Heartbreaker Read Online Free PDF Page B

Humpty Dumpty, the bloke with the stomach. The Kraut comes on Thursdays. I’ve had plenty of German clients who were no trouble so I’m not being racist, but this particular German makes me wish we’d met in World War Two. Then I could have killed him legally.
    I wash up the glass Ms. Iceball used and wonder idly how she came to be raising money for a church. It’s so weird how smart, cynical Richard likes that church and the people who run its so-called Healing Centre. But then he thinks they’re curing Bridget, silly little cow, who’s been adding to her father’s stress and contributing to that bloody coronary . . .
    Okay, forget Richard, it’s time to focus on my work. Iowa Jerry has to have American condoms because he doesn’t trust the Brits to make them right, the stupid old fart. Must tell that bitch Susanne to order more. I admit I’m finicky about condoms myself, but my finickiness is based on scientific research, not xenophobic folklore. With gay sex you can’t mess around when it comes to condoms. Ignorant little boys who bust out of the closet and hit the scene so hard they bounce think regular condoms are good enough but they’re not—not if we’re talking high friction in an unforgiving environment. Only the strongest will do. Okay, so there’s more to gay fun and games than the highest-risk high jinks, but even with the other routines I don’t use just any old fun-rubbish. The condoms have to be top-quality from a top supplier. They have to be not past their sell-by date. They have to be kept away from a heat source when being stored. And water-based lubricants only, please, not oil-based stuff that can rot them. Even the strongest condoms are sensitive little plants and UK condom manufacturers have a quality control scheme to nurture them along. There’s even talk of a Pan-European standard, but that’ll never work because the French and the Italians will cheat, and meanwhile the best British condoms are as good as anything the Americans can produce even if they haven’t been water-tested and air-burst-tested and God-knows-what-else-tested by the FDA.
    I’m a condom expert because I want to survive—and don’t tell me HIV is a difficult virus to catch! I’m in the bloody front line here, and besides it’s not the only STD around, as Dr. Filth often reminds me when I go for my check-up. I’m an expert too on sexually transmitted diseases, but whenever I start to feel over-anxious I remind myself that gay sex, as practised by a professional, is probably a lot less risky than other dangerous sports such as motor-racing or hang-gliding. It’s the clients who are the problem, not the sex. You only need one nutter going out of control, but Elizabeth screens the clients carefully and I keep my judo skills up to the mark so here too the risk is reduced to a minimum. I do offer minor S&M—the fantasy kind where no skin gets broken and no one passes out—but the major stuff would be senseless to undertake. Much better for the real pervs to be served up to Asherton the Mega-Monster at his Pain-Palace in the heart of Westminster.
    I get out the extra-strength American condoms for Iowa Jerry and remember to put his chocolate bar on the bedside table. He always likes chocolate afterwards. I’m very careful to remember little touches like that. It marks me out as a top-grade leisure-worker, performing an essential social service which makes a lot of people feel much happier.
    The buzzer goes. It’s Jerry. But I’ll pretend for a few magic seconds it’s Ms. Priggy.
    Well, it’s a nice easy way to get an erection . . .
    The lunch-time shift ends at three, which means the last client reels off around two-fifty and I use the remaining minutes to clear up and prepare for the late shift which begins at four-thirty. Tomorrow it’ll take longer to clear up because of that bloody Kraut, but tomorrow’s another day.
    When I’ve finished I flop down on my living-room chair, watch an Australian soap