a/n don't forget to enable your spam filters because you just never know.
Expect A Lot From This Story - As You Like It
"I have a client, he wants to pee on you," my agent, Hilary, says over the phone. Her tone would indicate that this is the most normal thing in the world. She's always like that though, bland no matter the circumstance.
It's been a bit dry, work wise, for a while so the call throws me. I've been lounging around for days, knee deep in gossip magazines (Pick Me Up, definitely my favourite) and Neruda poetry. Yes, my interests are teasingly diverse.
"No." Degradation just doesn't do it for me. I had quite enough of that in my childhood, thanks. Also that cannot be hygienically safe.
"Darling, don't be such a prude." Really, Hilary, really? "He wants you to enjoy it."
Read: he wants you to make appreciative noises as he does it.
"Think of it like a bath." Actually, I won't think of it at all, thanks.
"Send him to someone else." I flip the glossy magazine page and glance over the pictures that accompany the "My Baby Pushed Out My Tumour" story.
"He only wants you, he saw your pictures on the website." This is not saying much. There are a limited number of male prostitutes within the company and most of them are only available nights and weekends. Me, I'm full time.
"Who is this man, this connoisseur of watersport?"
"He's a Nigerian prince." The strange thing is I can't tell if she's serious. That icicle -up-her-arse voice lacks any and all inflection.
"I thought those only existed in spam email."
"Mm, so will you do it?" she asks, completely ignoring my well-executed joke.
We double the price and I finally give in. I still don't know if he's actual royalty or not which, to be honest, is half the reason I agreed.
Maybe he'll wear a tiara.
I hang up and begin the three-act primping and fluffing routine involved with these things. This time it's a bit disheartening. I should just go as is. Jeans and a t-shirt that at one time was bedazzled with a rhinestone penis. Now it's just faded black and a little too tight.
Before I can talk myself into or out of this terrible decision, the phone rings. It's like she's psychic. I snatch it up and bark, "Hilary, what?"
"Draco? This is your mother," she greets, all business professional. I try to hide the involuntary groan. I am not successful.
"Mother, er, hello. How can I help you?" Terrible question, really. Never leads to anything positive.
"Are you free tomorrow afternoon? Astoria would like to take you to Diagon Alley to get you fitted for robes. Since you've proven that you are no longer capable of dressing yourself." Subtle, Mother. My robes were quite dated, you are correct. Thank you for that.
A healthy dose of fidgeting and awkward conversation ensues. For the second time in a one hour period, I give in. Astoria will be here tomorrow afternoon to whisk me back to the nest. I'm going soft. Must work on this.
But enough of that, back to the task at hand. I am about to take a bath in urine. This day cannot get any better.
I stumble into one of my tailored suits, throw on some shoes and I'm out the door. I hail a cab and I'm on my way.
While we're here let's take a moment to dash a few more of your rent boy fantasies. Look around, the world is full of little girls in hooker boots and grandmas in on Victoria's Secret. Your best bet to find an escort is to look for the people in designer suits.
As the cab approaches the hotel I take a minute to glance through the glass doors. I like to find the lifts before I enter the building. It wouldn't do to loiter in the lobby looking lost so if you can't find the lifts veer off to a hallways. Gather yourself and go from there.
I'm lucky today. The lifts are in plain sight, just to the right of reception. Once I've paid the cabbie I'm through the doors and on my way to the room. Women walk more quickly than men, something about the heels, I'd say so I saunter through the lobby, spare a nod to reception and let the elevator doors close behind me.
Once successfully behind the lift doors I take out my mobile and call the agency. For safety we call once we arrive and after we've left. Standard procedure. If you're taking notes, the agency call is also a good time to confirm the room number, never trust yourself to remember.
Safely hidden behind the metal doors, I take a minute to check myself in a mirror. It wouldn't do to show up disheveled or out of breath.
A quick, firm knock on the door. The man on the other side does indeed look like a Nigerian prince. Well, either that or a skinny basketball player who enjoys the touch of robes to his skin.
I have to remind myself several times not to make any of the jokes that spring to mind.
"Hello, lovely to meet you," I say.
"Hello," he returns stiffly. Oh heavens, he even sounds Nigerian.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," I continue, even though I'm bang on time. You can see it in his face and the way his hands twitch. He's been waiting, counting the hours, minutes, seconds until I arrived.
