Marc Jesmond - 4. Chapter 4 'The Dower House'

There are three sorts of people in the United Kingdom: those who work, more or less: those who don’t, never have nor will: and those who live on their wits. This latter group incorporates a wide spectrum of people, from benefits cheats to dowager duchesses, street buskers to heirs, pickpockets to politicians. It was this last group that Glen Roberts belonged to. Born and raised in the Midlands, he moved to the north east when he secured a place, studying media, at the University of Newcastle upon Tyne. Glen quickly discovered that studying anus was more to his taste, and likely to be more lucrative. He’d dated girls, but boys were less complicated and much more fun.

Glen wasn’t especially sensual. But, being young and fit he had no trouble whatsoever achieving erections, and was unconcerned where he put them. This equipped him perfectly for his new career as escort. And there was a lot to be said for it. Take today for example. Where might he be working; a call centre, a burger bar, a factory? But he wasn’t. He was settled into a comfortable wing back chair, removing his clothes, and trying to make it look as erotic as possible. And, as was his habit, he’d started with shoes and socks (nothing looks as unappealing as a man naked, save for socks)

Close by, a man lay in bed, resting on his elbow and regarding his visitor. Approximately twice Glen’s age, but many times wealthier, he was enjoying the show. And he was paying for it. Glen stood up and stretched his arms dramatically overhead as he removed his T-shirt. He continued, slowly unbuttoning his jeans and folding them carefully over the chair’s back, turning slowly as he did so to allow his date full view of his assets. The streak of exhibitionism that ran through Glen was now stimulating him to tumescence, so that when he finally pulled down his briefs a quite respectable semi-erection sprang forth.

Glen was interesting rather than handsome, sinewy rather than muscular, and proportionate rather than hung. But he was sexual, and he possessed the ability to convince partners that they turned him on. And that’s how it was now. He climbed into bed and crawled over towards his client. He put his arms around the man’s neck and drew him close, kissing the back of his neck. Eyes shut, Glen was able to withdraw to an interior world and imagine he was with the sexiest of men. Today – mercifully - too much subterfuge would not be necessary: his man was in pretty good shape for his age, so the sex would be easy. Men’s bodies give off heat, and as they lay, pressed together - clusters of genitals squashed rather uncomfortably against each other - Glen found his penis stiffening satisfactorily into an almost painfully hard erection.

‘Wow, you really fuckin’ turn me on’ he breathed softly into the ear of his benefactor.

Silly words, however insincere, are never wasted on those who want to hear them, and Glen’s date responded by running his hands through the young man’s long, dark curls.

‘The condoms and lube are on the bedside table’

Glen had mentally prepared himself for a period of foreplay. And on a previous occasion that’s what his bedfellow had requested from him, but not, it seemed, now. Knowing the customer is always right, he detached himself, smiled sweetly and reached for a condom. He knelt on the bed, ready to treat his partner to the comforting sight of a penis being sheathed.

But before he could unwrap the item the man lurched forward throwing Glen off balance, and seconds later the young man felt the warm reassurance of a hungry mouth around his glans. The man’s sucking was good, and proficient enough to bring on orgasm. And when he pushed his finger sharply up Glen’s anus, the escort felt he could hold back no longer. But, with consummate skill the fellator appeared to know exactly what he was doing, and he removed his mouth just before the point of no return. Then, casually almost, he handed the condom to Glen, and rasped,

‘Now put that on, and fuck me till I fart!’

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Test results were the last thing on Marc’s mind. But later he would remember exactly where he was, and what he was doing when they came through; a bit like the ‘where were you on 9/11?’ thing. In fact he’d been stacking CD’s and tapes into a box, in preparation for a dreaded house move, when the phone rang.

‘This is the Derwent Wellman clinic, is that Mr Jesmond?’

‘Yes’

‘Your results are back’

‘Yes’

‘They’ve been marked, ‘refer to doctor’ so could you ring Dr Shields, he’s free right now I think?’

