Disgust
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It was with nothing but disgust that Susan regarded the musicians whose 
subtle and accomplished performance was so enrapturing most of the 
other guests. Susan was conscious that she was a fraud in so many ways 
and her presence at the recital a sham. It was the music she should be 
appreciating rather than the musicians. She should be somehow 
transported to the higher plane that Franz Schubert had prepared for 
listeners to his String Quartet No. 14 in D minor: otherwise known 
as Death and the Maiden. Instead, her thoughts were chiefly focused on 
the huge bald spot in the middle of the cellist's pate. On the fringe and 
at the back his brown hair was abundant, but in the midst of this 
luxuriance was an obscene expanse of pink baldness His head was 
bowed while he scraped his bow back and forth across the cello's 
strings, and all Susan could concentrate on was this naked excrescence 
that was in such total contrast to the lank long hair that flowed around 
the tonsure and over his shoulders.
      All four musicians in the string ensemble were equally as 
disgusting to behold in one way or another. The man playing the viola 
was so fat that it was only by a miracle that the buttons of his white shirt 
dammed in a bloated discharge of pink belly that would otherwise 
overflow onto his lap. With every backward thrust of his bow, a hairy 
jelly-like engorgement extruded from between the straining buttons. The 
first violin was played by a man who had one eye at least an inch below 
the other and such an apology for a beard that it could only be excused 
insofar as it obscured his receding chin.
      And as for the other violinist-the only woman in the quartet-
however unprepossessing her musical colleagues might be, could even 
they stomach the horror of ever having to fuck her? From her scrawny 
neck to her swollen ankles, the entire length of her body was shapeless 
and plain. Her skin was pale and blotchy. Her greying hair was tied back 
in a severe bow. And, only partly obscured by the frame of her 
unfashionable glasses, her left cheek was overshadowed by a 
nauseatingly prominent brown mole. Fuck! Susan was sure she could 
see three long sprouting strands of black hair. Couldn't the woman have 
at least plucked them out before she ventured into a public space?
      The musicians were clearly in some kind of rapture as they 
scraped their bows back and forth. Their bodies were so tense and 
energetic that they each resembled some kind of large insect as their 
arms jerked backwards and forwards. Perhaps the music was good. 
Maybe it was the greatest music that had ever been performed-Susan 
was in no way qualified to pass judgment-but while she remained 
transfixed by the sheer ugliness and ungainliness of the musicians she 
could make no sense of the actual music at all: whether it was Allegro, 
Andante or Scherzo. The printed sheet promised that the fourth 
movement, after which all this torture would be over, would be a Presto, 
whatever that was. She hoped it would sort of invoke a sense of magic, 
like 'Hey Presto!', or even a bit of excitement, but all the lurching about 
from one almost-a-tune to another only made her suffering the worse.
      The musicians weren't the only plug ugly people in the outsized 
music room. The private performance of the Aspettare String Quartet's 
recital was for the benefit and pleasure of guests hand-picked and 
invited by none other than Sir Kenneth Chandler: knight of the realm, 
patron of the arts and private philanderer. To Susan's eyes almost 
everyone in the audience was grotesque, with the exception of those 
younger women who were there for much the same reason as she was. 
How was it possible for so much of God's creation to be so unhealthy, 
unwholesome and seemingly in-bred? In fact, if evidence was ever 
needed that God, if He existed, was either far from omnipotent or just 
playing a cruel and elaborate joke, then this could be confirmed by a 
scan of the corpulent, sallow-skinned, aging or misshapen men and 
women all sitting stock still in one of Sir Kenneth's more opulent 
chambers and at least pretending to listen intently to the Aspettare 
String Quartet.
      Susan was familiar with most of Sir Kenneth's chambers, from 
the billiard room to the library, from the private cinema to the indoor 
swimming pool, and from the vast kitchen to the opulent bed chambers. 
And it was in this last room that Susan, and a few other of her 
colleagues and acquaintances, became most familiar with the most 
grotesque and least appealing aspects of Sir Kenneth and his many 
friends and associates. Sir Kenneth's naked body exhibited a blend of 
the scrawniness of middle age and the corpulence of good-living. But at 
least he was a man whose stomach didn't obscure or even flop over the 
proof of his manhood which he, like so many men, was so keen to flaunt 
at close proximity in Susan's face.
