Dealing Flesh (9 page)

“I just noticed how late it is…I gotta get going!” I exclaim.

Hon looks at me with great disappointment, but asks for my address to stay in touch via mail. I pause.

Hot Shot:
Sure. Give it to him. Seeing a letter in my box on a lousy day from someone who’s crazy about me in another country will serve as a nice boost. Who cares that I have no inclination of ever hanging with him again?

I hand him the info and “
Salut
” myself out of there.

Back at the hotel, the party is already in full swing. I gulp down a glass of champagne before I jump into bed with one Arab after another. With guy number three, the rubber splits.

Scaredy Cat:
Nooooooooo. Fuck, fuck, fucking hell. That’s the end of me.

Doubt Cloud:
I’m gonna quit hooking this minute…for good.

Scaredy Cat:
Oh my fucking God, I hate this shit. Someone, please kill me.

The room turns black. In temporary blindness, I pace from wall to wall inside the rectangular shaped space.

Ragelina:
What if that fucker gave me a disease?

Doubt Cloud:
Probably AIDS, or syphilis, or some other crap. These guys sleep with hordes of women per year…unprotected, too, most times
.

Scaredy Cat:
I don’t even wanna think about what I’ll do if I got pregnant by this sicko. Before I have a child by a john, I’d rather kill myself or definitively have an abortion. I wanna go home.

After five more minutes of stressing and restlessly pacing back and forth, I despairingly leap into the enormous earth-tone marble shower. I sob from the depth of my soul while the hot water rattles down on me. I scrub my vagina so hard some of the skin comes off.

Romy (wailing):
I’m at my limit here?

Whip Cracker:
Ahhh. Pull yourself together. You still got more fucking to do.

Fuuuuuck yooouuuu. I am getting out of the biz tomorrow. I must have said that enough times to know, it means nothing. Twenty minutes pass. I step out of the shower stall as frantic as I stepped into it.

Tough Gal:
Try to sleep, kiddo. You may feel better about things by morning.

I get into bed.

Big Shot Mama:
Think of it this way—tomorrow is payday, and I’m going to take you on the ultimate shopping spree
.
Better rest up. It’s gonna be a long, long day.

Somehow I manage to fall asleep. Morning comes. I do Mustafa once again. He hands me a bundle of cash right afterwards. Holding the pile of clean crisp bills in my hands sends me reeling.

Big Shot Mama:
That’s what I’m talking about. Out of my way…I’m gonna play ‘Prima Donna’ all day long.

Filled with smoldering jubilance, I take off to the streets of downtown Paris within the hour—Big Shot Mama guiding the way. From feasting at cute
Off The Beaten Path
eateries to shopping to my heart’s content inside ritzy
Haute Couture
establishments, I’m having a swell time.

The next stop brings me to the
Montmartre
arts district where one of the
Künstler
draws a color portrait of me. I can feel my face take on an expression of dissatisfaction when the artisté hands me the finished product.

Miss Vanity:
Do I really look this sorrowful?

Hot Shot:
Hideous. Promise you’ll throw it out as soon as you get home?

Miss Vanity:
Yeah. It does me such disservice
.
I had no idea that’s how people perceived me.

