There was nothing romantic about this punt. No dressing this up, even to myself, that I was out Christmas shopping or running errands. Perhaps I am becoming better at being honest with myself. It was pure addiction, unbridled compulsive behaviour. I wanted to re-live the high of Romanian Jessie at Greens Court. She would be a hard act to follow.
I knew Jessie would be in Greens court, but a few days prior I had seen that “Kay” was back, on her back so to speak, and a reunion with her soothing motherly breasts and devilishly tight and sinful vagina would have been my first choice, so I dodged the crowds meandering more leisurely down Lisle Street. There are only two kinds of people that rush furtively down Lisle Street like men possessed – junkies and punters both chasing highs that get progressively harder to achieve and require more and more extreme “gear” to even get us out the gate. I slipped passed the Korean restaurant ( I will have to eat there one day out of curiosity, providing I have not skunked all my money on sub-standard pussy upstairs).
The gaudy neon sign read “new girl – Hungarian Amanda”. I was sceptical, thinking it could be Hungarian Emma from Greens court, who is by no means a slouch when it comes to a discount nosh and bosh, but I just wasn’t in the mood for her. I thought I would have a doss anyway, **knock knock** door swings open by the ageing maid (not going to win Chrone of the month this one, but still polite enough) and I was invited in to sit and wait for “5 minutes love”. Yea right. A Soho walk up five minutes could be half a day, or so it feels when you are in the hot seat with an old bag watching shit TV in the most un-erotic, knob shrinking environs going, trying to keep focused on the impending, often loveless, bunk up.
The amount of times I have kept some melt waiting that I have agreed to meet in the west end because of the 5 minute lie. The sinking feeling when I see their names pop up on my iphone when they call, followed up with the usual “where the fuck are you?” text. For the friends of mine in the know, they know the crack and often follow this up with something like “you dirty bastard, you are with a brass again arnt you?! It better not be a tranny you sick fuck, or I am not shaking your hand!”. Something akin to a London lymeric or an urban haiku.
However, this time there were no inconvenienced acquittances to worry about, and it was only about ten minutes until a rather curvy, older gypsie looking lady appeared heavily made up in a fetching basque and ushered me in. I almost walked but I noticed she was friendly and seemed I asked about extras and she quoted £70+£2 for nosh au natural, covered bosh and a lipse. I almost went for it but instead I trod with caution and just went for the everyday value £40+£2 covered nosh and bosh.
Usual routine, she stepped out with the readies for, probably to have a quick, toxic, counterfeit browns while I stripped down to essentials and she reappeared. She was extremely warm and encouraged me to group her ample tits and stroked my gently. I purred like a cat and my eyes rolled back, she could read me like a book and knew how to pleasure a man, responding well to my encouragement to stroke my balls. She said “its nice isn’t it, to be soft and stroke each other for a bit sometimes”. WTF?! Was she some kind of sex therapist masquerading as a battle scared old tart. This was a good sign and she even gave me a lip kiss, before rolling the mac onto my cheese before it disappeared into her welcoming “norf and Sauf”. She continued to stroke and titillate me, including my balls and nipples. This was way more sensual than I had bargained for and it was at my request that I wanted to knob her in mish to take advantage of my uncharacteristically iron still rod. The punt got better with another kiss as I slipped in and plenty of nipple and ball play while I gave her a good knocking. I went off like a landmine (more the repeated pop pop pop and large frag radius of a Claymore than the one off low boom of a Soviet era anti-tank) and she kept pecking and stroking until my shracknel had taken out at least a combat group of poorly equipped, cold, frightened conscripts on her pock marked battlefield. This had been a good shag to say the least.
I lay back, relieved, exhausted, excited, exhilarated all at the same time and she didn’t rush. We chatted about some inanities before I enquired about her history and apparently she was a veteran of Brewer Street, having been on deployment during the infamous police raids that dealt Soho quite a blow back in the day. She went home to Hungary and got stuck during COVID and is not back to ply her wares and re-establish a regular client base out of those who survived the great plague of 2020 and the hyper-inflation that followed. She will be staffing 2 Lisle and 28 Peter but in my post-coital state I have forgotten which days and times in which location.