"Can I take your coat?" Of course, Jeeves. I smile from ear to ear and try my best not to laugh. Over the years I've found the best way to defeat the nerves is to smile a lot. Forced cheerful conversation, a product of a childhood spent in pureblood school.
They always told me I would use the knowledge someday. Admittedly, they probably didn't figure it would be in this capacity.
As I hand him my coat he hands me the envelope. The handoff is awkward but I suppose I've had worse.
In fact, did you know that in America even the classiest of whores take the money at the end of the session. This is also a country in which wearing expensive lingerie peeking over the top of your jeans is considered sexy. God save us all.
I tuck the money away and he offers me a drink. It's incredibly rude not to accept but it's against policy to drink on the job. Worry not, they're usually too impatient for it to matter.
I have sparkling water and he has a beer. Strange, I always thought royalty would have a finer taste in beverages but I suppose it's better to fill the bladder.
Time drags, stilted conversation takes place, I smile some more. He's nervous, it's almost endearing. But then I remember that he's about to piss on me.
Less endearing.
Finally it's time to do the deed. He runs the bath while I divest myself of clothing and work to strip him from the waist down. I kneel in the tub and he turns around, to mentally prepare himself for this grand exodus I would assume.
He turns back and straddles the tub. This time I mentally prepare myself.
Oh, god.
Nothing happens.
After a few minutes of this the water goes cold. I pull my knees to my chest and ask him if everything is alright. He promises that it is.
That voice again, oh my.
"I can't," he says finally. "Too hard." Which is weird, we haven't done anything and this room is freezing.
"Think of something terribly unsexy," I prod. I would really like to be done with this, please.
"Like what?" His voice cracks with frustration.
Your voice, for one. Unfortunately, I know better than to actually say this.
Having sex with your wife, missionary position for the purpose of procreation. Another suggestion I know better than to voice.
The number of people you've fraudulently promised to make millionaires.
The idea of global warming and the probability that it will end in the apocalypse. Can Al Gore ever save us?
Oh, this is actually quite fun.
"Blake, help me," he moans. I slosh around and make to get out.
"Did you want me to-"
"No!" He takes a hand off of his cock and holds it in front of me like a crossing guard. Because suddenly we're in primary school again. "I can't look at you. It turns me on. I can't look away because then I think about you and that turns me on."
Ah, well. Isn't that just so sweet. One of the less creepy compliments I've received on the job.
"Your mother," I suggest. He makes what I decide to be an affirmative noise. "Taking you underwear shopping. When you are thirty-five years of age."
The first trickle of warm yellow lands on my chest and drips down into the icy bathwater. I try not to gag. There are enough repulsive bodily fluids dancing off my skin as it is.
At the end of the session, I'm in the shower making a valiant attempt to wash the grit and shame off my body. The prince left the room some time ago. Hopefully he's seen to just leave so I don't have to face him.
"Blake," he calls with a soft knock on the shower door.
The watersport gods are clearly not on my side today.
"Yes?"
"I have to, you know. Again. Do you think we could go again?"
Under normal circumstances he could call the agency and get an extension. Give me the money upfront and things could continue.
Not today. So I tell him.
"Not today."
Once that awkward little exchange ends I'm out the door. A quick wave to the reception desk and I get the hell out of dodge.
I call the agency. I remind Hilary to feel free not to call me next time and she reminds me to deposit her cut of the fee into her account by the end of the day. Fine. Whatever.
Then I do what I always do after a bad day at work. Hit number two on speed dial and recount the details of the appointment verbatim.
"I hope that whoever he's with now is fat." Ah, words to live by. So I tell him.
"Words to live by. Cheers, Dov." And I take a sip from my beer. After today I'm not really in the mood, terrible amber-coloured flashbacks. But Dov was here first so there you go. Beer.
This is speed dial number two, by the way. Dov Wasserstein, one of my closest friends and the only person who knows all the ins and outs of what I do. After our phone call he insisted that we meet so I could tell him the story again, with hand gestures and diagrams if necessary. The third time it started to get very old and very boring. Not quite up to par with the usual tales I regale him with.
So he moved on and, since he's Dov, he's convalescing.
It's been six months since he broke up with his last boyfriend, hence the truly A plus level insults going on here. My general policy is that it takes the length of time you were together for you to get over a person.
Meaning that Dov should have been over this boy oh, five months ago.
