by Laura D
I feel helpless when I think of my everyday expenses. It was over a month ago that I had that first meeting with Joe. In that time, I've had three big customers who temporarily fished me out of the red by giving me over 600 euros between them. Thanks to them, I settled my major financial problems, the ones that had been building up for a while, but there's still the rent, bills etc. It's endless. Too many things to think about and pay for. I feel swamped.
I go back to my ads on the internet.
First I contact an amateur photographer . . . who makes me wear the most improbable outfits. Even in my most outrageous fantasies I couldn't think up things like that. As the session goes on I find him more and more dubious. He gets demanding, almost aggressive in the way he speaks to me if I don't do what he wants.
'Oh, come on, Laura, don't stand like that! Do you really think you're going to turn anyone on in that position? Don't be such a lump! It needs to be sexier, yes, like that, with your mouth open, good!'
I bring the shoot to an end as soon as I can. When I pocket the money I realise it's not as much as I can get from sleeping with a stranger. And, anyway, I'm not at all comfortable with the idea: photos leave a trail. I'm not prepared to take that sort of risk. I'm keen to stay as discreet as possible. The guy calls me back several times, even suggests threesomes with another girl.
'It's OK, she's a student like you, you'll get on really well, I know you will!'
Just the thought of ending up with some other poor girl in the same shitty situation as myself makes my blood run cold. He can tell I'm hanging back so he raises the fee, going higher and higher till he's quoting sums that seem unbelievable to someone like me. All the same, I get this feeling that if I accept the offer I'll fall into his clutches. He's got every characteristic of the classic pimp: cajoling and protective one minute, violent the next. He seems to be part of a network that operates all over V. If I let him get close to me, I'll never get out of prostitution. I can't see this as my future – not that any prostitute can, mind you.
The fact that I've come so close to the downward spiral of networks like that makes me shudder. I feel weak and powerless in their manipulative hands but at the same time strong for keeping my head screwed on. So far I've succeeded in spotting danger in time and haven't just accepted any old thing. I've managed to avoid pimps, but how long can I hold out? Once you become a prostitute you can't help being in a world where people know you and recognise you. I haven't got any money and it feels as if the deeper I go into this hidden life, the more trouble I have making ends meet. With every new financial crisis I'm tempted to turn to prostitution. It's a vicious circle, scoffing at me and dragging me down like quicksand: the more money I earn, the more I spend and the more I want.
I do know that I've been 'lucky' so far. No one has forced me and I haven't landed up with any nutcases. I shake at the thought that I may actually be waiting for something more shocking to happen before I put an end to this double life. And what if that catalytic event never happens? What if the limits are pushed back bit by bit, so gradually that I don't see the danger coming? Will I be one of the so-called 'professionals' one day? Will I have the strength to get back out?
I only let myself think like that very occasionally. Not that I'm in denial: I'm perfectly aware that I'm playing with fire. I'm just trying to protect myself. At the moment I haven't found any other way of getting money quickly, so I might just as well try not to weigh myself down too much with what I'm doing.
All this self-destructive introspection is feeding my schizophrenia. I can feel two different versions of me emerging while I think. I'm not all black or all white; I'm not completely a prostitute or completely a student – every aspect of my life's a contradiction. The rest of the time I believe firmly in the future. I can see myself with a little family in a beautiful house, doing a job I love, far removed from all this crap. I know I've got the resources to clamber back out of the hole. I'll get through this, of course I will. Later I'll always have a secret sense of having succeeded, of victory. Where few girls have triumphed, I'll serve as an example.
Later, I've made up my mind, I'll be a good person. Right now I can't afford to be.
I've started thinking more and more seriously about the Joe solution. Since we met the first time he hasn't left me alone. I get emails from him every day and I delete them automatically without even reading them. As a newcomer to the profession, I can't contemplate seeing the same customers again. But I'm quickly coming to realise that regulars are exactly the people I need to rely on because they really are a safety net for us in our trickiest times – 'us' being prostitutes.
