Whore Squat

My private office is in an unsuspecting little place, on one side of a fairly modest hill, in an average, if rather newish residential suburb. I work until very late at night, and only recently realised that in a way, I'm somewhat like the character in Clint Eastwood's 'Play Misty' film of the late Sixties, except that I have a very limited, select audience of ultra net worth people, and send out my communications through a very narrow audio-visual channel down the internet.

Almost half of my office space is surrounded by large windows, giving me a lookout view across a shallow valley of residential developments and a couple of shopping centres, and a modern new train station. I caught a glimpse of myself with wireless headphones on my head reflected against the dark night window panes, and recalled the image of Eastwood in that movie.

If people really knew what I did, I know I'd be faced with a difficult stream of enquiries – enquiries for introductions, enquiries about money, enquiries about business. It's not that I mind any of these, just that there is no way I have the personal time to give them realistic or adequate attention.

I'm an ambassador of sex. Discreet sex. Very discreet sex. And very expensive sex.

Well actually it isn't expensive at all to the people from whom money passes to those who grant their sexual intimacy and contact for the price thereof. Not by comparison to what they are worth.

I fell into this agenda almost by accident, when an accountant friend – a female, and a good-looking red-headed one too – mentioned that business wasn't going so well and could I introduce her to some wealthy people that I knew. Well now I know wealthy people because I am wealthy people myself! My father was, his father was, and so on and so on; my father's aunts were among the richest people in the world of their day: one owned four of the fastest tea clipper ships in the world, and the other the best Kenyan coffee plantations among a global assortment of various types of plantations. My own uncle donated the original raw film stock from Shell Far East for the James Bond movie 'Thunderball' when the producers were – well at least they were at the beginning – looking for funding to make their films. So, wealthy wealthy wealthy.

And knowledgeable. Especially about life and human beings.

We're not the infamous 'Illuminati!' ...If that's what you're thinking. There's no such thing as far as I know. But, um, we could go close if you want to make a point about it...

And there's also a matter of coincidence. It happens to be the case that I was a good friend of the fellow who developed Helmut Newton's photos when he first started out in Australia. And he, also a photographer himself though not well-known like Helmut, found model material for Newton – that is to say, he found girls for Newton. Or women, if you like, because they were all 'of age' as they say. I never could get with all of it – give me certain women 'of that certain age' - because the rest are daffy as all hell as far as I'm concerned.

I say 'certain women' because not all women grow into 'the type.' Simply everyone secretly believes they have a sexual dimension of some description, and most people would you believe, are incredibly arrogant about it and think they are without question capable of being 'good in bed.' That belief is completely unfounded in reality. Most people suffer the greatest delusions about themselves, and especially about what they are capable of when it comes to sex, of all things. Or so at least, I have found.

And that is also why the ranks of the ultra high net worth individual are remarkably smaller than the common media would have you believe. Those who appear regularly in the papers and on television as wealthy entrepreneurs and mining magnates and media barons and all of this nonsense don't even come close. They are merely people who are adept at using the media to give themselves a strategic profile for some financial advantage. They have delusions when it comes down to it. Truly wealthy people stay out of the media. They are not in the media. You have never heard of them. Period.

Today there are people who own and operate what are known as '**** pools' of money, none of which are less than a trillion dollars each. And that is just the funds they dispose or deploy, into investing.

However, back to my nice lady accountant. Youngish, forty-ish, short bob-cut hair – like I say – red-gold. Pretty face, kind of 'nice' in the sense of kind-looking, mostly soft fleshy oval curved but with a hint of almost square-ish jaw, though. Little bit like a girl, little bit like a young boy. But a great mid-sized hour-glass figure. Great arse. Round. A real woman's bottom.

Why did I not doubt even for a second that there was more underlying her life than numbers on a calculator? Maybe life experience but I realise in recent years it's probably in the genes that I am able to judge these things correctly; I guess stuff about people from a natural ability to do so accurately and correctly. I think I jumped right in there right up front and asked her straight out: 'are you doing some kind of business outside of accounting business...?' And she said, 'yep' and that she 'wasn't making enough compared to the risks and the personal costs.' Either in accounting or elsewhere, as it seemed.

