The Hunger (4 page)

Of course, I’m also a very proactive salesman, if a little predictable, since my pitches are usually a variation on:
I really want to fuck you.
It might lack a degree of
sophistication but it works because I know my market and, contrary to some malicious myths put forward by descendants of the Suffragettes, women like being fucked. Really fucked. And when they get
it they want it again and again and nothing less will do until they decide to get married and have kids. That’s when they are careful to choose a man who will look after them and not notice
when they disappear ‘on business’ for a night or two.

There is also the PR side of
How It All Works
. This is how myths are created and I’m an accomplished myth-maker. It usually happens in The Office but it can happen anywhere in Soho.
The technique is simple: I receive a text or an email or I have a photograph of a recently banged Wrap and I show it to anyone who wants to look at it, because I know that doing it is of no value
unless I am
seen
to be doing it. I am sure it pisses blokes off but what point is there in all the pounding if I’m doing something that any bloke could do? I particularly like the
write-ups I get:

That’s amazing!

How do you do it?

Not another one . . .

I also believe this creates more One-Offs, who may eventually graduate to become Regulars: Wraps fuck where other Wraps fuck, and this fact is the engine behind
How It All Works
. Wraps
also like to fuck men who might dump them. An example: I was banging a stunning model called Lucy. I banged her for the last time in the Townhouse toilets. She said something I didn’t like,
so I left her sitting at the table waiting for her next cocktail. That earned me One-Offs from two Wraps who were sitting at the bar and saw what I did.

Women say they want men with morals. What they really want are men with status. The more Wraps a man dumps, the more status he gets and, the more status he gets, the more Wraps want him. I call
it the
Wheel That Makes the World Go Round.

There is, of course, the problem of boredom. A cunt is a cunt and the thousandth is no different from the first. This is where a good imagination helps. The Mind is its own place and can make a
Whore of a Virgin, a Virgin of a Whore. I can shag anything because my Mind makes Wraps into whatever I want them to be. It keeps my cock going when my soul is dying. I said to Maynard once:

—Sometimes I feel as if I’m really shagging myself.

One final thing I notice is that Wraps like strong men, men who will protect them, and I always look after my Wraps. I may fuck and leave them but if any bloke hassles them, I break his fucking
legs. Here’s the proof: I was with an Occasional and a One-Off in the Sanderson Hotel when a guy smacked one of them so hard on her arse she yelped. I broke a snooker cue on his back and
knocked him unconscious with a bar stool. They both became Regulars.

More proof: I was walking past the entrance to the London Palladium when I saw a man threatening a Wrap I assumed was his girlfriend. I grabbed him by his shirt, lifted him up against the wall
and said:

—If you want to act like a cunt, do it with me.

By the time I let him down, he decided he no longer wanted to act like a cunt and I banged his girlfriend in the toilets at Liberty’s.

Selling the idea of getting your cock sucked is no different from selling vans. If you can do one, you can do the other. And I am the best at both. Here’s an example: Terry was standing at
the bar in The Office next to two Wraps. He said, ‘Do you want a drink, girls?’ They said, ‘No.’ I pushed past him, looked into their souls with my craziest coke-eyes and
said: ‘Vodka or champagne?’ They said: ‘Champagne.’ I banged them both in the toilets after the second glass. Wraps, like any good customers, like to be told what to do. It
makes them feel their babies will one day be in safe hands.

That’s it. No secrets.
How It All Works
is how it has always worked: Wraps exchanging pussy for pleasure and protection.

3 p.m.

My day so far: two bottles of Rioja, three chocolate martinis, four bottles of Stella, a chilled bottle of Beaujolais, nine vodka tonics, a gram of coke, three hundred
press-ups, a circuit at the gym, a seven-mile run and a sachet of Kamagra.

This is how my night goes:

9 p.m.

