The Sexopaths (18 page)

***

‘So, do you want sex?’

Her words slide easily from
between the curves of a smile; but in the pale eyes a wounded subservience
belies her confidence.  He’s the client; he might want sex.

‘I want to talk with you.’ 
He notices he’s answered a different question.

They embrace – it feels a necessary
formality before he admits her across the narrow threshold, but once in her
arms he’s drawn to linger.  He yields to the gentle thrust of her body,
and has a sudden yearning to suffocate amidst the fur and the heady perfume
with all its licentious associations.  The same scent still clung this
morning to his bathrobe, a reminder he’s loath to purge.

‘I might be offended.’

She presses forwards just a
touch, enough to engage their hip bones, and he returns the pressure. 
Then she laughs, a nervous cackle, and steps past him into the motel room.

‘No need to be – you’re
very attractive.’

He wonders if she can sense he
doesn’t actually find her all that attractive.  He accepts her coat, casts
about for somewhere to drape it, finds a crooked hook on the back of the door;
it may not take the strain, but he chances it.  He says:

‘Feel free to smoke.  It’s
not as though I’m sleeping here.  I’ll get you a drink.’  He holds up
a screw-capped bottle of Chardonnay, its label damp with condensation. 
‘From the corner store.’

As if out of habit – or
perhaps because the only alternative is an upholstered stool beneath the vanity
unit – Jasmin-Sharon hops onto the double bed.  She arranges the
meagre polyester pillows for a modicum of comfort.  Today she’s wearing plain
stretch-denim jeans (off-duty attire, he wonders?) and her customary four-inch
heels, these pink.  Her top is a tight matching woollen cardigan with a
plunging neckline that reveals a black-and-pink half-cut bra and a good deal of
her breasts.  She rummages in her bag – this one courtesy of a
different designer – and extracts cigarettes and a lighter.

‘For you?’

‘No thanks.  I don’t smoke.’

‘You don’t take drugs, either, do
you?’

‘I guess I’m easily led.’

‘Me too – that’s my
trouble.’

There’s a tremor in her voice and
he wonders how she’s feeling.  Nervous?  Or maybe en route she
visited her bag in the ladies’ washroom?

‘Sorry about the ropey
surroundings.’

He hands her a plastic tumbler
filled with the white wine, then takes one himself and leans back against the
windowsill.

‘It’s okay.  It’s anonymous
– pay for the room up-front and clear out when you’re done.  I work
here most weeks.  I was here yesterday.  He was a well-off punter,
too – like you.’

Adam visualises her on all fours,
a business-suited male, standing, flies asunder, impaling her, possibly right
here, in this room, she on this bed, in front of this conveniently placed
mirror.  He reaches into his back pocket.  ‘Sorry – I meant to
give you this straight away.  Thanks for coming, anyway.’

‘You’re paying, why shouldn’t I?’

She shrugs, accepts the crisp
fold of notes, fresh from the cash dispenser in the foyer.  Adam had mused
at how much of its output went straight into the transient clutches of girls
like Jasmin-Sharon, thence laundered through designer stores and designer-clad
dealers.

‘Thank you.’  Making no
attempt to check the amount, she pushes the money into her handbag.  ‘I
would have met you for a coffee, you know – FOC?  That’s why I
asked… coming here, you paying me… I thought you might really want to have
sex.’

‘I feel better this way. 
Your time is money.’  Again he notices he doesn’t negate the idea. 
She’d do it.  But would she tell Monique?  And will she tell her
about this meeting?

‘Well – at least you know
I’m not a clock-watcher.’

‘At least you know I’m not some
psycho.’

‘I don’t actually… but I do trust
you, babes.’

‘So who don’t you trust?’

‘Oh – most of the time,
punters are fine, like I said the other night.  What I won’t do is go to a
private address unless I’m absolutely sure – even at your place I was
worried when it wasn’t Monique that answered the door.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘I don’t mean that – you’re
okay, you’re nice looking – but I’m talking about what’s waiting inside.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Punter books an outcall –
you go to the flat (it’s never going to be a house) – he’s all smiles…
then you find his mates waiting and it’s too late to get out.’

‘Does that happen?’

