What do you call a woman with two cunts?
N-Dubz.
If that joke didn’t make you giggle, it’s probably because you’re too old to know who N-Dubz are. Well, think yourself lucky. They’re bloody awful. In fact, they are worse than that. They are shittest ‘band’ since ‘The Shits’ released their shitty album ‘The Shit Side of the Moon’. But I didn’t come here to chat about N-Dubz. It was just an icebreaker to get us onto the subject of older people. More specifically: old men. Even more specifically: dirty old men (and I don’t mean soap dodgers).
So here in lies a filthy tale. Just one of the snippets from my memory banks, stored and filed away under F, and never before revealed until now.
I’ve always been quite partial to older men, purely for carnal reasons. I don’t want an older man as a boyfriend, but I do love fucking them. Father issues? Abandonment? Abuse? Nah, none of the above. I just love shagging a man who marvels at my body. Whose jaw hits the floor when I take my clothes off. Who truly appreciates my soft, supple skin, gravity defying breasts and youthful energy. So ego massage then? Yup, but a handful of the taboo too.
So I go to see an older gent at an upmarket hotel in Bristol. His name is William; he’s in his 60s and he is an NHS consultant in town for only one evening. He is softly spoken on the phone, not much of a conversationalist, but nice enough sounding. He explains he wants me there at 7pm sharp – dinner reservations at 7.30pm. He wants me to stay the whole night. My escort intuition tells me I am in for a relaxed evening: dinner, fine wine and gentle love making. How wrong can a girl be?
At 7pm I knock the hotel room door. A tall, heavy set man answers and gestures me in. He introduces himself as William and hands me an envelope. I count its contents hastily while trying to make small talk. He stays quiet until I confirm the money’s all there and pack it away safely in my bag. He asks me to stand at the dressing table, facing the mirror and approaches me from behind, pushing me forward slightly as he pulls up my tight fitting skirt. His right hand weaves its way into my knickers, his left hand down my blouse. I can feel his erection against my lower back through his suit trousers. He starts kissing my neck…. I was TURNED ON.
As you’ve probably gathered, William is a man of few words. I think I’ve counted 14 so far. The next 5 were succinct and to the point: ‘get down on your knees’. I do as I am told and not long later am thoroughly enjoying fellating a man who, I’ve just realised, didn’t even offer me a drink. He is gently thrusting into my mouth, I try and keep eye contact and can hear from his groans and mutterings that he is close. He finishes amid a flurry of blasphemous words, which sound all the more fabulous given his upper class diction.
It’s 7.18pm. William sits back on the bed as I try to gracefully stand up without shouting ‘oooh me knees’ or something similarly unsexy. I adjust my skirt and blouse and check my stockings for ladders. Desperately thinking of something interesting to interrupt the now deafening silence with, I’m about to mention the weather (which was glorious) when William asks me to remove my knickers. He then wanders over to his night bag and pulls out a package. It’s a small wireless internal sex toy. He tells me he would like me to insert it during dinner. Saucy old bugger.
So there I am, sat in one of Bristol’s finest dining establishments, enjoying moules mariniere, sipping ludicrously expensive wine and trying not to get my forks mixed up, all the while being vaginally stimulated by what my client clearly thinks is the best invention since the wheel. The waiter comes over to ask how our meal is. William presses button on the wireless remote and I let out a quiet groan. The waiter gives me a look and totters off. I tell William just where I will be shoving the toy next. He grins.
Back up in the room, sozzled, William and I collapse onto the bed. Clothes are torn off and snogging commences. Holes are explored with mouths, fingers and vibrators. Penetration follows quick and hard. We sip more wine and play into the early hours of the morning. We order porn on the TV. We soak in the huge tub making novel use of the shower attachment. I perform a very naughty lap dance. Eventually, we fall asleep at 2am. William – the 60 something softly spoken doctor – has partied harder with me than many of my younger clients would.
When I wake up at 7am, giddy and hungover, William is getting ready to leave. He thanks me for a wonderful evening and tells me I can leave the hotel at my leisure. He promises to be in touch and off he goes. I tidy up the hotel room (an odd habit of mine) making sure I leave no trace of sex anywhere. I imagine the maid’s face when she finds the wireless toy, and it dawns on her what she is holding in her hands. Poor woman. I chuck it in my bag of tricks.
I get in a cab looking a little too glamorously dishevelled for 8.30am on a Tuesday. The cabbie eyes me knowingly and asks me how my night has been. I tell him I had an important meeting with an NHS consultant. He feigns concern, ‘oh is everything ok?’ I smile and tell him yes – I’ve been given a thorough going over, and as it turns out, I’m as fit as a butcher’s dog.
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