Let It Bleed – Soho Part 1

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This is a three-day event. I booked it several weeks ago. The plan was to keep the party going. Two weeks ago I was in London for an Ezra Furman concert and at the end of that week I was in Amsterdam for three days. This additional visit to London would do very nicely. Well, that was the thinking. A couple of days before setting off I booked three theatre visits. The first was to a see an hour-long comic take on Bram Stoker’s Dracula at The Kings Head pub, Islington. The next night I got a front row seat for Last Tango at The Phoenix Theatre, which was a stone’s throw away from my hotel. Sunday afternoon would be Lazarus at the King’s Cross Theatre. The spaces in between would be taken up with visits to girls in the walk ups, girls in the strip clubs and visits to a selection of the numerous tourist attractions that London has to offer. The truth is, however, that by the time it came to it, I simply wasn’t in the mood, and the mood was tempered by the fact that day two was set for rain. Lots of it. I had been busy with a lot of girls over the previous week or two, which meant that this visit didn’t feel special.

My mood was further dampened by the fact that I was still suffering from the cold that I’d picked up in Amsterdam last weekend. It was dying but not fast enough to make it possible or sensible to indulge in the walk up plan straightaway. Instead, after checking in to the hotel in Soho, I went over to Camden Market to take photos to illustrate my last blog post. Then I walked up to Chalk Farm with a view to checking out an art exhibition. The trouble was that I hadn’t written the name and address of the venue down and couldn’t find it. I cut my losses and came back via Angel. I found the King’s Head Pub and then timed the return journey to my hotel. Forty minutes. I built the rest of the afternoon and early evening around the return journey. On getting back to the hotel I rested up for an hour and then went down to the hotel bar for complementary wine and snacks: cheeses, olives, bread, biscuits, fruit and chocolate. I had just the one glass of wine but the indications were that they would keep topping it up. At about 6.30 I went to Gumps, off Piccadilly, and had a Bucket of Trash: soft-shell crab, shrimp and fries and dips. It turned out to be a good plateful, especially on top of the nibbles at the hotel.

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The return to Angel was much quicker than the test journey and I’d set off with time to spare so I had about forty minutes to kill before the performance. I used the time to check out the area and to buy ice cream. I sat outside the shop and ate it and watched the world go by. At one point a group of seven early-twenty-years-olds came past. One was already off her head. She ran up to me and sat down at the small bistro table.

“Are you having a good time? Are you enjoying your ice cream?”

“I was.”

Her mates scooped her up like another helping of stracciatella gelato (already in my cup) and helped her on her way.

When I’d scrapped the cup clean (I couldn’t get my tongue into it) I went back into the shop and asked where the toilets were. They were through a door marked Private Staff Only. I descended into the crypt, had a wee and retraced my steps. Then I went to the pub which was a few doors away and I did my sitting in a crowded pub on my own and not drinking party piece while a couple of hundred people partied around me. Five minutes before the play was due to begin I was put out of my misery and the doors to the theatre space opened. It’s at the back of the pub and appears to be a completely separate enterprise.  It looks like it holds about a hundred audience. How was the performance? Brilliant. It was very, very funny and it was held together by five actors (three men and two women) who cox and boxed all the parts, something which added to the humour. It lasted an hour. That was good too. There was plenty of evening left for me to go out and play. On the tube train back to Leicester Square I had to stand because it was so busy. I was positioned in front of a young woman (late twenties, maybe) who was studying a theatre programme. It was for Lazarus. I apologised for the intrusion but wanted to know what she had thought of the production, explaining that I was due to see it in a couple of days time. She thought that it was brilliant. There had been a standing ovation. So much for the poor reviews that I’d seen.

I was back at the hotel by about 10.30. I changed into a suit and headed for a strip club.

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It’s one I’ve used before and I recognised a few girls (no, it’s not the ones in the photos, they are from Google Images – except the blue image that is, that’s mine). The one I least want to dance for me locked onto me almost immediately (she always does). In the past I’ve shaken her off by telling her that she reminds me of my wife. After a few minutes she took the hint and left me alone. I bought a gin and tonic, just so that I had something to do with my hands and scanned the bar. I was there with a view to seeing someone in particular (it’s a long story). The only girl to catch my eye was black (OK, of colour, maybe a mix of colours). At first I couldn’t be sure if she was one I already knew. She wasn’t. I decided to stick to my original plan and took myself over to the dance area. No, the girl I’d come to see wasn’t there either. There was a girl working the stage and maybe the men to girls ratio was four to one. I glanced to my right and who was standing there? The black girl had clocked my interest and had followed me. She was doing her best ‘I’m just standing here completely absorbed in what’s happening on stage’ pose. I swear these girls have bats’ radar when it comes to picking up men. I didn’t waste any time.

