Twisted (11 page)

Damn, this shit smells terrible.

The erection doesn’t last long; just a minute or two. As soon as his penis softens again, he picks up the lubricant and condoms from the table and goes back to his relaxed position. He orders me to go down on the floor on my knees, sniffs again and pushes his solidifying cock to the back of my throat.

A few minutes later, my kinky cowboy unpacks a condom. Instead of putting it on his penis, he grasps my hand, straightens my fingers and unrolls it over them, stretching the rubber down my wrist. Then he squeezes some lube onto the condom, draws in some more of the smelly shit and orders, ‘Put it in,’ while placing my hand at his bunghole.

Unfuckingbelievable – my horseman turns out to be headless for real!

My mind boggles for a moment but I push my hand in.
Whatever! As long as he doesn’t encroach on my ass.
When all my fingers drown inside him, he takes my hand and pushes it further, until it disappears up to my wrist.

‘Crook your fingers inside,’ he orders again with ease. I peep at him. His face is ridiculously delighted. I cannot see my hand but I visualise my long nails that will scratch him inside and shake my head. He sniffs some more and smiles. ‘Don’t worry, doll. Just do it. Make a fist.’

The rest of our hour-long session I anal-intrude him while enthusiastically sucking his cock, helping with my left hand to maintain its hardness. When eventually he comes loudly, I remove my hand. It’s covered with blood. I roll off the condom and hurriedly wipe the remains of the red stains off my hands. I fight the strong urge to vomit, quickly dress without saying a word, and rush out of the room. But I realise that I will never make it to the bathroom, come back and puke right into the champagne bucket.

* * *

The rest is a haze. The next thing I remember, I am in the middle of the club sitting on top of Margo, on the floor, kicking her and pulling her hair.

She knew. She didn’t tell me.

The night shift is already here. When I turn to dodge Margo’s attempt to slap me, I spot Natalia’s distorted face above me. It looks like she is trying to shout something at me, but no words are coming out. Like somebody has turned the volume down. All I can hear is humming noises.

Natalia is trying to drag me off Margo, but the rage makes me surprisingly strong. I brush her away while slapping and scratching my victim underneath me.

‘Jul, stop it! Jul! If I told you, he would have never taken you! This prick’s main thrill is to stun and sicken the girl!’ Margo keeps uttering but I can’t hear her either.

Unfuckingbelievable how booze so easily transforms some people from normal to angry, strong and absolutely stupid creatures ...

Apparently, we make so much noise that even the boss steps out of his office to check what’s happening. He estimates the amount of damage and calmly tells Natalia, ‘Get your fucking sister out of here or I will fire her.’ When he sees that I am totally stoned and out of control, he grabs a jug from the bar and splashes me with ice-cold water.

I freeze. Margo fizzles, removes me – setting herself free, she throws ‘Crazy bitch!’ at me and leaves the club.

Without taking his sinister eyes off me, the boss shouts, ‘Stop staring and go back to work, people.’ He turns to Natalia. ‘With all my love to you, Princess, next month this junkie is out of my club.’

The next few days I spend in bed – I call in sick and don’t show up at work. Four months of being deeply soaked in booze, stress and perverted extremes have exhausted my nerves. I haven’t been able to eat anything for three days – my memory won’t let go of the bright images of my adventure with the cowboy, which has wiped out my appetite. The only substance that enters my body is the fume of the burned cannabis plant.

Someone knocks on the door. It can’t be Masha. She went for lunch with some customer from last night
(the poor guy probably didn’t notice an Adam’s apple in the darkness of the club)
. Besides, she knows the door is not locked.

‘Go away! Nobody is home!’

I turn away from the door and pull the blanket over my head.

‘If nobody is home, who is speaking, then?’ laughs Lena and lets herself in. She walks through the dark room, flings open the curtains and continues, ‘Jul, what’s happening? Aren’t you going to Natalia’s birthday dinner?’

Crap, I completely forgot about it!

‘I don’t feel well, I can’t ...’ I mumble, burying myself even deeper under the blanket while making my voice sound sick.

Damn, why didn’t I lock the door?

