by Ziv Amit
This feels pleasant to me, stuck between The Beauty’s touch and the photographer’s scent, I slowly bring my head closer to his chest until I can feel the tingling of his knitted top on my cheek and I shut my eyes again. I miss that touch so much, I haven’t felt it in such a long time. Where are you? Why haven’t you apologized? Why aren’t you looking for me here in the metro? Do you even want me? You told me so bluntly that you don’t, do you really not want me? I know the photographer isn’t mine and that I’m invading foreign territory, I know he belongs to The Beauty who’s holding me from behind and I’m not planning on taking him away from her. But maybe she’d be willing to let me borrow him for a while? A little loan for me to rest my head on, the way I’m doing right now, shut my eyes and not think too much.
The Beauty is holding me from behind, her arm now wrapped around my waist pressing me against her, clinging to me even more, her lips press against my hair and whisper through the crowds of people, “Do you like our city?”
“It’s crowded,” I answer with a smile while turning my head back and speaking quietly, so that the others can’t hear us.
“We get to hug,” she laughs in reply.
“I’m debating about asking you to lend me your photographer,” I think to myself.
“And stand close to two charming people,” I tell her.
“And become better acquainted with a charming tourist,” she tells me and hugs me a little bit tighter.
“We can keep traveling like this all evening long,” I laugh with her.
“But then the photographer will get jealous and we’ll have to hug him too,” she continues the game, enjoying the fact that she’s getting me to talk , I’m enjoying it too.
“Then what shall we do?” I ask, I have a few ideas, but I think I shouldn’t go beyond our game’s clear rules - they offer and I accept. I’m worried that if I offer too much, they’ll leave me here in the metro on my own, they have each other, I have a lonely hotel and I used to have a husband but he’s disappeared.
“We’re getting off at the next station,” the photographer touches my shoulder and smiles at us, pausing the game and my thought process. The doors slam open and we make our way out through all the crammed people, the photographer clears the path at the front and The Beauty guards me from behind. “Come on,” she excitedly grabs my hand as we climb up to the street, noticing the gray buildings and neon lights, “you’ll love this street.”
Pigalle District, Early Evening
Kate
We leave the metro station’s white lights behind and arrive at the slowly darkening street, I look around and it’s clear to me I’m not going to love this street.
The buildings are gray and covered in neon, variously colored lit signs offering sex and only sex. Sex for right now, sex just for watching, sex if you purchase clothing, sex any way you want it. Out-in-the-open sex, clearly and bluntly written on red-lit signs, sex portrayed through photos of bare-chested girls, decorating the entrances to the clubs, all of this so that you go in and see, try, feel, touch. I don’t want this kind of sex, if I were alone here I’d turn around and walk away, but I think they’re genuinely excited to be here, enthusiastically looking at the signs on the windows as though they’re searching for something interesting for them to taste.
“This is the sex shops district,” the photographer lets go of The Beauty, turning to me and explaining as if I were a tourist and couldn’t see for myself. “I really am a tourist,” I remind myself, but I can still see just fine.
He turns to The Beauty, tells her something I can’t understand and they share a laugh. Then he places his hands on her waist, she hugs him and they start walking along the street as they embrace, her head resting on his shoulder, and I follow behind.
We pass display windows showcasing mannequins that are dressed in red and black outfits made of fishnet and lace, more and more shops, more and more outfits and stockings and shoes and accessories. They talk among themselves, point and giggle, as if debating what they should purchase and I feel like they’re ignoring me, feel like I don’t belong. “Are they planning on choosing something for my photoshoot?” I wonder to myself, if so then why aren’t they asking for my opinion? I can’t understand what they’re talking about and I can only guess through their smiles and the tone of their voices as they point at one outfit or another, it’s embarrassing me.
