Twisted (7 page)

The public buses only pass by every hour. The first bus after noon comes at 1 p.m. Lena’s shift starts at 5 p.m. The four hours of available time is too little to go to town, considering that one of them is wasted in transit. The girls also have to get ready for their shift, but there is only one shower for all six of them, making it impossible to keep their preparation time short.

Imprisonment in their rooms applies not only to the girls’ going out of the building; while the boss is sleeping, they can’t even use the bathroom or the kitchen. The latter is in a very small room without a fridge, a table, or even a sink. Girls have to wash the dishes in the bathtub. The only equipment that makes the room look like a kitchen is an old electric kettle and oven, which hardly heats up. The rest of the space is stuffed with old, dirty tableware and food products that are stored everywhere: a few overloaded shelves and even the floors.

Lena is very lonely there, which is why she called me and kept insisting on a reunion, saying that she misses me a lot and has something to tell me. I couldn’t say no. She sounded almost desperate on the phone.

When I get to the place, our fave café on the Place de Paris, Lena is already waiting for me. She rises from the cane-chair, hugs and kisses me. On my how-are-you-sis she tiredly sighs, ‘Don’t even ask …’ then drops back onto her chair and sighs again.

‘I haven’t slept all night. We had a situation …’ She pauses to role her eyes.

I wave to the waiter to bring me the same, while pointing at Lena’s already cold cappuccino and keeping an oh-my-god-whathappened expression on my face.

Turns out that her roommate Sasha was having some kind of a heart attack last night, and when one of the girls tried to call an ambulance, their alky-boss prohibited her because ‘it would cost too much’.

Really, what a bitch!

‘She scared me so much, but luckily it didn’t end badly, I managed to find corvalol drops in one of the girls’ medical aid kits, and after some time Sasha’s chest pain calmed down and she fell asleep.’

‘Thank God she is fine.’ I fake my concern, thinking of my bed and how nice it would be to jump back in it for a few more hours.

‘Yes!
She
was fine,’ Lena continues with more indignation, ‘but not me! You know, seeing a fainting person is enough to make me faint myself …’

Oh yes, I do know …

It is not news that Lena is very wary and panicky. On top of that, sometimes she has cases of fainting for real. She would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, feeling nauseous. She would get out of bed to go to the bathroom, and on the way there, she would zonk out and fall onto the floor. A few times, she smashed her face badly. That’s why she had to learn to control herself and not to jump out of bed whenever she woke up feeling groggy. Instead, she would just slide off the bed and crawl into the bathroom, so that if she did faint, she would already be near the floor, avoiding a dangerous fall.

There is no particular reason for these incidents; at least the doctors couldn’t find one. But most of the time it happens when she drinks or eats to excess – even just a little, which most of us would still consider to be moderation.

‘I couldn’t make myself sleep at all last night …’ her voice right now is full of so much irritating drama that I want to just flick her forehead.

‘But don’t worry, Jul. It’s all okay now.’

‘Good, Len. I am glad you both are well now …’

I was not worried at all, although I felt sorry for Lena. Of the three of us, the drinking-a-lot situation was the most difficult for her. But I know she was somehow managing, keeping her ‘moderation’ in the safe levels. After a few incidents in Luxembourg, during her first contract already, Lena also learnt how to drink without drinking. Every time she had more than two glasses of champagne, she’d go to the toilet, carefully put two fingers down her throat and eject the contents of her stomach. The only things she had to remember were to keep it quiet, not to forget the make-up bag to touch up after the procedure, and, of course, a mint or chewing gum.

Phew … yuck!

This may seem like a good solution for our problem of having to drink a lot every day, but only at first glance. Believe me: imagine forcing yourself to throw up several times a night, which wouldn’t be a big deal if you were bulimic and vomiting food, but I am talking about puking pure acid out of your stomach, mixed with sour champagne. Aside from the cocktail being extremely nasty, it also burns your throat and gullet.

The girls like me, who can tolerate big amounts of alcohol and other stuff, try never to use this option.