At that point Marc’s reaction was nothing more than irritation and slight confusion. He checked his organiser and rang Shields’ direct line. The languid, semi-dead voice of the old physician replied,

‘Oh Mr Jesmond, your PSA is back. It’s rather high I’m afraid, 4.6. Could you call reception and make an appointment to see your regular doctor?’

‘PSA, what do you mean? I thought my blood pressure was OK. You were going to run some other tests, that’s all’

‘Yes, but you agreed to be screened for prostate cancer too’

Marc was appalled at how easily the word ‘cancer’ fell from the doctor’s lips,

‘So what do you mean PSA?’

‘That’s prostate-specific antigen, it’s a protein produced by the prostate gland, and is measured in nanograms. 4.6 is high. Of course there can be many reasons why PSA is elevated, but one is in reaction to prostate cancer’

Now Marc’s heart began to thump. Why was this man sounding so casual?

‘Well, what do I do now?’

Marc hated that he sounded so out of control and needy, but that’s exactly how he felt.

‘Your GP is Mulalley, is it not? Better ring him. Nothing to worry about, this is all quite routine’

Marc can’t remember how the call ended. The next few minutes were a blur as he tried to calm down and determine what to do next. Ringing the clinic once more he asked for Dr Kevin Mulalley. Marc’s regular GP wasn’t around just then, but the receptionist promised he would get back.

The next hour was agony for Marc as he faked normality and tried to get on with packing out as though nothing was happening. They say that bereavement is one of the greatest stresses that we deal with in life, yet the death of his mother paled by comparison with the horrors that had unfolded since her demise. The phone rang, it was Mulalley,

‘Hello, Mr Jesmond. I must apologise for this, results aren’t normally given out over the phone. I’d like you to come in to see me’

‘Is it that serious?’

‘Oh it’s not that, it’s just that you need to be examined’

‘What!’

‘No, please, don’t get upset. There’s nothing to worry about at this stage. What I’m trying to say is that you weren’t prepared properly for that first blood test’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well.....’

Mulalley paused, and, being well aware of Marc’s sexual orientation, chose his words carefully,

‘The prostate is quite delicate. It produces a protein that we measure in the blood. If it overproduces this protein it can indicate a reaction to disease, but the prostate gland can also respond in that way for other reasons. For example, riding a bike, or exercise cycle; that could affect a reading. And sex’

He paused, Marc responded cautiously,

‘What do you mean ‘sex’?’

‘We always tell men to withhold having sex before testing. You were not told that’

Marc began to feel relieved. The guy was throwing him a lifeline. He cast his mind back to the pounding the escort had given him only days before he’d tested. Presumably that sexual workout had battered his prostate gland more than any bike saddle!

‘So what are you suggesting, doctor?’

‘Make an appointment to see me next week. Remember what I’ve said about not aggravating the gland with sex or pressure, and we’ll run another test’

Marc put down the phone, and went to the kitchen to make a coffee. His hands were shaking as he reached for a cup. Then he changed his mind. He’d have a brandy instead.

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At the Dower House tandem orgasms had brought the morning’s work to a satisfactory conclusion for our escort and partner.

Glen dressed in silence; his client hadn’t spoken for some time so he didn’t think it was his place to initiate conversation. Wisely! Finally the elder man broke the silence,

‘Will you have a drink before you go?’

Glen agreed and was offered red wine.

‘You have a taxi coming to pick you up, I presume’

‘Erm, no. It’s a fine day, I thought I’d walk. It seems nice around here’

The man leaned back and stroked his chin,

‘Mmm. I’m not sure Brandon would like anyone just wandering about his estate. I’ll call you a cab’

Glen looked uncomfortable,

‘Don’t worry, dear boy. I’ll cover it on your cheque’

He wandered off to the hall to make the call, then returned, sat down, and picked up his wine,

‘Glen, have you heard of autoerotic asphyxiation?’

