Twisted (16 page)

The two laxative pills Inna took that morning make sense to me now.

While she relieves herself, producing some generous farts at the same time, he uses one hand to smear her stream all over his body, including his face and mouth, which he doesn’t even try to keep shut. With his other hand, he masturbates his pulsing, erect tool.

Oh my fuck! He is actually hard! What’s wrong with this man?

When Inna is done, she slowly stands up and carefully gets off the bed, leaving him alone in the mud of her crap. She walks out of the room and comes back in a second with some wet wipes and another full glass of champagne.

Unbelievable! What’s wrong with this woman?!

If I’ve understood everything correctly, her part of the job is done, but I still have to film the creepy movie.

He spreads Inna’s poop evenly over his body …

Oh, by the way, good job covering the bed with plastic.

Then, without standing up, he turns around so that his legs point towards the headboard. He slithers using his elbows until his flexed knees are touching the panel. Then he lifts his legs up into a fucking sarvangasana
¹⁸
, using his hands to support his lower back.

My right hand is tired; I shift the camera into my left hand without taking my eyes off the scene even for a second. The sickest, weirdest, weirdo-yogi ever is so flexible that when he lowers his hips to his head, his penis reaches his mouth. The rest takes him a few minutes – he sucks his own dick and ejaculates into his mouth.

Unfuckingbelievable! What on earth made him even come up with the idea of blowing himself?

Fifteen minutes later we are in a cab on the way home. We both light a cigarette and stay quiet for some time. I can’t believe that what I saw happened for real. I try to think positively and delete the images from my head. I switch to the $300 that I made in one hour just by being naked and holding a camera. I even start to think that I could get used to the creepy man and do it all again. Inna breaks the silence and pulls me out of my thoughts.

‘Yeah, he is totally fucked up, but he’s also the only one who pays this kind of money, Julia, so don’t shoot for the sky.’

I remain quiet and just sigh; in that one moment she’s made me forget about the yogi and dragged me back to my troubled thoughts about this trip. Just a week ago she was telling me what a moneymaking paradise this is, and now she’s saying ‘don’t shoot for the sky’ …

Aargh! I know this run is going to be a fuck-up … Please, please, please let Natalia be wrong … at least this once …

‘Jul, what do you say we stop at Migros
¹⁹
to get some beers? I have a few Russian movies we could watch.’ I nod ‘Sure.’ Inna continues, ‘Trust me, there is no way we are going to be able to eat anything today anyway.’

I close my eyes and my body shudders with disgust.

For the first time in a few weeks I actually have a good night’s sleep; even the 5 a.m. call to prayer doesn’t wake me up. We get up at about ten, make some coffee, and both engage in finishing unpacking and organising all our stuff so it can fit into the small apartment.

Then we eat a quick lunch and head to a meeting with Inna’s present and my future employer – our pimp.

‘I have a few direct clients,’ Inna explains as we walk through the many narrow, busy streets, mostly paved with stones, towards the ferry station. Our whoremaster resides on the Asian side of the city, so we have to cross the Bosphorus Strait to see her.

‘I mean, I work for these clients without Alexandra’s mediation, like yesterday’s one. Please make sure you don’t mention this to her.’

I nod, taking a deep breath. The streets are filled with the smells of fried fish and freshly baked foods, wrapped up in the strong scent of the sea.

‘She is a normal mama, also from Ukraine, but I do hate her deep inside of me.’ Inna keeps a good pace; her words start to come out broken as her breathing gets puffy. ‘I hate her especially when she gets me some fucker who cannot come for hours …’ She pauses to look for cars before crossing the street. ‘I get fucked until my poor pussy falls off and then I have to share my hard-earned money with her.’ Inna interrupts her discourse as we stop to buy tokens for the ferry. We go through the turnstile and Inna heads straight for the deck. ‘Let’s sit outside so we can smoke.’ We settle on the right side of the ship, on a long bench that curves through the full length of the boat.

‘So yes,’ continues Inna, lighting a cigarette and passing me the lighter, ‘my cracked-up vagina versus a few damn phone calls does not sound fair to me at all, especially when she takes 50 per cent.’

