Sex Clubs

It didn't seem to matter how often he thought about it, John could never get his head around how he happened into this business. There is an old adage that most people have a fixed mental age that stays with them, forming the core of their self image, no matter how old they may be chronologically. So some twenty year olds have the souls of sixty year olds and vice versa. Maybe enlightened mystics like Buddha avoid the fate, but if you're not a fat Indian under a tree you are probably vaguely stuck with how you think of yourself.

In John´s head he was always twenty eight. His body frequently reminded him that this was far from the case, but inside his head he was still the same person that had been taught by the British army to do all the things that a crazy and crazily athletic young man can do on land and sea. And off he gone to do them in pretty much every shit hole and hell hole that the world had to offer in the nineteen eighties and nineties – Northern Ireland, Afghanistan, Iraq, the Falkland islands, Chile, Colombia, Bolivia, most of west and east Africa, Malaysia – although he had almost never officially been in any of them. According to his passport he had never even left the country until he left government service.

The transition from dodgy, dangerous and deniable government employment into his current line of work seemed to make some strange kind of organic sense at the time, but looking back on it in the cold light of day (well, the warm light of a Spanish evening actually) it seemed like a strange trip from pseudo spook to bodyguard to business manager and joint owner of the largest network of sex related businesses in Europe. Yeah, that is exactly the kind of logical career path that most people follow.


On this particular evening he found himself overseeing the preparation for the largest party for high end international swingers Marbella had ever hosted. And he couldn't care less. It was just another day in the office.  

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