by Laura D
When he seems satisfied with his blood-alcohol levels, we head back to our little 'love nest'. He makes me laugh on the way home, telling me silly stories. Manu's always more fun when he's got a few drinks inside him, in fact I think I prefer him like that.
We walk into the apartment in silence; the euphoria of the evening and of getting on well together is over. We get ready for bed like a couple who've been married twenty years. Given what he was like when we left the bar, I could try to turn him on a bit this evening. I do contemplate it, just for a minute.
Manu and I don't have sex very often: he can't always, as they say, rise to the occasion. I suppose it can happen to any couple that's together for a few years, and most like to think it will only be temporary. But it's beginning to feel like a long time to me and my DIY efforts are a bit boring. Unless he comes looking for it I gave up trying a while ago now. I've always been someone you could generously describe as 'eager', but I don't want him any more. I've been worried about this and have even spoken to my gynaecologist but she reassured me, saying this sort of thing often happens if you feel the other person no longer wants you. Bull's eye! What with his semierections and my vaginal dryness, we make a right pair. Like most people, I like sex and see it as an essential part of a relationship; so it's hardly surprising that ours is in such a bad way. I've got to the point where I just want him to fuck me. Before today. Because now I've realised I'll never want him again.
What's really odd is he doesn't seem particularly bothered about it. The only things he's been interested in these last few months seem to be going out with his friends and his course at uni. Although we haven't admitted it to ourselves, our relationship is in its death throes. We've accepted it, uncomplaining, because we know we can't actually do anything about it. When love disappears it's very difficult to rekindle it, even if you keep on and on trying.
So this evening, watching the pair of us brushing our teeth in silence in the bathroom mirror, I understand that this situation can't go on. Our relationship is a complete farce. Is it because of what happened this afternoon? That definitely had a catalytic effect, but the tension's been just below the surface for a while.
Is he going to talk to me, say anything at all? I feel deep inside me that, if he doesn't say anything, if he doesn't suspect what I've been through today, it will be hard for me to accept. It would mean he definitely doesn't know me the way he once did, because he used to know the minute something was wrong. I need his shoulders, and his arms to protect me and help me forget, just for this evening.
I slip between the sheets in bed. The silence weighs on me so heavily. Not this evening, Manu, please, I beg you not to ignore me this evening, take me in your arms. He gets into bed beside me without even looking at me. He seems ready to get into what has become our usual sleeping position: with our backs to each other. I have to face full on the fact I've been refusing to see for months: our relationship's over.
Now that he's lying down and even after he's closed his eyes, I still hope he might start talking. I take the plunge: 'Goodnight.'
'Mm,' he answers sleepily.
Yup, goodnight, Manu. Goodbye.
Chapter 10
Loneliness
13 December 2006
THE SHRILL SOUND of the alarm clock wrenches me out of my deep sleep. I couldn't get to sleep last night, tossing and turning in bed as I went over what had happened during the day. I got up and smoked millions of cigarettes in the kitchen. I even tried to work on my Italian civilisation essay – unsuccessfully. My mind was too busy. It was only at about five o'clock in the morning, by which time I was really exhausted, that my eyes closed of their own accord.
Manu's still asleep. I gaze silently at his naked back turned away from me. I switch off the alarm and suddenly remember. Yesterday. The nightmare. The nightmares.
Since last night I know it's all over with Manu. Our relationship – which was a model of passion and friendship in the beginning – has gradually gone up in smoke and I haven't been able to do anything about it. I feel lonely getting up this morning, lonely facing my soul-destroying day. I'll always remember 12 December 2006 when my life changed so much.
But I've already run out of time to think. I need to get up and go to uni. There's only one thing I want: to bury myself in bed and cry. But that's not an option – I know that now. I'm going to have to carry on getting up every day. I'm going to have to live with the weight of that day on my shoulders. Right now I hate myself. Even in my pyjamas, hidden under all that fabric, I feel as if my body is tainted and exposed for all to see. I feel as if the horrible thing I've done is seeping from every pore, that no one can help noticing the ugliness radiating from me. I feel horribly dirty. Would it be even worse if Joe had had me completely?
I stumble to my feet. My body feels impossibly heavy. In the bathroom I let the water flow over me for quarter of an hour. At first I don't even move then I take a sponge and rub my skin as hard as I can. I inflict so much punishment on it that it starts going red. I couldn't give a stuff, I can't help myself. I want to get rid of all this crud and pretend yesterday never happened. I lost everything yesterday: Manu and my self-respect. For 250 euros.
I'm having to hurry now, not wanting to be late for the Métro. The real world is catching up with me so I don't even have time to feel sorry for myself because I need to get to uni. But how's this going to work? I know I won't be able to concentrate or listen or actually say anything. There are voices in my head which keep on and on telling me I'm just a prostitute. I've sold my body for money. I gave myself to a stranger for cash while my boyfriend was in lectures. I'm worthless and dirty, and it feels like I will be for the rest of my life.
I get dressed gently and quietly, and close the door of the apartment on my relationship with Manu. I'll never have that innocence in me now when I look at him. I haven't just cheated on him, it goes beyond that. I've cheated on myself, prostituted myself. The word rasps in my throat as I say it. But it just keeps coming back because that really is what happened.
There's a frost this morning. I walk quickly to avoid the icy wind and, maybe, because the speed might deaden my whirring thoughts. I feel a failure, ashamed, I haven't even got the strength to cry.
The journey to uni doesn't help much. When you sit down in the Métro you start thinking, going over things in your mind. Even if you don't want to, you have to think – about yourself, about life, about what you are. I sit there thinking, without even realising it, without meaning to. I feel as if everyone can tell what I did yesterday just by looking at me. I can feel myself blushing and bury my face in the big scarf round my neck.
Even if I stay with Manu I'm sure he'd work out what I've done sooner or later. My sin weighs too heavily on my mind for it not to show on the outside. I'm tired from my short night but I know I won't even be able to snooze today. All that hard work wasn't enough, I'm now going to have to pay for my mistake for the rest of my life with this constant thinking.
I come out of the Métro with my head in a whirl, my life's in a far worse state than before. There's one thing I'm sure of: my studies can be my refuge. Apart from them, Manu was the only thing worth putting my energy into, worth giving myself to. Now that that's all over I can't just let myself go. I've got to get a grip on my life again. I've done something wrong, but I've promised myself it will never happen again. And here's the proof: once was enough to make me lose the boy I loved. No, I'll never do it again.
Chapter 11
The Car Park
22 December 2006
NEVER AGAIN!' Well, I should have expected this: now that I've paid the bills and given Manu the rent, I've got nothing left. The workhouse is beckoning again – I've got to find somewhere to sleep. But how? A friend at uni has agreed to take me in for a while. She lives alone in her apartment and I think, deep down, she's quite pleased to have some company.
I'm at hers then, getting ready to meet someone. I've answered one of those countless ads a second time: people asking fo
r students are hardly in short supply so I had no trouble finding a new taker.
Life goes on with its day-to-day trials and I've gone along with it, trying to cope as best I can, but while I'm looking for a new apartment I inevitably come up against lots of expenses which I can't meet with the money from my telesales job. Once again, I've come to a dead end financially. It's no longer a question of just struggling. I feel that, if I don't do something, this will go on and on happening and I'll never keep my head above water. If I want to live in my own apartment this is the price I have to pay.
I've already got a job and my classes, what else can I do? I ask myself the question but I already know the answer. That door is still open in spite of all the promises I made myself.
I have mixed emotions about that first time with Joe – which, in my mind, wasn't really a first time because it was so far removed from what you would expect. Taking my clothes off in front of him and having to go along with his fantasies really shook me up but, even so, I still felt I'd taken him for a ride. It was a terrible first time, in fact, because now that I'm short of cash again I can't completely write off that option.
So I've got in touch with another man. Sitting in a trance in front of a secluded computer at uni, I gave in again. Still in the same state, I see this rendezvous just as a way of getting back on my feet and being done with all the expenses for the apartment. We've agreed on a rate of seventy euros an hour for two hours. Plus the restaurant which, obviously, he will pay for.
He's young, only twenty-six, and his name is Julien. Maybe it will be easier with him, I think to myself, than with someone old like Joe. I'm also curious about his motives, why he's prepared to pay a prostitute. I would have thought at his age it wouldn't be all that difficult finding a girl.
We've arranged to meet in a restaurant in the city centre. This time if I bump into someone it won't be much of a challenge finding an explanation. We're the same generation, which helps. People won't be tempted to speculate as they might have done if they'd seen me with Joe.
I don't have to wait for him, he's already there when I arrive. It only takes one look to understand why he contacted me – he's got frustration written all over him. Physically he's beyond ordinary: not particularly tall, or especially short and he carries himself with a sort of stoop. He's got terrible hair which, again, instantly pigeonholes him as boring. I think it's meant to be gelled and spiky but it all veers off to one side – no sense of style there.
His clothes leave a lot to be desired too, I think, starting to hate him. Limp wine-coloured woollen jumper, shapeless jeans and festering trainers. The general impression is slightly ridiculous. The sort of typical loser I'd never look at twice in the street. Unless, of course, he was as the butt of a joke between me and my girlfriends. Are we cruel? Maybe we are.
We've given each other a tentative peck on each cheek. He's clearly embarrassed and already seems to be regretting coming. As we go into the restaurant, I hope people don't think we're an item. Misplaced pride on my part. I'm glad I didn't get too dressed up for the evening: I'm just wearing jeans and a little top, quite sexy but not too much.
The place is just like him – nondescript. No form of decoration, white walls, tables in neat rows. The glaring white light is probably what bothers me most because it exposes us too much. Terrible, that's how I would describe the place. The owner hasn't even tried to give it a casual café atmosphere which I would have liked. I'm obviously dogged by bad taste in my experiences as a prostitute, so I'm constantly reminded exactly what I'm doing. Anyway, even if I liked this place, the fact that I'm here with a customer puts a mental block on ever coming back. A customer? Yes, a customer, because I'm on the game.
