The Girls of Club Aphrodite

I checked the Club Aphrodite website every day, but Sabrina wasn't lying when she said she was part-time. She only appeared under 'Working Today' twice in three weeks. Then, one day, I clicked onto the website and her profile was gone.

Part of me felt gutted. I liked Sabrina and I had loved fucking her. Yet, despite what I'd said, I

was

hurt by her refusal to take bookings. I realised that I had a fantasy of being a hooker's favourite client and Sabrina's attitude felt like a rejection. Stupid, I know. Although, besides that, I had no hard feelings. Perhaps she had been transferred to another hotel or met a man who was giving her what she needed. Either way, in my heart, I wished her well.

I also found myself returning my attention to Fatima's profile. Her photos were not the website's best, but they were reminders of my time with her, apart from the pixelated face. Fatima had a nice face with rounded cheeks and dark, intelligent eyes, and I wished I could see it. Eventually, on a Sunday afternoon, I saw her name under 'Working Today' and decided to pay the club a visit. I called first to check that she was available and, for the second time, the club was as good as its word. I paid for two hours and stood in the private room, waiting.

'Hey, there!' said Fatima as she walked in barefoot wearing her black lace underwear. 'I thought it might be you. How are you doing?'

'Fine!' I said. 'It's lovely to see you.'

I meant it. Fatima was petite and well-formed, with lovely round breasts and a shapely figure. Her long, brown-black hair was slightly crinkled, and her voice was deep for such a small girl. I loved her slightly husky voice. Yet there was a formality about her manner, a sense of detachment. While Sabrina would gleefully step into my personal space, Fatima kept a respectful distance and I sensed she expected the same of me. Fatima undressed rather than stripped and although she was not shy about being naked, it now occurred to me that Sabrina was an exhibitionist who had relished it.

This was not to say Fatima was in any way cold or dismissive. As I took off my own clothes, she asked how my son was doing at university and whether a specific work project had gone the way I'd hoped. I was touched that she remembered these things, although the cynical part of my brain still whispered, 'All part of the service'. I tried to ignore it and reminded myself that there were girls like Lydia who didn't even attempt to make conversation. Plus, unlike Lydia, Fatima seemed calm and relaxed, and when she invited me to lie naked on the bed for the requisite back massage, I sensed no reluctance from her at touching my body.

We chatted as Fatima massaged my back and shoulders. After a while, she told me a little about herself. She was twenty-nine and had graduated from university six years earlier with a degree in psychology. Not quite knowing what she wanted to do next, she had got into self-help books and YouTube lectures as a way of trying to find her true purpose in life. There was one author whose work particularly inspired her and she wanted to participate in one of his intensive five-day courses. However, like most self-help gurus, this author was based in the States, so Fatima turned to sex work to fund the trip.

'Was it worth it?' I asked.

'Oh, yes,' said Fatima, her hands kneading the muscles above my left shoulder blade. 'Absolutely no regrets, with either the sex work or the course. I wouldn't say it was easy money, but it was easier than spending hours and hours on your feet as a waitress or office temp.'

'I can imagine.'

I sighed and turned my head, resting it on my arms. We were in a room with a giant wall mirror and I could see the naked girl kneeling over me as she massaged my back. Fatima's cute little toes were just visible under the curve of her delicious-looking tan buttocks and I suddenly wanted to eat her.

Fatima said: 'Can I ask you a personal question?'

I closed my eyes and said: 'Of course.'

'How old was your wife when you got married?'

Bloody hell, I thought. That

was

a personal question. Still, I was flattered that this lovely girl found me interesting enough to ask such things.

'Twenty-six,' I said.

'Wow,' said Fatima. 'Younger than me.'

'Yep.'

'And when was your son born?'

'The following year.'

'Wow.'

I opened my eyes and looked again at Fatima via the mirror. Although I still saw the same view of her naked body, she now looked vulnerable rather than enticing.

'Are you all right?' I asked.

'Yes, of course.' Fatima saw my look of concern reflected in the mirror and smiled at me. 'I was just curious. I knew you must have been quite young when you had your son, but I didn't know about her.'

'And what do you think?'

