Sex in the City--London

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Even in the middle of the busy restaurant, Gary feels alone sitting opposite his father. He shivers. Those eyes, once the centre of his universe, have become older, in a way that’s shocking to see. As a kid you think the eyes of a parent, and the authority they command, are eternal, unbreakable.

  ‘Is this what you wanted? To show me this? Sense of déjà vu was it?’ There’s no love in father’s voice, there never has been.

  ‘Dad, I want you to like Ester. She’s so special, please try for me.’

  ‘Have you still not remembered? What it cost for your new bike, and the toys, and the holidays.’ He gestures towards the toilets. ‘She looks like Gina alright. You remember her? Don’t tell Mummy. Our little secret. Still-posing in the studio when you were back from school. You wouldn’t leave us alone.’ His father’s voice is becoming more sarcastic. The picture that his erotic inner life revolves around is swelling and bursting into three dimensions. It wasn’t a magazine.

  ‘Yeah, your mum was special. Gina was special too. But you ruined it for me. Didn’t you, you little prick?’

  ‘Dad?’ Gary feels like the lights have been turned out in his head and the restaurant is winding down. Time is playing tricks with him; his emotions are running in slow motion backwards.

  ‘… Tied up and wearing a mask and I stepped out to get another roll of film. When I came back, your mother was there, home early, watching you. Barely seven years old and you had your head stuffed between Gina’s legs. And she was writhing, thought it was me.’

  Gary is not able to speak. Now he’s on a ride at a fair that’s spinning too fast. If it doesn’t stop he’s going to be sick and he wants to get off. But he cannot. He’s frozen.

  ‘Bye, bye Mummy!’ his father spits out at him.

  He wants to say, no it was a photograph in a magazine, and I just found it. That all he wants, all he’s ever wanted is just to look. From the corner of his eye he can see Ester with her flaming red hair approaching from the left. And something clicks in his mind. He doesn’t want the memory to come back to him. They have to get out of here. He staggers to his feet and flees towards her.

  Ester says nothing as they sit side by side in the speeding taxi. Their legs do not touch. Nobody dares to say anything. Gary’s mind is whirling so fast he can’t tell her anything just yet. It’s like his father has just stripped him of his outer skin and revealed the reason for his private, most innermost thoughts. An escort agency has an ad in the back of the taxi which strikes him as odd. God, they are everywhere.

  From the corner of his eye he can see Ester’s shining hair curled at the ends; it gently bounces when she moves her head. Secretly, he scrutinises the new shade. Does he really like it or is it just a memory surfacing? Does Ester only remind him of someone he doesn’t remember? Meat without a face? Is that why he likes to look at their cunts rather than kissing their faces?

  Ester is gearing herself up to say something. She’s making that cough she does before speaking directly. Perhaps she wants to get out of the cab, leave him. When she speaks, her voice is strange, more nasal than he’s ever heard it: ‘Do you know, Gary? About me?’

  What the fuck’s she saying?

  ‘I know about me,’ he mutters, and more to himself than to her.

  This time they don’t bother to turn the lights on when they get back to the flat. After not touching in the cab, their bodies sidle together after he has fought with the key and they slide through the door. In the darkness they spring upon each other. This time he doesn’t need to see. There is only skin; a warm mass of beating pleasure. She takes off her clothes quickly; he can hear the sound of her zip unfastening. And the sound of her panting excitement. The smell of her skin gets his cock hard. He rips off his trousers and feels the tip of his cock pulsating, secreting the first slither of sex. There’s no light to see her with, but he’s already feeling her, the curves and plump breasts. He has to touch her. He wants to feel her all over, to rub his skin against her.

  A small sound, perhaps a gasp, escapes from her lips. He kisses her, pressing his tongue hard into her open mouth while his cock rubs against her leg. She humps it like a hot bitch. She’s aroused, mindless, as ever. He smears his saliva all over her. Her tongue is molten, each lick lifts his penis in waves of excitement. His hands reach down to feel her tits. Unseen, her breasts feel enormous. Gary tongues each one diligently, his attentions fevered, rapt.

