by Laura D
The question of rates is elaborated on, and I swindle myself without any help from him. With the anonymity of the net, there are so many lies and they're so easy to hide that I've slipped effortlessly into the guise of a professional prostitute who's been around the block and can't be tricked. But when I have to talk about money, I put my foot in it. My instant reaction was to ask for hundreds and thousands but I thought that wouldn't be realistic. With time, I'll realise you won't lose anything by daring to raise the stakes, even if it means renegotiating if there's too much resistance.
These men imagine – and in my case, I have to admit, quite rightly – that if a girl asks a lot then she must be worth it. An astronomical sum often means they can expect a pleasant surprise: perhaps a really stunning girl whose body alone means she can raise her prices. Getting what you pay for, so to speak. They probably think these are girls who like sex, who keep asking for more, coquettish young students who want mature men to take control of their monotonous sex lives, to make a change from the brainless pretty boys their own age.
My inexperience means I ask for a hundred euros an hour, matching what I'd seen in other ads. Our friend Joe seems delighted – he most likely wasn't expecting that sort of sum. It was probably at that point that he realised he was dealing with a first-timer. I'm sure he won't have wasted any time imagining scenarios, pushing the boundaries that a 'pro' would normally impose.
We arrange to meet up after a brief exchange of emails which I pretended to get involved in. We're meeting in three days, in a hotel near the station. He'll be wearing a red polo shirt so I can recognise him because, although I've got his photo, he doesn't want to miss me, to make the trip for nothing. He makes a real point of saying he doesn't live in the city, and would be very disappointed if I wasn't there after he's come all this way. Talking to me like a little girl, like giving a child a warning when you know she's going to do something silly.
I say 'yes' straight away, to get the subject out of my mind as quickly as possible. Even so, the details are already falling into place. A patchwork is gradually being pieced together inside my head. In my mind's eye, I think of his face and connect it to the body of a man in his sixties, wearing a red polo shirt. I place this combination outside a crumby hotel on the street that goes down to the station, a street with quite a reputation for prostitution and drug trafficking.
Once I've closed the computer down and extinguished the last embers of my imaginings, I go back to my humdrum little life in a flash. Manu still isn't here, the prick, so I decide to immerse myself in a Spanish translation exercise. But I can't seem to concentrate. After a few minutes' thinking, I manage to persuade myself not to go and meet Joe, on any account. I've played with fire, a bit, and even burnt my fingers but I've absolutely no intention of really going. Joe will stand outside that hotel all alone, I'll still be at home.
Still, that stupid figure keeps coming to mind: a hundred euros an hour. Three days to wait. To wait for what? I've decided not to go, so why have I got it into my head that I should respect the agreement I made with this stranger? I won't go, that's it, end of story. My thoughts seesaw backwards and forwards, between what I should do and what I need, very careful to avoid my poor young heart, which doesn't have any part in all this.
I look at my food cupboard, my empty food cupboard. Stupidly, I have a quick look at my bills on the bookcase. I've got a headache. I snap my translation book shut.
Once, just once.
Chapter 8
The Mug
12 December 2006
IT'S ONLY THREE DAYS since our exchange of emails. And, actually, that's not a bad thing. At least it means I haven't had time to think about what I'm doing . . . and I need the money too badly. We've agreed to meet at two o'clock, for an hour at a cost of a hundred euros. Just an hour, before I go off to work at the telesales company. Right up to the last minute I don't know whether I'm really going to go. But the hole in my pocket kind of spurs me on.
I'm not really sure how or why, but here I am heading towards that wretched street, walking like someone going to a meeting they haven't put in their diary but still can't forget. I've tried hard to pretend I really don't care about this meeting by putting on a boring pair of jeans and a jacket. But under these supposedly normal clothes – in case I bump into someone on the way – no one would guess I'm wearing stockings, which are chafing slightly. It made me laugh when I put them on, I feel a bit ridiculous in them. I even shaved in the shower this morning. Obviously, I do that pretty often, specially since I've been living with Manu, but this time I made a real effort, going back over my knees and ankles several times. A very tricky place, ankles. The reason I did this so carefully isn't absolutely clear yet.
On my way I realise I haven't prepared an explanation in case I meet someone in the street. It doesn't matter that much, anyway, I'm a good liar, I'll come up with something. When I get close to the station I do start hurrying though. The sooner I get there, the sooner it'll be over.
I go through the rules I want to stick to inside my head, methodically: once, just once. I should have smoked a joint before leaving. Yes, that's right, why didn't I think of it? I'd have been much more chilled out, more relaxed, I might even have found the whole thing amusing. Might.
Weirdly, I want to take a few precautions, things I think are important: I won't show myself first, I'll wait till he gets here. Deep down, I still feel as if this is some kind of joke. Stationed outside the appointed hotel, I wait in the chill December air, watching passers-by, almost wanting Joe to turn up just so I don't have to go on enduring this icy wind. Joe, the rough sketch who will become a reality in a few moments' time.