      Susan had seen it all before, of course. She'd seen fat ones; thin 
ones; ones with a prominent bend; ones where the balls put the penis to 
shame (although they were most often also nothing to be proud of); dark 
ones; crinkled ones; circumcised ones; and very many that were either 
far too eager to jump to attention or needed a huge amount of attention 
to coax into any kind of useful life. There was always some consolation 
for the awkward fumbling, the clumsy manhandling and the 
unreasonable demands on her body. And these most often eventually 
found their way up her nose or ingested in a ceremony more elaborate 
and often more pleasurable than the lovemaking it was intended to 
supplement.
      At long last, there was the customary uneasy halt to the 
performance where the audience looked around at one another to judge 
whether an applause was required. And this would soon break forth 
when the cue was given by a couple of firm handclaps: usually initiated 
by Sir Kenneth who himself relied on a discrete nod from his decidedly 
cultured and foul-breathed cultural curator. And then like waves 
crashing on the beach or, more often, a strong wind against the window, 
applause would break out amongst Sir Kenneth's thirty or forty guests 
and continue until Sir Kenneth judged that it was time to stand up and 
stride, still clapping appreciatively, to the dais in front of the gathered 
audience.
      Inevitably, this wasn't to be the end of the tedious cultural 
entertainment. Susan wasn't going to be let off that easily. As always, 
when Sir Kenneth congratulated a String Quartet he made a special 
request on behalf of everyone that they should perform an encore. The 
musicians would make an unconvincing show of not being prepared and 
then play the one memorable and even sometimes tuneful piece of 
music in their repertoire. Every so often, it would be a piece of music 
that even Susan recognised. Like Greensleeves or the Hamlet Cigar 
theme tune. These encores never usually lasted much more than five 
minutes, but this was usually the first time in the whole performance 
that the musicians and even some of the audience looked like they were 
genuinely enjoying themselves. Susan often wondered why these 
chamber music ensembles didn't skip the actual concert and just play a 
series of encores: seeing as it was the most enjoyable part of the 
evening. With, of course, a very real promise that it would all finally 
come to an end.
      "How did you enjoy the recital, Susan dear?" Sir Kenneth asked 
afterwards and when the far more important guests had been attended to 
and the musicians given enough evidence of the knight's knowledge and 
appreciation of culture to speak well of him in future.
      Susan couldn't say what she really thought or she might never be 
invited to such an evening's entertainment again. She would never say 
that it had been yet another excruciating hour and a half of having to 
stifle a yawn and trying not to fidget. 
      "Excellent as always, Sir Kenneth," Susan said deferentially. 
"You have such excellent taste in music."
      Susan knew exactly which buttons to press. The knight smiled 
graciously and placed a discreet but firm hand on her wrist that was as 
bare as the rest of her arm from the sleeveless shoulder to the elegant 
bracelet. 
      "I'd like you to get to know Benedict Cosgrove," Sir Kenneth 
said in a low voice. "He's the chap with the short beard and cravat 
chatting to the cellist in the corner."
      "Who is Benedict Cosgrove and what is he to you?" Susan 
asked.
      "Well, I'll leave it to you to find out more about the man 
yourself. In fact, I've never spoken to him for more than thirty seconds 
at a time. All you need to know is that he's a private investor and that I 
want him to invest some of his not inconsiderable wealth in my East 
European enterprises. Just make sure he associates an evening of high 
culture with a high degree of satisfaction that even Franz Schubert 
doesn't normally offer."
      "Schubert wasn't gay, was he?" Susan asked with some alarm.
      "I don't believe so," said Sir Kenneth. "A bit of an old romantic 
I gather. Or a young romantic really. He died when he was about the 
same age as our Mr Cosgrove. It was from typhoid I think, but if young 
Benedict were also to die young I'd rather it was from a broken heart. 
Now, if you don't mind..."
      "Of course, Sir Kenneth," said Susan as the knight wandered off 
to chat to a party of society ladies who dressed much the same as she 
did, but with rather more conspicuous expense and rather less sartorial 
success. There wasn't much even the best dress designers could do to 
add polish to such turds. Their bare arms had neither the elegant 
slenderness of her own nor a pleasing plumpness. Their necks didn't 
spring swan-like through a pearl necklace to culminate in a smooth face 
framed by a healthy head of angular-cut straight hair that almost but 
never quite brushed on the shoulders. Their faces were either thrust up 
on thick necks and squashed beneath frayed blonde-dyed hair or 
sprouted like stalks of asparagus topped with a head of hair that 
appeared to have been borrowed from someone else.