I keep nodding while staring at the view. It is incredibly beautiful: the Bosphorus glowing in the sun, the blue sky with soaring seagulls, the shore, moving away now, tightly stuffed with thousands of featureless buildings, and the mirrored skyscrapers, mosques, and ancient palaces and towers scattered here and there between them. The breathtaking view has such a strong effect on me …

‘Of course, I understand that somebody has to do her job,’ Inna starts again, ‘and I know she finds us more clients so we can make more money, but I cannot help it, Jul, and still hate the bitch.’ We both giggle and light another cigarette.

Alexandra is about 30 years old, a good-looking blonde with a petite body like mine. It’s obvious that this woman looks after herself. Her smile shows me a mouth full of perfect teeth as she checks me out from head to toe as if I were a sale item somewhere on the free market.

‘The demands are simple. You always have to be at your phone, and you need to learn to get ready as quickly as possible.’
I assume that her starting to explain the rules of the business means that I am a suitable item with a good chance of getting sold.
‘Most of the time, the client calls one or two hours before he would like his order to be delivered. Considering Istanbul’s traffic, there is usually very little time for long showers and complicated make-up. Although I hope I don’t need to mention that you always have to look your best.’

The waitress comes around and all three of us order coffee.

‘We’re going to work a 50/50 split for the first three months, and then, if you are good, I may consider a 70/30 split, as I’m doing with Inna now.’ They grin at each other and I just do my nodding.

‘Because of the overloaded market, we have to keep our prices reasonable. One hour is $100. If he wants you for the night, then it’s $150. Tips and taxi fares are not obligatory for the clients, but you are welcome to ask for them, and most of the time they give some without a problem.’

An unvarying smile is glued to her face, somehow transforming it from pretty to seriously annoying.

This phoniness of hers is screaming at me: ‘Jul! This Istanbul run is going to be a fuck-up!’ Why can’t I just listen, pack my stuff and get the fuck out of here?

‘I guess this is it, Julia. Would you like to use your real name or change it?’

I shrug my shoulders and give Inna my what-should-I-do? look. She playfully shrugs her shoulders back to me, indicating that she can’t help me on this one and that I’ll have to decide for myself. I take a sip of my already cold coffee.

‘I want to change it to Victoria.’

Alexandra takes her time to check something in her black leather notepad, then agrees while putting on the same fake expression again. ‘No problem, I don’t have anybody else with this name.’

We exchange numbers and she stands up to go.

‘Don’t worry. You are going to be fine. All Turkish men love skinny blonde girls, so I guarantee you a busy working schedule. Trust me, Victoria.’ She winks at me, kisses the air twice – once at me and once at Inna – and hurriedly leaves.

‘Why can’t we work for ourselves?’ I ask Inna, with a hint of despair after Alexandra disappears behind the door, knowing the answer to my question already.

‘We could, Jul, but where would we find clients?’

I should probably have kept quiet and not have rubbed it in, because she sounds very irritated: ‘One of the options is to go to a few nightclubs in Laleli or Aksaray. These are places where working girls and clients look for each other. The only problem is that this can be extremely dangerous: your clients are strangers who take you to their own places. No guarantees that one of them is not a maniac or some psychopath. What’s more, the police raid those areas regularly. If you are caught, you go home, leaving all your belongings and money here, with a red “Deported” stamp in your passport.’

‘And you called it a free-rider’s paradise … no shit!’ I pull a grave face and wave to the waitress for the bill.

As Inna and I enter our apartment, my phone starts ringing.

‘Hi Victoria. It’s Alexandra. Didn’t expect me to call you so soon?’ Her voice is much softer on the phone. I guess it is her professional strategy – to sound sexy and welcoming to her clients.

‘I have some work for you this evening. It’s only for one hour, but if the client likes you he might keep you for the night. It’s in Beşiktaş. Start getting ready. I will send you all the details via SMS.’ She hangs up.

I slowly put my cellphone on the kitchen counter, mumble to Inna, who is looking curiously at me, ‘It was our mama – I have a job to do tonight,’ and turn towards the bathroom.

Inna is surprised.

‘Really? She must have liked you a lot, Jul.’ She shouts so I can hear her through the water splashing in the shower.