Lena comes to the bed, peels the blanket off me and chatters, ‘You are definitely going to get worse if you don’t go out and get some fresh air. Look at you! Nothing but bones. You must eat something! We are doing Italian today, seems like a good place. Get up now, dress and put a smile on your face.’

I know there is only one way to keep her quiet … I pull on the sweater and jeans that are the first things to come into my hands, ignoring Lena’s telling-off that I must dress up because we are going to a restaurant. I brush my eyelashes with mascara a few times, grab a jacket.

‘I’m ready. Let’s stop at the florist first.’

I’m surprised to see Margo at the table, next to Natalia. I stop indecisively, holding the flowers. Margo smiles at me.

‘Oh, stop it, Jul. I’ve already forgotten about it. If I were in your place, I probably would have lost it too. I should have warned you anyway.’

When, finally, I find the strength to look her in the eye, I notice a few scratches on her cheek.

‘Was that me? Sorry, Margo, I didn’t mean to …’

Natalia takes my hand, and pulls me down to sit. Then she takes the flowers.

‘Thanks Jul. They are lovely.’

We order drinks, make the first toast for the birthday girl. The conversation flows and the evening is pleasant.

Natalia tells us about her idea of how to invest our money when we get back to Ukraine, reminding Lena how pointlessly they blew their earnings after their previous contract. The plan is simple – to put our money together and buy an apartment in Kiev. She has already found a flat through her friend, a realtor. The owners are chronic alcoholics, and desperately need money to pay some debts, so they are not asking for much. Her friend promises to hold it for another two months, knowing that Natalia is a cash buyer. They bargained and met at 55 grand US, a fantastic price for a three-bedroom apartment close to the center of Kiev. ‘We could pool together and buy it!’ finishes Natalia, with a spark of excitement and confidence in her eyes.

‘We could renovate it and maybe rent it out!’ exclaims Lena, and we all nod in agreement.

‘It sounds so cool! Now I am jealous. I wish I could go in with you, dolls, but I’ve already promised my brother I’d help him with his businesses,’ Margo sighs and pouts.

The food is delicious. We order more wine. We talk and laugh a lot. Oh … I’ve missed these always-fun times with my sisters.

When we move on to dessert, Natalia looks at me with a slight touch of worry and asks, ‘Where are you planning to work next month?’

I shrug. ‘I have no idea …’

‘Well, I have a few places in mind. Would you like me to check it out for you?’

‘Oh, Nata, what would I do without you …’ I move closer to hug her and realise that my eyes have filled with hot tears. ‘Thank you so much …’

Damn! When did I become this emotional?

‘No worries, you know I love you, my Poppy-seed, so much, and would do anything for you …’ she says while hugging me back.

Without any hesitation, Lena sprinkles with tears too, through her happy smile, and locks us in her arms. ‘I love you both so much too!’

Margo turns red. ‘Dolls, stop this drama right now! People are staring, and I look like an idiot now, here alone.’

Then, ‘Oh … what the hell!’ she says, moves closer and hugs us too. ‘I love you too, my crazy bitches!’

And we laugh again …

The rest of the time in Luxenbourg I spend like a hamster in a wheel – I work in a peep show.

This is a place where the client enters one of eight small cabins, which frame the round, non-stop rotating stage, called a drum. He drops a €2 coin into the box and the viewing window opens onto the drum, for a few minutes, while the performer does a striptease show. The explicitness of the dancer teases the spectator, while the dark cabin and paper towels suggest relief through self-stimulation – in other words, jerking off.

A few days after the birthday party, Natalia victoriously walked into my room and said that she’d found the club for me. I felt relief, but only until it was announced it was a peep show. Her scrambled explanation of what it was and why she couldn’t find me a normal cabaret shocked me.

‘Jul, the upside is that you don’t have to cram yourself with bubbly every day ... it’s an even better option!’

No shit! A better option?!

The idea of revealing my fanny in public repelled me … It is one thing to dance on the stage, at least three meters away from the clients, and take your panties off to the final chords of the song, while modestly keeping your legs crossed. The peep show is a completely different story. It is a gynecologist’s room where, besides the doctor, there are another seven freaks with affectionate interest staring at your pussy …

Why? Why? Why Nata? Why did you do it to me?