      Benedict Cosgrove, mind you, wasn't as much a crime to fashion 
and good taste as most of the corpulent, aging and mottled-skin 
gentlemen in the music room and accompanying salon, but he was 
scarcely graced with the looks of a movie star. However, as Susan 
steadily but deliberately weaved her way through the men (mostly) and 
women who greeted her stately progress, there was much she could 
already say about Mr Cosgrove. He had money. Lots of it, judging from 
the cut of his tailor-made suit and the apparent weight of his Swiss 
watch. And it was likely that he took moderate but not excessive 
exercise judging from his generally trim body and the healthy sheen of 
his lightly freckled skin.
      The best way to introduce yourself to someone to whom you've 
never actually been introduced before, Susan discovered, was to make 
your presence felt gradually rather than to break into a conversation 
presumptuously. And with so much mingling amongst guests it was a 
simple matter to walk straight up to the cellist who'd already attracted 
Mr Cosgrove's attention and shower praises on him.
      "I've rarely heard a better rendition of Schubert's Rosamunde 
Quartet," Susan declared, hoping that this wouldn't be challenged or 
that her pronunciation as recalled from earlier in the evening wasn't too 
unconvincing. "Wouldn't you agree?" she added with a meaningful 
glance at Benedict Cosgrove while she tried to determine from his 
reaction whether he was gay, self-confident or socially awkward.
      "I've never heard better," said the man, who from his inability to 
focus directly at her eyes was probably evidence that he wasn't overly 
self-confident and almost certainly not gay. In this company of 
unprepossessing women, Susan stood out as a beauty guaranteed to 
generate a spark in the eyes of all but eunuchs and the most steadfast 
homosexuals. 
      Susan now had to move for the kill. Someone else might net Mr 
Cosgrove or he might decide to quiz the cellist yet further. She slightly 
furrowed her brow. 
      "Excuse me, sir," she said directly to her target. "Haven't we 
met before somewhere? I can't recall where exactly. Was it at Covent 
Garden perhaps? Or maybe the Wigmore Hall."
      "Goodness, madam," said a clearly flustered Benedict Cosgrove. 
"I really don't remember. I doubt that it was the Wigmore. I've not been 
there for several years."
      "I do recognise you," Susan persevered. "Maybe it was at a party 
somewhere. Mr Cosgrave, isn't it?"
      "Cosgrove," the mark corrected. "Benedict Cosgrove. But you 
can call me Ben. I don't recall your name?"
      "Susan Worstenholme," said Susan using one of several 
assumed surnames. "So, Mr Cosgrove, how well do you know my 
cousin Kenneth?" 
      "I didn't know you were related, Mrs Worstenholme," said 
Benedict Cosgrove.
      "By grace of marriage only," said Susan. "But I must correct 
you, Mr Cosgrove. I'm not yet a married woman. Worstenholme is the 
surname I've had from birth. I guess I still haven't found the man whose 
surname I wish to take. Is your wife here?"
      "My wife?" said Mr Cosgrove, for a moment looking 
sufficiently startled for Susan to wonder whether there might actually be 
one. "No," he continued with his eyes trained meaningfully towards 
Susan. "I haven't found my life partner yet either."
      Careful, thought Susan. This was a fish that could only be netted 
once and then thrown away. And, in any case, there was not a single 
man associated with Sir Kenneth who could become a meaningful long 
term association. Not, that is, if she wanted to remain in his good 
favour. 
      "I'm sure that day will come soon," said Susan. "So, tell me, 
how is it that you know my cousin?"
      Susan had practiced such gambits many times before. If she 
hadn't, she could so easily stumble and then fall very badly. And then 
where would be her reputation? And it was her reputation rather than 
her birth-right or even her sexual stamina that kept her in jewels, pearls 
and designer clothes. It was her reputation for elegance and the promise 
she could deliver when required in a manner that wouldn't shame 
prospective clients that paid for her twice-weekly hairdressing 
appointments, the apartment in Lisson Grove, and an occasional coke 
habit. As an inevitable result of having been married and divorced 
several times over, Sir Kenneth had many cousins, most of them 
through marriage: But Susan was one cousin Sir Kenneth would most 
definitely deny if challenged, especially as any such consanguinity 
would have compromised the sex he'd enjoyed so many times with her.
