Tuesday is 'trousering cash' day....
Inspired by the runaway success of the ‘Belle de Jour’ book deal (yawn), Alfie the plagiarist has decided to cash in on the ‘sex memoirs’ market.
Soon to be launched, ‘Alfie le rent boy’ will be a gritty, no holds barred account of a good looking, clear complexioned, slim hipped, slightly effeminate chap, making house to house calls in order to make a few quid.
I’m musing on a few gambits to open up with. It’ll need to be controversial - and I'll especially have to show how utterly contemptuous I am of all my clients. I’ll have to ‘paint the scene' through super duper descripto’ stuff, you know, like what those proper novella writers do …….
First posting (draft) …..
‘Allo, I am Alfie le rent boy’ and I’m about to see my first client of the day…. I am cruising down a notorious rent boy haunt in central London. A middle-aged businessman in blushing pinstripe approaches me. His vice like grip on his brief case is as tight as a vice in a vice like grip. Before he can say a word, I scream at him "You cannot afford me, oaf".
Crestfallen, the businessman stumbles away muttering "I only wanted to know the time".
I scorn him. "Consider yourself scorned" … And he was.
Soon 73b Notorious Road comes into view. The brightly painted front door from an age gone by gleams in the morning Sun. The big lion headed knocker, brassed off from being rubbed too much, catches my eye.
And knock again.
The door creaks open like a wreaking creaking thing.
There, standing in the hallway is a seedy looking man of Mediterranean appearance and indeterminate age. Grime welcomes him like an old friend. Grease is the word and the time ... and the place is his hair. It’s Mazzola central in those follicles. He wears a vest, a cotton/synthetic mix that has seen 56 too many TV and curry suppers. His name is ‘Victor’.
Victor eyes me thoughtfully, he notices my God given Grecian good looks, chiselled chin and 6 pack stomach rippling through my skin tight shirt. My blonde, curly locks toss, tossily like a well tossed salad, caressed by a wafty wind originating from the scorched sand clad plains of Mauritania. Tiny beads of sweat form on my upper lip. My pecks are as taught as a Buckingham Palace Guardsman on special taught duty. Tension crackles through the air like a crackly tensioned torsioned piece of air. He doesn’t look pleased to see me.
"I’m Alfie le rent boy"
Victor says "I don’t have any money – so shove your rent book up your jacksy"
"You’ll have to pay double next week… And if you don’t pay, the landlord will chuck you out."
With that, Victor slams the door – shut.
On second thoughts, best not give up my day job then…….