“You want to dance for me?”

She didn’t answer, she just grabbed my hand and led me to the back of a small queue (for a dance booth). A queue is good because it means that there is time to talk and fondle. I did both and she did faux kissing moves with lots of eye contact. It’s not because I have the looks and charm of George Clooney; it’s the smell of money that makes them do it.

“What’s your name?”

“Krystal. And what’s your name?”

“Marcus. I guess that your name isn’t really Krystal.”

“No, it’s a stage name.”

“Me too. My name isn’t really Marcus.”

She looked surprised.

We established that she is twenty-five (she looks eighteen). We ducked my age. Well, I did.

“Where are you from?”

I told her. She didn’t actually say ‘bad luck’ but that was what she meant.

“I’d like to live in London but it would have to be in the centre and I can’t afford that.”

She indicated that she could and that she did. She told me that her taxi bill had persuaded her to make the change.

“Is this your job or do you do something else?”

Her answer was vague but it appears that she has outlets for her creative talents, including writing.

“I write, too.”

“Oh, what?”

“Well, I’ve written a couple of books on information technology.”

“Fascinating.”

“Not really.”

“You don’t understand irony?”

“Whoops. Yeah. I just hadn’t caught up. I’ve also written a book about gender inequality.”

“Oh, I’m interested in that.”

I doubt it. It wasn’t about poor, down trodden women.

“And I’ve also written a book called The Amsterdam Diaries.”

“What’s it about?”

“Amsterdam. It’s a diary.”

She looked at me with a disbelieving expression.

“You’ll have to Google it.”

I hope that she does. All through this little exchange I’m fondling her arse and she is swaying to the music and I’m only half aware of the blonde girl on stage who is completely naked and contorting her body to give the audience a glimpse of every orifice. She isn’t my type.

“Do you like your work?”

Krystal held eye contact and brought her mouth up for a kiss that didn’t quite happen.

“I love it.”

She took my hand, swayed to the music and then did a jive-spin.

“You followed me down the stairs. Was that because you thought you could make money?”

The answer was probably yes but she claimed not to understand. By then it was time to take a booth. She put her drink down in one corner, I put mine in the other. She put her purse down at the end of the velvet covered bench and I took off my jacket.

“Do you want a thirty pound dance?”

That’s interesting. Maybe the girls have worked out that the forty pound dance that they used to pitch for isn’t worth the money because there are few takers. I took it once but couldn’t tell the difference between that and the standard twenty.

“No. A twenty pound dance.”

“Twenty?”

She said it like it was a shock. Like, ”You’ve brought me down here and groped my arse for a miserable, miserly twenty pounds?”

“Yes. But you can do another after that.”

That seemed to placate her. I’m not here for the dance, I’m here for the company and to pass some late-night time, so the longer I can spin this out the better.

“Open your legs.”

That’s usually my line. I spread them. Here I feel the need to comment. There are women in the world (feminists) who interpret the spread legs of a man (usually on public transport) as his invitation for any woman sitting opposite to drop to the floor, unzip his jeans/trousers, take his cock out and suck it until he comes in her mouth. Yeah, OK, I get it. But that’s not what’s happening. Some men explain it as the need for a man to give space to his testicles. It’s a physiological imperative. Maybe. However, I have another hypothesis. It’s about balance. That’s all (especially on swaying public transport). She stepped between them. And started to move. Her top came off. Then her thong (I actually removed it from over her heels and put it beside me on the bench). Both black. Double black on black.

“Do you like having your arse smacked?”

I only ever ask a girl who has a generous arse.

“I love it. Where are we going to party tonight. After this?”

Nowhere. She’s playing me but I don’t mind. I like playing.

“I’d like to take you back to my hotel and play with you.”

She leaned forward and let her delicious tits (they are perfect) swing towards my mouth, then put her mouth close to my ear.

“You couldn’t afford me.”

I put my mouth close to her ear.

“I think that I could.”

I could. Afford her, I mean. Definitely. But it wasn’t a realistic proposition; I’m not into pure contract sex. Nevertheless, I like talking sex to her.

She put one foot on the bench so that her legs were apart and her crotch exposed. It has a fair amount of hair on it (discrete, trimmed, coiffeured). That’s very unusual. But very erotic. Her slit is small and neat. I bet she’s tight.

