Sunday, May 8, 2011

The agency scam

I was in one of those passages of life that we men don't allow ourselves to talk openly about; fledgling business teetering on ruin, young family making my wife even more irrascible and demanding than usual, no time for friends or recreation.

It seemed to me that I'd like to enjoy some intimate time with a female counterpart, an oasis for us both as we plodded through our deserts. But where to find her? The small newspaper ad from Rejoice Relations promised an answer.

Somehow, their office hinted at the sex industry. Shabbiness thinly covered, the walls and desks bare and impersonal. The tension lurking in the consultant who sat down to discuss my needs. The ready promise to meet all my needs. And of course, the ritual of the credit card ('discreet billing details') although the preference was for cash.

To my surprise, the first contact was offered the very next day. I already knew enough about the laws of supply and demand to expect a long wait, if not a nil result. And she turned out to be just what I was after, a middle aged mum in great shape. Friendly chat about the perils of parenting and some good, stress-relieving sex. Wanting to make the most of the magic, I requested a second contact. Same result. I was on top of the world.

The arrangements were slightly unusual. In each case, she insisted on making the arrangements, a daytime room in a city hotel and we would split the tariff. The tariff seemed a little on the high side - my share came to $140, 10 years ago - but the room was comfortable and the company good and it was affordable. She would check in and then text me the room number. The rooms were always fresh and clean, no sign of previous occupancy. We stayed exactly an hour because we were both busy people (she always had a professional office job that was hard to slip away from).

Things unravelled one day when I got out of the lift to see another guy disappearing into 'our' room. I double checked the room number and called my contact. Phone off. I retired to the park across the road to ponder. Sure enough, an hour later her phone came to life. She'd mixed me up with a cousin of the same name.

Well, it was time to stop suspending disbelief. I made another appointment with her, my last, just to confirm my suspicions. The signs were tiny, but they were there. And as if to hand me a magnifying glass, she showed up with a black eye. A cupboard door, she said.

I suppose I could have continued the 'therapy', it was doing me good. But the realisation that it was a commercial operation dulled the enjoyment.

I must say, whoever designed and managed this operation - the girls were following the same script, were well-rehearsed, and reliable - was very clever. And at the end of the day, what harm? I got to indulge a harmless fantasy at a much lower price than going to a brothel, and with a better standard of partner. She got to earn a handy income - half a dozen tricks a day, I'd guess - and still be home in time to pick her kids up from school. The hotel got to make money from surplus rooms. And Rejoice Relations got my fee. Every couple of years they phone up to see if I'd like to sign up again. I tell them I know their racket and they feign injured innocence and disappear again.

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