Work makes me feel normal; it’s become escapism when it used to be what I needed to escape from. I can’t tell if there’s a real irony or serendipity in that. In stepping outside myself to play the bright and bubbly girl next door, in stepping into the physicality of it that is so familiar to me after so many years, I find solace. I like the chatterers who don’t give me a second’s silence in my head. I hang on every word, the world’s best listener. Time passes. Till I come to, with their dick deep, nudging at my depression, and I bite my hand to prevent myself yelling stop because that would be unprofessional, and besides I’m not yelling stop at them, I would be yelling stop at everything, my whole life, because I can’t bear any of it, not just his dick inside me – if anything, his dick inside me is okay, it’s a distraction, at least it was as it built to an orgasm, sensory overload temporarily easing my panicked thoughts, but then I came and he kept going and he’s no longer talking to me so my mind is full again of my own most hated thoughts, and I want him out of me but he’s paid for the time and I consented to it and it’s not his fault I’m actually suicidal and he doesn’t know I want to be dead not just at this moment but many moments so I’ll just bite my hand and hope he comes soon and how much time is left?
Slow David is a real mind fuck, too, because he’s a slow fuck. Likes to string it out as long as possible, likes to edge with my hips pushed into his – ‘Stay still,’ he whispers if I move them. He’s losing himself in me, the feeling, I get it, but I’m steadily losing my mind in the stillness. It’s like the stillness of yoga, and I try to think of what that yoga teacher said the other day: ‘Think of the vastness of your mind and the way when you are anxious it becomes smaller. Think of getting back to that vastness. Imagine that vastness.’ And I remember how earlier today I read that ‘anxiety’ derives from a Latin word meaning ‘to narrow’. And I know that this is exactly what my mind has been going through: a narrowing. And I know that when I write my mind feels like an immense playground that I can endlessly swing in, with so much space and wonder. And that when I am anxious I tread the same tired paths that wind smaller and tighter, and I lose all my perspective. But I can’t empty my mind when I can’t empty my pussy, and it’s too intimate, this stillness with him inside, an intimacy that I haven’t even had with her in months.
There’s forty minutes left, I can hardly do it, but if I make him come in ten then leave fifteen for us both to shower he can leave fifteen minutes early and he’ll just have to cop that because otherwise I’ll crack the fantasy facade that is as flimsy as a mantle of dandelion right now, hardly in place, a firm shrug could dislodge it.
And he’s done and I’m out and what do you mean I have another booking right now, a forty-five? That’s another forty-five minutes I have to hold off crying when the tears are already pushing against my throat and the back of my eyes, a force that must be reckoned with at some point. No, this is good. Better than sitting around for the last two hours of the day; then I would definitely panic. Get back that girl who winked at herself in the mirror, who felt a surge of power with his head between her legs, even as she felt disgust as his mouth dribbled chocolate-y water from his drooping lips, unable to hold in his sweet treat with any certainty anymore, mixing sweet treats, hope I don’t get thrush from it.
‘Heyyyy, I don’t think we’ve met before – I’m Maddy! Did you want to hop in the shower? There’s a towel for you there. How’s your day been? … Oh, having a well-deserved break then! … Yeah, it’s been a bit slow today, but Saturdays usually are. What is it that you’re studying? … Oh cool. Yeah just chuck the towel there and you can lay face down here … No, I don’t have to if you don’t want; just lie on your back and I can body slide you like this.’
Staying well and upbeat, this is good, rubbing oil on my tits, thank god he wants to chat, slide them across his penis … It’s still a bit soft – maybe we should stop talking.
‘I’m twenty-six, what about you? … Yeah, I thought you were around my age. Did you grow up in Sydney? … Oh, I’ve been to Delhi! I enjoyed it but I got real sick, ha ha.’
Damn, he’s still soft. Play with it a bit, reverse body slide, put my pussy in his face, tempt him.
‘Were you wanting anything else today, like extras? Well, pussy touching is fifty dollars, blow job is fifty and full service – which includes both of those – is a hundred and fifty. Oh no, that’s all good, we can just stick with teasing – this is fun as it is.’