I would mention this to him this but it's his turn to pay and I have another policy that says never agitate the person taking care of the tab. So I nod sagely and let him vent. Sometimes throw my own two cents in.
"I hope whoever he's with has a terrible set of in-laws." What can I say, my mother has been on my mind since 'the Incident'. And it really is therapeutic. Feeling better already.
"That's good." He nods in appreciation. For me, it's been two months almost to the day. The Ex, as he is now known, couldn't cope with the job. Not his fault but Slytherins are unappologetic in their spitefulness.
Also, I was upset at the time. Sometimes it still stings.
Tell anyone and you die.
Slowly. Painfully. Think dull hedge clippers, the Psycho music playing in the background.
He downs the rest of his pint, slams it on the table. "No, not fat. Unforgivably stupid." There's an insult on the tip of my tongue but I refrain. See policy number two.
"Bad in-laws and smells funny." At this point he starts on my drink. It's practically untouched but I'm still offended. The principal of the thing and all. The policy keeps me from vocalising the complaint.
"Quite the insult coming from you, Sir Bathes A Lot." I shrug. I like to be clean and my job makes constant upkeep a must. He already knows this, moves on quickly. "Stupid and erectile-y dysfunctional."
"I don't think that's a word," I inform him. He slurps at my drink. Policy number two isn't always concrete, you understand. He should be thankful, that was nothing compared to my usual standard for scathing commentary.
More slurping. Dov code for not thankful in the least.
"I could be wrong." I couldn't. "Plus, little blue pills," I remind him.
"Incurable erectile dysfunction," he amends.
"I believe they have a word for that." He glares, I smile gleefully. "Old."
If this does not please him he doesn't show it, and it doesn't deter the methodic way he's venturing toward the bottom of my glass. "Senile, too," he says from behind the rim.
"He still has to be stupid, yeah?" I check.
He nods enthusiastically. The slurping stops so he can go into detail about the kind of stupidity the new boyfriend will exhibit.
Not only intellectually challenged but so enamoured with the sound of his own voice that he can't ever shut up, in case you were wondering. Oh, you weren't? Neither was I.
Status of my drink: empty.
He rubs his stomach like a pencil-thin Buddha and contemplates going back inside the grimy gastropub. Decides against it.
"Stupid, incurable erectile dysfunction and vertically challenged" At least, I think this is what he's trying to say. Those words have more syllables than he can manage at this level of inebriation. Factoring the previous confusion with modifiers, we can infer that Dov's favourite drunken pastime is making English his bitch.
What can I say, he was really hot when I met him.
"That's rather rude," I tell him. "You're not all that far from the Earths crust yourself."
Status of Policy Number Two: forgotten.
He glares but doesn't refute the comment. On the plus side, he never gets dizzy from standing up.
"Bad in-laws and terrible in bed." I've always been talented with the subtle segue.
"Terrible in bed, now we're getting to the heart of it," he says.
"Squeamish about rimming," I decide.
"He was into that?" Elbow on the table, chin in hand, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas.
Except that despite the flat ironed hair and surgically altered nose, he's Jewish. Maybe not religiously, but certainly ethnically. Perhaps like a kid Hanukkah. My knowledge of the whole ritual is lacking so if I'm wrong about the excitement levels involved, feel free to not correct me.
I'm getting side tracked. I apologise. We were about to talk about rimming, let's do that.
"Oh, yeah. I never told you about that?" He shakes his head, looks heartbroken. What else could I do, I gave him the full dirt, so to speak.
I have no problem with rimming. After a good scrub with soap and hot water it can be quite enjoyable. Like trying to push your way through pursed lips, convincing stubborn muscles to part like the Red Sea for Moses. The very tip of your tongue ventures further there than anywhere else. It's like an epic adventure.
"Did you take pictures," he asks.
"No," I answer. Before I can suggest that the internet was created for just that purpose he interrupts.
"I can't believe you!" he cries, affronted. I shrug and tear at the corner of my beer mat.
"You miss him, huh?"
"Yeah." Dov adjusts his pants, beer occupying a good two-thirds of his stomach. "I've had enough. Let's go home." He means mine, by the way. His own still reminds him of his ex.
Five months later. There really are no words.
"We'll take a bath," I say, already excited at the prospect. I like having another person to wash the backs of my knees and between my shoulder blades. His eyes do that sparkling thing again so I tell him, "No, you can't piss on me."
