Twisted (10 page)

H.

The memories of last night fragmentally begin to come back. His greedy lips … his strong and wide shoulders … his attentive and demanding hands … his swollen and pulsating …

Hmmm Harvey, Harvey … you are not just a good lover but a gentleman too … I wish you had it all but your bloody girlfriend!

It is Monday. The shift is quiet – no more than we expect it to be. In the first hour, there are no customers at all, then one or two useless Coca-Cola regulars arrive. As always, they just sip the virulent brown liquid and stare at the big screen’s perverted porn. The girls and I kill the first two hours chatting. As we cover all the latest news that is travelling around the cabarets, some juicy gossip from around the world, and even the current weather conditions in Ukraine and Russia and how they are influencing the wheat crop, Death shows up.

The procedure of his visit remains the same; he hobbles to the bar table, where the barman enthusiastically greets him and pours his usual soda.

Of course he greets enthusiastically – it’s not his job to go with the oldie upstairs! His job is the easy one – just opening the fucking bottle. God, I hate them all!

A few minutes later, the manager comes out of his office and they start their casual chit-chat, which all the girls know will end up with the manager recommending one of the girls and Death choosing his next victim.

We also all know that there is only one person in this place who is not aware of what is happening, and it is a new girl. A moment later, the manager calls her and the three of them go upstairs.

All the girls including me sigh with relief, and go on with our usual talk about how the new girl is going to take her baptism of fire, and how nice it would be if Death kicked the bucket and went in peace forever. And if he did, and it happened while he was upstairs, would the police close down the cabaret and investigate? For how many days would it stay closed?

Our ‘innocent’ conversation doesn’t last for long. Ten minutes later the new girl, covered with tears and snot, runs down the stairs straight to the bathroom. The manager comes down too, looks around and waves to me, indicating that I have to take up the new girl’s duties.

Oh, crap!

On the way up, I keep wondering which is worse: to go there for the first time and learn, one by one, each of the disgusting things that will happen, or to go there as I am, fully aware of what is about to come next.

In the middle of my dilemma I enter the private room. This time, for some reason, the manager has taken him to the VIP
séparé
that has a shower in it and a free-standing leather couch right in the centre of the room. Death is sitting on the couch, already naked but observing proprieties by being covered with his white undershirt. There is a striking indignation and dissatisfaction on his face.

You old bastard, you actually think someone could enjoy this?

I join him on the couch. Deeply and morbidly I breathe in, thinking to myself that if I’ve done it once I can do it again. I breathe out, smile and come out with, ‘Hey sexy! What’s up?’

You know what happens for the next hour; I am sure you don’t need a reminder, and I am trying hard to think about these moments as little as possible.

As soon as we finish, I pick him up from the couch to help him to get dressed. He is so weak that he loses his balance and leans against the couch, which is fucking free-standing! The leather seat slides away and Death falls onto the floor. I try to pick him up, but can’t. There is nothing in the room that we can use as a point of support except the walls, which are not an option because Death is stretched out right in the middle of the room. I rush to the door to call somebody to help, but grandpa stops me. He explains that he doesn’t want anybody to see him naked and helpless on the floor. I nod, go back to him, and before trying to get him back on his feet, take off my killer 21 cm heels.

Smart girl! What can I say …

After a few more attempts, I finally pull him back onto the couch. We catch our breath and then dress. Before leaving, Death shoves a €50 note into my hand with the words, ‘You are a good girl, Julia.’ I take the money, say thanks and wish never to see this man again, even if it means that he has to give up the ghost for it.

The next day, the shift is even worse. Normally trade picks up towards the weekend, but not this week. I am glad that at least I made a bottle yesterday, because it looks like for most of the girls, it will be a second day in a row with zero.

Just before the end of the shift, I manage to convince one weirdo to buy me a
demi-bouteille
for a hand-job in a semi-private lounge. As soon as we get comfortable and the barman opens the bottle, I reach to open the zip of his pants, but he stops me, turns my face to his and passionately asks, ‘Kiss me first, please.’