Masses of perfectly logical questions mill around my mind. He said he'd booked a room – did he give his real name at reception? I didn't say anything when he suggested coming here but I think it's such a grim choice. He must test out all his new conquests here and, if they deserve it, he makes their day by taking them to more salubrious places after that. But, actually, if all he wants is sex, why make such a fuss about it? If that's what it is, then he doesn't need much else.
Just before the agreed time, an older looking man stops outside the building and looks around casually, quite naturally. 'Older', that's what people say when they want to be polite and avoid saying plain 'old'. So, basically, he's old. I would never have thought I'd end up sleeping with a man that age.
He doesn't look anything like the photo. Despite the younger, sporty image he's gone for, he certainly looks his age. He's wearing a red checked shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers; with greying hair to match his years. The middle of his face is adorned by a large moustache, still brown in colour. Not very stylish but at least he looks clean. Someone I certainly wouldn't have looked at twice in the street, but he's not repellent either. To think I'm going to see him naked! To think he'll want to touch me! I'm shivering with disgust at the thought. Perhaps because I was expecting much worse, I jump out from my hiding place and cross the street to join him. I also think I'm already forcing myself to switch off my mind.
He sees me coming and his expression changes. I couldn't say whether it's for the better or the worse. We give each other a hasty peck on each cheek, obviously both quite tense. But he's suddenly relaxing and introduces himself very politely, in a gentle voice. My God, he's so old! Oh yes, he's all of fifty-seven now.
'Hello, Laura,' he says, watching me intently.
'Hello, Joe,' I say, not knowing what else to add.
I can't help looking him up and down, completely unashamedly. I don't feel any particular empathy for him, more like loathing, to be honest. I'm struck by his accent and it makes me want to inspect him carefully – he's got boring country bumpkin written all over him. His intonation, the way he puts a lilt at the end of each sentence . . . he's a perfect example of a country boy sent off to make a career in the 'big city' but never quite shaking off his origins. Right now, I'm wondering whether he really will pay me. Given his basic – not to say downrigh
t cheap – clothes, I have every right to be worrying about it.
The way he carries himself betrays an element of routine: this obviously isn't the first time. He appears to be delighted with how I look, and I pretend not to notice that he's ogling me with his crinkly old eyes. I'm like a gift from the gods for him: what more could he ask? A student, giving her body for the first time and, what's more, for a ridiculously low price. He's quivering with pleasure in anticipation and is privately congratulating himself for his excellent choice.
As for me, I'm glancing round frantically; I've been filled with insurmountable fear ever since we met up. I desperately want to get inside because there's only one thing I'm worried about at the moment and that's being recognised. He must have gathered that from the tension on my face, because he's leading the way. He must have gathered lots of things, seeing me there on the pavement for the first time.
I sneak through the main entrance behind him. From the way he's behaving I can tell he knows the ropes.
I walk behind him politely, as if trying to hide. I decide I don't want to see the look on the receptionist's face – he's no fool, he knows exactly what's going on and that this room hasn't been booked in the middle of the afternoon for a couple of tourists who've just got off a train and are tired from their journey.
I've been so busy hiding myself I didn't notice the policemen straight away. Joe didn't slow down or turn a hair at the sight of them. Basically, he didn't do anything to give me the nod. But they really are there: two of them in their distinctive képis, chatting by the reception desk. Now that I'm face to face with them I'd be happier with the accusing stare of the stranger at the desk.
Still, it suddenly dawns on me that the receptionist couldn't matter less, and that what might happen next could have much more impact on my life. Policemen can land you in prison.
Once I'm level with them, I look away, panicking. A horribly familiar feeling of heat – a physical warning of imminent danger – is spreading through my stomach and tormenting my insides. This is it, it's over almost before it's begun. This is it, I'm not yet twenty and I'm going to be caught out at some pitiful game because I didn't gauge the consequences properly. I keep walking while my imagination plays out a sequence worthy of a Hollywood film: I can see myself down at the station with a dazzling white light trained on my face, and handcuffs on my wrists, as I sit on a metal chair protesting my innocence. And my parents are summoned to my local police station, my mother in tears obviously, and my father not even looking at me because I've sullied the family name. What a nightmare!
I keep going, sure that any moment one of the policemen is going to stop me. My feet keep treading one ahead of the other, in spite of everything, following the man responsible for this whole business, for my future life as a convict. But what about him? Joe doesn't seem in the least bothered about what's going on around us. Fuck it, do something, the cops are going to nab us!
I don't cry out though. I'm so paralysed that no sound comes from my mouth at all. Hang on a minute: if the brute isn't batting an eyelid, then maybe he's in on it too. Could he be a plain clothes policeman? Oh, I've really been had . . .
I'm still busy hating myself, along with the whole rest of the world, when I realise we're already in the lift. He hasn't even suggested going separate ways and meeting up in the room, which would have betrayed a bit of perfectly logical concern. In fact, he couldn't give a monkey's about the cops. I get an explanation a few minutes later because something incredible happens: nothing. Absolutely bugger all. The policemen saw us, of course they did, we brushed right past them. Still, nothing's happened.