“I’d like to lick it.”

“I know.”

Her breasts are natural. She’s slim but curvy. And the aureoles of her breasts are generous, feminine. The nipples were slightly erect. I’d like to lick those too. I realised that she hadn’t shown me her arsehole. She took some pleasure in showing me the other hole, though.

“Do you want me to open it?”

I didn’t want to disappoint.

“Yes.”

She exposed a beautiful little, bright, shocking pink hole. The truth, however, is that I like the sight of a girl’s slit better than the sight of her hole. And the smaller the slit and the less labia protecting it the better. Oh, yeah, I also like a small clitoral hood which covers (once you get to it) an obvious clitoris.

Dance two finished.

“Another?”

“Sure.”

She doesn’t really have many moves and it’s not as good as many dances I have had here but it was OK. She, however is better than OK to look at. A lot better. During dance three she posed rather than danced and I became aware of how good the poses looked in the reflections in the mirrors all around us. I framed them with my hands and commented. She posed some more and I took imaginary photos of the reflections. Then the dance ended (and I still hadn’t seen her bumhole). It seemed pretty arbitrary, the length of the dance, I mean.  I hadn’t heard the music start or finish once. I got up to leave. She put her hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye (very up close) and tried to press me back into the seat.

“One more.”

The eye contact was good. It was what might once have been described as a smouldering look.

“No thanks.”

“One more! Sit down!”

My guess is that this works on most occasions. Actually, I almost did as she said.

“Now you’re hustling. Don’t do that.”

The girl standing waiting with a customer just outside our dance area had a look on her face which said she was wondering how this would play out.

“OK. Give me the forty.”

Petulant tone. Another command.

She panicked briefly because she couldn’t see her purse. It had crept under my jacket.

“Give me a tip.”

I guess you can see how this works.

“No.”

She shrugged and went from being a cunt to covering it.

“Wait for me.”

I waited while she dressed. I didn’t mind. I’d rather exit with the girl than on my own.

“Come with me. We’re going to the bar.”

Hand in hand we reached the bar where she bounced a guy out of his seat. She spoke to him through me.

“He’s in my seat. I can’t get to the bar.”

He obliged. She ordered a cranberry juice.

“What are you having?”

I ordered a gin and tonic (I would have preferred cranberry juice, no gin). I paid. Obviously.

On the way back to the bar she had been told that she would be dancing soon.

“Come with me. I’m dancing next. You have to tip me. You have to do it while I’m on stage.”

She poke like a five year old mimicking an adult, Order, order, order. I’ve been wondering what kind of jobs these girl’s might be qualified for, other than flashing their tits and their arses. Speaker of the House of Commons comes to mind.

Yes, for the last few minutes I have been manipulated and jerked around like a dog on a leash – but within my comfort zone and with my consent (it is, after all, research of a kind). As we entered the dance area we encountered one of the first girls I made contact with in this club. She had been persistent about dancing for me. I had declined but just before I left the club I gave her the price of the dance for trying so hard. She remembers me for it and it has been a good investment; she is always friendly and treats me like an old friend when I put in an appearance at the club. She was taken aback because I haven’t been there since February and I could see her searching her archives to pull up the right name. My black friend and I parted company because she stopped to talk to the DJ. I moved to a front row seat. On the way I passed Sonja, a French girl who I had got on well with before Christmas last year but who had blanked me when I went back in January. We had exchanged numbers. Actually, she had given my phone a missed call to register her number but I had terminated it without thinking, rather than letting it be logged as a missed call. The plan was to speak further over Christmas. Except that we hadn’t, because we couldn’t. I assumed she’d interpreted the lack of call as a lack of interest. Tonight she was welcoming. I guess time heals. I explained that I had something to do but would see her later. Smile, smile. Bridges mended, wounds healed. She knows that I spend and that’s what’s important. Krystal came on and did her stuff and after about thirty seconds she settled down on all fours in front of me. Expectant.

“Where do you want it?”

She indicated the top of her stocking. I obliged with a folded ten pound note. She jiggled in front of me some more and another guy tossed a five pound note onto the stage. The song ended. Totally naked, she bent down and scooped it up, grabbed her thong and then left the stage via a small door to the side. As she made her exit I made mine. I got up and left the dance area and went back to the bar. I made a show of checking the area (there really was nothing for me there) then put my drink down on the bar. I was beside the girl who had seen the attempted shake down. She was looking at me with ‘curiosity’.

I called it a night.

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