The waitress takes us to a table near another couple. The place is very full and the tables are all very close together. I can sense Julien tensing slightly; he would have preferred a more isolated position to avoid being noticed. Once we're settled we sit in silence for a moment, and I can tell he's rubbing his hands together nervously under the table, not sure how to get a conversation started. I think I'll help him a bit, not only out of pity but also because I refuse to spend the whole evening in silence.
'What do you do for a living?'
'I work for a company on the outskirts of V. It's quite interesting work and . . .'
It's only taken one sentence: I'm bored. I keep my eyes trained on him but don't listen to the rest, just letting my thoughts wander. Twenty-four hours later I won't have a clue what he's telling me this evening – I'll just remember a long tirade, a soporific monologue which he found reassuring and which meant he could disguise his obvious embarrassment. There's absolutely nothing interesting about this guy, just like his job.
Worried I might die of boredom and finding it difficult to go on hiding how effing tedious I'm finding this, I start stirring things up a bit. It's one of my biggest faults: the minute I see a weakness in someone, I'm cruel and make the most of it. I have plenty of doubts about myself, of course, but I never let them show, so I really don't understand people who can't cover theirs up. This guy's clearly a loser, I tell myself, and the really bad news for him is it comes across in everything he does.
I make no bones about butting into his mind-numbing drivel: 'Why are you here today?'
'Here? You mean why did I choose this restaurant?'
'No, come on! Here, with me. Why did you decide to put an ad on the net asking for a "masseuse"?'
He is visibly put out. The challenging, provocative note in my voice makes him uncomfortable. He's looking frantically left and right to see whether anyone's heard my question. I can already see the beads of sweat on his forehead. What a prat! Does he really think I'm going to spend the whole meal pretending I don't know he only wants to fuck me? Unless, deep down, he doesn't really know what he wants.
'Well . . . um . . . it's quite complicated, you know . . . I've never done this sort of thing before, this is the first time.'
Go on, spit it out, you can't get enough, can you? I'm getting really crude inside my head.
'Here goes: I'm married . . . to someone great, perfect in fact . . . but, well, when it comes to sex . . . I don't really know what's going on . . . it's complicated . . .'
'I'm sure it's not all that complicated. Your wife's frigid, is that it?'
You could say I'm not exactly mincing my words. He sits up in shock then lets his shoulders droop again, as if agreeing with what I've just said. This man's got taboos that I've walked all over in a matter of minutes. Stuff it, why should I be the only one to suffer?
'Um . . . yes, that's right. Let's say she doesn't really want me that way. At first, I thought it would sort itself out, it wouldn't last, do you see what I mean? We've been married a year now, but nothing's changed in terms of sex, quite the opposite. She rejects me the whole time and I daren't force her or talk to her about it. I don't have many friends I can talk to about it either and . . .'
It's now clear the poor bloke's in despair. Probably married too young to his childhood sweetheart, no mates to have a good time with, so he turns to prostitutes to drown his sorrows. He hasn't really got any social life and is trying to plug this gap with me this evening. He goes off into another endless soliloquy, telling me how lonely he feels, that he actually finds his work incredibly boring . . . and lots of other stuff I forget the minute he says it.
I interrupt him brutally once again: 'A relationship without sex is just friendship,' I say curtly.
He looks at me as if I've just said something terrible. I only half believe what I've said, but I find him exasperating and he makes me feel like being cruel. He looks crestfallen from my comment.
Right now I realise that being a prostitute doesn't stop at sex. Customers often contact professionals just to talk, to unburden their dull or thwarted lives. I'm not prepared to deal with this situation, listening to some rutting male whingeing. I've got my own problems and, even though I may not actually be suffering, it's already more than I can take. The conversation'
s taking a dangerous turn and heading towards something far too personal for my liking. I'm rapidly turning into his 'sex shrink'. This guy's forcing me to think and that shouldn't be compatible with the working-girl Laura. It's not the line of work I had in mind.
As the meal goes on I learn more and more about his life till I'm literally drowning in his day-to-day existence. The worst of it is, in any other circumstances, I'm sure I would have found him rather touching. In a different context I would probably have consoled him but, here, I just can't. I can't listen to his complaining any longer so I cut him dead: 'OK, say it, you need sex, don't you?'
He nearly jumps out of his skin. I'm scaring him, and I'm scaring myself. Being so crude and provocative. But I can't help myself. I'm fed up with this bloke beating about the bush so I'm taking things into my own hands to get the evening over with.
'Um . . . yes,' he eventually manages to whisper, relieved to be exorcised at last.
'Right, good. Well, we'd better get going then, don't you think?'
I can see he's panicking.
'Um . . . Go? Now?' he says.
'Yes, now. We've chatted enough for this evening.'
I can't take any more of this endless talking. The man got in touch with me for a 'massage' and instead we meet in this crumby restaurant and talk about his empty life. I want to bring this masquerade to an end as soon as possible.
'But where? In a hotel?'
'Have you got enough money for a hotel?'
'I don't know . . . you know . . . I don't know if I really want to any more.'
'Of course you want to. You got in touch with me so you must want to.'