“Private show?” a woman from one of the entrances whispers to us. She’s wearing a gold-colored mini dress and is standing by a little counter, as if she were a hostess at a Chinese restaurant. Behind her is a golden hallway leading to a closed black door, a worn-out red carpet and photos of bare-chested seductive women hanging on the walls, promising their bodies to anyone who pays up and walks through the black door. “No, absolutely not,” I think to myself, but The Beauty and the photographer relish at her offer and start talking to her, it seems like they’re arguing over the price and terms of entrance. “Are you sure you’re willing to go into this sort of place with them?” I ask myself, why aren’t they asking me what I want? What will I do if they go in? Go to the hotel? Part company with them? “Maybe they actually want to go in by themselves and leave me alone here for a few minutes? Maybe she wants to give him a private show? I’ll die if that happens.” They laugh with the hostess and then say goodbye to her, continue on their merry way as if they’ve just shared a good joke, I continue behind them and feel less and less like I belong.
“What do you think? Is the outfit nice?” The Beauty turns and asks me as she points at an outfit with leather straps that’s stretched over a mannequin in a shop window, as if she’s only just now noticed my existence.
“Yes, very nice,” I answer her and smile, happy with the attention, certain that we’ll go into the shop to try on the outfit. But she just smiles at me and the two of them walk ahead embraced to the next shop window. I feel insulted by her, I think she only wants to concentrate on herself, throwing crumbs of attention at me. “Then why did you even invite me to join you?” I think to myself furiously, if I wanted crumbs of attention I could get them at the hotel, on a comfy bed in front of a boring TV show.
“Come here,” the photographer calls me over while hugging The Beauty, they’re standing at an entrance to one of the shops. The large shop window is packed full of mannequins dressed in black lace outfits and chains. I march after them like a loyal and kind-hearted puppy, a puppy that doesn’t want to return alone to the hotel right now, and that wants to be petted. “I’m so lame sometimes,” I whisper to myself.
After walking in I stay standing in one spot for a moment, taking in the size of the shop. I expected a little shop, a dark little room with a curtain and a salesman with a malicious smile, but this place is huge, hangers upon hangers of clothing and accessories for sex in every size and style imaginable, dimly lit in order to create a bedroom ambience for the clientele. “What kind of people shop here anyway?” I ask myself as I remain in the same spot, looking at the people wandering around the shop. It seems like The Beauty is feeling very comfortable here, thus answering my question. She marches right in and starts checking out the clothing on the hangers with amusement, without any of the embarrassment that I would have felt were I in her place. The photographer walks beside her and looks, his hand placed on her behind as though he’s allowing her to have a bit of fun and be playful before he leads her to an outfit or a collar that will satisfy him. Occasionally she slips an outfit off of a hanger, a tiny bra with little to no fabric or a netted top or a lacey overall, presents the item to him with a wide-eyed look so that he can inspect it, and he nods his head for yea or nay, deciding for her if it’s right or not.
I stand in embarrassment by the entrance and look as they walk further away from me along the shelves and rails, wondering if to walk in or retreat through the door back to the red neon street. “Try to fit in,” I whisper to myself and attempt to emanate confidence, I walk over to one of
the rows and start looking through the hanging sex clothes. My fingers slide over black lace dresses, I feel the soft fabric and imagine how it would feel on my body. There are a few dresses that I’m interested in and would like to try on, but there’s no man walking next to me from whom I can ask for an opinion and I don’t feel comfortable asking the photographer, he’s concentrating on The Beauty and I feel like I’d just be bothering him, I try to catch The Beauty’s attention to ask for her opinion, but she’s far-away already and I don’t want to raise my voice. “I need a man,” I whisper to myself, “or a good girlfriend that’ll pay attention to me.” I give up on the excitement of the dresses, despite there being some nice ones, and move on to corsets.
When we came out of the metro station I thought they were preparing a surprise for me, a sexy outfit for a photoshoot, something especially for me that would make me blush, but now I’m not getting any attention from them. “You, my darling, are living in a delusion of a non-existent photoshoot,” I tell myself as I examine the corsets, “you’re also not really busy listening to what you were told,” I explain the situation to myself, reminding myself that they told me they wanted to find something for themselves, not just for me. And still, they wanted me to join them, so why have they neglected me like this? I feel as though I was invited to a party and no one wants to dance with me, and I stay standing in the corner and look at everyone else dancing and having fun. When we finish with this shop I’ll leave, go back to the hotel, one should always know when to quit. The lump of discomfort which has been gone for the past couple of days is slowly returning, collecting in my throat.