Damn, I’ve gotta fill the time with just this! And he’s still not getting hard. Moan a bit but it sounds awkward when he’s a deflated balloon in my hand. It’s wild to me that men base their ego on something so unreliable, that fluctuates so much in size, far more changeable than the moon which governs our cycles. Is that your manhood? Completely unpredictable yet at the same time dully predictable for me, that they’ll try to jam it in soft anyway and it’s like threading a rope through the eye of a needle while I try desperately to hold the condom in place, a bag of air not cock.
‘Wait, what’s wrong? You can’t get who out of your head? … Oh, a girl … No, that’s okay, you can talk about her, we can stop … Oh no, so were you, like, seeing each other? Talking online every night till two in the morning? Yeah, I can see why you thought that was heading somewhere. Fuck, man, that sucks. I do exactly the same thing, though – like I invest so hard in people when they haven’t made it clear that they’re into me and then end up devastated. These days I just say straight up, like, Hey, I’m into you, cool if you’re not, but just wanting to know where you stand so I’m not, like, projecting on to you and making something out of nothing. People respect that approach. Plus it makes you look super confident. But yeah, don’t be embarrassed. It takes a while to get over stuff like this. Like, more than getting over her it’s getting over the imaginary future you invested in, and also the habit of talking to and thinking of her. Trust me, fast forward six weeks and you’ll be fine.’
This is great. I love this.
‘Oh no, this isn’t a bother to talk about at all! Honestly you’re talking to the best person about this, I do this all the time. I’m such a sucker for romance, and girls especially … Yeah, I date women mainly. So I get you. I’m glad this has made you feel a bit better! Honestly, you’ll be sweet, it just takes time. And next time just ask earlier what their vibe or, like, intent is, you know … Did you still want to come? … Yeah, we’ve still got time.’
Okay, down to business, more oil for his cock. No problem getting hard now. Wow, I really am like a therapist. The most hands-on therapist. If only I was good at taking my own advice maybe I wouldn’t be in such a dire scenario – don’t think of that now! Wild that it’s more socially acceptable for a man to book a sex worker than a therapist, though.
‘Pinch your nipples? Yeah, I can do that. Harder? Cool. Slap it – like that? Mmmm, yeah, that’s hot.’
He wants me to pinch his nipples, slap his cock and spit on it all while wanking him off, which takes impossible coordination and an impossible number of hands to master, so I’m circulating between them. Got five minutes left till I need to put him in the shower. Okay, this is great, as long as my right wrist doesn’t give way. Pause, slap, switch to the left, pinch. Left keep going, right pinch, spit, encouraging moan, slap. Left wrist is no good, it won’t get him there, doesn’t have the strength or rhythm. Switch back to right – fuck it hurts – left pinch, slap, spit, slap, moan, moan more, get him there faster, faster, before right wrist fails. He’s pulsing in my hand, almost there, cup balls, out of hands, bite nipple instead, slap, moan (that was more like a strangled gasp) and there he is! I’m sure I’m almost as ecstatic to see that spurt as he is. Get a tissue, wipe him up … This can surely only be a hooker thing, a dead giveaway in a one-night stand; I doubt civilians are doing this for men, so solicitous. This is the full service people speak of, it includes cleaning –
‘Well that was fun! Just lie there for a moment and get your breath back; I’ll shower first.’
Okay
, so now it’s quarter past five and I finish at six, which means I’ll be home in an hour and fifteen, and in an hour and fifteen I’ll maybe get to see her – oh god I hope she’s home, or at least I’ll know if she’s home or not. Is she okay? What if she’s in bed still, hasn’t left all day, doesn’t talk to me, pushes me away if I go to touch her – can I handle another night of that? Why am I thinking of myself in this; it’s so much worse for her living like that, being unable to get out of bed. What hurts, though, is when she does get up but it’s not to spend time with me it’s to spend time with the pokies or game with that woman at her house till 3 a.m. and I’m at home having kept my night free in hope but it’s always disappointed hope, night after night. Let’s hang, I say, it’s been two weeks since we’ve seen each other, we’ve been passing like ships in the night and me your cabin boy, there to scurry and serve and avert my eyes because my need is something I am ashamed of, and you say, Yes, Thursday night, and then on Thursday you’re not home and I finally get a call through to you and you say, Come hang with me at the pub, and I walk up and you’re playing the pokies and you want me to sit with you and chat and watch you play and that’s what our date night has become when you wooed me so hard at the start, breakfast in bed, devoted conversation, delight in me and now –
‘Oh, good luck with everything. Trust me, you’ll be fine in a few weeks, she’ll be gone from your mind. See you!’