I think I'm stupidly hoping for a Pretty Woman scenario with a Richard Gere lookalike coming along and taking me away from all this hell. Although I do remind myself that's not going to happen if I keep seeing the same customers. So I'm looking further afield for my rare pearl, avoiding Joe like the plague. I can't help smiling when I think that, even with a customer, I'm dreaming of a sort of Prince Charming.
But this Richard Gere is taking his time and when I get yet another letter from my landlady saying I must pay the rent by the end of the week, I tell myself I can easily find customers all over the place. Customers I know I can trust are not so easy. The ads often ooze with rampant perversity which stops me replying to them. Joe's different. The lasting impression I have of him is that I took him for a ride. He was quite happy to pay me for virtually nothing: just rubbing his hands over my body a bit. For now his fantasies strike me as perfectly manageable. I've forgotten the horrible feelings I had while I was with him, all the embarrassment and disgust I felt. I haven't yet worked out that that's exactly where the danger lies: only remembering the envelope full of money.
My landlady's letter is followed the next day by my payslip. I smirk at the sight of my salary: peanuts, that's what I'm earning with those phone calls.
I contact Joe that same evening, from a cyber-café, initially just asking him how he is. The poor bloke must live in front of his computer because he answers within seconds.
In the very next email I tell him it's OK to meet up in the next few days, and the sooner the better because I need money in a hurry. He seems eager to agree, urged on by his desire. But, being polite, he does still ask how I am. I slip the fact that it's nearly my birthday into my reply, and suggest we could meet up on the day. Without a moment's hesitation I send the page about my dream laptop as an attachment.
I know many people will find that shocking. I feel that if these perverts want to have me, then they can pay a high price to get me. Even so, I still can't get used to the idea that I'm a 'prostitute'. I feel as if I'm worth more than that. And money is the only way I can find to prove it to myself. I'm going to be nineteen and, this year more than any other, I need support and reassurance. I have this stupid idea I'll get that from a computer given to me by a customer. God, I can be thick!
His next email doesn't come so quickly. I can tell I've unsettled him a bit. But how could he begin to think I've got back in touch with him because I like him? The only thing I'm interested in is his money. Still, he does answer by asking why I need a computer. I explain that having one would make my everyday life as a student much easier. I lay it on a bit thick with the treacly details because I know I'm dealing with a protective daddy who's quite easy to soften up. I get his reply a few minutes later:
Laura,
It seems times are pretty hard for you at the moment, and I can quite see how badly you need a computer. Which model are you interested in? Do you have any particular preferences? . . .
I instantly know that it's in the bag. I'm not even ashamed of myself. Right now I think I would accept anything from him because I'm convinced that our next meeting will be my last experience as a prostitute.
He takes the lead and arranges to meet in three days' time. The actual day of my birthday.
Chapter 17
Falling
7 February 2007
IT'S ONE O'CLOCK and I'm waiting fo
r him outside the same hotel as the first time. We're going to spend two hours together because I have to go to work afterwards. The episode with Pierre is fresh in my mind and my eyes are darting frantically in every direction. I try to watch everyone who passes without being spotted myself, hoping Joe will get here soon. Ironically, I will only feel comfortable when I'm alone with him in the room. I know that no passers-by who see us together in the street would be duped.
I once talked to a prostitute without actually revealing my own shady activities to her and she told me that when she's waiting on a pavement she stays in touch with her 'colleagues' every half-hour by mobile phone. The minute one of them gets into a car she lets all the others know so that they can take action if they don't see her come back safely. Students, who operate mostly via the internet, are definitely exposed to much more danger alone in a room than standing on a pavement.
I see him in the distance, still armed with his magician's briefcase. We give each other a kiss hello and he says, 'Go up to the room ahead of me.'
'Why?'
'Because of last time with those policemen, I'd rather we tried to be more discreet. You never know. Ask for the key at reception. I didn't know your surname so I gave them mine.'