I peel my clothes off and step under the hot stream. The phone call made me so nervous that my hands are shaking and my heart is racing. Why do I feel this way? I went through a lot in Luxembourg, but have never felt this panicky before. I guess hooking up with a potential client in a cabaret, having a few words with him, and having a chance to make my own judgement of him before agreeing to go out with him is completely different from having to walk into some hotel room or apartment and put my safety into the hands of a complete stranger I have never seen or even spoken to before.

Yes, of course I could have made an error of judgement back then too, and got myself into trouble, but for the whole six months that I worked there I hadn’t been raped or drugged – except for that naphthalene bastard, (with whom, by the way, it was not my instinct that failed, it screamed at me not to go, but my greed that treacherously exposed me) and Ruslan, but that is a different story that could have happened to anyone. I shiver and put my face into the hot water, trying to wash the unpleasant memories out of my mind.

On the other hand, the fact that I work through Alexandra may guarantee my protection – although in a very flimsy way. Most of her clients are people she knows, or the friends of those people, or the friends of those friends … which means that our mama has some useful contacts for finding a girl if she gets into trouble. So there is some sort of security. Unless, of course, the client happens to lose his mind and stops worrying about the consequences of his aggression … or Alexandra’s rescue action is too slow; or …
Crap, what am I thinking!

I leave the bathroom full of steam, wrapped in a towel and my not-very-optimistic thoughts. I carefully browse through my wardrobe looking for the right dress to wear: sexy enough to make me look desirable, but not too revealing, so I don’t feel uneasy. Then I grab my vanity case, sit on the bed and start doing my make-up. The phone buzzes, texting me the address, time, cellphone number and name of my rendezvous. I look at my watch, trying to ignore my anxious heartbeat, thinking about how a shot or two of tequila or a little joint would definitely calm me down.

‘Do you want me to call you a cab?’ Inna asks, removing her headset. She is sitting on her side of the bed and watching a movie on her computer. I nod, without taking my eyes off the little mirror, applying another coat of mascara to my already heavily made up eyelashes.

I finish my make-up, put on the black dress I’ve chosen (not too short, but still quite sexy) and my summer high heels that are graced with multi-coloured stones, and stuff my little black purse with condoms, cigarettes, money for the cab, and a few tampons,
just in case
. I almost forget the photocopy of my passport (the front page and the page with the visa) that we made earlier today on the way home. As Inna explained with an I-am-so-smart expression on her face as she handed my passport to the guy in the copy shop, ‘Trust me, Jul, you really do not want to lose your passport, but you still have to carry ID. So this is my compromise number two.’

I frown, remembering her compromise number one – the ultra thin condoms – kiss her on the cheek, say ‘Wish me luck!’ and head outside, where the taxi is already waiting for me.

The cab pulls up at the apartment building. According to the driver, who looks very suspicious
(I guess all of them, with their dark hair, and even darker eyes, a couple of days’ bristle on their faces, finished with a set and severe stare, look suspicious to me)
, it’s the right place. I dial the number that Alexandra sent me earlier.

‘Hello … Murat? It’s Ju– it’s Victoria. I am here.’ I exhale.

The man on the other end of the line okays and tells me that he is coming down to let me in.

I ask the cab driver to wait until my ‘date’ shows up. Two minutes later, a man steps out of the entrance and waves towards the car. As I climb out of the back seat, making sure that my skirt is in the right place, Murat approaches the car, asks the driver how much I owe him, and pays.

Hmmm … that is a pleasant start to the evening …

We walk up the stairs to the third floor and enter the apartment. Only after the door is closed, Murat smiles, extends his hand to me and with a heavy accent (
at least he speaks English
), introduces himself: ‘Nice to meet you … come on in … Victoria, right?’

He is a tall, young chap with friendly eyes and a charming smile. I shake his hand, also smile and follow him along a short passage into a spacious living room. It’s fitted out with big, heavy couches and a huge fretted coffee table; two cabinets stuffed with a display of plates, glasses, and white and blue crockery stand between big potted plants. The interior looks rich, but it’s old-fashioned, and doesn’t match Murat’s youth and his trendy clothes.