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Doesn't Mean I Love You, Wilson Reedy

Close up, Wilson Reedy’s penis looks like an Ordnance Survey map of England. As my head balances on his hip bone and my face breathes on his cock, I watch little red capillaries traverse it like minor roads connecting to bulbous blue motorway veins.

This chaotic network sits on an English Channel of ashen pubes. His balls – Wales one side and East Anglia the other – rise and fall as I languidly stroke him. What I imagine to be an ‘A’ road connecting Henley and Reading stretches obscenely as I pull his skin up. It travels so far north it briefly sheaths the angry purple head of Scotland.

Wilson Reedy gasps. “Where did you learn to be so good at that?”

“You don’t want to know, Wilson Reedy.”

“I know. But there might be more of you where that came from.”

I laugh. I laugh a lot with Wilson Reedy.  But I remember the first time wasn’t as comfortable.

It was my first time too.


The flat bell buzzes. I totter to the speaker in a corset marginally too big for me and lace-top glossy stockings. They’re barely secreted underneath a black silk gown. All bought that afternoon.

“Come up – uh – love,” I breathe into the white box. I try to make my voice sultry. But I sound like a boy on the cusp of puberty.

Seconds later, I open the door to my first client. Older than I’d thought. Tall, with thinning white hair. Broad-faced. He stares at me through large, wire-rimmed specs.

“Amber?” he asks.

“Yes.” It's a name I made up last week for my website profile.

“You don’t look like your picture.”

“Oh.” I’m nonplussed. Earlier, piling on mascara, I’d sensed it might be too much. Thought I looked like a prostitute.

“I don’t mean that. You look younger.”

He steps in.


So why did I become an escort? Short answer: because I lost my dad and went off the rails.

The longer answer: I was his only child – a late lamb – and he lived for me. Never wealthy, especially after his divorce, he scrimped to send me to private school.

He said I was worth it because I was the smartest girl he knew and I’d make him proud.

He’d had multiple sclerosis as long as I can remember; by the time I sat my exams he couldn’t walk. I was embarrassed when he turned up at school, decrepit in his dowdy suit and wheelchair next to more glamorous parents. Some of them were beautiful.

I won an English Prize and never told him so he wouldn’t come to the ceremony.

He died in my first year at uni. Not from multiple sclerosis. He hanged himself. More accurately, he asphyxiated himself because he couldn’t get the rope around anything high enough. The coroner said he must have endured a ‘prolonged and painful strangulation’.

That verdict never leaves me. Nor does the question: what did he think of me as the rope rasped round his throat?


“Would you like to shower first?” I ask. Miah had drilled me on protocol. “It’s just in there,” I nod to the bathroom. “There’s a gown too.”

“Do you mind if I sit for a bit?” He’s sweating heavily, still in his raincoat.

I open my palm to the sofa, but as he plumps down, his eyes are on the bar of light under the bedroom door a few feet away.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?” he says.

I don’t answer. I’d hoped I’d get someone who knew.

In a silence as long as the Thames, I join him on the sofa, turning to him and lifting a bent knee onto it so my gown opens, showing a glimpse of stockinged legs and the prize in between.

“It’s my first time using one of you,” he says. He sucks in air before he adds: “I just need company.” And a deep breath out.

I reach to touch him.


I learned an important skill that first night. Take their mind off what they’re doing. Talk about something else. Relax them, but keep touching. Clients have an urge to rationalise why they’re there. That never changes. We’re therapists. And never ask their name. Ask what you should call them.


“What’s your name?”

He hesitates. “Uh. Wilson,” he says eventually. “Wilson Reedy.”

“Seriously?” Sounded like a name you’d make up if you didn’t have the gumption to think of a better one.

“Seriously.” Still staring at that crack under the door.

“Ok, Mr Reedy.” I feel a low panic. He’s booked for 45 minutes and at this rate he won’t have taken his coat off by then. “What would you like to do?”