Of course he doesn't know my surname. And there's no way he ever will.
'Then go up and make yourself comfortable. I'll be up shortly.'
By 'make yourself comfortable' he means put on the sexy clothes he's asked me to bring. I nod and head over to reception. The young woman at the desk looks up at me with a professional smile on her face.
When I get to the room I listen to see if there are any sounds coming from inside. I'm convinced I can hear moaning, I'm getting suspicious now. Someone might be waiting for me and might want to hurt me. I literally flatten my ear against the white wood of the door. Nothing: so I conclude that my endless imagination is playing tricks on me, and I must stop being so paranoid. I turn the key in the lock.
When I open the door the first thing that greets me are the green curtains. Just like the first time I'm struck by how ugly they are. This room is definitely smaller but the décor is identical, so it feels more or less the same. Nothing much has changed so far and I find that strangely reassuring.
I notice a laptop sitting on a table opposite the bed. There's a porn film playing on the screen and I'm relieved to discover I wasn't dreaming: that's where the moaning is coming from. There's a note on the bed. Another thing that hasn't changed about Joe. Leaving letters for his expensive lovers is clearly one of his fantasies.
Laura,
I'm very happy to be seeing you again today. I'd like you to start by having a shower. Then I will come and knock on the door three times. I want you to say, 'Come in, master.'
After that I'd like you to lie down on the bed. I want you to say, 'Hello, master, everything you see here is yours.'
How ridiculous! He's stepped up his domination fantasies. I'm starting to feel frightened. The mood of this session is breaking away from last time – Joe kept things more at arm's length then.
At no point does the letter mention the computer. Just this once, Laura, and it'll be the last, I tell myself.
I go over to the machine slowly, to have a look at it. I'm beginning to wonder whether it's for me or if Joe just wants to thumb his nose at me. I feel he could do either. I finger the keyboard gently, longing for it but still wondering whether I'm really prepared to do anything to have it. And what if this laptop isn't for me? What if he decides not to give it to me at the end? My whole mind revolves round the thought of owning it, my wanting it has become an immeasurable need. I want this laptop whatever it costs me.
I decide to go and have a shower to get things straight inside my head. There's a nice surprise waiting for me in the bathroom: there isn't a mirror. I don't think I would have coped with seeing myself today; on my nineteenth birthday preparing to sell my body for the sake of a computer. I have a quick shower and I'm still drying myself when I hear Joe bang on the door. I go over to the middle of the room, naked, and say, 'Come in, master.'
I can't help laughing when I hear myself saying these words. I can picture him grinning with delight on the other side of the door. Instead, he comes in and stares at me for a few seconds before saying curtly, 'We won't have any giggling.'
He must feel that, given his generous present, he can afford to be more demanding with me. Come on, sweetheart, I think to myself, don't try to be too clever today. Play the game, there's a laptop at stake . . . I'm really obsessed with the thing.
'Lie down,' Joe says, interrupting my thoughts, 'so that you're across the width of the bed and on your stomach.'
I do as I'm told without any resistance, not even daring to open my mouth to speak. In this position, Joe can see my body clearly, especially my buttocks which I loathe. It's the middle of the day and the light's coming straight through the green curtains – which is hardly surprising, given the state they're in. I really don't feel comfortable.
My body is longer than the bed is wide so my head and feet hang over the sides. Joe notices this and says, 'Let your head drop down and put your hands under the bed.'
I do as he says, although I can't really see where he's going with this. I just hope he's not going to ask me to put my left leg on my head or do a headstand! I can feel the cold edge of a cardboard box under the bed. I pull it towards me to get it out of its hiding place and have a look at it.
A laptop. My laptop. I can't help smiling when I see it. My mind's suddenly whirring manically. Now that I've got my present, why should I sleep with him? But how could I think for a minute Joe would let me get away with that?
