Adventures of a London Call Boy by Ben Franckx Read Free Book Online Page A

some brick dust off his black coat. After a moment he moved along the bar and looked at Celeste.
    â€˜â€™Tis a waste, my dear. What you wanna go muff rubbing when there’s good cock in the world.’
    â€˜I’m sorry?’ said Celeste, bewildered, while I tried to contain my laughter. Before she could berate him, the man had turned away, shaking his head, and had sat down with his pint across the other side of the pub.
    â€˜Cesc, what the fuck was that about?’
    â€˜Who knows, Cel, who knows.’
    â€˜I’m going for a cigarette,’ she said, flustered.
    â€˜See,’ I said. ‘An addiction. This,’ I said, looking at the customer who’d been eyeing me up, ‘is simply good luck.’

Chapter Eleven
    The luck couldn’t last, of course.
    It was a Friday night in the bar. I should have realised that something was up when the regular bouncer didn’t show. As it was, we were too busy to take too much notice. Paydays were always crazy. Even with direct debits and credit cards, there still seemed to be something about the end of the month that led to wild collective festivities.
    The media firm from around the corner was also celebrating something and had block-booked the sofas by the window. I had no idea whether it was a leaving do or a birthday; I didn’t pay too much attention to the cards on the table, but I did notice the attentions of the birthday or leaving girl. Her colleagues were egging her on to come to the bar and find fairly pointless excuses to shoot the breeze with me, while buying swimming-pool quantities of booze for herself, her friends and half the bar. She was tall and slender, freckled, neatly dressed and generous with her tips.
    We flirted fairly aimlessly as I collected glasses and her friends and colleagues nudged and prodded in schoolgirl fashion. I’m used to this sort of thing; I suppose it comes firstly with the looks, if you’ll excuse the vanity, and secondly with the type of work I do. Barmen are fairly neutral, for flirting or something more. Often we’re called upon to put pressure on the real object of attentions, which is fine by me. I’ve no problem helping stir listless men to action provided no jealous boyfriends come looking for a scrap.
    After she’d pushed her way assertively through the scrum at the bar she bought me another drink, which I totted up behind the counter. Then, after a fairly meaningless exchange, she flicked her light red hair behind her ear and pouted tipsily and suggestively. I nodded in the direction of the fire exit and snuck out around the front of the bar. I cast the bouncer a wink, while a couple of my colleagues asked where I was going.
    â€˜I’m just checking on the disabled toilets. Apparently there’s a problem with the taps.’
    It was a fairly standard and believable excuse, or so I thought. Once I was out of sight, the other side of the mêlée at the bar, I ducked through the fire door, left it open, and waited a second as she followed me. It was dark outside, the bins blocking the view from the road.
    I leant against the wall and waited.
    â€˜So aren’t you going to introduce yourself?’ she asked.
    â€˜I’m Cesc.’
    â€˜Che …’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Ke …’
    â€˜Still no.’
    â€˜Fuck it,’ she concluded, walking towards me and grabbing my T-shirt. Dutch courage, clearly. ‘I’m really not fussed what you’re called.’
    She kissed me, drunkenly and lustily. I grabbed her buttocks and pulled her towards me.
    â€˜We’ll have to be quick. They’re expecting me in the disabled toilets.’
    She pulled away momentarily and gave me a skewed smile.
    â€˜Whatever,’ she said, putting her hand on my crotch. ‘Come on then.’
    I pushed my hands up along her thighs and found, to my pleasant surprise, the side ties of her knickers. Two quick jerks and they were off, revealing