I’m not due at The Club for another hour, so I’m making great use of my time tying Suzie to my bed with her stockings. I’ve been pounding her for the last hour
and she’s been begging me to tie her up. I am, like all honest people, politically incorrect to my core. It’s in a woman’s nature to want to
submit
to a man, to crave a
power greater than she feels herself to be, and there isn’t a man on the face of the earth who doesn’t want to feel a sexy bird swinging on the end of his cock or gasping at the size of
his bank balance, screaming, ‘Yes, Boss, anything you want, Boss.’ Any bird who stays faithful to a weak man ‘for the kids’ then ‘for the grandkids’ then
‘because it’s the kind of woman I have become’, will never find out how good it is to be well and truly fucked. She will, like all women, spend her nights dreaming about a Big
Bang as she waits patiently for a bitter menopause.

Suzie is nineteen, five feet nothing, a mass of blonde hair, and begging for a butt plug.

—Tie me! Fuck me!

I’ve got her all trussed up when my phone rings. It’s Rik. I can’t remember what happened next.

9:45 p.m.

I must have left the flat because some Wrap whose name I don’t know and who I’ve never met before is sucking my cock in the toilets at Little Italy. My phone rings
again.
Unknown
. I fucking hate
Unknown
. If I know who it is I can choose to ignore it.
Unknown
is too open with possibility and I’m terrified of missing out.

—Yes.

—Is that Mr Townley?

‘Mr’ always means trouble. I pull my cock out of her mouth and send her out of the toilet.

—Who wants to fucking know?

—I’m a Police Officer and I am in your flat on Old Compton Street after a member of the public reported an incident.

In the future, a cell at the Police Station where this officer works will be like a second home to me and Esurio will say:

—Exposed brickwork. Off-white paintwork. Stone floor. Wrought-iron bed. Think of it like a loft conversion in Shoreditch. A bit smaller, I agree, and with a rather austere front door, but
let’s not worry about trifles!

But now it’s just a place that might stand between me and my pleasure.

The Officer says:

—I understand you left a young girl tied up in your flat in Old Compton Street. Is that correct?

I hesitate. I need a drink. I need more coke. Then I say in an outburst of reckless honesty:

—Fuck! I forgot about Suzie!

—Forgot, Mr Townley? I think that’s hardly credible.

Common sense would say that the officer is correct. It is highly unlikely that a man would forget he has a girl tied to his bed. Then, most things about my life are unlikely, including my
shocking and deteriorating memory. In a brief, sober moment some days later, with the help of a police caution, I piece together what happened:

My phone rings.

It’s Rik.

I don’t answer it.

I forget the call.

Then I remember the call.

And the Bankers’ Party.

I remember answering the call.

Which technically I didn’t.

I stuffed the phone in Suzie’s pussy when it rang.

She squeezed and answered it.

I think I’ve spoken to Rik.

Rik thinks I’ve dropped the phone in water and ends the call.

Rik says: Stupid cunt!

I think: I must go the Bankers’ Party

I feel hungry.

I say: I must go to the kitchen.

I forget why I’m in the kitchen.

I remember I must go to The Club.

I get as far as Little Italy.

I forget why I’m there.

I remember Suzie.

I think: She’s a great Wrap. Wouldn’t mind seeing her again.

Suzie wonders where I am.

I wonder what Suzie is doing right now.

I see a Wrap.

I tell the Wrap: I want you to suck my cock.

She says: OK.

Suzie shouts: Help me! Help me!

My bedroom window is open.

A nice man hears her.

The nice man has two things you never see in Soho: a sober mind and a conscience.

I’m getting a shit blow-job in the toilets.

The nice man calls the police.

The police arrive.

They bash the wrong door down.

Then they bash the right door down and find Suzie.

The officer says: Are you all right?

Suzie says: Lincoln forgot about me. He gets forgetful sometimes. He’s older than me.

I snort a line off the Wrap’s head.

My phone rings.

I see good, inaccessible coke in the Wrap’s hair.

I get angry.

It’s the officer telling me he’s found Suzie.

The next day I pay £125 for a new door. That pisses me off. I have a drink. Then a line. Then I feel pretty good about it all.

The new door is knotty pine.

I like knotty pine.