"You heartless bitch," he says, but he's smiling so I know he doesn't mean it. Well, he doesn't mean it to be an insult. This time I glare, get up and put my coat on.
"Forget the bath. I'm going straight to bed."
"Liar."
Yeah.
London is an amazing city, a beautiful city. A rude, arrogant and often dirty city. London and I are alike in that respect. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Dov wasn't kidding, I really do bathe numerous times a day. And always carry a bit of scent with me, I like citrus best.
The anonymity, though, is perhaps my favourite part of London. Who you really are, your personality flaws and past transgressions are blurred away by the masses, lost in the sea of people forever.
Or at least until the past comes knocking at your door. And because I'm me, of course the past comes dressed in bright orange construction robes, carrying three times my body weight in brick and mortar.
Oh, yes. There are strange men in my living room, building what looks to be a bright red obelisk but what I'm told is supposed to be a Floo.
You may be asking yourself, did Draco ask his mother to barge in and build a useless Wizarding invention in his flat?
No, no he did not.
And that brick absolutely does not go with the existing colour scheme of the room. Which, admittedly, is not very cohesive anyway. Think Laura Ashley meets Peter Max in Tahiti, where they decide to go on an acid trip together. But the antiquarian brick doesn't exactly scream of anything this century either.
Case in point, my mother is plotting my demise.
Remind me of this in the future. When my mother invites me over under the pretence of familial obligation, begin evasive manoeuvres immediately.
"Draco, please tell me you have something besides alcohol in that fridge of yours. I'm starved," Dov says as he emerges from my bedroom.
I grumble something in response and toss a jar of pitted olives at him. An open bag of crisps sits on the counter for his perusal as well. And who says I'm not a gracious host.
"Are these even safe to eat?" he asks, inspecting the olives.
I shrug. They are either from first week I moved in here or for a party that took place a month ago. Or two months ago. I've always been rubbish with dates.
Dov shrugs and pops one into his mouth. "So what are they doing in there?" he asks through a mouthful of expired food. I cringe at the sight, glance toward the other room and cringe again.
I truly love when my mornings start out this way. Really. Nothing but sunshine and unicorns everywhere you look.
Because I know you're on the edge of your seat, I'll tell you. No, my mother did not inform me that these men would be coming. And no, I have no lie rehearsed for Dov or whoever else happens to traipse through my house while they're here.
"I need a list of people who have killed their mothers and gotten away with it," I tell him. When the truth won't do distractions are a nice alternative.
He doesn't know much about me prior to my twenty-third birthday. Having a best mate who sleeps with people professionally is one thing. Having one who can transfigure a turtle into a tea cozy is another thing entirely.
He knows the bare minimum, that I'm from a well-to-do family, that my mother and I don't get along and that I more or less ran away from the pressure of responsibility.
And apparently that my mother thinks I've been rebelling for far too long.
His family life isn't much better so it isn't a subject we cover very often.
Dov understands. He nods and begins to venture through my kitchen fixtures, humming Bonnie Tyler under his breath. It's a lost cause, you will never find a kitchen more empty. But it keeps him occupied. "So currently they are doing what exactly?"
"Chintz removal which will hopefully culminate in a pagan ritual in which all Colefax and Fowler prints are gleefully thrown onto a crackling blaze."
"The suits of armour and mounted quadrupeds should be here by this afternoon, then?"
Hit the nail on the head, that. I groan and let my head fall to the countertop.
"Careful, Draco. Might get germs in your pretty, pretty hair." To accompany the threat he hovers his dusty cupboard hands over my head and wiggles his fingers. Good to know I have such mature friends.
"And your solution is to scare the away with spirit fingers?" I snarl. It comes out sharper than I mean it to. Displacement of my emotions. It's a common occurrence. Dov just chuckles, reveling in my pain and misfortune.
"Come on," he says and grabs my hand. "You need to get out of here. Let them do whatever it is they're doing. Your anal retentive arse can undo it later."
Chez Wasserstein is buzzing with energy.
It doesn't matter that London lacks any semblance of community; Dov knows everybody. After a few phone calls and a handful of emails we have a perfectly passable party on our hands. Some boy (a term I'm not using arbitrarily here) has been vying for my attention for the past hour. He looks to be about 19 years of age but he's just so cute. Dimples and perfect hair.
I-pretend-I-don't-care-but-really-I-do hair.