Starlight:
Yuuuck.

~~~

Now that I’m back from France, I immediately rush for an appointment with the gynecologist. A thorough check up behind me, I leave with a clean bill of health this afternoon, hugely content that I neither contracted the cooties nor find myself pregnant.

On the subway train, I proudly show off the thousands of Deutsch Marks worth of diamond-studded jewelry that I recently acquired, as well as one of the glamorous Parisian outfits from my recent trip. Some of the patrons stare me up and down, gliding their eyes across the sparkly stones that radiate off my skin.

Miss Vanity:
Whew. I can’t get enough of their envious looks. Marvelous, just marvelous.

I spend the next two hours enjoying the high of remorseless shopping, delighting every time I think about the scrumptious balance in my checking account.

Blushetta:
I am somebody
.

A new day comes. Renewed in confidence, I throw myself back into servicing the johns who are already eagerly waiting in the wings for me.

Tonight’s assignment takes me to the
Concord Hotel
. I spend the night pampering a cute twenty-something-year-old Arabian sheik with a fun personality.

After the first round of sex, he reveals that he owns seven different colored Mercedes in his homeland—one for each day of the week. My eyes widen. The young sheik and I party on, shake a leg at a nearby club, dine first class, and of course, live it up some more atop his royal hotel bed.

Fantasia encourages me to think of him as one of the handsome princes in the many Arabia-themed motion pictures that I used to devour as a young girl. And verily this ultra long night turns out to even be a pleasant one for a change.

Predator

Swiss Alps

The early morning train brings me to a tiny town in the Swiss Alps region. At the station, I board a taxi and have it take me to the horse ranch where I’ll be staying for the next five days over the New Year’s holiday. I check into the log cabin-style room on the third floor, quickly unpack my bags, and immediately rush to the barn to greet the horses.

I saddle up the mare that will be mine for my time here and ride her into the snowy scenery of hills and meadows nearby. With each breath, I feel the hustle and bustle of the fast life slip away, and my aching soul relaxes for the first time in a long, long time.

Romy:
All I need now is a handsome prince on a white horse.

Fantasia:
That seems a bit far-fetched, but let’s see if there isn’t at least someone who could become a semi-decent bed warmer on a cold night.

Lustania
: Wait a minute. What about that guy that arrived this morning?

Hot Shot:
Probably barely twenty-one, I don’t see how he will be able to satisfy my high standards. In addition, he’s brought along this chick…his fiancée, as I understand
.

Lustania:
I don’t give a fuck that he’s got a woman. I want him tonight. Besides,
I caught him checking me out on several occasions. Doesn’t he know what he is doomed to get himself into by giving me an eyeful
?

I am going up the stairs that lead to my room. Luck has it that I bump into the honey in the hallway. He is alone. Lustania, who turns me into the best saleswoman in the world, makes me flirt with him shamelessly, so well that he commits to meeting me in my chamber by 18:00
Uhr
.

Six o’clock rolls around. I hear a soft knock on the door. I hurry to answer it. The guest-of-honor stands in front of me. I ask him to step inside. With Lustania cheering me on, I wind my tentacle arms around his neck. The willing participant plays well into my game of seduction but moments into the act, severe boredom crashes the party.

Lustania:
I can’t believe this fucking shit. I picked yet another lemon, damned.

The ordeal ends and lover boy leaves.

I rise early this New Year’s morning. After freshening up and putting on my riding gear, I head downstairs to the breakfast lounge. Upon approaching the buffet, I run into “Mister One-Night Stand” and his fiancée. Both look right at me, but I show no emotion, remaining straight-faced as if they do not exist.

Lustania:
Don’t mind me. But I feel nothing. No remorse, no compassion—only regret for having wasted a sexual act on this shit.

Lust Machine

Whip Cracker suggests that if I’m fed up with the extra stuff—the social appearances and dinners that are often required when escorting—I could always resort to plan “B” and hunt down my own customers in public places. Running with the idea, I hang out at the
Moulin Rouge
tonight, a cozy dimly-lit restaurant inside an elite hotel in midtown. Armed with a black lacy leather skirt and a matching top, I meander over to the hostess desk, drawing behind me a mist of black
Musk De Cartier
.

The waitress seats me at a table in the center of the room. While nibbling on my cashew nut
Chop Suey
, I keep a close eye on the nearby lounge area. Many people sit in that section busily talking over drinks. So far, I see not one single lonely male in sight.

Doubt Cloud:
I think this is a number too big for you.

Scaredy Cat:
Leave while you can
.

Whip Cracker:
Not gonna happen, darling. You’ve got bills to pay.

Once I finish what was left on my plate, I take a seat at the bar. I order a glass of wine and nervously light one of the extra long lady-like cigarettes that help with looking as incognito as possible.

Whip Cracker:
Come on, little suckers. Get on the scene.

Ten minutes go by. Finally a man in a suit sits down in one of the wicker chairs a few feet away from me. He looks comparatively plain, fifty-something maybe. My guess is he works in the corporate world. I eye him for several minutes. Finally, his hand gestures me to approach. I provocatively swing my hips, much like a fashion model on a catwalk, as I walk toward his table. Thankfully, the room hums with varied background clamor, which perfectly garbles people’s conversations.

“Please…join me for a drink,” he offers.

“Sure.”

I take a seat next to him, and we start the small talk.

Whip Cracker:
Do it. Ask him
.

Scaredy Cat:
He could be a detective?

I nervously take another hit off my cigarette, while scrambling together my courage.

“Are you here by yourself?” I pry.

“Yeah. I had business in town, and so I’m staying overnight.”

I let a couple of seconds elapse before I lean over, get real close to his ear.

“Would you like to take me to your room? I promise I’ll make you feel real good, no disappointments,” I whisper.

My adrenaline is off the charts. A painful silence hangs in the air.

“How much?” I hear him say.

Scaredy Cat:
Yyess.

Sensing excitement in his voice, I pull him closer.

“Five hundred…full service.”

Three more seconds of silence elapse.

“Let’s go.”

He puts out his cigarette and urges the waiter to bring the bill. While we walk down the long white narrow hallway that leads to his room, the washing machine inside my head turns to spin cycle.

Whip Cracker (applauding):
Superbly done, girl. Simply outstanding.

Doubt Cloud:
He could be an undercover, waiting to bust you when the funds trade hands.

Scaredy Cat:
As scary as it is, I’m glad to get money coming.

The squeaking of the door hinges as we enter his small but upscale place brings me instantly back to the task at hand. I watch him fingering for the bills inside his wallet. He hands me the dough, and I quickly stuff it inside my purse.

Big Shot Mama:
Now, that the best part is over, let’s wrap this up as quickly as possible.

Seductively, I drop garment after garment onto the chair to my left. Standing in front of the greedy-eyed man, butt-naked in classy black stiletto heels, I allow him to shoot up a syringe full of me.
C’est la vie
, baby.

Within minutes of returning to my house, I glut down a galore of sweets followed by rich hearty food and repeating the same scenario a couple more times.

Romy:
That should keep me sedated for at least an hour.

Guilt-stricken, resisting every possibility of having me fall victim to the bulge, I pop two laxative pills and one of the fat burner tablets from the “full of promises” bottle that I found at the health food store the other day. I am absolutely positive that tomorrow I’m going to jog for at least two hours along the river.