  She’s moaning now, and he can smell her heat; she’s rocking her crotch over and over his cock, which is straining to burst. She smells good. With his hands he reaches for her pussy. She opens her legs and he pushes his fingers inside. He jabs: one, two, three times. She shudders with pleasure. He wants to come, to pump it out into the darkness, but instead he pushes her down to the carpet and slips his cock all the way in.

  Both of them are shouting, pushing, clawing. Her breasts are smacking against him. He can just about make out her face in the darkness, when his cock lets go and he shoots deep. Deep inside her.

  They lie together in bed looking at each other by the light of a single candle.

  ‘Ester.’ His voice falters and his eyes fill with tears. ‘I know you must feel like I’m some kind of fucking pervert. But I was so young. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

  She looks intently into his soft brown eyes, takes his hand and places it on her lush pubic hair. ‘Gary, would you forgive me no matter what I’ve done in the past?’

  He looks at her, surprise in his eyes, but smiles a yes, and his kiss touches the end of her nose.

  ‘I’m not real down there. I’m a natural blonde all over.’

  She feels his hand tremble, but it doesn’t pull away.

  ‘I lived in Berlin for three months and worked for a … dominatrix I guess you’d call it a fetish club. I really needed the money. There was no sex involved. Just tying people up. A bit of slapping and pinching. But we worked bottomless and colourful pussies was the theme of the club. A lot of important people got off that way.’

  Gary wants to stroke Ester’s face, to encourage her. But he can’t let go of the warmth between her legs, and his other arm is propping him up so he can look at her. He settles for what he hopes is a reassuring expression.

  ‘Most of the time we were stoned and it was no big deal. Then this old guy, some local bigwig, got a bit overexcited when he was restrained. It was busy that night so once he was hanging, the two of us were left alone. Whilst I was beating him he got a hard on, and must have had a heart attack or something. With me being wasted and with him in his face mask I just didn’t notice. Just kept hitting him. God knows how long it was before I realised that he wasn’t breathing. When I finally did, I just got dressed and ran. I’d already left Berlin before the police started asking questions.’ She stops, her heat beating as if she’s only just stopped running.

  ‘It was a big thing in Germany. They didn’t connect me directly, but there were pictures of me and the other girls in the club. Nina brought the papers over when she moved here. When the atmosphere with your Dad was so strange, I thought he must have known about the case.’

  Gary finally moves his hand and strokes her face. She can smell herself on him. His expression is unreadable. He says, simply, ‘But it’s all over now, you’re safe here with me.’

  They curl up with each other and just rock themselves to sleep. Gary wakes to find Ester sitting on the edge of the bed.‘What you doing?’ he asks fuzzily.

  She shows him a roll of film cupped in her hand.

  ‘There was an automatic camera in the room. Once they were masked, the customers liked it to be on, as an extra risk, or buzz or something. It was going that night. And I stole the film when I left. Never developed it.’ She holds it out to him. ‘I want you to have it. My life in your hands. See who I really was. So you can understand the real me.’

  Her blue Persian cat-shaped eyes are as innocent as ever. Gary takes the film roll and holds it tightly as if it’s the key to his future.

  The rest of th
e night he sleeps badly. Images of the red woman try to push their way into his dreams. I’m sick, he reminds himself. When morning comes and he wakes fully, he turns towards Ester’s side for some creature comfort. But the bed is cold and empty. His sleeping princess is gone. He jumps out of bed and runs around the flat, calling and hoping she’s just making coffee. But although her things are still are in place, Ester has disappeared.

  ‘Fuck!’ This is his dirty old man’s fault. Fucking pervert. Like father, like son . But she can’t have left him yet. No, she’s left her precious roll of film. Which must mean, she’s coming back. God almighty, both of them now have pictures haunting them. What a pair. Perhaps he should develop it, release the ghosts, before she changed her mind.

  Ester walks through the quiet of early morning, trying to decide what to do. She’s worried about Gary. She needs to talk to his father, to try and get them to sort things out. She rings the home number she has taken down but there’s no reply. She tries his mobile. Nothing.

  Gary decides to use his father’s darkroom. After all, the miserable old sod has to be of some use.

