by Laura D
'This is exactly the sort of reason I don't like "professionals". They can't have that innocent look you've got.'
I don't really know how to take this comment. Does he already think of me as a prostitute? Does it just take a couple of tricks to warrant that label?
He's tilted his chin towards the letter again for me to carry on reading. I do as I'm told.
Now I want you to go and have a shower. I'll have one after you. I'm very happy you're here and we're spending this time together.
I skim through to the end of the letter. I mean, the rest is obvious: once I'm naked and have had my shower it's not like we're going to launch into a fiendish game of Scrabble.
Thank you, Laura, for coming here today. I'm so happy to have met you and I do hope we'll see each other again soon. You seem like a nice person.
A nice person? How can he know? Am I a nice person because I've agreed to stand in front of him in my underwear to get the money I need? The letter ends with a whole blah blah blah of boring stuff he must have felt he had to write to ease his conscience and make me trust him. Still, his words betray a kindness I would never have imagined. This meeting isn't going as I thought it would. There I was thinking it would be an hour of blanking out my mind, putting my thoughts to one side, but now I can't help thinking about this man.
I take off the few scraps of fabric left on me and head meekly for the bathroom.
When I've closed the door I confront the mirror in that tiny room. Despite my best efforts, I can't avoid my reflection. Standing there naked in front of that mirror, I'm very tempted to succumb to self-pity. Once again I feel disconnected from this 'session' because I've come face to face with myself, with what I'm doing. I've never really looked at myself so closely and so carefully. I'm oddly proud of my body since Joe's exclamation and I start to scrutinise myself. I've never much liked my tummy but I look at it differently now. Somewhere deep inside me there's a voice trying to bring me back to my senses. Shit, I'm completely losing the plot, torn between two different feelings.
The fact that I have to shower creates a break in the proceedings, a break that forces me to think long and hard. I turn on the water and adjust the pressure to try to stop the whirring in my head.
It may seem incongruous but I'm smiling. Yes, smiling because I suddenly think I look good. I've gone back to childhood and that compliment from this man who's older than my own father has made me happy as a child being praised by her grandfather.
The water flows gently over my body and I lather it frenetically with the cheap soap graciously provided by the hotel. There isn't any need to scrub so hard, he hasn't touched me yet. But I carry on rubbing even harder, as if wanting to tear my skin. Perhaps I'm washing away this situation, the man himself, the room, his compliments, the green curtains.
Once I'm clean I grab a towel to dry myself and secure it expertly between my breasts, panicking at the thought of him coming into the bathroom. I hesitate for a moment. I don't know whether I'm supposed to go out naked or not. While I'm wondering about this I realise that, sooner or later, I'll be naked in front of him. It might just as well be me who decides. I grasp the knot between my breasts and undo it. The towel falls limply to the floor with a muffled sound.
When I open the door Joe is on the bed in his boxer shorts. I can see his torso for the first time. No surprises there. He certainly is fifty-seven, with white hairs and a slight paunch.
'You really turn me on, you know,' he says with a sigh.
Yes, I'm sure I do.
'Right, this is what's going to happen,' he says, then pauses before adding calmly, 'I love role playing. I have a lot of fantasies about it.'
Noticing my slightly disconcerted expression, he's quick to explain what he means.
'Now I want you to leave the room and wait in the corridor for a moment, then knock on the door twice. When I tell you to come in, you'll come in and do as I tell you.'
'What, you mean like this? Completely naked?'
'Yes, like that, completely naked.'
You wouldn't like a hundred euros into the bargain, by any chance! The way things are going I'm going to end up paying him. The fantasy of the naked girl knocking at the door is too much. What would happen if someone saw me? I'm feeling lost now.
'No.'
'What do you mean no? Why not?'
'No.'
'Am I allowed to know why?'
His expression's changed suddenly. I can tell from the tone of his voice that my refusal has just shattered the titillating image he was putting together. He knows I can put the dampers on his lewd inventions and, even though I am trapped and perfectly polite, he's not prepared to accept that.