      As Susan understood it, there were two duties she was expected 
to perform for Sir Kenneth. The first was easily dispensed with. 
      "I have absolute faith in my cousin's business concerns," she 
said when Benedict mentioned that he wasn't convinced whether the 
proffered business opportunities in Azerbaijan and Georgia were really 
such sound investments. "I've always taken his advice in such matters 
and it's been more than enough to supplement my private income. But 
as they say, you should never invest more money than you can afford to 
lose."
      "Sound advice," Benedict said, as if he'd never heard the cliché 
before. "But I would be foolish to lose money when I don't need to. Are 
these markets really performing quite as well as Sir Kenneth would have 
me believe?"
      "I'm not a businesswoman, Mr Cosgrove," said Susan. "I'm 
simply someone who's profited many times over from the good advice 
of a cousin who's always more than delivered on his promises."
      First job done. 
      Of course, Susan knew that offering a confident assessment on 
Sir Kenneth's business proposals was only likely to be successful if 
there was some kind of follow-through that would persuade Benedict 
Cosgrove that there were benefits from an association with Sir Kenneth 
that had little to do with the value of the stocks and shares he was eager 
to offload. Thankfully, this was a man in every way as predictable and 
malleable as Susan expected.
      As she expected, Benedict was currently residing in a suite in a 
five star hotel in Central London while he conducted business in the 
City. His room boasted an excellent view over the River Thames 
towards the Houses of Parliament, and if Susan was so minded, 
Benedict would be more than happy to show her an almost unparalleled 
panorama of the city. 
      Susan didn't want to admit that she'd seen many great views of 
London from the hotel rooms of many of Sir Kenneth's business 
associates and even some who'd never had the pleasure of his 
acquaintance. Furthermore, Susan had no intention of telling Benedict 
who these men were nor what they invariably revealed to her in all its 
flabby, fleshy, grotesque glory. Nor would she divulge just how little 
she enjoyed being squeezed beneath the sweaty, hairy, overweight body 
of a man who farted loudly, smelt foully and sometimes took rather too 
long to get his business over with.
      At least, when Benedict revealed his cock, not long after 
downing many more whiskeys than Susan would ever permit herself on 
a working day, it was nothing he needed to be ashamed of. It wasn't of 
porn star dimensions, for which Susan was quite grateful. On those few 
occasions when she'd sampled such delights-on a professional basis 
only-she felt that engorged mass far too deep inside her for rather 
longer than she cared for. In truth, she preferred something she could 
very easily forget. However, if only it was always so easy. Men's cocks 
were so often disgusting and when they didn't seep out urine or semen, 
Susan would rather she'd never get to find out. Thank goodness for 
prophylactics, without which Susan would never go anywhere. Not only 
did they protect you from the feel of a cock and whatever might spurt 
from the end of it, condoms disguised and even improved the very look 
and taste  of the bloody things.
      Presentation was key. Not only in bed, but in all the stages 
before. Susan had to be a convincing society heiress: if one rather more 
self-confident and liberal with her body than any you'd ever met sober. 
And after too much imbibing alcohol, snorting lines or necking pills, 
such women when young and unattached often made an unseemly virtue 
of demonstrating just how far they could go. Nonetheless, most society 
gels-whether debutantes or otherwise-however bold they were, could 
never pass muster in Susan's profession. So many of them had horsey 
laughs that matched so well their horsey faces. Many of them so took 
for granted their natural superiority over the plebs, the downtrodden 
middle-class or the servant classes, that they mistook bold 
experimentation as sufficient experience to boast about for the rest of 
their married lives. This often meant that they were able to claim they 
didn't need sexual experimentation after marriage as they'd already had 
enough of it before their father had given them away on the aisle. But 
few society women, even the young ones, had skin as smooth and 
sensuous as Susan's. Few, very few, had such a naturally beautiful face 
that didn't need to be caked with foundation and cream. And few could 
satisfy a man quite as well as Susan could.