And I, ever the sucker for a good head of hair, give in. I give him the name of a fairly complicated cocktail, and send him on his way. I'm quite curious to see just how badly he can muck it up. He seems quite excited, so that's nice.
I wonder off to find Dov, who is currently wedged between two writhing bodies. They sway to a cadence that doesn't quite match the pop song monstrosity blaring through the speakers.
I can't imagine he wants to be disturbed. Being the spoiled brat I am, I grab at his hand anyway. He glares.
My lower lip graces him with a truly breathtaking pout.
He works very hard to ignore me.
"I'm bored," I whine.
"Go find the boy wonder, have a one off. You can use my room." Ohh, it's serious now. He desperately wants me gone, willing to barter for it.
"Why, thank you," I return sarcastically.
"Aw, look how happy you've made him." He gestures behind me and turns back to his wriggling partners. Wasn't this the man who was broken hearted not two hours ago? If only we could all have the attention spans of cocker spaniels.
But he was correct, the boy wonder is back, standing directly behind me, a glass of Guinness in hand.
Lovely.
Have I mentioned how much I hate parties? You wouldn't think it, what, with the number of party-like events I attend for work. But really. I've never been comfortable in this atmosphere. The music is always too loud and the conversation is always dreadfully predictable. People, being the truly uninspired creatures that they are, discuss two things at social gatherings. Work and relationships.
Lucky me.
Speaking of which, I take the glass from the boy, who tells me his name is James or something along those lines. He's now discussing the excitement involved in university life which is absolutely fascinating. What with the naked roommates, copious amounts of alcohol and countless sex acts and biology labs it's almost like he's describing my daily life.
I brave a sip in hopes that it will numb the pain of this conversation. And god, it's worse than I remember. Thick and syrupy and revolting, but I've always had a talent for swallowing so down it slips.
On the subject of swallowing, some people in the business refuse to swallow but I really can't see why. It only decreases the chance of disease by a fraction and once it's in there spitting won't erase the taste.
In that instance and in this, best to just take it graciously and move on.
Somehow the tot has found himself in my lap, legs slithered around my waist. We're sitting on the couch, how did we get here? I have no idea. But he's here and so am I and he's willing so I guess I am, too.
His tongue is lodged down my windpipe which is absolutely wonderful, let me tell you. Bobbing in and out like some misguided attempt at whack-a-mole.
You know that insipid phrase you see a lot in trashy romance novels, "what he lacked in experience he made up for with enthusiasm"?"
If I ever see it again I will personally see to it that the author is drawn and quartered.
Enthusiasm makes up for absolutely nothing.
But in my line of work you learn very quickly that it isn't your job to reform lousy kissers. Gentle suggestion is often your best and only option. Sometimes, though, you have to learn to hold your tongue.
Especially when he can't hold his.
I sit back and let him go at it. He'll get bored eventually. As I sit here, a sinking feeling that I've forgotten something fairly important permeates. Which really can't be good. Have I forgotten a client? I don't think so but who knows. I can't think straight with this lapping dog in my lap.
Thankfully, Lassie has detached himself from my mouth and moved to my neck. I glance around the room and wonder if Dov's fire alarms work. But that isn't it.
This is a natural disaster on a whole different level.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot it, a swift flash of blonde, a nose lost between the need to peer down at the strange substances on the floor and the desire to be stuck up in the air.
Standing quickly, throwing Jason or whatever his name was to the side, I dart around the room and find Dov. Like the man I am, I pull him away from his cohorts to use him as a shield. As mentioned earlier, he is not exactly Amazonian and I'm left quite in the open.
She spots me easily.
"Dude, who's the hot bitch in charge?" Dov says as she tears across the room.
"Danger, Dov Wasserstein," I answer honestly.
"Draco, Draco's unwashed friend," she greets. Mm, a lovely mix of ice and venom. Something taught only at the previously mentioned pureblood school, I'm pretty sure.
"Astoria."
"HBIC." Dov says this but has no idea of how right he is. Fortunately for him, he isn't incurring the hot bitch's wrath. I am.
"Let's go, Draco." She turns and makes way for the door. I turn to Dov.
"What was that?" he asks, bewildered.
"My ex fiance," I answer. He knows a bit about her but nothing of the details. I shrug and turn to follow her. "Sorry, things to see, people to do."
"I'll tell your date." And I let him have it because at this rate, I might never see him again.
Best to give parting gifts, after all.