Instead, we've carried on with our journey in the lift in silence, with him probably already fantasising about what he's going to do once we get up there; and me still petrified, not yet recovered from the head-on impact with the law. When we get up to our floor he goes over to the room without a moment's hesitation – he must know the hotel like the back of his hand.
The first thing I notice are those hideous faded green curtains drawn across both windows. Fucking ugly décor! What sort of person has such bad taste to put curtains like that in a room like this? The rest is pretty basic. Quite big but only with the bare essentials: a bed and matching bedside tables, a desk up against the wall with a phone. It's a good thing I've spotted that straight away; I could lunge for it if Joe gets violent. The carpet's boring, very dark blue, nearly black, I can't be quite sure.
A snapping turn of a key brings me back to reality. Joe has locked us in. No way! We still haven't said a word to each other, except for standard introductions.
'No, the door stays unlocked,' I say.
What a nerve! I've hardly said the words before realising just how curt I sounded. Can you do that to a man you're supposed to be giving yourself to completely? I have absolutely no idea right now. It's the real Laura talking, the one who speaks her mind. He's pulling a bit of a face, just for a moment but long enough for me to see it.
'If you like. It was just so we could be left alone.'
He's not arguing about it and respects my request. Perhaps this won't be all that hard after all.
I'm so wound up and uneasy I can't stop moving, walking aimlessly backwards and forwards between the few pieces of furniture as if trying to offload my stress.
'Are you feeling OK?' he asks.
I'm so obviously tense that the old boy feels he has to ask how I am.
'Yes, I'm fine,' I say quickly to get the pointless conversation over with.
'So, you're a student, are you? A student of what? How old are you, actually?'
I can't bring myself to answer. I'm in too much of a state and too busy looking at him. He's fairly athletic looking and, apart from the pukey shirt, the rest is pretty acceptable. In a way I'm impressed by how old he is.
He continues to ask me a couple of boring questions, and I'm no more forthcoming with them, more out of awkwardness than bad manners.
I turn round and see those ugly curtains again. Why am I so obsessed with them? Everything about them is repulsive. They're sneering at me with that fabric no one's ever washed. I know that they only bother me this much because they're a reflection of my ugly, miserable situation.
He comes across the room carrying a small brown case I hadn't noticed till now. A real businessman's briefcase. He puts it gently down on the bed and starts to work the combination lock. Such an incongruous scene: just try to picture this bloke playing the great professional in his stupid lumberjack shirt!
What's he actually hiding in there? I have a quick enquiring look. At the moment I'm expecting him to take out all sorts of medical equipment, tools and utensils to butcher me. Or perhaps just one little gadget to add a bit of spice to our activities. I'm suddenly very worried about what he might want to get up to; after all, I don't know him from Adam.
The briefcase is lying open on the bed. For a moment I think I'm in a Tarantino film and, as I move closer to see what's inside it, I even picture wodges of banknotes. Instead it's just a boring letter which Joe hands to me.
'What do you want me to do? Read here in front of you?'
Without a word, he nods to mean yes. He's not exactly eccentric but is desperately trying to create something enigmatic in the situation, that's blindingly obvious. Well, I have to admit it's working. Disconcerted, I pick up the piece of paper. The writing is neat and it's clear from the start he's chosen his words carefully.
Dear Laura,
First of all, I'm pleased with your punctuality and would like to thank you for it.
What an idiot! Did he write a different letter in case I was late?
We're going to play a game together today. I'd like you to read my letter all the way through and do what it says as you go along. First of all, I want you to take all your clothes off.
Time seems to have mutated into a vast embarrassed silence. Joe isn't saying anything, just standing with his arms crossed. A proper job interview. If I pass the nudity test, I'm bound to be offered the jo
b.
I slowly put the letter down on the edge of the bed. Without thinking I take off my top and, not waiting for any reaction from him, slide my jeans down over my thighs. I lower myself in what I hope is a slightly languid movement to get them right off.
He can't take his eyes off me, his mouth is gaping. I can see the beginnings of an erection beneath his jogging pants.
My bra, cotton knickers and stockings are now the only things hiding my anatomy. I stand in front of him with my hands behind my back, offering him all this intimacy. I'm the child-woman, Nabokov's Lolita, and he loves it. I'm completely disconnected from reality. This is like torture for me but I dispel it with a giggle. I've got so many complexes about my body, even though it's so slim now, and I'm genuinely finding this situation confusing. He doesn't move and hasn't said anything for quarter of an hour.
He takes a deep breath and begins to open his lips. Go on, say something.
'Wow!' he manages to exclaim quickly.
And that's it. One exclamation. No one could understand how I suddenly feel. All at once my body is filled with hope and a sort of happiness. With just one word and in a fraction of a second, this man I've never met before has succeeded where dozens of others have failed: making me realise my body's attractive. Why did it have to be him? I can't answer that, it's just inexplicable. All I know is that it's the first time I've heard and accepted a compliment. That's when I start thinking of him as a man and not some great creep who wants to put his mitts all over me. He must have seen strings and strings of girls but he can still be impressed.
We give each other a knowing smile and something oddly like trust is reached between us.
