My (surprisingly) decent proposal

‘Like being chained to a lunatic.’ That’s how a man feels in relation to his libido. And the lunatic latches on to anything, irrationally, and without warning. In Cambridge recently I dropped into a lecture given by a beautiful historian, Lea Ypi, from Albania, whose discourse included this observation about revolutionaries: ‘Once they attain power they lose all interest in revolution.’ Good point. Her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders absorbed far more of my attention than her political reflections and I was desperate to speak to her afterwards, but I had no way to orchestrate a meeting.

Instead, I headed for the rougher end of Cambridge, near the railway terminus, where the misfits and outcasts gather. I’d already arranged a social rendezvous at a private business location. Here’s how it works. You hand over a roll of banknotes to a concierge at a desk who ushers you into a softly lit room where your companion awaits you. Mine was petite, black-haired and buxom. ‘Shea,’ she called herself. She looked Chinese rather than Irish but you never know these days so I asked her which part of Ireland she came from. ‘Shanghai,’ she told me. I lay naked on the couch and she rubbed hot wax into my shoulders (a ritual that gives these assignations an air of medical respectability). A moment later she ordered me to flip on to my back as she dimmed the lights and raised one eyebrow at me suggestively. This was the cue for negotiations.

The money at the desk stays at the desk and Shea makes a separate deal with the client. Her opening bid was the same as the cost of my overnight hotel so I made a lower offer. Twenty pounds less.