Scandalous (8 page)

22 December 2006

N
EVER 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 for 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.'

He looks right into my eyes with that hangdog
expression for several seconds. I've damaged his ego and,
however low he may have already fallen, he's finding it
hard to accept. I certainly won't contemplate going home
without my money after an evening like this.

After a few minutes he says, 'I know a car park not far
from here,' letting the words out with a sigh as if hoping
not to need to say them again.

In a flash he pays the bill, gets me into his car and,
without a word, drives to the aforementioned supermarket
car park. It's a very dark night and it's hard to make
anything out at all. It makes me feel protected; no one
will see us.

Despite all the self-assurance he mustered when we left
the restaurant, I can tell Julien feels very uncomfortable
again when the time comes to cut the engine. He's
rubbing his hands together nervously again and trying to
create a diversion by fiddling with various knobs in the
car. He's worried someone will find us here and I have
to admit I feel the same.

'Are you cold?' he asks me.

It's the middle of winter and it is true that the chill of
the night is beginning to catch up with us. It's a grim
situation: the two of us, in a car in this car park,
checking no one will see us fucking.

'Yes, a bit.'

'OK, I'll put some heating on.'

I light a cigarette without asking whether he minds. He
turns up the heating and goes on rubbing his hands
together as the warmth spreads through the car. Confronted
with his indecisiveness, I decide to launch myself.
I put my hand on his jeans, by his crotch. He hasn't got
an erection. I look up at his face, trying to find an
explanation . . . which I already know.

'I'm um . . . quite stressed,' he says, still looking just as
miserable.

To stop him rambling on again I start rubbing his jeans
more firmly. Without any response. I carry on with my
task for a good five minutes, still convinced that if he
doesn't get what he wants he'll bring the whole thing to
an end and not pay me. After the psychological ordeal of
this evening, I can't leave without some compensation.

Embarrassed not to be responding at all physically, he
mumbles shyly, 'Maybe if you took all your clothes off
. . .'

First initiative! I'm surprised by this unexpected comment:
it's completely at odds with his tone of voice and
behaviour. All the same, I take off my clothes, here in
this car, lost in the middle of the car park. Right now
there's only one thing I'm worried about: someone
finding us. Julien obviously feels exactly the same.

After looking at my naked body for a few minutes he
allows himself to touch it. I put my hand back on his
jeans, in vain. First he touches my breasts and kneads
them thoroughly. He clearly doesn't dare go further
down and feels safer concentrating on my torso. He
doesn't seem to be reacting to my hand rubbing his
trousers. After a few minutes, desperate that the situation's
drawing such a blank, he says, 'Hey, would you
mind . . .'