The case is well dressed, about fifty years old, not too ugly or repulsive. But there is a strange – I would even say maniacal – shade in his eyes.

I answer ‘Sure,’ and let him kiss me on the lips.

Here we go again! What’s wrong with all these men?

Once again, he just sticks his wet and slimy tongue down my throat and forces it around, trying to get as deep as possible for a couple of minutes.

How someone can even call that a kiss? Yuck!

Then he pushes me away, holding my shoulders firmly, and says, ‘Please come with me tonight. I will pay you €300 for the night.’

Oh my fuck! Another nutcase …

There is no way I am going out with him – especially since I already have four regulars. They are my constant income from my out-of-the-club activities that keep me quite busy …

One of them is a Jewish lawyer whose abnormality is his absolute normality. He is not an attractive or a generous man at all, but he loves good food, treats me with respect and his knowledge of sex doesn’t reach beyond the missionary position. Another one is from Belgium. This guy loves to go to restaurants and guzzle like it is the last day of his life. He always jokes loudly about sex and how good he is at it, despite having an extra-small dick that is generously shaded by his big belly, making him the perfect candidate for the Dickie Do Award 4XL T-shirt. On top of this, he laughs pathetically every time he ejaculates. Then there is a German guy, one of the most normal men I’ve met in Luxembourg: a good fuck, but absolutely unemotional. And another regular is a Portuguese guy. A nice fellow, but with some shortcomings as well – he comes too quickly. I feel sorry for him and always try to move more slowly and less intensely, making sure that the intercourse and his pleasure lasts longer, but our record is 4 minutes and 10 seconds from the moment I unzip his pants.

In other words, I definitely have enough of a bizarre clientele in my after-work life!

I am free as a bird tonight, seeing none of my regulars, but I shake my head and say, ‘Can’t do it, I am busy tonight.’

The nutcase takes my hands in his and passionately responds, ‘Please, Julia, I will give you €500! Please come with me tonight!’

Seriously … how can I say no to €500! So what if he is a creep?

At the end of my shift, my new case is waiting for me in a cab. As soon as I jump in, he tells the driver his address and we leave.

It is close to 11 p.m. already and in the darkness, I don’t follow where we are going. The area we arrive at looks decent; he stays on the third floor of the four-storey apartment building. It all seems good until we walk into his place. It is a studio stuffed with rubbish and old junk. It is so cluttered that there is no space even to sit on his only couch. The smell inside is so intense: a mixture of naphthalene, dirt and staleness. Screw the money – I will not be able to spend the night in here.

I quickly look at my phone, fake concern on my face, apologise and explain that for some unforeseen reason I can’t stay the whole night, and that if he wants to, we can do a quickie for half the price and then I have to leave.

He looks upset, but nods with understanding and offers me a glass of wine in the meantime.

I agree that this is a great idea. As soon as we clink our glasses, I drain mine. The alcohol relaxes me right away, but some time later I start feeling heaviness and drowsiness too.

I wake up in the morning, naked in his bed, covered with smelly and dirty sheets. The bastard must have drugged me. I quickly get out of the bed, still feeling dizzy, and find my clothes hanging on the chair. While I am hurriedly dressing, I try to remember what happened last night and think what I’m going to do next.

The sound of the toilet flushing frightens me. I turn towards the bathroom and there he is, standing in his boxers and socks. The pathetic motherfucker smiles at me as if nothing had happened, and serenely says, ‘Good morning, beautiful. Would you like some coffee?’

The sound of his absorbing voice sparks some memories of last night: him taking me to the bed, me still sluggishly objecting, but already unable to move my hands. I remember him kissing, grabbing and fucking me dazed and unconscious, and how he kept repeating maniacally, ‘I know you love me, I know you do …’

The vivid recollection punches through me like an electric shock.

I don’t even put my shoes on, just grab them with my bag and back up towards the door.

As soon as I touch the handle of the door, I freak out, ‘Where is my money? You haven’t paid me, you sick bastard!’

The look in his eyes changes from dull-innocent to reptilian-mean, but his voice stays the same.