What a lovely boy. Now it’s back to the girls’ room. The girls’ room. That mysterious space, mystical and mythical, dreams of a pink and plush room, when in reality it’s scuffed pillows to go with my ageing labia. The girls’ room’s my favourite place because only the workers see it, and it’s where the true intrigue, drama and passion occur. Civilians obsess over the work rooms, what happens there, is it real or unreal, is it hard is it traumatic is it enjoyable, not knowing that it’s the most mundane part. That it’s just a series of small-talk question prompts, performative compliments, skin dry from too many showers, sticky lube handprints on the suede headboard, sexual need a warm deposit in latex tip or sprayed across breastbone or haunch, dying embers of a lust that didn’t last (thank god, my pussy sighs, relieved, and burps out air that was jammed against my cervix). That the real of the real, where I’ve fallen in and out of love and wonderment and terror and joy and awe and oh god how’ll I make my rent nailbiting desperation and the worst things ever said to belittle you by a brothel madam and the cocoon of solidarity and support and a taloned hand reaching carefully inside to remove a sponge – all of that’s in the girls’ room. That I both hate and miss, that I roll my eyes about and go back to, that I laugh raucously in, under condescending signs that scream: LADIES, no one is here to hear your sob story so get on the pity train back out of here xo Management and: LADIES, don’t forget this is a shared space so clean up or you will be fined and: LADIES, don’t lend anyone money because no one in this industry can be trusted and: LADIES, if you see a client privately we will personally make your life and his life traumatic and difficult and you will be fired immediately when they should say: LADIES, you’re here as an independent contractor not an employee but we’ll treat you like a child, our helpless child, till we turn against you and step all over you but make sure you look like a goddess that whole time LADIES because we make money from you being worshipped. And I might sound bitter because I am bitter about that, but I’ll go back anyway because I can’t get enough of the girls’ room, that space that can’t be imagined but only lived. And I’ve no relationship with my mother so I crave being taken under the wing of the older workers who chain-smoke, and I’m gay so I crave being flirted with by the butch in femme drag who chain-smokes, and I don’t smoke but I’ll sit in the stale nicotine stench of the smoking area all the same, just to soak it up. Every. Last. Slop.
Except it doesn’t look like a refuge now, it feels like a place where I’ll be exposed. Forty minutes to make pleasant conversation and avoid eye contact, so they don’t ask and I don’t cry. Except that goddamn woman is out of her booking. The British one who talks at you even when you put in earphones and pull out a book. A constant monologue – one that I’m not even being paid to listen to! Even more vital to avoid eye contact; don’t want to set her off by letting her think I’m her audience. Everyone has their heads determinedly down, looking at their phones, careful not to cue her into beginning. If I hear about Isabella’s school project one more time …
I can feel it there too, panic, wedged so solidly beneath my epidermis that it is perhaps my epidermis, I’m made of panic, and it’s ready to do a foul rosebud exposé, show my insides to the world, just as it did a few weeks ago when I was on that stage and opened my mouth to speak and the lights became very hot on my skin and I started to prickle all over and my hands began to shake and I realised suddenly that there was nothing I could do to stop myself crying, gasping, in front of all these people, it was inevitable. I had a panic attack on stage and fumbled my way off with everyone watching me. That’s what it’s like now; I need to prepare for any assault, practise my response, breathe. Need to be able to say, Yeah, yeah, it’s all good, nothing new happening, same old. Need to be able to lie, to divert, to dissemble. Recite the answer in my mind like the crunch of abs in training, till it’s muscle memory in my cerebrum, just a mantra that means nothing and doesn’t shake my vocal cords. Yeah, yeah, it’s all good, nothing new happening, same old.
Twenty minutes till home time. The girls are all impatient, beginning to pack their things slowly, wanting to go home to their children and partners. Everyone knows if you pack too fast – change into your civilian clothes too soon – you’ll jinx yourself and a man will come in and book you for an hour at 5.55 p.m. So we take our time. Put away the food containers from the fridge. Condom bag away. Laptop closed. Take most obvious whore make-up off. Towels down laundry chute. Don’t move too fast or you’ll invite the ire of whoever looks over us, scoffs at and scorns to think we could predict what will happen in life, predict even the next halfhour. Human ego always readying itself for the next step when we live in a batter of the unexpected, just whisked around at someone else’s whim.
And I’m out. Thermal top on, track pants on, Reeboks on. ‘Bye! See you all on Monday!’
I’m in my car, and as the 1997 engine starts to shake with the turn of the ignition, vibration up through the floor and the gearstick in my hand, I begin to shake also. Get out of the garage, just drive, break down when you get home. But I can’t stop the sobs racking me, it’s ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’ on the radio and as it gets to the chorus I pull on to a side street because I can hardly see anymore and I certainly can’t breathe. I can’t keep going like this. I’ve told her, but I don’t think she realises that I’m barely holding on by the skin of my teeth. Went to throw myself in front of a bus the other day, and ended up crying in an alley behind Macquarie Street instead, distraught that this was what I had come to when I’d promised myself my mental health would never get that bad again. Where is my resilience, my fortitude? I’m all meekness, insipidness. Where has my backbone gone? I know: I ripped it out like a string of pearls to give to her in devotion, jag upon jag of bone. And now she gambles with those same bones, knuckle rap on the machine, coin clink down that insatiable crevice. I want her to fill me up like she fills up that machine; instead I cry the milky wet of ovulation down my legs, oiled up and unloved, not even another body in the house to bump against in the hall, or a hug thrown to me as one might throw a bone to a dog as you desert it.
My head is both heavy and light in the aftermath as my sobs begin to lessen. Okay, I can drive home. Home, where I don’t want to be because every space is reminiscent of her but devoid of her presence. Nowhere else to go, though. Don’t want a friend seeing me like this, knowing how bad it is. I still instinctively curl over her in protection, a centipede saving the most beloved part of its self: ‘us’. Won’t badmouth because that’s disloyal. Just say it’s difficult but it’ll get better. Don’t mention the real low because they’l
l worry, and you don’t want to distress them.
Home and she’s not there. I need a drink. No alcohol in the house since I quit four years ago. Forget determination, I’m propelled up to the bottle-o by an overwhelming need. Whisky.
Haven’t eaten dinner – all the better, it’ll obliterate me faster. Have a shot. Have another. Pour a glass, straight; pour a bath, hot. Lock the bathroom door now while I’m still sober so she can’t disturb what I’m going to do here. The knowledge is formless in the back of my skull right now but I know it’s there, just as I know there are razors in the bathroom cabinet and nail scissors I can use to hack the plastic guard off. I can feel a haze beginning to obscure my mind and my fingers start to fumble with the taps. The sweet oblivion of drunkenness is coming for me. I lie back in the bath to greet it.
Swish, swill, swish. The water feels heavy just like me. She isn’t home, who cares, I don’t, I don’t care what she does with her life anymore. Liquor down my chest. Lick it up – oh, my tongue doesn’t reach. Ha ha. Lucky I’m in the bath already. Swish, swish, slap. That slap was good; the water is fun to hit. Stir, stir, slap. Bet she wasn’t expecting that, thought I’d keep spinning her around my body in the bath. Stroke, slap, stroke. She’s gotta be on her toes with me, I’m gonna beat this water around the bath. Swish, swish, stroke. There’s something I don’t like, what is that I can feel, is it an emotion that shouldn’t be here with me, no no I just want belligerence and disregard beside me. And this whisky, you’re allowed too – actually, come sit beside me or float if that’s what you want to do. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Stroke away the annoying thought: there’s no room for you here. Drink drank drunk I forgot how nice this is. Now I’m ready for what I was really getting to. I’ll hate myself for it tomorrow but that’s a problem for me of the future not me right now. Slop, slip, slop. These tiles are perilous. Where is it? After so long still familiar in my hand. Hey, friend. Hey, friiiieeeeeend. Room is spinning as is my life but you’ll centre me. Slit, slice, slit. Whoops! Sorry, thumb, that was an accident. Soak, suck, suck. And you taste sweet. How nice I feel upon a cloud. Little clouds of blood puffing out the soles of my feet too. Might just lay my head back. Very drunk. Soon I’ll be sick. Maybe. Lie back for a whiiiiiiile.
Nothing But My Body Page 2