I follow them around sedately, I’ve stopped noticing the clothes, I no longer want to be here, I’ve had enough of this shop and this street. For a moment they disappear and I rush after them, scared of losing them and staying here on my own, I see them going down a spiral staircase. “Where exactly are we going?” I ask myself as I follow them down, surprised by the discovery of the shop’s basement floor. “Does this shop ever end?” I wonder as my astonished eyes are faced with a multitude of shiny leather and latex outfits.
“There’s no way I’m trying these on,” I explain to myself, remaining on the edge of the stairs, deliberating whether to walk into the basement or to remain in my safe spot. I don’t even want to think about how Adam would react were he to see me in this sort of outfit, last time that happened he tossed me aside. “Don’t worry, he won’t see you, he’s gone, remember?” I remind myself of reality. “These two right here aren’t that interested in you either,” I confront the even more painful reality.
The Beauty is wandering around excitedly among the hanging leather outfits of the basement, and after a while she grabs a dress off the rail and shows it smilingly to the photographer, he approves of her choice with a nod of his head and she gets closer to him, whispers something in his ear and turns to the basement’s changing room. “What am I doing here?” I ask myself and feel more and more unnecessary as the moments go by, unnecessary and embarrassed. I survey the basement floor looking for other shoppers who might be as embarrassed as I am but I see no one, we’re the only ones here.
“What do you think?” The Beauty asks the photographer, at least I think that’s what she’s asking him as she slides the changing room curtain aside and smiles in satisfaction. She’s wearing a shiny black dress that’s revealing her breasts, only covering her stomach and thighs. She stands motionless, blasé to the fact that people can see her white breasts, people like the salesperson who will be coming downstairs any minute now, or maybe a stranger who will soon discover this basement floor, or just a tourist that she happened to find on a street bench.
I can’t look away. She has soft breasts, they’re not big, they’re not perfect and her nipples are small, not like mine. The photographer looks at her and smiles, it’s clear to me that he likes what he sees. The Beauty places her hands on her waist, sticks out her chest and slowly shakes her breasts from side to side tauntingly as she smiles at him and completely ignores me. Maybe she likes knowing that I’m looking? Maybe they brought me here so that I can be an onlooker for their games? Add a little spice?
They stare at each other and the photographer slowly steps over to the changing room, gets closer to her, grabs her chin and kisses her hard as he presses her tightly to him. She lays her hands on his neck and caresses him with her fingers. He lets his lips wander down her chin and her neck, grabs her breasts and kisses them roughly, puts her nipple in his mouth and kisses it with force. The Beauty leans back and continues stroking his neck as she tilts her head back and closes her eyes. She slowly opens them ever so narrowly, turns to look at me, as if she’s only just noticed me, gives me a little smile and pulls the changing room curtain shut, hiding them from my stare.
And me? I stand motionless and stare, my fingers moving across the fabric of a shiny dress I’m holding, positioned in front of the curtain that’s hiding them and trying to stop the lump in my throat. I’m so unnecessary and unwanted, her giggles and breaths hurt me, I think she’s trying to stop him, trying to explain to him with make-believe anger that he’s exaggerating. I’m not sure, I think that’s what she’s doing, but I don’t want to hear them right now. I want to have someone who’ll hug me and kiss me on a romantic vacation and make me feel wanted and like I belong, I don’t want to just stand here talking to myself like an idiot. Maybe I should call Adam? “What’s up Adam? I just wanted to tell you that I’m currently in the basement floor of a sex shop and there’s a couple fucking or something along those lines behind a curtain, yes, I’m having a great time, a wonderful vacation, thanks for asking.” Or maybe I should strike up a conversation with the dresses surrounding me, they’ll surely listen and act like true friends. “They’re definitely enjoying themselves right now,” I explain to the shiny dress I’m holding, “they’re having fun and they’re not to be disturbed, I’ll go ahead and put you somewhere quiet,” and I return it to the hanger, trying not to make any noise. “I wonder what they’re doing,” I turn to a strappy leather dress that would look fabulous on me, “do you think this is their hobby? Picking up lonely tourists like myself and taking them to sex shops so that they can have an audience?” Why did they leave me alone here like this? Why is no one kissing my breasts in a changing room?
