, I enjoy the rain. Hard, unrelenting rain. Fat, meaty rain. There's nothing more satisfying to my fragile mind. The noise the wipers make through their laboured attempts is almost hypnotic. As i step from my car to the reinforced steel door i pause. I press the buzzer, my heart racing. The anticipation is almost too much. I think, to be honest, it's the adrenaline rush i'm addicted to.

I heard about this place from a friend of a friend. I have no real friends, unless you count Patrick, and co-workers are throw-away friends. These strangers with which we share our lives. These people with which we spend more time than we do our own families. These misfits we barely know, yet know so well. These non-companions. These are our disposable aquaintances. See, none of it means a damn thing. You start a new job or they find a new flat. You feel no sense of loss for your throw-away friends. They could die tomorrow, and next week you'd be fine. That's how i like it. That's what i tell myself. I always take the jacuzzi room. It has a jacuzzi. as you might expect, on a raised level in one corner of the room. The bed is always made with black satin sheets, and accesorized with fluffy red heart shaped pillows. It never smells like sex. It's not half as seedy as you'd think.

There's pornography playing away to itself on the tv in the corner next to the worn out wicker basket full of condoms, lubricants and tissues. The rubber plant could do with a good dusting and the carpet is stained with something i'd rather not think about. The TV - it's playing to itself as it offers me no interest. I can watch porn at home for free. There's a waiting room outside but i've never had to wait. Not in the waiting room. I think that i tend to frequent here during off peak hours, and in any case i'm not sure i'd like the idea of wating my turn.

What brought me here to begin with was simple curiosity but what keeps me coming back is my deep-seated sexual frustration. I, you see, am married to a beautiful woman. A wondeful woman whom i love more deeply than you can imagine and who loves me back twice as much. A woman with which i share two wonderful children, two cars and a semi-detached home. A woman who won't. have. sex. with. me. The way i see it, it's not as bad as cheating, and not necessarily more expensive. Guilt is for people with morals.

Patrick has a sister that i'd like to fuck, but she's spoken for. And her husband's not the kind of guy i'd like to tangle with. She visits Patrick at least once a week, though I get the sense that it's more out of an old fashioned sense of duty than anything else. Their parents are both dead, this much i know. She is his subsitute mother. A sultry, slender, temptress of a mother with a mighty fine arse and tits that just won't quit. I suppose. But she looks after him, to an extent. Sometimes she brings with her a reheatable homecooked dish. Othertimes she brings her husband, who i feel is not overly keen on either Patrick or myself. He says little, though i always observe him with interest. I like watching people in social situations. You could say it's my hobby. He's a stocky and impatient young man; always watching the time. He's a manly man. Stern. Irritable. I imagine he is a Sales Executive of some sort, with company plastic and an Audi A4. He plays rugby with the lads at weekends. I imagine. But this guy, whoever he is; this guy looks at his wife the same way i look at mine.

A young lady enters the room, wearing a red slip, matching red heels and a semi forced smile. I stand to greet her, we exchange pleasantries and cash. She wastes no time in losing what little clothing she has on and the proceedings commence.

This place operates a strict arrival/departure system. The maid, she buzzes you into an airlock of sorts with two doors. One of these doors is the entrance, the other the exit. It's all well planned and executed, though doesn't entirely avoid the akwardness of cross-client contact. I spied a guy leaving as i arrived tonight. As i sat silent in my car, in the rain, savouring the adrenaline, savouring the noise of the beating rain, a young man in his mid twenties, much like myself scurried out of the door and into his own car. Fumbling for his keys, he looked out of place, the way i imagine i perhaps do. Some men, they'll give you a knowing look. A nod or a wink. Others cower in the headlights of your eyes.

to be continued

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Jamie: I hope that's not true, jack

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