‘Of course – a few lads get
back from clubbing, off their heads, didn’t score with the girls, get the
bright idea to pool their cash and hire a hooker.’

‘So what do you do?’

‘Now?  I stick to hotels.’

‘You mean you didn’t?’

‘Just the once – I learned
my lesson.’

She takes a draw on her
cigarette, exhales, and ruefully watches the smoke rising.  Adam realises
he’s going to reek of the stuff and will have to remember to change
later.  He wonders if the memory is too painful, but she continues, quite
matter-of-factly:

‘Can’t recall how many there
were, gang-banged me, fucked me in the ass, the mouth, roasted me, three on
one… came in my hair… you name it.’

‘Jesus, Sharon…’  He feels
compelled to use her real name.

She shrugs a cliché in his
direction.  ‘You live and learn.’

‘I know, but… did you call the
police?’

She gives him an old-fashioned
look.  ‘A call girl complaining about being screwed?’

‘Oh… duh.’

‘Anyway, I wasn’t really hurt
– just pissed off that I never got paid what I deserved.  These days
I have a kind of sixth sense.’

‘I admire your guts.’

He takes a sip of wine to create
a respectable pause, then asks:

‘What does your sixth sense tell
you about me?’

‘You’re pretty straight.  A
regular guy.’

‘That doesn’t sound much of a
compliment.’

She blows a stream of smoke
invitingly towards him and pats the bed, indicating he should join her. 
Carrying his tumbler he gingerly apes her reclined pose, leaving a small gap
between them on the unforgiving divan.  She surveys him via the
wall-mounted mirror beyond their feet.

‘It is.  Despite the fact
you screw working girls behind your wife’s back.  But I’d be out of a job
without regular guys like you.’

‘Wait a minute – this
business with Xara – it’s not what you think.’

‘They all say that.’  She
says it with generosity.

‘Look – I love Monique
– I’m mad about her – I couldn’t live without her.’

‘That, too.’

‘Listen – honestly, this is
what I want to talk to you about.  Xara told me
you
were the
client.’

‘Fuck off.’ 

‘
Honestly
.’ 

He puts down his wine on the
bedside cabinet so he can appeal with his hands, and turns to face her.  Slowly
she reciprocates, as if engaging with him too soon will deprive her of valuable
thinking time.  As her slow gaze falls first upon his imploring fingers,
he says:

‘She said she’d got this female
client who wanted to experience a threesome with her and a guy, and that I
fitted the bill.  She told me I wasn’t to see the woman’s face, or to talk
to her, and just do as directed.  Try not to come… until I got the red
light, so to speak.’

At this a fleeting smile creases
her sealed lips; her features otherwise ghoulishly implacable.  In the low
sunlight that slants weakly through the grimy glass she looks old.  He
understands her reluctance to swallow his story.  Naturally she thinks
he’s trying to win her silence in relation to Monique – of course she’d
be sceptical.  But would he invent some improbable explanation that she
could easily cross-check with Xara?

She seems to be playing
eeny-meeny-miny-mo with the cigarette; then she says:

‘Did you pay?’

Now he detects only curiosity in
her tone, as if she has accepted his account.  He says:

‘Kind of the opposite.  I
was to consider the experience as payment in kind.’

She grins, licks irony onto
lipstick.  He wonders if she’s wishing to say more than she reveals. 
He asks:

‘What did she tell you about me?’

‘That you’re a punter. 
You’re into bondage, blindfolds, stranger-sex.’

‘And you were the
stranger.’  He dares to pat her thigh.  ‘Since I’m supposed to be the
punter… does that mean you got paid?’

She considers awhile. 
‘About the same deal as yours.’

He nods.  ‘You know –
you two were pretty amazing.  Totally fucking amazing, actually.  I
did wonder how she – I mean
you
–
Ms Y,
Xara called
her – could be so switched on to the whole thing.’

‘I told you, we were screwing
each other’s brains out.  That wasn’t acting.’

‘It’s been driving me crazy
trying to work out who Ms Y is.  Who would want to hide their
identity.  I’ve been imagining cover girls, celebrities… colleagues!’

‘Sorry to burst your bubble,
babes.’

‘I even considered the idea of it
being Monique.’