  He lets himself in through the front door and enters the cold emptiness of the imposing Victorian town house. He can see his own obsessive neatness in his father’s meticulous place. He’d rung ahead to make sure his father’s not there. If he comes back, Gary will just say he’s doing something for a friend, which in a way, is right. He busies himself getting the chemical process ready. And then comes the exciting part, when the white paper begins to ghost into faint images. Perhaps if they look too graphic he’ll kill them before they focus into clarity. He waits for it; this moment he has always loved.

  But the chemicals perform no magic this time. The paper remains resolutely blank and his emotions shrink back in shock. She gave him a blank film. Is this what she means by develop this and you’ll understand the real me?

  Ester has been roaming the streets trying to sort out her head. It’s weird Gary hasn’t rung her, but it gives her a breathing place to sort something out. She can’t stop thinking that the man she saw delivering all those photos might be Gary’s dad. Shit, what kind of fucked-up situation was this?

  It’s past lunchtime when Gary’s dad finally answers his mobile. He sounds out of breath. As if he’s been jogging, his breath rasps in little jerks.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hi, it’s Ester, Gary’s girlfriend.’ This is answered with a grunt. ‘I’m worried about him. I need to talk to you.’ Silence.

  ‘There’s a quiet pub where it’s possible to talk.’

  It’s an old boozer. No music. Hardly any punters. Carpet scuffed and sticky, seats dark from stains. Gary’s dad waves her over. She tries to look confident. Probably fails. Once the pleasantries are over and drinks are purchased, Ester tells him how worried she is.

  ‘You’re worried!’ His scorn is intimidating. ‘I’ve been mopping up for that little fuck for years.’ He leans as far forward as he can. Ester wavers but doesn’t retreat back.

  ‘In his college room, the cleaner found pictures, all stuck together like the old dirty joke. I had to sort that out. Make excuses. He’s gone out with girls who I knew, the daughters of friends, and I’ve heard back how they giggled and mocked him. Or were just scared and sickened.’ He eases back in his chair and smiles. Ester finds this even more threatening.

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s told you about the agency?’

  She is cautious but needs to be honest. She shakes her head.

  ‘I got them to contact him. Set him up with girls who didn’t give a shit. Red all month around, as he likes them. They’d pose for a little souvenir afterwards. So we could keep him happy between times. Then you turned up and he didn’t go any more.’

  Ester is relieved and must be showing it.

  ‘No one pays when they can fuck it for free!’ His voice is a snarl now.

  ‘You’re just another opportunity for him to fuck up. I bet he sniffs you like he’s still a kid.’

  Ester’s had enough. ‘No wonder he’s messed up with a shit like you for a father!’

  Gary’s dad just shrugs. ‘I’ve kept the pictures coming you know. They’re all in the little shrine we share. I’ve been there today while you were out. All nicely embalmed. Get him to show you that.’

  Ester stands, unable to bear his company any longer. ‘No wonder you chose this pub. It’s as filthy as you are.’

  She strides away, ignoring the laughter behind.

  As Ester enters their flat she hears muffled sobs. Following the sounds she goes through to the kitchen.

  ‘Jesus!’

  The linoleum has been rolled up, the fridge pushed back and a panel removed revealing a stairwell leading down into darkness. There is a fishy smelling stink in the room. Cautiously Ester steps down. Probably this was some kind of an air-raid shelter in the Blitz. It’s a weird space, bigger than a crawlspace, but not big enough to stand up in completely. She didn’t even know it existed.

  As her eyes adjust to the gloom she sees Gary crying, head in hands, s itting on a grubby old sofa. She almost slips on something glossy underfoot as she goes towards him.

  ‘Darling!’

  He looks up, pathetically grateful.

  ‘You’re back!’ His expression turns to embarrassment. Ester’s stomach clenches.

  ‘Did you develop the film?’ she asks in a timid voice.

  He shows her the blank paper. ‘What, you mean there was nothing?’ Something inside her is disappointed not to see her old Berlin club days revealed in all their glory. And she was so stoned … Do the photos still exist somewhere else? There’s no point in worrying now. Gary needs her.