Maybe I should actually just go? Quietly retreat? They won’t notice if I leave, I should just walk away quietly and disappear on them. Go out to the nasty street? Go into the crowded metro? Why don’t you browse through the clothes for a bit longer, they’ll probably finish up soon, you’re so naïve for thinking you were going to purchase a sexy outfit for your photoshoot. Just look for something nice to think about and stop those tears in the corners of your eyes already.
Sex Shop, a Little While Later
Kate
“Did you see anything you like?” The Beauty turns to me and hugs me from behind, and I kind of ignore her, trying not to look her in the eyes so that she can’t see that I had cried, that I got offended.
“No, nothing,” I answer her while keeping my eyes on the dresses hanging in front of me, my fingers casually gliding over them.
“Then what will you wear for the shoot?” she asks and I don’t turn to face her, I’m looking for an elegant way to wipe my eyes without her noticing.
“What do you think about this corset?” she pulls out a shiny black vinyl corset and hands it to me, ignoring the saleswoman who has just walked down into the basement.
“It looks nice,” I give a little smile through my red eyes, take the corset from her and quickly walk over to the changing rooms, making sure to use a different booth than the one she did. On the way there I lower my head as I pass the photographer who’s busy tucking his shirt into his pants.
Start by wiping your face, everything will fall into place once you’ve wiped your face, you’re so lame, you’re so easily bought. Hang the blouse carefully on the hanger so that it doesn’t get wrinkled, hang
the knitted top over it, and the skirt on another hanger. Do you really think you’ll fit into this corset? Start with the back straps, as though you were putting on a vest, now you just need to get your tummy in and zip it up, stop breathing and slowly zip it up. It doesn’t look good with your bra on, take it off, hang it under the skirt, so that it doesn’t fall. Be careful not to catch your breasts on the zipper as you pull it up, then you’ll really start howling. How does one breathe with this shiny black thing on?
I pull the changing room curtain to the side a little bit, peek into the basement floor, wondering whether or not to step out of the booth. I don’t know if they’re out there waiting to see me in this incredibly exposing corset, or if I’m meant to decide by myself whether it suits me or not. The Beauty comes over asking if she can come in and I nod to her. She walks around me, passing her hands along my tightly held waist and she seems pleased with what she sees. “No wonder you’re pleased now,” I think to myself cynically, you got pleasured and I remained a hungry and neglected street cat.
The Beauty pays no attention to my thoughts and pulls me out of the booth, turns me to face the photographer and starts lacing up the corset tightly. I feel my stomach becoming flatter and my breasts pumping up more and more in the tightened corset, it’s getting really difficult to breathe.
“What do you think?” She takes me over to the change room mirror and lets me look, it’s hard for me to take in how sexual I look in the shiny black corset, I’m not used to thinking about myself in those terms. I look amazing, even I have to admit that to myself. But all I can think about right now is the plain underwear I have on, pink cotton panties with blue butterflies printed on. I want to drop dead, I’m so embarrassed. “How did I not know that I’d end up at a sex shop today, standing almost naked in front of a mirror and wearing a corset? Couldn’t I have worn my lacey black underwear?”
I look to the photographer questioningly and he’s standing on the side, unashamedly checking me out as if he were meant to be pricing a new toy he’s about to purchase for his collection. I caress his name on my arm without noticing and I feel very exposed and embarrassed, regretting that I don’t have the lacey black underwear in my bag to change into.