“I’m ok. Talking.” His upper lip is filmed with perspiration. But his nervousness helps settle me. I realise he won’t have had other escorts to compare me to.

“So you’re a bit down?”

He nods and meets my eyes.

“Come on, let’s get that coat off. And that jacket.”

I reach to pull them off him at the neck. He sits up to let me. There are patches of sweat on his shirt. I throw jacket and coat over the arm of the sofa – and watch them slide slowly from there to the floor in a heap. Amateurish, I think. Keep things simple. Remember what your boyfriends liked.

“You want me to just do this?” I ask as my right hand dances along the fabric of the sharp crease of his trousers. He nods again and his Adam’s apple bobs.

“So,” he says after a little nervous cough. “How long have you done this?

“This?” My eyes fall to my hand, trailing up his inner leg. “Oh at least 30 seconds.”

He laughs at the joke which isn’t a joke.

“Feel better now?” Be less clinical, I tell myself. More confident.

He nods again and gulps. My hand runs to his groin. With the pads of all four fingers I traverse the fly of his trousers and I’m relieved to feel a hardness there. I push in a little.

“I think you need some help,” I say, and I bring myself up on the sofa, legs open, to straddle him. My gown slips a little, baring one shoulder and his eyes lower to stare at my boobs. In the cramped space between us, my fingers run up to the button above his fly and undo it. In the same movement, I catch his zip and pull it down to reveal white, starched cotton shorts, so clean he must have put them on a hour ago.

I run my hand over them, following the contour of his erection and circling the damp, sticky blob that marks the end of his penis. Then I pull the waistline away from him and down. His cock pops up like a lizard from its nest of wiry hair.

This is it. I hesitate. Then grasp him.

“Is this ok?” I ask. His communication is reduced to a series of nods and he gives another. But at least he feels like he’s enjoying it. Our eyes meet and I begin to move my hand up and down. He obeys my instruction to shuffle his trousers down under me. “We don’t want to make them messy, do we?”

His shorts are round his ankles and he’s sighing. This is going ok.

With my left hand I reach to grab the bottle of Johnson’s baby lotion on the side table next to the sofa. Flicking open the lid with my thumbnail and upturning it, I trickle it onto the head of his cock.

It feels suddenly slippery – I glance his way when he gasps at the fresh lubrication – but looking back down I see that rather than glistening, Wilson’s cock is disappearing between us underneath a sea of soapy bubbles. I glance back to the bottle. It isn’t baby lotion. It’s baby shampoo.

“Oh god,” I say to the frothing mess. What an idiot.

But Wilson’s eyes are closed. Above the squelch of the lather he says three welcome words: “That feels good.”

So I don’t stop wanking him through the bubbles. And in a second or two I’m surprised by the first of a series of creamy jets shooting up from his soapy cock.

“Oh my goodness. Oh – God.” He wriggles like a fish as he spurts over my hand.

And that’s it. It’s over. I’m surprised by how sudden it is.

Wilson looks down at his wilting erection. He must be bemused by its surroundings, but he says nothing. I help tidy him with tissues, giving no explanation. I offer a shower again, but Wilson’s in a hurry.

I’ve messed up, I know. But he thanks me and places cash on the dresser on his way out. I count it as soon as the door is closed: £200. Even if I never do this again, that was pretty easy.


I stayed away from lectures after dad died. What was the point? But with my debt rising, I needed to earn. If you’re not proud, escort services can make you money. It’s not common at uni, but not unknown either; some students do it to supplement their loan.

I asked Miah. Word of mouth told me she was a part-time escort in third year. She was happy to talk. Said it depends on how serious you are. She had three regulars in London – where the money is – that fitted around her studies. But she could still earn fifteen hundred a month. Overnights or out-calls are where it’s at, she said. What are out-calls, I asked. It’s when you visit them, she said. Get your name on the escort website, find the right man and milk him.

