The Last Werewolf Read Online Free PDF

within the first minute of our encounter. I had oral, vaginal and anal sex with her (in that order; I repeat, I’m not a misogynist) over a period of six hours (£3,600) then we went shopping at Borough Market and had breakfast overlooking the Thames. Crossing the Hungerford bridge we held hands and the wind lifted her dark hair and she turned her face up to mine for the inevitable kiss with already languorous knowledge of what was possible between us and I liked her enormously and she said, This is going to be trouble, isn’t it? So I called the agency after putting her in a cab on the Embankment and told them never to send her to me again.
    Why then, if they’re so likeable, rely on prostitutes? Why not trawl theranks of lady neo-Nazis or the register of paedophile mums? There’s a deep reason and a shallow one. The deep reason I’ll get to, by and by. The shallow one you can have now: In short, because nonprostitutes require reciprocal desire. I’m not an ugly man (or werewolf either, judging by some of the pug-faced lollopers I’ve seen in Harley’s sneaked WOCOP files) but I’m a long way from taking any woman’s attraction for granted. I can’t hang around waiting for someone who fancies me. It’s time-consuming. It’s labour intensive. Therefore professional escorts, for whom, like therapists and mercenaries (and in happy contradiction of Lennon and McCartney), all you need is cash.
    Madeline, white-skinned, green-eyed, with straightened blond hair, a short upper body and alert, pop-kittenish breasts, is self-congratulatory, vain, materialistic, brimming with tabloid axioms and fluent in cliché. She’s been there done that, bought the T-shirt. She goes ballistic. She gets paralytic. She wants the organ-grinder not his monkey. She wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Amis’s mouldering novelties are her lingua franca. Her telephone farewell is mm
baah
. This more than her spiritual deficits has kept my dislike going, but it can’t last forever. A month in I can see the confused child in there, the gaping holes and wrong bulges in the long-ago fabric of love. There was a Doting and borderline Dodgy Dad, a fading and viciously Jealous Mum. This is the drag of having lived so long and seen so many: Biography shows through, all the mitigating antecedents. People teem with their own information and I start to get the headache of interest in them. Which is pointless, since when you get right down to it they’re first and foremost
food
.
    She was waiting for me in the Zetter’s deluxe rooftop studio suite, albeit with a look of having just freshened-up from a quickie—moonlighted on my dollar since I’d booked her for the whole night. “Hiya,” she said, raising her glass, muting the TV, summoning the feline glitter.
Extreme Cosmetic Surgery
was on. A woman was having fat from her abdomen removed and stuffed into her buttocks.
    “Feel that,” I said, extending my frozen hand. “Shall I put that on you somewhere?” Madeline’s hand, French-manicured, was warm, lotioned and in even its moist fingerprints promissory of transactional sex.
    “Only if you like hospital food, babes,” she said. “D’you want champagne? Or something from the minibar?”
    “Not yet. I’m going to wash the world off. You watch the rest of this. Order whatever you want.”
    Brutally thawed after three minutes in the shower I stood letting the hot jets hammer wolf dregs from my shoulders. Habit had me mentally busy with disappearance strategies and WOCOP blind spots (the Middle East, Democratic Republic of Congo, Sudan, Zimbabwe, all the fun destinations), Swiss bank account numbers, timer-equipped holding cells, fake passports, weapons caches, bent hauliers—but underneath it all was something like my own voice saying: This is what you wanted. Stop. Be at peace.
Let it come down
.
    Not that I could hold either line for long. It had been ten days since I’d fucked Madeline. Ten days takes my kind to the edge. On