It’s 10pm on a Friday and I’m sat watching telly with my husband, then there’s a ping on my phone. I pick it up and roll my eyes. ‘Cheese man. Again. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Maybe less.’
My husband barely responds. He’s accustomed to Cheese Man’s antics. I clamber up to my office at the top of the house so we won’t be disturbed, pausing at the fridge to select a lump of Stilton.
If only he’d warned me I’d have gone shopping for something suitable, but when the mood strikes cheese man he won’t wait. Another ping: the money for our cheese-themed frolics has hit my account.
I call him Cheese Man, because he likes me to watch him masturbate on blocks of cheese. The first time, I overcharged him terribly (£50 for a five minute Whatsapp call), as I thought it might take him ages to cum.
I set up a book, a laptop and a glass of wine out of his eye line, so I wouldn’t get bored staring at his stiffy/cheddar combo, the thought of which I found less thrilling than he might hope. In fact, he came in about 90 seconds.
I felt bad, and thought I ought to engage him in conversation to compensate for my exorbitant fee. He enjoyed showing me pictures of the other women he’s treated to this spectacle, some of whom I knew.
Since our initial introduction, about five years ago on X, Cheese Man messages me every fortnight or so, requesting a dairy themed wankfest and paying £100 a pop.
Usually he will open with a remark such as, ‘Guess what, I bought some Stilton today’ or ‘I’m holding a lovely big lump of Duchy of Cornwall extra mature cheddar, r u busy?’
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Occasionally he’s experimented with butter, once a milk pudding, but to cheese he always returns.
Today, the video call starts on his face. He says hi, distractedly, before flipping the camera so I can see the cheese wedged between his thighs as he frantically frots against it.
He’s never explained exactly what I add to this experience. I try to think of cheese-themed remarks. ‘Mmm, look at that delicious creamy goodness! Does it smell divine? I bet it does. Look at it, glistening in the light! Are you going to add your own creamy splendour to that fine oily delight?’
I try very hard not to think what my mother would say if she heard this cheesy stream of consciousness gibberish, nor indeed of the terrible waste of good cheese.
‘Mmm, so….exciting and….delicious…’ God, how many times have I said delicious now? Sounds like he’s getting close. Thank goodness. Must be nearly time for Newsnight.
At the start of our working relationship I did ask why he liked cheese. He shrugged. It’s always been cheese, he said. Ever since I can remember. Clients seldom have an interesting explanation for their fetishes.
I think the proper term for this kink is sitophilia, where someone is aroused by situations involving food, although it’s usually known as food play.
I wonder if perhaps he had a cruel, harsh father with an artisanal fromagerie, then one day, as a horny teenager, he got an erection in the cheese store.
Probably unlikely, though. Amazing where your mind goes when you’re watching a hairy young buck enjoy himself over a hunk of Edam. I did ask once if it could be any cheese.
‘Oh no. It has to be cheddar or Edam,’ he said, rolling his eyes like I’m the weirdo.
‘What do you do with the cheese after you’ve cum?’
‘Throw it away, obviously.’
‘And do you need cheese in the room when you have sex, or…?’ He stares at me as if this question is an outrageous invasion of his privacy.
I assume he has sex, as his WhatsApp profile picture shows him with a beautiful woman and three small children.
‘Of course not. My wife might notice. I just have to think about cheese when there’s someone else with me.’
He hangs up the video chat abruptly, clearly bored of the conversation. He sends me a screen grab of my face later, watching him wank, so I guess I’ve entered the cheese cum canon.
Cheese Man hasn’t always been such a consistent client though. About three years ago, I was sitting on the loo in the House of Commons, after a dinner and debate with the European Atlantic Group, when he messaged me, requesting a cheddar-based session, with a thrilling margarine twist.
I explained where I was and said maybe later. He typed back ‘lol’, and vanished, staying quiet for two years, an extraordinary length of time, given he’d been paying me to watch him jizz on Edam for a good eighteen months at this point.
Maybe he found another woman keener to oblige. Maybe he disapproved of democracy. I’ll never know.
Eventually he returned to pester me this past Christmas, scheduling a zoom for 9pm, then asking me to send him a picture of my Christmas cheese board as foreplay. I did. Almost immediately he typed back, ‘Oh, so sorry. I’ve cum now’.
Bother. And I hadn’t even had the brains to get the money first, which is literally the only rule of sex work. Usually I’ve a rare talent for delicately extricating the cash before play begins.
We have returned to semi-regular cheesy Zooms. Often he asks me if I ‘know anyone else like him’. I must confess that I don’t have any other clients with a penchant for cheese.
I imagine since the invention of cheese 5000 years or so ago there have been cheese men though, who perhaps watched their mothers quaff a lump and developed a strange, urgent tingling.
Could be a lot worse than cheese.
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