I didn’t have anywhere to take a client then. Still lived in a shared flat. But Miah was going ‘on tour’ – in London seeing clients – so she said I could use her place for a weekend.


An hour after Wilson Reedy leaves the flat he texts. “If you’re around, could I see you again?”

I gaze at the notes on the dresser and text back: “Free at four tomorrow? Two hours available.” I had all Sunday free, but wanted to sound busier.

Maybe I didn’t mess up as much as I’d thought.

So he’s here, back in Miah’s flat. More confident. He goes straight to the shower and seconds after emerging from the bathroom I lead him to the bedroom.

Once there, I pull off his gown to leave him naked, already half-erect. His body is trim for an old guy, though dominated by soft, grey hair. I don’t waste time. I hold his cock still and kneel to envelope its tip in my mouth. It springs up.

“Woah,” he says. “I’m trigger-happy. Can we just do it?”

So I nod to the saucer of condoms on the bedside table and he wrestles with one – “Never used them,” he says – until I come over to help. His cock is flagging as I roll it on.

I rescue things by turning my back and lifting the hem of my mini-skirt to let him see me pull my tight black boy shorts down. It’s a premeditated show and it isn’t wasted.

“You have a lovely little bum,” he says, and his cock points back up to the ceiling.

With my knickers off and holding my dress up at the waist, I climb on the bed on my knees. It feels ungainly, but he follows behind and his sheathed cock urgently searches for my pussy.

I say to him, over my shoulder, “You’re wasting no time today, Mr Reedy.”

My hand, behind me, helps him in and as he enters me he sighs, “God that's some grip.”

It feels good: he’s the first person to fuck me for two months. He fills me with his width. It isn't great – he doesn't touch or lick me and my clit is a foreign country that he doesn’t plan on visiting, but fucking him feels nicer than I’d feared.

I push back: his big hands smother my bum cheeks. My head falls to the pillow and he thuds against me, building a slow rhythm that doesn’t last long. Within seconds I feel him tensing and he comes in hard little spurts into his condom.

He slumps on the bed after throwing the condom hanging limply from his cock into the wastebasket.

“My god, Amber, that was wonderful.”


Then he looks fixedly at me. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.” Which will be true in a few months.


“How old did you think I was?”

“I didn’t think.”

Lying next to me, he cups my bum in his hand. Brazenly, he leaves his finger in the crack, pressing on my bumhole.

“Wilson. What are you trying to do?”

“I still have another hour. Do you ever…?” and he breaks off.

“I don’t take it up that entrance, if that’s what you’re about to ask.” I pull a pillow from behind me and hit him over the head.

“It was. But that’s ok. I’ll put it on my bucket list.”


Yeah I have a list of don’ts. I don’t do it without protection or him showering first. I won’t be humiliated. I don’t do shit. Or anal. Miah told me those.

I don’t kiss either, though that’s my own rule I made up when I didn’t want to kiss my first clients and it was easier to blame it on principle. But it’s worked ok: It makes me seem exotic. And I do more intimate stuff than kissing.

A client I see a lot of is about 35, married with kids. We don’t fuck, but he likes me to spit on him. Sometimes he wants to watch me sit at my kitchen table and dribble saliva down my chin. If we have longer, he likes to lie naked on the bed while I straddle him in my underwear. I look down to his face and drop white strings of spit into his his mouth. Mouth gaping, he swallows anything that lands on his tongue. If I don’t get it right and saliva swings onto my chest or runs down my tummy into my bellybutton or goes over his face he loves it. So I’m reckless. He masturbates while I do it, legs splayed underneath me. When he wants to cum, I climb off, put my lips close to his and spit noisily on him.

It takes getting used to. But even the first time I didn’t hesitate. No fucking and £250 for a couple of hours. Not bad.


The next week there’s a weird coincidence. On the bus there’s a Financial Times on the seat beside me. I notice it because my eye is caught by a picture of a face I recognise: a straight head-and-shoulders shot next to another man above a short caption, which read: ‘Law firm Stanwick & Babbs appoints Tom Wilkie senior partner to replace retiring Wilson Reedy.’