I'm frightened now: I've broken his rules. I realise he won't give up on the goal he's set if I don't follow the instructions.
'Because this is difficult for me. Getting undressed in front of you was already a huge step. I don't know, I'm not sure now I can go any further. You're rushing things.'
Before coming I didn't think I'd have to talk to him so much. I'm prepared to give him my body so he can do what he wants with it while I close my eyes to get through the hour, but I don't want to have to act so much. Dead dog for an hour, maybe, but not an actress.
My response was genuine and after a while his expression softens. But deep in his eyes I can tell he won't give up.
'Listen, I do understand, but –' bingo, there's the 'but' '– don't be frightened, trust me, everything'll be fine. All you have to go is go out of the room for a moment and knock on the door . . .'
I obey him as quickly as possible yet again; the sooner I do this the sooner I'll get my hands on his money. My money. I already think of it as mine, otherwise I wouldn't be able to carry on.
So I go over to the door and, naked as I am, step outside – not without a quick glance round first. What a ridiculous situation! Humiliating even. If Manu or my parents could see me now . . . After barely a second I knock, which means I don't have time to think what the hell am I doing in this fucking corridor. I rush back into the room. He doesn't make me do it again.
He's still sitting on the bed and I position myself opposite it.
'Now stroke yourself for me. Stroke yourself as if you were discovering your body for the first time.'
Having understood the previous lesson, my hands come to rest on my body and work their way up towards my face. Without faltering, I run them over the back of my neck and slowly lift up my hair, closing my eyes as if trying to make him believe I really am enjoying what I'm doing.
I open them for a moment just to check how aroused Joe is and prepare myself for a potential onslaught of hands on me. I've got this all wrong. He's watching me the way he would a common porn film, with empty expressionless eyes. I carry on with my little performance, running my hands blandly over the tops of my breasts. I glance furtively at my watch which is still on my wrist. It's twenty-nine minutes past two. Only half an hour to go.
This all feels so unreal to me. I can't get into the character of the seductress – with or without the money. I'm too straightforward to pretend. I want to go home. What am I doing here? I can't bring myself to move my hands lower, they're stuck just above my groin. I'm not that good at acting.
'Touch yourself more, you've got to carry on arousing me.'
Obviously this isn't good enough for him. I'm completely lost again, feeling so hopeless I drop my arms by my sides. I don't know how to do this, where to put my hands. I feel clumsy and useless here in front of him but at the same time I feel I really couldn't care less any more. Two thirty-four.
'This isn't working. I can't do it.'
'I can see. You're more the type who likes to be dominated,' he says with an absurd teasing note in his voice.
I'm so nervous I feel like laughing at this pathetic attempt at flirtation, but I control myself. If you think about it, it's quite true: who wants to dominate someone if they feel no desire for them? Who even wants to participate? Well, only one sort of person: those who
need money.
One simple answer, spoken in a childish voice, would have kept him happy: 'Oh yes, I want you to be my master.' Of course, I'm completely incapable of saying it. None of this is happening anything like I'd imagined it. I thought I'd be fucked quickly and that would be it. Just my luck to get a perv . . .
'Here, come and sit down on the bed,' he manages after twisting his lips in thought for a minute. 'I'll take matters into my own hands.'
He sounds firm, the serious bit's starting now. His fantasies are taking over.
I do as I'm told and find myself sitting beside him on the shabby bedspread which must have been here since the hotel first opened judging by its nondescript colour, struggling somewhere between blue and green.
Once again, I'm doing what he expects without batting an eyelid: one last effort, Laura. Two thirty-six. So I'm sitting on the bed with my breasts bare. His eyes, his whole face and his penis can't get enough of them. Go on, have a good look, don't be shy. If he goes on ogling them like this I might not even have to give him my whole body.
'Lie down on your back.'
Oops. He's not that stupid then. Two forty-one.