Oh yes, much as I hated to say it - yes I did know those bastard types of private agents who bugged telephones and that sort of thing. Unfortunately I did know them - through a secret dead-usb stick drop. Money. Paper bag. Rock. Seldom-used parkland. Computerised coded transcript of the confidential phone calls. No one knew the exact nature of the phone calls except the client. In this case, that would be me. I didn't like it but when other things appeared to call for it - and sometimes powerful other people demanded it too - in all events it was pretty much unavoidable these days.

...She was a terribly, terribly kinked woman. And did some risky meetings to get herself on – or off, if you will. Well, at least perhaps we could save her from that dangerous stuff.

Actually I recall looking at her and thinking my god you really wouldn't think she was a hooker. But I never use those kind of words directly to someone. I told her that in Europe among the special circles the phrase they used was 'expensive friends.' And then I asked her did she mean that she had been playing the game of trying to be 'an expensive friend' to a few local people. Is that what she meant; I asked her.

She was wearing a very little light spray of fragrance. Something really light and fresh citrus-y floral. Very very light though... Hardly tell she had it on at all really. But it certainly wasn't an old afterhang scent off the clothes and fabric. It was sprayed on within the last few hours at the most.

I went to the drinks table and picked up a Sauternes French wine. And gathered two glasses. And opened the small bar fridge and took out some fois gras and black truffles. I suppose that when you are like me these sorts of things are done rather casually and without too much deliberation. It was not long therefore before I had a small plate of dried toasty bread and paté with truffles, and two glasses of rich golden wine, laid onto the side table next to her. The wine was an excellent example of the appellation: and just recently headed into that 'colour of an old copper coin' phase, that tells the expert that the thing has hit its characteristic type of maturity that is so vital for a Sauternes wine to reach its exemplification. Of course, it required a touch of wine imagination, but one could almost certainly, but almost certainly - taste the apricot, honey, peaches, and with a slight nutty note somewhere, that gave the wine its personal flavour and peculiar appeal to those who loved the sweet wine.

To halt its fermentation, the wine-maker employed sulphur fumes in the barrel.

I always graded human sexual preferences along the same lines as certain famous wines: and this one, was all to do with the fire and the brimstone. Fire being in the burnished copper-gold, and the brimstone being the sulphur, of course.

"You know," I said. "The people I know, are considerably older than me – sixty, even seventy, some of them. And one or two women amongst them too. How do you feel about women as clients?" That was pretty direct now wasn't it.

"Don't know. Never done one before."

"Well but you've done yourself of course." I suggested.

She shrugged. "I guess so."

Hmn. That was pretty compliant. At least I tended to think so.

"Can I ask you," I said. "How did you know I have contacts who were so genuinely wealthy? And by the way, how wealthy do you believe they actually are, just while we're at it...?"

"Ah. Well. Accidently found out. I did part of the audit on the north city bank's foreign transfers this year. And when I saw your name against a certain figure in the accounts I asked the staff what the person with that name looked like and they basically said looks and acts like an olden-days Sherlock Holmes. Not that twerp Robert Downey though. An olden-days Sherlock. And that's pretty much you, isn't it. ...Sherlock Holmes with a depositary receipt for $260 million."

"Hmn."

"So. I guess you're clients or friends or whatever you choose to call them, assuming they're using corporate funds, must have at least several million each to themselves...

"You would think...?" She said with her tone going up in a question at the end.

"Hmn."

I took a long long sip of the beautiful sour-sweet classic French wine. And looked at her.

There were things that she would have to come to know about these people. Things I would have to tell her. Things too, that I would have to ascertain about her, whether she could really do it the way I knew they would insist. Me, I was a fit strong fifty-ish guy with an athletic background and even I would not be able to carry on the way these others could and regularly did. Well at least not with the same utter confidence and abandon. The fact was, I cared for the women I ever had sex with. Cared for how they felt, what they thought, whether they were happy about it all, cared if they ever felt sensitive. Women are not necessarily fragile but I at least did not disregard the possibility of their sensitivity to the extremes of sexual manners that were sometimes the order of the moment in certain parts of society.

