Free Adventures of a London Call Boy by Ben Franckx

been a couple of girls who I’d just not gotten on with. One gave the strong impression from after about three minutes that she thought I was a prick and wanted to be somewhere else as soon as possible.
    So far, you might have got the impression that I’m pretty indiscriminate in the matter of who I share a bed with. But I do have standards, and there are types of women I prefer to others. Obviously in a professional capacity, I keep this to myself. But in the days when it was just for pleasure, I was, well, if not exactly choosy, certainly not likely to go with just anyone. I may not have mentioned it before, but in some of the cases where a date went nowhere, I was as glad as the girl.
    It wasn’t just a looks thing; sure, there were some I didn’t fancy. But unless you can persuade her to do something particularly perverse, there’s only so much fun to be had shagging with a girl who you find annoying, who thinks you’re a moron or whose voice sets your teeth on edge.
    But it wasn’t quite like that with my first Jenny. Let’s call her J. for short.
    J. was quite a few years older than me, smartly dressed, perhaps with slightly too much make-up, but not so much as to make me look for the tidemark. Our date was in a wine bar, at the bottom of Regent Street. It was a funny venue, underground, full of businessmen in double-breasted suits and in the company of their secretaries and PAs. It was as if the world of work and socialising had stopped in about 1978.
    I was probably the youngest person there by about ten years, and although we got on fine, never at any stage did I feel that there was a spark between us. I’ll be blunt – for the first time in a while, I was out with a date and wasn’t imagining what she’d be like naked or, better still, expensively almost naked and posed compromisingly on a bed.
    Somehow or another, probably to do with me not paying attention to proceedings properly, or misreading the signs, we ended up back at her place. We continued a fairly pointless conversation about congestion charging and smoking in public, made doubly pointless by the fact that I don’t have a car and don’t smoke. I’m going to sound like a bush-tease, or whatever the male equivalent is, but I realised at one moment, close to midnight, that I was going to have to come up with some sort of excuse to leave. After she offered me another coffee, or the option of going somewhere more comfortable, I checked my watch and half faked a yawn.
    â€˜I’d love to. But I’ve got a really busy day tomorrow.’
    â€˜Really.’
    â€˜Yeah, yeah, I mean I probably should be, you know, getting along.’
    â€˜Right.’
    â€˜Work, you know.’
    â€˜Cesc, is that normally how you end these dates?’
    I hesitated. ‘Well, sometimes. I guess it depends.’ I immediately realised how bad the line sounded.
    â€˜On what?’ she asked coldly.
    â€˜Look, I don’t want to have a row. I think I should just go.’
    â€˜Don’t worry. I know the answer. It depends on whether you fancy her or not.’
    I couldn’t think of anything like a sensible comeback.
    â€˜Yes. Look, I’ll be honest. I guess you’re just not my type.’
    She looked at me for a few seconds.
    â€˜Well at least you’re honest. What is your type?’
    â€˜I don’t really have a set one. Shit. You know what I mean.’
    She seemed to think for a few moments.
    â€˜OK. That’s fine. But let’s be frank. You’re a barman right?’
    â€˜Yeah. Well, was. In fact, I was fired. I was also an actor, briefly.’
    â€˜So I’ll be honest, as you’ve been good enough to be honest with me. I really want a fuck, and I guess you must need the money. So I’ll pay you. We both get what we want.’
    â€˜Isn’t that illegal?’
    She shrugged. ‘We can have sex. I’ll give you some money. It’s