He puts his hand on the base of my neck and pushes gently downwards. I can feel his palm on my body for the first time, feel him touching me for the first time.
Lying on my back, I admire the flaking ceiling as I wait to feel his skin against mine. Just when I stop thinking about it his hand touches me, making me jump slightly, though I'm not really surprised. First, he starts with my stomach and moves up towards my neck. He probably means it to be sensual but it can't possibly have any effect on me. His other hand joins in too. The toing and froing on my upper body gets rougher, more intense, accelerating as his erection grows. I haven't opened my eyes once, trying to think of it all as a bad dream.
I can't work out whether feeling his old paws on me makes me want to be sick or to cry. I'm a dead body laid out on the bed. Well, he asked for a body and that's what he's got. If he asked me to do more right now I'd slap him.
Instead, the physical dance comes to a stop and he sits back up. I expect him to make some new bizarre request.
'Sit down, we're going to talk,' he says quickly.
I can't tell if this is a joke. Is talking to him in the contract? I imagine he can do whatever he likes – he is paying me.
'Why are you here today?'
The million-dollar question or how to get a student to own up.
'Have you got a boyfriend? What do you do in V?'
The questions are getting very personal. There's no danger of my giving him the real version of my life: it would be completely unbearable to give him even a hint of the life I lead. And, anyway, I'm not paid to tell the truth.
'No, I haven't got a boyfriend.'
Two forty-nine. Ten little minutes, but they could prove terrible.
'Is this money for you?'
I shake my head.
After pausing a moment, he says, 'What you're doing is a good thing.'
Really?
'I've got people who depend on me too, you know. I'm divorced and I've got a daughter. A bit older than you. I've remarried, a very beautiful woman, a while ago now. Sex with her isn't really happening. Anyway, I gave up on trying to share my fantasies with her long ago. You know, it's not easy having to face up to someone who doesn't want you any more.'
What's not easy for me at this precise moment is listening to his life story. I don't understand why he's decided to confide in me, when he's only just met me. If I go on listening to him I won't be able to help imagining his world, putting together images of who he is outside this hotel room. V isn't a huge place, and it would be perfectly possible to bump into Joe out for a family walk.
To think that when he leaves here he's bound to be going home to her. It sends a shiver right through me. I feel sorry for his wife and wonder what she would think if she knew her husband was regularly paying young girls and, on top of that, talking to them about her during his sessions.
'I don't want to know about your life.'
I'm fuming with irritation. Who does he think he is criticising other people when he hasn't got things exactly straight in his own head? I'm not saying anything more. I thought being a prostitute would just be a mechanical thing but here he is delving inside my head.
'Please tell me that with me you're combining a necessity with pleasure?' Joe says gently.
We've reached the pinnacle of absurdity now. I try to find something in his eyes or his tone of voice, some indication that he doesn't believe what he's just said for one moment. Not a bit of it. He really thinks I'm doing all this, not just for the money, but because – deep down – I actually like it. In his deranged mind, a woman can't give herself just for money, there has to be another reason. And, still in his deranged mind, I'm sure he enjoys thinking he's not as ugly as all that. Is it really that difficult for an old man whose own wife no longer wants him to acknowledge that my only motivation is financial?
So I don't say anything; I don't even feel angry any more, just a bit thrown. Then he goes back to his dance across my body with his hands, still touching my chest, breasts and stomach. The touch of his skin burns me, upsets me, but I don't let it show. He doesn't go lower down my body, my genitals are still virgin to his hands – a relief in the midst of my despair.
'Next time I'll bring you something. You'll like it, you'll see.'
Joe's already planning to see me again. Once again, I don't say anything, I can't exactly scream that that's out of the question.
'It's OK, you can get dressed again, it's time.'
Freedom, it's three o'clock! It's over. Very punctually, he gets up.
He rummages in his briefcase while I hastily get dressed.