He realises he’s missed the
chance to gainsay her modesty.  He affects preoccupation.  He says:

‘The thing is, I don’t get
it.’  He shakes his head slowly.  ‘Okay – Xara playing
make-believe that you’re her client, to trick me into coming along, I can buy
that… but why did she tell you
I
was the client?  Why not let you
in on the plan?’

Jasmin-Sharon gestures
indifferently, distancing cigarette from wine.  The conundrum doesn’t
appear to trouble her greatly.  She says:

‘Maybe it was meant to be a
surprise.’

‘For you?  But still she
never told you.  Until a minute ago you thought I was the client. 
How long is it since you two split up?’

She stares vaguely at the
ceiling.  He senses she doesn’t want to give a categorical answer. 
Eventually she says:

‘I went back to my mum’s last
month, I can’t really remember what the date was.’

‘Well – anyway – the
point is she had plenty of time to tell you, and didn’t.’

‘Xara moves in mysterious
ways.’  She sounds accustomed to such ways.

‘So, what about last time –
just you and me on the bed – what was that all about?’

Like the scudding shadow of a
passing cloud, confusion momentarily crosses her features.  She looks
away, takes a slow drink and opts to meet his gaze through the filtering medium
of the mirror.  After some deliberation, she says:

‘I can’t really tell you
everything…’

A mobile rings and curtails her
reply, if there were to be more.  Her handbag is beside her on the
bed.  She pulls out a phone – it’s the wrong one.  She delves
again, and produces another.  She squints at the display, hesitates for a
second and then diverts the call.  Methodically she switches off both
phones, finds a third and – checking its display – leaves it active
and returns the trio to the bag’s capacious depths.  Adam, intrigued by the
mini-arsenal, says:

‘Why do you have so many?’

‘I’m on other websites.’

He inclines his head to signal
his understanding.  He says, with exaggerated levity in his voice:

‘If that had been Monique, would
you have put me on the line?’

She looks at him; there’s a stern
glaze to her eyes.  ‘Like I told you – client confidentiality is
paramount.’

It sounds to Adam like a recital
from a training manual.

‘So this conversation goes no
further?’

‘Of course.’

‘And anything between you and
Monique?’

‘Stays there.’

‘Fair enough, I suppose.’

‘I’ve got my standards.’

There’s a note of pathos in her
tone that educes his sympathy.  She’s like a long-suffering animal, one
day maltreated and the next cherished, at once reluctant and hopeful, willing
to be coaxed cringing from its den by a few kindly morsels, yet always
expecting the sharp crack of a stick.  He can imagine how Monique would
naturally draw her out, befriend her, and inadvertently imprint herself upon
the girl as lover-mother.  But not he; his gender and her cruel experience
preclude such trust.

He asks:

‘So without breaking any
confidences, what do you think Xara is up to?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘But you were her… partner. 
You must know her better than most people.  Is she doing it for the
entertainment – for the… sex?’

‘With
you!
’

‘Oh… I didn’t mean…’

She holds the cigarette between
her lips and touches his hand.  ‘Only joking, babes.  You did
okay.’  Now she narrows her eyes, turns her head to one side, but the
smoke follows in the wake of her cheek.  ‘You and I – we’re just
pawns.’

‘So what’s her game?’

‘She uses people.  It’s what
she does.  There might not be a reason.’

‘You mean control?  You
think she gets a kick out of controlling people?’

‘I
know
she does –
I’ve been there, babes – and I’m just a woman.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

Jasmin-Sharon smiles and hands
him her empty tumbler.  He rises, brings the wine down from the windowsill
and pours new measures.  They sip in silence for a few moments.  Then
he says:

‘What if I get the summons
again?’

‘Just do it.  You like it,
don’t you?’

‘But shouldn’t we tell her we
know?’

‘No way.’  Her answer is
swift, as if it were fully formed on her lips all along, an embryo about to
burst forth from its film of saliva.  But then she retreats a little, as if
aware the premature response revealed some underlying motive.  ‘You might
get the wrong reaction.  She could make trouble for you.’

He notices she’s talking
exclusively about him.  Evidently standing up to Xara is not on her
agenda.  He wonders just how much of an ex-couple they really are; it
seems unlikely in their professional microcosm that total mutual
excommunication would occur.  He asks: