My First Story

All in a Nights Work

         If there weren’t gullible fools in the world, most of them men, I’d have to work for a living. I’m a great believer in not working hard if there’s an easier alternative. Tonight is no exception. A final check in the mirror as I arrive outside the club. Lipstick, not too much, just enough to be noticed. Eyes nicely shaded, hair just right. Ready.

         I can tell it’ll be another busy evening, as the car park is full. Some of the cars are familiar by now. That’s Bob’s. He’s married, two kids and a crippling overdraft. The new Mercedes in the corner is Tony’s. Not really his of course, he admitted it was a company perk, but he can dream. By far the disgrace of the lot is the bucket of rust Neil calls his passion mobile. Mobile is doubtful, it doesn’t even start some of the time, and passion is a definite no, but he’s only young yet. Young and fiery, as he proved to me only last week. A lesson I had etched into my brain.

         Neil is the first one I run into at the bar as I am getting my first drink of the night.

“Hello gorgeous,” comes the slightly weedy voice from behind my ear, “Buy you a drink?”
“Now Neil, you know I don’t mix business with pleasure. Maybe some other time.”

A gentle put down, not too firm, not too easy-going. A tricky balance to achieve, wanting them to know who’s in charge, but at the same time letting them dream for the future.

“Pleasure was all mine last week.”

There it is, so predictable, the boasting of youth, accompanied by a wide grin reaching right up into his eyes. There is no way that can go un-punished. First the bait.

“I suppose you want to repeat the performance this week then.”
“Only if you haven’t got other plans.”

Now the line,

“Neil, I can always make time for my favourite toy-boy, you know that. Say ten minutes, give me time to prepare?”
“You need to prepare do you?”

Finally, reeling him in.

“Well, you want me at my best. You appreciate quality, surely.”

         As I watch Neil grin even wider, I reflect on just how easy it is to manipulate a man’s ego. Choose the right words, combine it with a smile, and you can get them to do whatever you want.
         Exactly according to plan, Neil’s hooked, and no way now is he going to say no. I eye his wallet, clutched in a sweaty palm, there’s easily a hundred in there. Easy money. His eyes are already glinting in thoughts of what’s to come. Perfect.

“Ok, ten minutes, and then I’ll give you a repeat of last week.”
I cheekily blow him a kiss as I walk away.
“I’ll be waiting.”

         To be fair to Neil, he isn’t all talk, but he is still young and inexperienced. Less than thirty minutes later, I watch him leave without the hundred and ten pounds that was in his wallet. It's now in my purse. Yet I know he will be back, they always come back for more.

         It’s just so easy, playing with their minds. All they see is the exterior, the makeup, the hair, the smart, yet sexy clothes and it’s enough to bring them running. They never stop to wonder just who is taking who for a ride. Sometimes they’re brash, sometimes they joke, and sometimes they say practically nothing at all, like my favourite, Tony, yet in the end the result is usually the same; they leave with less money than they arrived with. Who said brains and beauty don’t mix?

         Three hours and four hundred pounds pass in a blur and it’s almost time to leave; another nights work done, but not yet, there’s still Tony. I sometimes think I could live just off my four or five regulars.
         He’s waiting in the normal place, just outside the entrance to the upper bar. Like me, he has a routine, arrive at eight, drink until eleven and then, once every two weeks, we get together.

“So how’s my Tony tonight then?” I ask as I slide up to him.
“Tired, been a very long day.”
“Well, I have ways to help with that,” I grin at him.
“I thought you might have, but be warned, I’m not in the mood to be nice. I’ve had a horrible afternoon.”
“Nice, or nasty, as long as you can afford it, I don’t mind.”

A flicker passes across his face, as it always does when money gets mentioned, but he quickly recovers his poise, gives me a grin and we head down the stairs to business.

         An hour and a half later, I turn the key in the lock of my flat and push open the door. I don’t know what it is, but there is always something satisfying about coming home at the end of the day. It’s probably the ritual I always follow, depositing my equipment in the wardrobe, my takings in the wall safe, taking a long shower, and then having a late supper on the balcony.
         As I sit here now on my balcony, watching the sprawl of London beneath me, I raise my wine glass and toast the gullibility of men. Thanks to them, I don’t need to work for at least a couple of years. They never seem to accept that a woman can beat them at pool.