Yes yes I know all about the modern university claptrap about Irigaray and all that. Foucault. Et cetera. Not real life though. ...Anyway you'll get to see a little about real life as this small episode of private reporting proceeds here. Put it this way, it's all very different when it's real. I'm deeply in it and even I've always found it although absolutely thrilling, really very scaring too sometimes, frankly.

"Listen, Sue." I said at last. "You have to be prepared for certain things you may not yet fully appreciate."

"What things. I've done a lot of things already, John."

I think she was still thinking about the millions she presumed they had and the perhaps few thousand she might 'earn.'

"No no, Sue. These people are much wealthier even than you suppose. Much wealthier. And I certainly know some of them sufficiently well enough right now to be able to tell you that at least three that I have in mind would take you up on the offer, and pay extremely well."

Oh god I hate myself. Well no, not really. I'm being sarcastic. I love it when it all comes together like this. She was such a good looking woman. What I mean is that god! I am such a good seducer and they can't see it coming.

I could see in her eyes and demeanour that she was happily interested in the prospect of quick good money. Large money. Maybe three four or even five thousand. The sex would be easy for her. She would be in control.

"Now look Sue. You will have to be discreet. Extremely. Well in fact TOTALLY discreet. All of them have families, associates...

"Here. Let me get some money out for you and show you what we are talking about."

Oh I loved this part. It was like showing the sentenced, firmly captured individual the instruments of their soon-to-be torture. Though not real torture of course.

And they didn't even know the money was the torture device.

I turned and opened a small panel on the darkly polished Jarrah wood, long cabinet, and fiddled inside for a good few minutes.

At last I managed to get out an armful of note stacks.

"This, Sue, is twenty million dollars. And it is all yours for not running away from this office right now very fast. You can have this just for talking some more and stepping further along into this little spider-web trap of mine. Because that's what it really is you know."

I'm sure she froze on the spot. She certainly was not moving. And not running away of course, either. Which was good.

"Here. Here. Take it." I gave it to her. Couldn't really put it in her hands or arms and placed it mostly down on the floor next to her reasonably nice quality high-heel shoed feet.

"They're not billionaires, Sue. They are well beyond that. The two older guys are um, not mean, exactly, but let's say, capable of dealing fairly vigorously, I mean physically – you know? The woman is a very nice lady, not overly beautiful in any movieland way, but okay. Sort of average-looking. Salt-and-pepper graying hair too. Not young. Drives a Ferrari though. Very dynamic and active. And they're all very highly-sexed."

I looked at her. And shook a finger at her for emphasis: "I mean it! They want sex and they can do it big time too. Even at their age. And there are kinky things involved."

She just stood there blinking. And then she gulped a lot of the wine down. "You really mean this don't you." She stared at the money.

"Oh yes."

She shut her eyes and shook her head. But not in a way to say 'no.'

"And there's more though, Sue. There are standards you will have to be able to reach. Let's call it 'in the bedroom,' but I don't think there will be much sleeping going on or even that much actually 'being in the bed' to be honest."

"You mean fucking. They want to fuck. Fuck a lot!"

"Actually Sue. It's time I got a bit serious. Fuck yes sure but for these people they are beyond just a little simple fucking you know. They've been there, done that kind of, you know, what young people do fucking thing. They are into a lot of high quality, not damage. So you needn't get too frightened about what's likely to be expected, but it will be challenging all the same."

"I need to sit down." She said.

"So what I am being expected to be able to do here? Is that a fair question though... Given there's so much money involved? Maybe I'm expected not to ask any questions at all?"

"The money, is just not important in any other way than it is a token to you – an earnest in expectation that you will behave in certain ways that will be explained to you."

She sat down heavily into a wool-twill-covered dark navy coloured, and dark polished Jarrah wood armchair.

"Now look wait on just a minute. This is a lot of money here. What is the expectation? Is there something dangerous involved."