Esurio has been reading Tony Robbins. He thinks it’s good for me to know these things. He says:

—It’s not what you do, Lincoln. It’s what you
learn
from it.

—Oh, fuck off. What can I learn from all this shit?

—How to do it better next time, Lincoln. It’s all about personal development, Lincoln, personal development.

11 p.m.

Somehow I get to the Bankers’ Party.

I can barely stand.

I think I’m standing tall as a Giant Redwood.

I almost fall over.

I’m pleased with how in control I look.

In between benders I’ve made many calls and The Club is full of bankers. The Boss is happy. Rik comes up to me and says:

—Great party, Linc. Can you get me eight girls in the booth?

I call the Floor Manager over. He sends eight Wraps into the booth with Rik, Steve and a couple of other Bankers I don’t know. I hate not knowing Bankers. No one wastes more on Wraps than
Bankers. I walk over to the booth and give them my card. They give me theirs.

On the main stage, three girls are dancing. Esurio is lying on the floor of the stage looking up in-between their legs. As they slide up and down the poles, he blows air up at their pussies. The
Wraps look down to see where the air is coming from and one of them puts a stiletto straight through Esurio’s forehead. I wince. Esurio smiles. The girls look puzzled and enjoy the air.

The Boss has a rule:
Never ask a girl to dance for you when you’re in The Club. The girls are for the punters, not for you. Especially you, Lincoln
.

I don’t like that rule, so I ignore it. One of the girls is stunning. When they have finished dancing, I ask her for a private dance in a booth next to the stage. As she spreads her legs I
want to take my cock out.

The Boss has another rule:
Arms must be outstretched while the girls dance. Touching the girls is strictly forbidden and will result in immediate ejection from The Club. Especially you,
Lincoln.

I don’t like that rule either. There are cameras in every booth. I scan the top of the booth until I find the one in mine. I turn and Esurio is beside me. He takes the handkerchief out of
my jacket pocket and covers the camera:

—Now you can do what you want with her, Lincoln, anything you want . . .

A few minutes later I’m standing at the bar talking to a Director of Consumer Affairs of one of the great British banks when I see Esurio tapping his jacket pocket and frowning. I try to
ignore him. He gets even more agitated. I continue to ignore him until he strides up to the bar. He is furious.

—You’re a disgrace, Lincoln!

—What the fuck are you talking about?

—This, Lincoln! This!

He stretches his hand out and prods my jacket pocket. I hate being prodded. I want to headbutt him. He doesn’t care. Elegance matters more to him than personal safety.

—Your handkerchief, Lincoln, where is your handkerchief?

I look down. Fuck! I left it in the booth. He keeps going at me:

—How many times have I told you, in our line of work appearance is everything? You may be a wreck on the inside but it’s the outside that matters, Lincoln, the outside. It’s
the outside that people believe in and, quite frankly, I’d be ashamed to be seen with you without a handkerchief. You have no pride. You might as well be naked.

In the early days, Esurio didn’t even trust me to go shopping.

—You don’t sell vans anymore, Lincoln. You’re a
bon viveur
and you’ve got to look the part.

Once he knew he was going to be a big part of my life, he wrote this on a sheet of A4 and taped it to my bedroom door:

Despite the fact that Esurio is a smug cunt and treats me like a fucking five-year-old, his Principles do the job, and I always get a better night’s banging if at least a part of my day is
spent before a mirror. It’s not just the clothes. My grooming habits have become legendary in Soho. I go to a spa every week and I shave my chest at least once a fortnight. I wear designer
perfumes, have chemical peels every month and dye my hair with particular care taken over the colour and density of my eyebrows. I have become obsessive about finding and plucking tiny hairs from
pretty much every orifice, especially my nose and ears, and I’ve developed a habit of bending over, facing away from the mirror, and shaving every hair that dares to grow around my arse. I
often blame Esurio for this, especially when the clippers catch a haemorrhoid, but the real cause is my compulsion to feed on Wraps: a hunger for pounding young pussy and an obsession with removing
unwanted body hair go hand in hand.