The escort said he had, but secretly hoped the subject would proceed no further. But the subject wasn’t going away,

‘It fascinates me, to imagine which men, through the ages have dabbled with it. Of course, we have accounts of those who’ve come unstuck, poor buggers, but I’m thinking of those men who mastered it: that exquisite frisson of achieving orgasm while simultaneously denying oxygen to the brain’

Glen shuddered, but his reaction had been closely monitored, and his paying companion eyed him suspiciously,

‘You’re not terribly adventurous for one engaged in the business of selling sex, are you?

The questioner’s voice was dominant, chilling, and cruel. Glen had nothing to say. The voice stepped up a gear to vicious,

‘I suppose whores down the ages have always been the same. You’re basically meat, aren’t you? You may as well charge by the kilo’

Glen blustered, wishing he was elsewhere. His host meanwhile had stood up, and displaying clearly hostile body language strode over to his writing desk. Returning to Glen, he handed him a cheque.

‘Here. That should cover the taxi fare as well. Your lift will be here in about twenty minutes. Now I’ve some rather important papers to go over, so I’d appreciate it if you waited outside for your cab, especially since you appear to find it so nice there’

The rebuke couldn’t have stung Glen more if he’d been told to fuck off and die. But his trick wasn’t finished yet,

‘Oh, and I don’t think we’ll be taking this any further. Pity really, as I thought there was more to you’

Silently, Glen left the house. Outside, he examined the cheque: one hundred pounds payable to Glen Roberts from the account of Robin Parnaby, barrister-at law. But Glen wasn’t for hanging around, with or without a plastic bag over his head! There was one road out of this estate, and he was going as fast as his legs would take him.

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Evil finds a home wherever it can. It’s all too easy to think it resides naturally enough in the dark alleys and subways of big cities. But it’s as much at home amid the sylvan splendour of one of Northumberland’s grandest estates, as Glen now knew. It had been a strange experience but he was unhurt, and £100 better off. Still, he was glad to be returning to the safety of the tiny one-bed apartment.

To Glen’s surprise Leon was home, and he greeted the boy amiably,

‘What’s up, horse dick? No sauna today?’

Leon made some excuse, but Glen appeared not to hear,

‘I’ve been thinking. I feel scabby. I could do with a real de-tox, steam, splash-pool, the whole lot. How about we go to the sauna, right now?’

A delighted Leon could hardly speak.

In less than thirty minutes the two were savouring the pleasure of ‘Rock Bottom’ As Leon feared, all those whom he’d especially wished would see him and Glen together were absent, typical! But the afternoon passed pleasantly enough, even if Glen did disappoint his impressionable young flatmate by wearing swimwear!

Back home Leon readily agreed to Glen’s suggestion of pizza for tea. And while the youngster was outdoors seeking it, Glen got to work online. Checking quickly his own profile he found he had one solitary message. It was from the barrister,

‘Just in case the message didn’t come over clearly enough earlier, I want to hear nothing more from you, and I expect your discretion. I’ll know if you’ve said anything to anyone and, trust me; I’ll know exactly how to deal with it’

‘What a cunt!’ Glen muttered to himself.

Then coming out of his own profile, he signed in again to his newly created profile of ‘Noel’. Glancing anxiously out of the window, he checked that the boy was nowhere in sight, and returned to his laptop. Before long the profile of ‘Noel’ received a message,

‘Hi, nice profile. I like what I see. Do you travel?

Glen replied that he did, and asked,

‘Yeah, no probs. Where are you?’

‘Not far. On the riverside’

‘So what can I do for you?’

‘That’s one hot dick you’ve got’

‘Thanks (smiley face)’

‘I’d just love to blow that’

‘It’s your call. I’m good with that’

‘OK, let’s sort something out’

‘Let’s say tomorrow night’

‘Fine, I’m Noel btw’

‘Great. I’m Marc’

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