I studied English Literature in Berkshire for a year. I wanted to be on on TV’s University Challenge so I could tell Jeremy Paxman I was reading Reading at Reading University.

More than that, I wanted to be a writer. I sent an article about feminism to a website and they said they loved it. I asked them about pay; they said it’s not about money, it’s exposure. Well, I thought, I know everything about exposure. I charge £250 a night for it.


It’s a month until Wilson calls again. I thought he’d given up, but he’s busy at work, he says. It’s not as if I need his business. I’m savvy now. I’ve seen a dozen men and earned enough to let me move into my own flat on a short-term lease.

Wilson takes me for a meal; a place between Reading and London. I wear a black cocktail dress – my only classy one – and a silver necklace my dad bought. Sitting down, he nervously scans the middle-aged couples around us.

“People will wonder about us,” he says.

“When I’m your age,” I say, “I hope I don’t give shit what people think.”

“I’m sorry. I mean you look fabulous. It’s just – they’ll think, what’s she doing with an old guy like him?”

“It’s not as if I’m going to give you a blowjob here, is it?” Sounds thoughtless after I say it.

During the meal he prods his steak with a fork. “Do you have lots of clients?”

“Do you discuss yours, Wilson Reedy?”

“How do you know I have clients?”

“I saw your picture in the paper. I know you’re a lawyer. Your name really is Wilson Reedy. And you’re retiring.”

“Well – I don’t lie. I have no secrets.”

“We need to keep some,” I say.

Later, on the way back to my flat, I look at him driving. “Do you wish I wasn’t an escort?”

“Sometimes.” He scratches his chin with his left hand. “But then I tell myself if you weren’t, I’d never have met you.”

Back in my flat, I let him strip me. He fumbles with my suspenders, through excitement, not nerves. We fuck: this time he lasts longer. I suck him, he licks me, dirtily, on all fours, lapping like an animal, from my pussy up to my bum in wide, reckless passes. We fuck naked: on all fours, then squatting on him, then missionary, his thick cock pumping into me as he stares at my nipples and holds my hands to my pillow.

I move my legs wide, and as he spurts into his condom I think he can’t complain about value for money.

Afterwards, before he drives home, he opens up. He’s divorced. I’m the only woman he’s had sex with since. His daughter, older than me and living abroad, doesn’t speak to him. She blames him for the breakup because he was never at home.

“I have a grandson I’ve never seen,” he says.

The next day I open my front door to a bunch of flowers on the step.


Why do wealthy men come to escorts? They have other options – the footballer’s wife type – but this way nobody’s pretending. It’s a business transaction they can relate to.

Most of my clients are unhappily married. Some need sex, others a shoulder to cry on. Others have a kink to fulfil. If they pay, I’ll oblige.

One guy masturbates while I paint my toenails. Another sits in the corner chair while I strip in front of him, talking dirty, telling him I want him to fuck my cunt. He usually ejaculates before I’m fully naked.

Another I see on out-call when his wife is away likes me to piss on him. He climbs into a big, empty bath in boxers. I clamber on top of him, bare-legged in a mini-skirt. I lift it, pull my knickers to the side and let go. I move myself up and down his body, covering his skin and his boxers, and if my knickers fall back into place I just pee through them. I finish him off by pulling down his boxers, and as he grasps his freed erection, I spray on his hand, his cock and his cum.

It was hard to perform at first but not now. The most difficult thing is to remember to drink lots before he arrives.


Wilson is a regular. A favourite. Not just because he was the first, but because he’s considerate. We’ve seen each other dozens of times in the last six months. But this is my first out-call to his house in Epsom. A whole weekend. I said it would be a thousand pounds and he didn’t blink.