Fatima stopped the massage and her face became serious. She turned away slightly so I could only see her profile, her hands still touching my back. I realised she was considering my question. That was the moment I knew, deep down, that she was not pretending to be engaged in our conversation. Whatever else might be faked, this part was real and it lifted my heart to know that. Fatima looked up and spoke.

'My main thought,' she said, 'is how impressed I am with both of you for making a decision like that when you were relatively young. I know it ended in divorce and everything, but I still think it's better to have a decision go wrong than not make any decision at all.'

'Hmm,' I said. 'I'll have to think about that one.'

'Do you regret the marriage?' she said. 'And having a child?'

Now it was my turn to consider her question. I lay with my head on my arms, gazing idly at the naked man and young woman in the mirror. This felt intimate rather than sexual.

'I go in and out of regret,' I said. 'When I'm in a bad mood, I find myself wishing I'd never met that damn woman, or had a child, or gone through all that shit. But when I take my thoughts to a lighter place, I find myself -- not happy exactly -- but ... accepting. I accept that things didn't go the way I wanted, and that what happened, happened, and that the situation is what it is. And when I'm in that lighter place, I find myself able to see the many, many good things that have come out of this mess. I've witnessed a little baby grow into a lovely, decent young man and that's really quite something. It blows my mind sometimes. Sure, in my darker moods, I complain about the kind of career I might have had if it weren't for that boy. But the older I get, the more I ask myself whether even the perfect career would have compensated for missing that whole journey and the answer which keeps coming up is ... no. Despite the whole bloody mess my life turned into, it

was

worth it. It actually was worth it.'

I lay with tears in my eyes, not seeing anything at all. For a while, there was silence. Then there was a creak in the bed as Fatima moved. With great care, she lowered herself onto my naked back, gingerly settling her body onto mine like a cat making itself comfortable on someone's lap. I felt the curve of the girl's hips settle over my buttocks and she rested her head on the area between my shoulder blades. Her breasts and stomach were flat against my entire back, her legs rested on mine, her feet on my calves, and I could feel her gentle breathing.

'Are you okay with me doing this?' she said.

'Yes,' I said. 'God, yes.'

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Lying naked on a bed with a beautiful girl lying on my back was absolute bliss. As the feel of her weight, her limbs, her skin permeated downwards, my whole system seemed to slow down and enter a state of peace. Every now and then, she would adjust a hand or a foot to get comfortable, and I felt waves of pleasure ripple through my body. This really was Heaven.

After goodness knows how long, Fatima spoke.

'Are you okay?' she said softly.

'Hmmmmm,' I responded.

'You're a good man.'

'Hmgh.'

'You don't think so?'

'I do my best,' I said lazily. 'But it has been my experience that liking a person doesn't necessarily mean they're good.'

I felt the girl shake as she laughed quietly.

'That's so true,' she said. 'And I'm glad you know that I like you.'

My God, she was going to make me cry. I loved that she liked me, loved that she was so comfortable lying naked on me, loved that she would soon open her legs and let me inside her. In my mind, a cloud seemed to dissipate and I saw with crystal clarity that I was on my way to falling in love with her. The moment I saw that, a screech like a crow's started up in my head: 'Don't be stupid! Don't be stupid! Don't be stupid!' I inhaled deeply, counted to ten, then slowly let out my breath, Fatima's weight helping to press the air from my lungs.

I said: 'Can I ask you a personal question?'

'Of course,' said Fatima.

'Which you don't have to answer, by the way.'

'You answered mine.'

'Doesn't matter. Just because I choose to answer doesn't mean you have to.'

'Okay.'

'Are you in a relationship?'

The question was met with silence. Still, I was relieved to feel no change in her body, no tension, no catch in her breathing. Fatima lay on my back as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It was clear she was thinking about it.

'Technically, the answer is yes,' she said. 'But it's not much of a relationship. I haven't told him I do sex work, for example, and the way things are going, I really don't see the point.'

'Do you believe in relationships?' I asked.

'That is a very good question,' said Fatima, her open hand warm on my upper arm. 'To be honest, I've been thinking a lot about what you said on Love and Romance -- how Love is about seeing a person for who they are? And Romance is about finding a person who fits your romantic expectations? And I recognise a lot of myself in what you said. I see that I haven't really loved any of the men I've been in relationships with -- not the way

you

define Love. Sure, when a man makes me happy, I give love and make love, but when he disappoints me, I take my love away. I never really

see

him. Or rather ... I

do

see him, but then I compare what I see to my romantic expectations, and when he falls short -- and he always does -- I lose interest in the relationship. And I've done this over and over again.'