      It wasn't that Susan actually enjoyed it very much. If she thought 
deeply about the paunchy, pot-bellied, saggy-arsed, drooling men who'd 
fucked her, she'd be frigid. Like women of an earlier century who didn't 
believe in sexual pleasure for themselves, Susan was expert in making 
the men who fucked her believe that she'd truly enjoyed every thrust, 
that she savoured the taste of their semen and that she quite enjoyed 
being fucked up the arse. And, for a tad more money and with the right 
client, Susan could pretend to enjoy rather more than was strictly 
vanilla. Even bondage and a light spanking was an available option and 
given the demand for it amongst the moneyed and privileged, one worth 
enduring on occasion.
      However, it was vital that Benedict wouldn't be left with the 
impression that Sir Kenneth's cousin was anything less than a lady-
however good a fuck she might be. So: not too much eye-contact, 
appreciably laboured reluctance to remove her clothes and a show of 
tightness in a twat that had long since gained an elasticity denied most 
society women. Fortunately, the fashion for shaven pudenda had 
become so prevalent that it no longer inspired comment except amongst 
the older and least experienced men of her acquaintance. A tattoo, 
however, was definitely out of order. It had cost her rather more to 
remove the discreet tattoo of a spiky red rose on her shoulder than it had 
been to acquire. That had been when she was younger, more naïve and 
probably still had a residual belief in true love despite the already 
considerable evidence to the contrary that the only men worth 
surrendering for love alone would never be the ones who could keep her 
in the luxury to which she'd now become accustomed. 
      And so with enough reluctance and reserve to appear more like a 
woman of good-breeding than one of easy virtue, Susan was able to 
convince Benedict that he was truly taking her to places she'd very 
rarely, if ever, been before. The two fucked on the bed, fucked on the 
floor and fucked against the window to the hotel suite that looked over 
the Houses of Parliament. Benedict fucked her vaginally and Susan 
sucked him off royally. Benedict achieved orgasm three times with a 
decent pause between each spasm, while Susan faked hers at least twice 
as many times. Susan was sure Sir Kenneth would be delighted with the 
services she'd provided his prospective investor.
      Eventually, Benedict slumped on his back exhausted in the way 
men usually were after sex while Susan took the opportunity to examine 
the man who'd just been fucking her.
      In comparison, even without his clothes, he was still much more 
presentable than most of the men Susan did business with. He wasn't 
perfect, of course. Few men were and almost no man in a comparable 
situation to Benedict's ever could be. Judging from the lines beginning 
to furrow his face and the paunch swelling over his waist, he was a bit 
older than first appearances suggested, but not excessively so. And he'd 
farted at the most inopportune moment during the fucking.
      But then Susan wasn't expecting to see him after they had 
breakfast together, which they did, of course, in the hotel suite pushed in 
on a trolley by a nervous maid who must surely have seen a naked 
woman in bed with an older man before. 
      Susan was expecting some kind of a gratuity or tip from 
Benedict. These were normally more substantial than the agreed price 
for her services. This was already quite substantial thanks to Sir 
Kenneth's generosity and the value he attached to the value of her 
services. But how to get a tip from a man who, despite everything, still 
seemed to believe that Susan was the woman she'd claimed to be?
      Thankfully, Susan knew exactly how to stage an opportunity for 
a gratuity. While Benedict was settling his bill at the hotel reception, 
Susan idled just by the tourist shop in front of a glass cabinet which 
presented a selection of jewellery and timepieces. She was less 
concerned about the quality of the items on display and more on the 
price being asked for them and the question of how easily she could sell 
them for the hard cash she really wanted.
      "What are you looking at, my dear?" said Benedict, who could 
scarcely now address her any longer as Miss Worstenholme.
      "Such a beautiful watch!" Susan said pointing at a £5,000 item 
which would surely not exceed Benedict's budget.
      "It is, isn't it?" he agreed, with barely a glance. "And it can tell 
the time as well. Would you like it, my dear?"
      "I would give anything for a watch as beautiful as that," said 
Susan.
      "No trouble," said Benedict who pulled out his American 
Express card just as Susan expected.
      As Susan watched the transaction take place, the only regret she 
now had that couldn't be washed off in the shower, was that she could 
have set the amount that Benedict Cosgrove could afford substantially 
higher.
      And, as Susan slipped on the watch on her elegant slim wrist, 
this was one thing that for the brief while she'd be wearing it wouldn't 
disgust her at all.