I like his house. Five bedrooms; we slept in the master. There’s a grand piano downstairs and he played it last night when I arrived. This morning I’ve pulled on one of his crisp long-tail shirts, unbuttoned, and tip-toed down to the kitchen to make myself tea. I sip it at the sink.

I look out to an expansive lawn, coated in a low, early-morning mist. This is what success looks like, I think. My eye is caught the by the flaking, rusting corner of the frame of a child’s swing at the end of the garden. Its seat dangles from a single cord. It reminds me of a line of a poem I studied at uni, about the sadness of home staying as it was left, shaped to the comfort of the last to go.

I cross my legs and sip.

Wilson has crept up behind me. He rests his chin on my head and loops his arms around me.

I’m still looking at the frame. “You need some life in this house, Wilson Reedy.”

“You’re pretty lively,” he says slipping his hands inwards either side of my shirt. His hands easily cover my boobs. My nipples stiffen against his palms.

“Seriously, Wilson. Do you ever think how fleeting life is?”

He doesn’t answer.

And there at the kitchen sink, overlooking the lawn, Wilson puts on a condom and takes me from behind. I kind of want it too. He lifts up my shirt tail exposing my bum and when I lift my knee to the worktop to give him access, I feel a connection to him.

His cock is in me before I ask him if he fucked his wife at this sink.

“Maybe once,” he says, panting.

I push back against him, lift my leg further up and bend over, my head near the taps.

“Am I better than her, Wilson?”

He gasps and it feels like a minute before he responds. But he never stops thrusting. “She was my wife, Amber. It isn’t the same.”

And then I do something instinctive, but unprofessional. My right hand reaches behind me and, wordlessly, I pull him out of me. But I don’t let go. I squeeze his shaft upwards, slipping off his condom.

Then I lower myself back onto his bare cock.

“It’s the same now,” I whisper.

He lurches hard at me, faster now, his hips smacking against me. I can feel him much better. I’m close to orgasm myself.

He grunts and pulls my nipples hard.

“Oh god Amber. Don’t do this.”

And just then, he pulls out and his spunk batters my back under the shirt.

Wilson Reedy and I have passed a barrier.


Does it ever cross your mind to sell your story? Financially it wouldn’t be worthwhile, though there was one guy I could have made money from. We only met at my place because he was a Member of Parliament – I found that out later when he was done for expenses fraud.

He liked to help me lather up in the bathroom and watch me shave with my legs apart. Then I’d dress for him like a schoolgirl in a short white blouse that hardly covered my bum, a striped tie and white knee-socks. We would fuck, half-dressed, on all fours on the bed. He liked to pull his condom off and cum on my bum. He gave me a tip when I let him do that.

The truth is, I like being someone these guys bare themselves to – emotionally as much as physically. I feel powerful. When they tell you of their unhappiness, yet you know one flick of your tongue across their foreskin might make them orgasm, you shoulder a responsibility. You warm to some of them too. And, yes, sometimes I get turned on.

No matter what you might hear, sex never means nothing.


Wilson and I take a long walk that afternoon. We come back to dinner at his home that he cooks. After he plays part of a Mozart concerto on his piano. He’s fantastic.

When he’s finished I give him a solitary standing ovation. He closes the piano lid, looking strained.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Bit of a headache.”

“ Wilson, one day I’m going to take those headaches of yours personally.”

He ignores me. “I’ve been thinking, Amber. You should go back to university. You could have a great future.”

“I’m ok.”

“Are you? What are you going to do when you’re not pretty and don’t have that body?”

“What would you do without me?”

“It’s not about me. I’m thinking of you.”

We argue, but he’s still holding his head so I go into his kitchen for paracetamol and when I return he asks me again to give this up.

And to keep him quiet, I say I will. Soon.


Truth is important. But acting is part of my job and I tell little lies all the time to avoid hurt. I fake orgasms. I tell my mum I work in human resources (is that much of a stretch of the truth?) If I tell someone I’ll return to study when I don’t intend to, where’s the harm? And if I never tell anyone about dad, can you blame me?