'I see.'

'But here's my problem,' went on Fatima. 'Don't guys do exactly the same thing to women?'

'Of course we do!' I said. 'Shit, when I married my wife, I had tons of ideas on how wives were supposed to behave, and what marriage was supposed to be, and what Happy Ever After was supposed to look like! My head was as full of romantic crap as hers!'

'But you didn't see it as romantic crap at the time, did you?'

'No, I didn't.'

'So what made you see it?'

Great question, I thought. I looked at our reflection in the wall mirror, noting the rise of Fatima's light brown buttock on top of my lighter body. She looked so yummy, yet she was also making a man more than twenty years older than her to dig deep and come up with real answers to her questions. I liked her so much.

'I've found that awareness is something which sort of creeps up on you,' I said. 'But there was one incident which was a turning point. My wife and I were in the process of breaking up and, during an argument, she said: "You never really wanted to be my husband. You just put up with it because you wanted to be a father." '

'Ouch!' said Fatima.

'Yeah, I know.'

'Was she right?'

'One hundred percent right,' I said. 'I mean, I still wanted to stay married, but she was definitely right about that.'

'So what did you say?'

'I told her she was right and apologised. But later, when I thought about it, I had two realisations. The first was realising that I had no issue with being

her

husband -- just with being

a

husband. In other words, the reality of being a husband was so boring compared to how I imagined it before I got married. And this was true of every married man I knew. Even happy husbands on television were happy because they were in love with their wives, not because they enjoyed being husbands.'

'I never looked at it like that,' said Fatima. 'What was the second realisation?'

'That my wife telling me I'd married her because I wanted to be a parent was a case of the kettle calling the pot black. Being a good mother was a hundred times more important to her than being a good wife. In fact, any talk of me wanting her to be a good wife was considered sexist, but it was okay for her to complain that I wasn't a good husband. But here's the thing: Unlike her, I wasn't all that bothered.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, I wasn't bothered that she used me to have a kid. She hadn't done it on purpose and, besides, I'd done the same thing to her. The way I saw it, we weren't bad people trying to get what we wanted at the other person's expense. We were naïve people who believed something which turned out not to be true.'

'Did you share all this with your wife?'

'Yes.'

'And how did she react?'

Lying on the bed, I suddenly felt enveloped by a wave of sadness. I wanted to turn around and hold Fatima in my arms. I wanted to kiss her and make love to her, and then I wanted to lie my head on her breasts and cry my heart out. I felt her hand press softly into my arm.

'Is this getting too personal?' she said.

'Yes and no,' I said. 'I mean, it is bringing up some difficult emotions, but I don't believe in avoiding them or pushing them away. If I can just feel my feelings, I'll be fine.'

'Would you like to turn around and hold me?'

'Yes, actually. I would love that.'

Fatima slid off my back and knelt on the bed as I turned over. I gave my arms a stretch, then nodded that I was ready. Fatima came forward and I put my arm around her as she lay next to me. She put her head on my chest, reached an arm across my body, her hand on my ribcage, and tucked one of her legs through mine. We settled in together and when we were finally comfortable, I let out a deep sigh. I felt both melancholy and utterly content. Strange.

'You really loved her, didn't you?' said Fatima.

'Yes,' I said. 'I really did.'

'Do you still love her?'

'A part of me does. But I'm past the stage where I want to live with her again.'

There was stillness between us. Then Fatima asked:

'Do you think you'll ever live with a woman again?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'But I suspect not. I mean, my last girlfriend was a great woman in many ways and we were pretty compatible, probably more so than me and my wife. But whenever I pictured us living together, I just couldn't imagine myself being happy.'

'I know

exactly

what you mean,' said Fatima.

I felt her snuggle closer and I gave her a gentle squeeze.

'Do you have the same problem?' I asked.

'Yeah,' she said. 'I meet a guy, fall head-over-heels for him, but then sooner or later the magic wears off and he just irritates me. I used to think that men were chronically immature, but it's happened so often that I now wonder if it's something to do with me.'

