“I’ve found someone who will come to the house and cut my hair… plus I think I can fiddle with his cock while he does it,” was the greeting that welcomed me home as I walked in the door.
It turns out that my partner had been chatting to a Turkish barber on Grindr who offers home visits.
While it is not officially permitted, it is not uncommon for guys to sell their services on Grindr, but it tends to be more trade than tradesmen. You will frequently be spammed by escorts, sex parties and only-fans sites, but I have occasionally been approached by decorators, electricians, gardeners and once a plasterer from Bilston, who we did consider hiring, as we needed the chimneybreast skimming, but I accidently deleted his details during an overzealous purge of Grindr messages.
This offer of a haircut could not have come at a better time, as my partner was long overdue one. He is thinning on top, so when his hair gets too long, the sides tend to stick out, giving him a look that he has christened ‘Clown-head’ and puts me in mind of a mad scientist. He had spent the past fortnight looking like he was on the cusp of cracking the secret of alchemy or converting a DeLorean into a time machine.
“I’m not sure about the whole set up though,” my partner said, fretting about the impending house call.
We debated whether the fact that money was exchanging hands made this lad a sex worker?
“He is only charging ten pounds more than you would pay at the barbers and you have the convenience of him coming to the house,” I offered. “The extra tenner just covers his taxi, surely? It’s a good price for a haircut and you might get some action too, although I would be cautious about groping someone while they are holding a pair of scissors in their hand,” I warned. “You don’t want to startle him at a tricky moment and end up looking like Van Gogh.”
We decided that he was a hairstylist with optional extras, little different from visiting a salon and being offered refreshments or a free nasal wax.
“I think he is just a horny lad,” my partner decided, “with a unique technique for meeting guys.”
I have myself been approached to offer extras for cash on a few occasions… but coyishly declined.
One time, I was stood at the urinal in the now defunct toilets under the McDonald’s ramp (don’t judge me), when a grubby old man sidled up, pushed a crumbled £20 note in my direction and muttered, “Blow job, blow job.”
I gave him a disdainful look, zipped up and left, but he wasn’t going to give up easily and followed me out.
So began a cat and mouse pursuit through Birmingham city centre. Everywhere I went, he followed. If I paused to look in a shop window or walked into a store, he would sneak up on me and repeat his lewd demand.
I suppose I could have just made a run for it and lost him in the crowds, but I had a better idea. I led him a merry dance down New Street and into the Pavilions shopping centre, occasionally slowing my pace to allow him to catch up.
I rode the escalators up to the top floor of the mall, turning to check that he was still on my tail, and walked into Marks & Spencer. I found a particularly busy department, where I stopped and feigned interest in a rack of clothing.
Inevitably, the creepy guy sidled up to me and again whispered, “Blow job, blow job.”
I turned on him and at the top of my voice bellowed, “I AM NOT GOING TO SUCK YOU OFF IN MARKS AND SPENCERS!!!”, shocking my dogged pursuer and the gaggle of prim women of a certain age, who were perusing M&S fashions in our immediate vicinity.
The guy turned grey and scuttled out of the store as fast as he could.
I gave the slack jawed customer closest to me my sweetest smile and departed, with my head held high.
I had been inspired by the example of a friend whom, when she was groped on the London tube, immediately grasped the offender’s hand, thrust it into the air and shouted, “Whose grubby little hand is this?!”
Her handsy admirer had also made a hasty exit, jumping off at the next stop.
Back with the mobile barber, my partner had finally set up an appointment, after several failed attempts.
“Well, I hope I have a sexual encounter this afternoon,” he told me in desperation, as I left for work that morning, “or, at the very least, a haircut.”
Apparently, it was all a little chaste when the barber did finally show up.
He set up in the kitchen, unpacked the tools of his trade and set to work, awkwardly engaging in the usual barber banter about holidays and the like in his limited English.
“You know, you have thick hair on the sides,” he said. “You could grow it to cover the thinning on top.”
“What and look like Donald Trump?!”
He started to giggle, then out of the blue, he asked, “So, are you a top or a bottom? I am bi myself.”
He presumably meant ‘versatile’, but my partner didn’t like to correct him, besides he found it endearing (but why they had left it to this stage to establish the basics, I have no idea?).
After the haircut was finished, the lad swept up then stepped into the lounge and politely commented on how much he liked the décor, then directly asked, “Are you going to suck my cock or not?”
“The sweetest thing about him was how shy he was,” my partner told me when he relayed the encounter that evening. “I might get my hair cut again next week.”
Glancing at my own unkempt lockdown locks in the mirror, I commented, “I could do with a cut myself. Do you think he would offer a ‘blow and go’ two for one discount?”
That special offer never happened, but I did look at my partner yesterday and commented, “You need a blowjob.”
“I’m sorry?” He responded, indignantly.
I smirked, “Have you seen the state of your hair?”
Something for the weekend, Sir?