‘Sorry, beautiful, but I don’t have the money. Come, have some coffee with me, my love.’

I storm out of that place, down the stairs to the street, and run until I see a cab that is driving past. I wave to stop it, climb in, tell the driver the address of the club and then just start crying …

My anger and resentment for the dickhead as well as for myself rend me into pieces. I can’t stop my tears, even when the cab driver starts giving me discontented looks in the mirror. No matter how much I hate the prick, I know it’s my fault. I dragged myself into this situation …

I decide not to tell anybody. I am too ashamed to talk about it. I have to try to forget it. It never happened to me.

It is the end of another working shift. I had very satisfying trading – went upstairs twice, plus a few
piccolos
at the bar – so I’m slightly smashed. Besides, I sniffed some in the toilet with Margo, the only girl I have something in common with, of all the girls on the day shift. We are quite spaced out and are having a jolly chat at the bar when this guy walks in.

Margo recognises him on the spot, but oddly turns away and starts looking attentively at her nails, pretending that she hasn’t noticed him. I point the man out with my eyebrows and nudge her with my elbow, asking if she is going to work. In response, without taking her gaze off her hand, she snaps ‘I don’t feel like working; he is yours.’ The fermentation never makes me extra suspicious, but the enigma of why Margo, who hasn’t made any money today, gives up the opportunity so easily, does not bother me at all. Plus the buzz is great. Without any hesitation I jump off the bar stool and slide towards the man.

He is a droll character: short, plumpish, with a James Bond attitude. His pants, jacket, and even his cowboy hat are made of black leather.

I wonder how many poor animals had to die for him to dress today.

He really looks funny, and it takes an effort not to show the amusement on my face. Instead I put my oh-you-are-so-cool-and-sexy look on, and whisper a seductive hello. He looks at me without any enthusiasm, then turns back to his gin and tonic without acknowledging me.

Normally this type of attitude drives me mad. I start to freak out, and most times just leave the rude bastard – but because my successful day has kicked my mood up, I decide to try again. I draw very close, pressing my body against his shoulder, then slowly but firmly grab his bull neck while tickling it with my nails, and whisper in his ear, ‘You wanna fuck?’

He turns to me again. I pierce him with my signature smoky come-to-bed look and add a come-hither-I-am-so-horny smile.

The left corner of his mouth curves, indicating a smile. He looks me over, as if I am a sweatshirt he is about to buy in the shop, and says, ‘Okay. You asked for it,’ before rushing towards the stairs.

That was an easy one. Margo would kick herself if she knew how quickly I arranged my third bottle.

The rest is supposed to be a piece of cake: quickly screw the cowboy and fuck off home, maybe even go to celebrate my highly fertile shift with a few hits in a nightclub.

When the champagne is served and the
garçon
leaves, the rolypoly unbuttons his jacket, pulls some stuff out of the inner pockets and places it on the table. The stuff includes metal serrated and chained nipple clips, a few rubbers, a tube of anal lubricant and a bottle of poppers
¹²
.

I swallow a glass of bubbly and sigh. Even though I am heavily intoxicated, it is not difficult for me to imagine the full version of what is about to happen if my
vaquero
is going to use all these items on me. Especially considering that I am an anal virgin, and that just the idea of somebody sticking something up my ass seriously freaks me out. And my nipples, although they have a boyish look, are quite sensitive.

What can I say? It looks like I am in deep shit again.

He looks at me with a smile, as if he reads my mind: ‘Those are for me, but if you want to try them, you are welcome.’ I also smile – with relief – and mumble, ‘No thank you.’

He liberates himself from his tiring outfit and throws my dress down to the floor. For some time we just kiss while he squeezes my thighs and digs my slit with his fingers. I palm his dick and rub it down, but it is still soft.

He attaches the clips to his nipples, picks up the poppers and makes himself comfortable lying on his right side, leaning on the armrest, with his legs spread wide. He grips the back of my neck, presses my face to his hips, and sniffs from the little bottle. His body reacts immediately and his cock swells and stiffens in my mouth.