'Hmm.'

I was about to say something, then thought better of it. I felt Fatima touch my arm.

'No, please,' she said. 'Say what you think. I'd really value your opinion.'

'I don't know you well enough to have an opinion,' I said. 'It was just a thought which popped into my head.'

'Well, your thoughts are better than most guys' opinions,' she said. 'Come on! I want to hear it.'

I took a deep breath as I collected my thoughts. I loved her compliment, but was now worried about living up to it. 'Don't blow it,' said the inner voice.

'Have you ever been in a relationship with a man who was smarter than you?' I said.

'Are you trying to say I date stupid men?' said Fatima.

'Not stupid, no,' I said. 'But if you have a high IQ -- and I think you do -- then even a reasonably intelligent man is going to be at a disadvantage.'

There was a pause as Fatima considered.

'Okay, I see your point,' she said. 'And I certainly wouldn't want to be with an idiot. But I don't see how being more intelligent is a dealbreaker.'

'It's not so much your intelligence as what you do with it.'

'What do you mean?'

'Look, I'm not genius level,' I said. 'But I do have a high intelligence. Even as a kid, I was always doing well at school. And, as a highly intelligent kid, I noticed that if I wasn't careful, I'd look at my classmates and think: Why are you all so stupid?'

Fatima burst out laughing. I had to pull my head back to prevent her skull cracking my chin. She held onto me as she shook with laughter, her head now pressed against my breastbone. I held her tight and positively glowed. There is no finer feeling for a man than making a beautiful woman laugh.

I said: 'Why do I get the feeling you know what I'm talking about?'

Fatima tried to answer, but she was still laughing too much.

'You know,' I went on, 'there were times when my wife would say something so idiotic, I'd stare at her and think: Did you leave your brain upstairs or something?'

Fatima doubled over. She was laughing hard now and it was all I could do to stop her rolling off the bed. 'Stop! Please...' she gasped in between laughs. I'd clearly hit on something and part of me wanted to milk it. Still, I resisted temptation and let her laughter come to a natural end.

Fatima pushed herself up and swung one leg over my torso, straddling my hips just below my navel. She sat on me, shaking her hair out with her hands, giving me a full frontal view of her breasts and body. My cock went instantly hard. She looked at me, her dark eyes alive, and said:

'You are a very bad man!'

'I thought I was a good man?'

'Well, like you said, just because I like you doesn't mean you're good.'

Fatima laid herself on top of me as though I were a rug before a fireplace, both her feet hooking over my calves as though wanting maximum skin contact. As her body pressed full length onto mine, I felt the urge to grab her and push her down onto my still-erect cock. But I wasn't wearing a condom and I couldn't imagine she wanted me to do that. Besides, I sensed that her trusting me enough to sprawl herself all over my body was not something to take for granted, and I felt a sudden, intense desire to know her real name.

Fatima snapped me out of my thoughts by slapping me lightly on the shoulder. 'Keep talking,' she said. 'I like the direction you were going in.'

'What was I saying?'

'That it's not my intelligence that matters, but how I use it.'

'Right.' I cleared my throat. 'Well, here's the thing: If you're in a relationship with someone whose IQ is lower than yours, it's very easy to score ego points off them.'

This time, as Fatima lay on top of me, I felt her breathing catch. Clearly, I'd hit the target again. But this time, it wasn't funny.

'Go on,' she said.

'Look, I can only tell you what I experienced myself,' I said. 'But, in my marriage, I was the smart one. My wife was certainly an intelligent woman, but I had the edge and we both knew it. However, she never resented it so long as I used my intelligence in the service of something she wanted. For example, when it came to our son's upbringing, she loved having a smart guy on the team. She also loves that our son inherited my IQ. But when she wanted something I didn't agree with, she'd regard my intelligence as a weapon I used against her. And, in those situations, she'd accuse me of looking down on her.'

'Did you?'

'It depends,' I said. 'I learned early on that being more intelligent didn't necessarily make me a better person than others. And, even with my wife, I was pretty good at keeping my ego in check. That said, I find it very hard to respect people with fixed opinions. You know, people who are so sure they're right that they refuse to listen to anything else. To me, acting like you have all the answers is the height of stupidity.'