"No nothing at all dangerous but you have the right attitude in asking this. I don't want to ask you to do anything you're uncomfortable with doing."

"Well what then. I can do just about anything you've seen in any porn film. Though probably not as well, necessarily, or in as slick a fashion because I'm not a real actress in that perfected a kind of way. If you know what I mean. But I am real. I'll be real."

"Well that's what's going to be important, dear. They don't want an act. They can afford to pay for an act. If they wanted that. For this kind of money they want the real thing. They will want to know you are enjoying yourself. And they are going to want to enjoy themselves. And there's other psychology involved too, Sue. For instance, it's going to be sort of impersonal in a way – just about sex. Not about relationships, respect, decency, family, children.

"And by the way – are you not married? I thought you had kids. Two kids?"

"Yup. Two. And a fucking great husband who loves me."

"How does that work?!"

"I respect him and how we have both looked after the children and all that. I mean we're almost broke really. But we manage and everyone has what they need plus even a little bit extra."

"But -?"

"I like sex, John. But not in the way my husband likes it though. He would be quite shocked if he knew what I was really like. And he thinks he knows and I'm not going to shake that up because he certainly can't do things for me the way that I need."

"Hmn. This is going to be a possibility, Sue. I think so, anyway."

I pointed with one finger down to the floor with the glass still in hand. "Look at it, Sue. That's real money. And a lot of it. It's a way to ask you to be really discreet, not too time-demanding, or quirky about scheduling – you'll have to be available when you're wanted. At least within reason. You know, real tragedies or crises aside, you'll have to be available.

"And there's these other aspects: the psychology of sexually experienced people is that they prefer sexual object-ness. You are just going to be a sex object to them, and they are going to be just a sex object to you. No questions, no judgements, no respect, no attention-seeking or relationship outside of the sex-time. And performance. Experienced people understand things that young people just don't at all until they themselves become steeped in it all, and that's even if they ever had a glimpse of it at all – which tends to take years and by the time young people 'get it' they are not that young any more, really."

"I understand all of that so far." She said.

When I looked at her face, trying to observe the micro-muscles, and scan her eyes – into her eyes – I always thought, even on other occasions, earlier occasions, that she was possibly attracted to me personally and just – just - capable of hiding it. Now was the time to ask and to go one way or the other in how I spoke to her depending on her actual answer.

"Sue... Can I ask if you are attracted to me? I can't guess at the answer to the question so I have to ask you in case from this point on we have to talk in certain ways, I mean when I start dealing with the actual phsyical requirements."

"Yes. Since you ask. I think you are potentially the most horridly cock-suckable thing ever. I want to see your dick, man, I want to see you whack off and then I want to stick my finger up your arse too. You sexy man." She was breathing heavily and her face was suddenly totally flushed but she wasn't wavering in her voice in any way. She got up from the chair and stood up straight. She was wearing a black-and-grey shark-tooth woollen skirt that was just to knee length, and a plain but low-cut blouse and a short satin-lined jacket of similar fabric to the skirt.

I raised a hand to still her. "Wait on, wait on. We haven't finished yet with what we need to talk about."

"The money has done all the talking I'm starting to realise. My god. It hasn't even sunk in yet. My god. Look at all that cash..."

"Sue, I want to tell you something about truffles that not many people know about... And I mean, really not many people know about." I wondered if suddenly appearing to change the subject would get get a reaction from her at this point.

I stepped back a little so that she couldn't suddenly jump me, at least not quite yet anyway.

"What about them. Expensive tasteless things that snobs talk a lot about."

"Yes, that's largely right. Actually, in spite of the way all the so-called food experts talk about them, they have little real noticeable odour – even when you cook them. But... ...when you soak them just a little in absinth, they start to give off this amazing smell. Only then. Only then. It's like hospital-strength disinfectant and some other thing that no one has ever fully or adequately been able to describe. That's the secret of how to use truffles, Sue. I personally think there are quite a number of other types of alcohol that liberate the odour of truffles too – vodka, Sauternes like we're having... Chartreuse. But with Chartreuse, the truffle is already in the recipe to begin with, in fact."