He's not that stupid. He must have seen the glimmer of malice in my eye because he suddenly says, 'Of course you can open it afterwards.'
So I'll have to go through with this; there's no escape. I've just grasped that he's also going to pay me for today. I smile at the thought of these future riches. I'm also feeling genuinely emotional: this computer's the most expensive present anyone's ever given me. I haven't been given much in life without something being expected in return. Obviously, Joe gives me something in financial terms but I've now had a glimpse of another aspect of his personality which I didn't know about till today: his human side, his generosity. At least, that's what I tell myself.
The vicious circle has begun: he's manipulating me but I don't realise he is. Joe knows what he's doing. He wants me and knows he needs to impress me with money. The boundaries between us have been pushed back further. Joe's in the driving seat.
He asks me to sit on the bed, beside him. The film on the computer has been on pause and now he turns up the volume. It's an amateur sadomasochistic film featuring a naked woman – fortyish and slightly plump – being burned with a candle. She's tied to the chair she's sitting on, there's wax trickling between her breasts and she's screaming for her life. The more she screams, the more the cruel bastard responsible for her suffering enjoys it. She seems to be enjoying it too, in fact. The images flit before my eyes without making an impression on my retina; I actually find it really hard to watch the scene.
I quite often watch porn films: out of curiosity with girlfriends or to heighten arousal with a boy, like everyone. But sadomasochistic stuff is totally different. I don't think I'll ever grasp the appeal of that sort of film. After a couple of minutes I can't stand the scene any longer and have to look away. I've turned to stone watching those images. Joe, on the other hand, absolutely loves them.
'Honestly, Joe, I can't watch this. It's just not my thing.'
'The problem is that it is my thing, but I won't ask you to watch.'
His tone of voice is radically different from last time. He sounds full of contempt for me. I've slipped to the ranks of the lowliest whore, only here to spread her legs and shut her mouth.
'What I want to suggest is that you tie your hands to the bed.'
I immediately make the connection with the video. Does he want to burn me too? And there I was thin
king I was safer with him in a hotel room! Joe softens slightly.
'Don't worry, Laura.'
He moves closer to me gently, then leans my body slowly backwards till I'm lying down, before turning me onto my side. Next he brings my hands together behind my back and ties them together with my jumper which is lying on the bed. The knot isn't very tight which I do find quite reassuring – I could break free if I wanted to.
Joe doesn't seem inclined to leave that option open for me. He produces a piece of cord from nowhere and ties my ankles, also behind my back. Then, as a security measure, he ties my feet and wrists together. I must look like a slab of cold meat on a butcher's block. Why am I letting him do this to me?
Now he takes a dildo from his briefcase. It's not the first time I've seen a real one, but this looks bigger. At the sight of the thing, I shudder and give a little whimper of fear. Joe doesn't react. He couldn't really care, now that I'm tied up.
Captive. I'm at his fucking mercy now.
He comes over to me and puts a screwed-up tissue in my mouth, then completes the effect with a blindfold round my head. In a couple of minutes he's succeeded in immobilising me and silencing me, and I haven't had a chance to react. I feel powerless and just keep thinking in terror, Even if he hurts me I can't scream.
With the help of lubricant and his artificial toy, Joe manages to arouse me physically. Then comes the horror and suffering. The first thrust is indescribably painful.
I scream but it stays muffled inside the tissue. He doesn't stop, oh no, quite the opposite. I'm bellowing 'Stop,' inaudibly and the tears are streaming down my face because the pain is so unbearable. I clamp my thighs together as best I can to make him understand he's got to stop. I writhe furiously so that he now can't get anything inside me, try as he might. And anyway, my wails must be becoming audible from outside. Panicking at my desperation, he finally unties the blindfold and the cord, setting me free once more. As soon as the last knot is undone, I jump to my feet and turn slowly to face him, my hair all over the place, still gasping for breath – I must look like one of the Furies. I look him right in the eye. I could kill him.