There are five girls besides me working here: one Ukrainian and four from Hungary. It takes me by surprise, because I never saw or heard of any Western European girls working in the cabarets. Why, then, the peep show? It’s a place that all the girls, including me and my compatriot and new colleague, Vlada, are scared of and scorn as a shameful honky-tonk. It takes me some time to answer.

It’s simple. All the girls dance on the drum, one after another, for four minutes each; so, we have a 20-minute break between our turns, which we spend in the waiting room with couches and a TV, a small kitchen with a fridge, and a shower. The working shift is long – twelve hours. So, we are allowed a one-hour break during the day.

Besides the systematic performing, we also give private shows in a separate cabin, which is a small room with only two chairs facing each other, separated by a glass wall. If a client likes a dancer on the drum, he can call her for a private show – €30 for ten minutes, of which €10 goes to the club and €20 to the girl. Besides that, there is a salary, which is an equal share between the girls and the owner from the €2 coin collection. In the private cabin, everything is allowed with only one restriction – the invisible barrier between the participants.

At first, I am bogged down in denial, fed by my complexes and fears.

This place is nothing but a sick zoo. I will linger here for a month and then Natalia will help me to find another cabaret.

While our pride makes Vlada and me cover our pussies on the drum, and we don’t get even one private dance the entire week, the Hungarian girls manage to do up to ten private shows every day, sometimes even more. Each time they pass by and glance over at our Ukrainian-cheerless couch while rushing to their next private dance, they wear these half-pity-half-snooty smiles on their faces.

Dirty sluts!

Okay, it takes me some time, but eventually I get the picture … the Hungarians are making the same money as we do in a cabaret. Probably even more, not only without sexual intercourse or even a single touch, but also without drinking their asses to death while someone fucks their vaginas and brains. (As we already know, 99 per cent of the cabarets’ clients first bonk the entertainer’s cerebrum before they decide to buy the bubbly; then, if she is lucky and the expenditure is done, her pussy too.) Here, any kind of contact is excluded, except for visual communication.

Yeah, I know ... I’m slow, and could have made this scientific breakthrough on my first working day! I probably shouldn’t smoke pot ...

So while we Eastern Europeans think that the peep show is a vulgar and dirty place to work, the smart women, like the Hungarians, are squeamish about champagne bars and actually have a very well paid and germ-free job.

I start watching them. They use different wigs, and often choose some accessories for the costumes, like a policeman’s hat, French maid’s apron or kinky collars and handcuffs – and, more importantly, sex toys too. They’ll do anything but be modest or conventional. They are not ashamed of opening their legs wide or coming loud, while getting carried away by self-stimulation on the drum or in a private room.

Eventually, I get tired of it. Someone is constantly making money in front of my face while I bitch and moan and keep my net sales miserably low. First, I visit a local sex shop and buy some seductive lingerie, lubricant, one small-to-medium-sized vibrator, and another black, considerably sized dildo.

I don’t even know if I am going to use it, but the satisfier looks so naughty that I can’t resist ...

My new purchases help immediately – I am called for a few private dances and get some appraising looks from the Hungarian girls.

Still, there is a huge difference between my earnings and the Hungarian girls’. I decide to fight my shame and open up my legs more, so the men can properly see my moist, pinkish slit. As a result, my sales increase by 20 per cent and Vlada stops talking to me.

But when I begin to relax totally on the drum and enjoy myself – I’m talking about self-stimulation with, sometimes, a happy ending – my income jumps by another 50 per cent. And with time, I even manage to score a few regular customers – potential paedophiles who love my extra-small body size and flat chest.

Since starting the peep show I feel like a cosmonaut who is getting ready for a moon landing. Twelve hours a day, every 20 minutes, the same routine and movement while turning on the drum … over and over. It’s like the movie
Groundhog Day
. The constant rotation makes me nauseous and dizzy. After my shift I climb into bed and close my eyes, but my head is still spinning, making me feel sick. I even end up throwing up, until a few days ago one of the Hungarians took pity on me and advised me to get some pills, which helped at least to take the spinning-in-bed symptoms away.