  ‘Gary, I went to see your father today. To confront him. He told me that you have some kind of a private collection together. Do you know what he means?’

  Gary sighs and flicks on a lamp by his side. ‘Ester, these are my photographs,’ he says simply.

  Clear plastic wrapped objects are scattered on the floor, and on shelves and tables. Ester reaches down and picks one up. Although they’re wrapped in plastic, the smell reminds her of what an old used condom is like if she leaves it in the bedside bin too long. She looks around then studies her selection. This photo is like the others, but seems older. The pubic hair is natural, no bikini line. She guesses that it’s a photo taken in the seventies. Gary pulls out more from a cupboard. The pictures are wrapped carefully in cellophane and another substance, dry, yellowy-looking, lies neatly above them, encased between tightly sealed cellophane sachets. As the photos are moved the smell becomes overpowering and she wants to gag. Is it? It can’t be. Gary’s face is expressionless. ‘Yes, it’s cum,’ his words ring out in the confined space. Ester rifles through the images until she finds the one that is the most preserved, the biggest. It’s in long shot, and shows a model all tied up with no visible face. She is pale and muted, but reveals a fiery-red bush between her splayed-out legs.

  As gently as she can Ester gathers the photographs in her arms and puts them to one side.

  ‘We’ll throw them all away darling,’ she says, stroking his hand.

  Now that the shroud of secrecy and guilt has melted away, Gary feels like he is here for the first time. What did his dad mean about having this together?

  Towards the corner of the room there are more photos than he remembers. Surely he didn’t have that many? He goes to examine them. They are photos of him and Ester leaving the restaurant, that night with Dad. Ester’s face looks anxious under her red curls. But her upper body is peppered with drops of what looks like fresh cum. They gaze at each other stunned.

  ‘I haven’t seen this before,’ he protests.

  ‘It’s him. He said he visited your place today. Here.’

  Dimly, he remembers giving his father a key when he first moved in, just in case he got locked out or for emergencies. And Dad had found this place for him, told him about the cellar. Almost as if he was planting a seed in Gary’s mind. His hands wildly look through the photos
again. His father must have been planting them, maybe jerking off as well. He suddenly needs fresh air.

  Gary runs back up the stairs into the stark-lighted calm of the kitchen. Ester collects bin bags from under the sink and starts gathering the photos into them. She’s determined, just as she always is. It’s easier to get rid of these than a dead body.

  ‘Gary, we can get over this. Put these things to rest.’ Ester drags the bags outside, not caring if she wakes up the neighbours. She returns and walks purposefully to the bathroom. Her boots are strident, tap-tapping on the bare floor.

  He can see how well the role of dominatrix would suit her. But no latex gear today. She strips and stands facing him, her red fur glinting in the reflected glow. She takes a towel, wets it and sponges over her pubic hair before squeezing a mountain of shaving foam over it. But it’s in Gary’s hand that she puts the razor.

  ‘Shave me clean, darling. Shave me of all our sins.’

  About the Story

  STRAWBERRY PINK WAS OUR first writing collaboration. From the early nineties, Kevin and I would bump into each other at various horror writers’ events. I was a journalist who talked about writing stories and sometimes wrote fragments which were never finished. Kevin had already published a handful of horror short stories, although he didn’t write as much as he wanted to. A couple of years after I moved to Germany, we met again and I’d finally written one of the stories, The Scarless, that I’d been talking about for years. We decided to write something together.

  The story was originally called Snap!Kevin came up with a synopsis in response to an anthology call for an erotic story involving photographs. The first concept was much darker and involved child pornography, but we felt that concentrating on Gary’s fetish for strawberry-coloured pubic hair would give us the chance to delve into the psychological creation of his fetish without alienating readers. Kevin (as you might expect from a man) was interested primarily in the provocative role of the photographs, but I was fascinated by the idea that in this posh flat something was wrong. Many people live in terraced houses, and if you get used to living on the right hand side of the divide, it would perhaps feel weird if your next place was set out on the left side. We didn’t have the ending in mind when we began writing, but the feeling of disenchantment with this very expensive flat was there from the start.