'I'm really very pleased, you know,' he says, going back to his flattery. 'This first meeting's been fantastic. I've really enjoyed it. You're gorgeous, I wasn't expecting someone like you. And on top of that you're sensitive and pleasant, which I really like. All right, you had some reservations at the beginning, but I can be shy too. It'll go better in future, you'll see.'
He hands me an envelope and, right there in front of him, without even checking whether custom or good manners mean I should wait till I'm outside, I admire my booty. It's not a hundred euros that Joe's given me, as I was expecting, but two hundred and fifty! Two one-hundred euro notes and one fifty. I've never seen a one-hundred euro note before. My only concern about all this money is how I'm going to produce a one-hundred euro note from my pocket without arousing suspicion. I never spend that much; fives are more my usual fare.
'We'll see each other on the internet. But if you see me on MSN don't try talking to me, it's often my wife logging on in my name.'
With that we go down in the same lift that brought us up. The policemen are no longer at reception but, right now, I couldn't really care. I'm walking on air, my newly acquired money has given me wings. For now I'm in the clear, in one hour I've earned enough to deal with some bills that have been hounding me.
A whopping great 250 euros just to look at me – I really took him for a ride. What a mug, and to think he reckons we'll be seeing each other again. Never, it's over, once and just once. I'm worried he'll realise he's been had so I hurry off, just in case. I'm also keen to get away from that hotel and forget everything about it as soon as possible.
I'm feeling so relieved it's all over that I'm not really thinking about anything else. I haven't yet grasped that crafty old Joe manipulated me with his flattery and kind words, and knows exactly what he's doing.
All I can think about is this money which is now mine and will mean I can breathe for a while. I'll find a different solution next time. I pat my jeans pocket with its life-saving envelope and smile. Yup, just once, I smile in triumph.
Chapter 9
The Boyfriend
12 December 2006
I DON'T FEEL LIKE going straight to work after my meeting with Joe. I've got half an hour to spare so I call some friends and he
ad for my favourite café, the one in the city centre run by my friend Paul.
When we meet up I smile normally. Nothing on my face betrays what I was doing half an hour ago. We joke about things – exactly what I need to stop me thinking about what's just happened. After a good hour checking up on all the latest gossip, the time's come to settle the bill.
'Look, girls, I'm really sorry, but I haven't got enough to pay for my coffee. Do you think you could pay for me? I'll pay you back soon, I promise.'
I honestly can't produce my one-hundred euro note here, or even the fifty. They wouldn't understand, given I never have any money. They know me well and know I often can't pay my way. They pick up the till receipt without a word, splitting the bill between the two of them.
'No problem, Laura. It'll be your round next time,' one of them says, laughing.
She probably doesn't believe it. Most of the time I'm so skint I can't even pay for my own coffee. I often ask friends to come over to the apartment rather than meeting in a bistro, so that I don't have to beg. Still, when I get my wages, I invite them all out for a drink, just the one, but it evens things out financially.
Do they suspect something today? I'm trying my hardest to be me: happy and open. Things have been really tough recently but I've never admitted that to them. When they come to the apartment they ask whether I've got anything to eat and I joke about not having time to do the shopping.
Despite all the trouble I've gone to disguising my precarious situation, my friends are no fools. They may not gauge how bad it is, but can still see I'm struggling. They've been paying for my coffees for a long time now – they don't even notice any more. It still makes me feel awkward, though, but this time is worse, there's a heavy feeling inside me, laden with guilt. I've got the money in my pocket. I've got enough to pay for countless rounds with what I've just earned.
In the evening I meet Manu in a bar but don't order a drink for myself. I watch him finish his pint.
'How are you, gorgeous? What's your day been like?'
'Pff, just another day, nothing special.'
My arse! It's been anything but just another day but I can't exactly see myself confiding in him: 'Look, I'm fine, I've had a pretty normal day. Before work I let an old bugger I'd never met before fiddle with me. And the best bit is he paid me 250 euros. And all so I can give you money for the rent and bills while you smoke and offer everyone else drinks. Not bad, don't you think?'