~~~

Under the impression that working at a brothel is going to collect money faster, for one, because it places one directly at the source, and two, it eliminates the additional time that would often be spent escorting clients in public, I get on schedule with a bordello Vicki connects me with. The good thing about working here is that guys come in, come, and leave.

Serving on my first shift this afternoon, I soon find out that I do not only have to deal with pretty freaky, some not yet explored requests from men, but at the same time get to stand up against the hostile attitudes of some of the women who work here who are well-versed at corrupting a john’s selection process.

A word to the work itself: I knew men can be disturbed, but the extent displayed at this establishment surpasses my every expectation. So from now on, I make it a point to get a decent buzz going with the house bar champagne before soliciting myself.

To attract customers, many girls stand in the stairways, just like they depict in the movies. I can’t believe I’m doing this but I place myself there, too. My next john and I head for my room upstairs, a small non-fancy, carpeted cubicle with just a bed, and a sink on one of the walls. As soon as the door shuts, the fellow asks me if I do showers—meaning, he wants me to piss on him.

Ragelina:
I can be cool like that, if that’s what floats his boat. I wanted to urinate on a Freier for a long time, and worse. How marvelous that now I even get paid for it.

And so I let it tinkle.

Doubt Cloud:
You are killing me.

Ragelina:
As intoxicated as I am, I would even shit on him if that were to make him happy.

It puzzles me how many men indeed get off on such kinky performances. But for now, let me just say, I am keeping things more civilized, at least until I gain more experience. Get real… Who can take a dump on command? Not me. Trick number six favors performing oral on me. It largely disturbs me, but the resulting rage and disgust produce a shocking result: I get turned on. Don’t ask.