A week later I come home to see three people in hi-viz towering over a prostrate body outside my flat. An ambulance straddles the kerb. A kneeling paramedic dangles a respirator over a grey face. I recognise it through the clear plastic. It’s Wilson. I squeeze through the huddle around him.

“Is he ok?” I shout at the ambulance guy.

“You related?”

“Sort of.” In the circumstances it’s easier than saying he’s a guy I fuck for money.

“He collapsed. He’ll be ok. You’d better come in the ambulance.”

And later, much later, there’s a neurologist and a comfy, private room and cups of tea and it’s hot and I feel close to passing out. I want to say, to their rictus smiles, that I’m not his wife or daughter. I’m not part of this. I’m a nobody who lets people down. But I look around and realise there’s no-one else for Wilson Reedy. So I stay.

And when I leave the room alone later, I remember the single word they’ve bandied about: inoperable.


And so here I am, weeks after his return from hospital, stroking his erection in bed, both of us naked and laughing at my acquired expertise in masturbation.

“I might not be here in six months, so make the most of that,” he says. Wilson loves gallows humour, though he’s told me his slow-growing tumour could take a year or more to kill him.

“You should have told me earlier. It was a shock. Don’t joke about it.”

“I didn’t want to burden you.”

“You said no secrets.”

“I know. I’d just had tests and didn’t feel up to telling you. Yet it’s you who kept me going. I’m sorry Amber.”

I stop stroking.

“My real name’s not Amber. It’s Lisa.”

We’re both silent again. It’s like he’s running my new name around in his head. I speak first. “Wilson, remember your bucket list?”

“What about it?”

I pull myself up to him, spit on my fingers and rub them over the head of his heavy, tilting cock. “Well isn’t it time?”

“What for?”

“For ticking something off it.”

He reddens.

My fingers massage the head of his cock. “I want you to fuck my bum. To stick your cock up it, Wilson Reedy. No protection.”

“Is that extra?” I know he’s joking to cover his embarrassment.

But I lean over, hand on his cock, and kiss him softly before pulling away. “Does that answer your question?”

“That’s the first time you’ve kissed me.”

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t mean I love you. I just feel warm inside doing it.”

We’re facing each other sideways. I bend my right knee and pull him closer, so his erection stumbles between my legs, behind my pussy. I hold it between two fingers and press it to me.

“Push, baby,” I whisper, and the big head of his bare cock pops into my arsehole.

It’s sudden and feels instantly good, turning to a sharp pain. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise: it hurts. I close my eyes. “It’s my first time, Wilson.”

“Mine too,” he says. He pushes. “Jesus that’s tight.”

He rolls us both over gently so he’s lying on top of me, missionary style, resting on his elbows.

My eyes open briefly to see him watch in wonder as his bare, thick cock slowly disappear up my bum. My hands grip the sheets. I can’t speak, my breath coming in short gasps.

“This-is-amazing,” he says, panting. “You look incredible.” He leans down and kisses the cold sweat on my forehead. “Thank you,” he says.

My mouth blindly pushes up to his and this time when our lips meet my tongue peeks inside his mouth to touch his.

Under him, I pull my cheeks apart and try to relax to let him further in. And then he stops, and I feel him pulse, somewhere deep inside, where no-one has been before.


Afterwards, as a rivulet of his sperm dribbles out of me, down one cheek onto the sheets, I reach to hold his hand.

“I’m going back to uni, Wilson. If you let me stay here with you.”

“But what about…”

“I don’t need to be an escort. But you need someone to look after you, Wilson Reedy.”

“I’m not on my deathbed yet.”

“What if you fall again?”

He’s quiet for a moment and we both look out through the bedroom window. The tops of the trees in the garden, coming into leaf, sway in the breeze.

“Could you look after an old guy like me?” he asks.

I know this should be the moment to tell him about my past, but I don’t.

I just say: “There’s always a first time.”


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