As I try hard not to fall asleep sitting right there in the café, I notice that my sister is, regardless her weariness, unusually twitchy, and that her eyes sparkle oddly.

Something is going on with her … and I don’t like it …

After the waiter brings us another two cappuccinos, this time decaf, Lena cradles her cup with both hands and smiles at me.

‘Jul, there is something else I wanted to talk to you about.’

No fucking way you are pregnant again! I think, but say only, ‘What is it?’

‘There is this customer I met a few weeks ago,’ Lena goes on. ‘Michel. He is from Paris, handsome, fit, 43 years old and not married.’ She pauses, looks inside her cup and adds, ‘At least, that is what he told me. But I believe him, Jul. Why would he lie?’

He would lie for the same reason as all your previous boyfriends did. Because this is what you want to hear, my hopelessly child-like sister.

‘On the first night,’ she continues, ‘he bought six bottles of Dom Perignon and didn’t even touch me. We spent all night talking about love and life. He kept looking into my eyes, saying that I was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.’

‘Wow! Six bottles?’ I whisper, counting in my head how much my sister made that night.

‘You would not believe it, but a week later Michel came back! He asked if I would like to join him for dinner. Of course I said yes. He paid the club the fine for my absence, and took me to a fine restaurant. Then he suggested that we go to his suite in the five star hotel, to continue the night ...’ She looks down and bites her lip. ‘You know, strawberries and champagne in a beautiful hotel room with a gorgeous view and a handsome man who adores you … it was an amazing night … like a dream, Jul. A fairy tale!’

I sigh with admiration. ‘You are definitely one lucky bitch, Len!’

She sighs too. ‘But there is something else …’ Her voice drops and she falls silent in hesitation. I can see she is struggling to find the courage to say what she wants to say.

Oh no! You are definitely knocked up! goes through my head and I lean over the table and ask, trying to hide the irritation, ‘What, Len?’

‘The only little thing –’ she stops and looks down again ‘– is … hmmm … he wore red fishnet stockings under his €3,000 suit; he didn’t take them off until we’d finished making love.’

‘No way! Len, are you serious?’ I start laughing and my sister goes as red as the bright cashmere sweater she is wearing.

‘Stop laughing!’ she exclaims. ‘I think I love him.’ When I notice the tears in her eyes I cover my face with my hands and try to cease my laughter. I know what ‘I love him’ means in Lena’s interpretation – ‘I am ready to marry him and have kids …’ And that if she is not knocked up yet, she is going to be soon.

‘Come on Len, what do you want me to say? He is a perfect customer! I know you’ve already dreamt about you two getting married, but don’t freak out straight away. Sometimes absolutely abnormal things can, with time, become surprisingly normal. So what? Stockings? He seems like a nice guy to me anyway. What you should do is wear stockings yourself next time too.’ And we burst into laughter, together this time.

I walk her to the bus station and we talk more about her new admirer. Then Lena suddenly shoots, ‘Natalia told me you were fighting a lot lately.’

‘Never mind,’ I brush her off. ‘You know Natalia.’

But Lena isn’t going to let go. ‘You know, Jul, you must talk to somebody, get help, besides you know we are always there for you.’ She says this as if she is my therapist and I am some kind of mental patient.

Now I don’t even try to suppress my irritation. ‘I am fine, Lena, just smoking dope sometimes. Not a big deal! It’s not like I am some kind of junkie! Relax! Stop listening to Natalia! And just make sure you use condoms, so you don’t repeat your previous mistakes.’

It is a few months since we left Ukraine, but it only took me a few hours – not even days – to adapt to the grown-up world. I feel so cool and easy. I enjoy my financial freedom; I guess that is the first thing that changes any child into an adult. I love the fact that I am in charge. The unknown future and its responsibilities infect me with a bit of fear and rash excitement.

The only paradox that can’t stop stirring in my head is why on earth am I so morally comfortable with what I am doing? I do not feel ashamed or dirty because I am a pro.

Don’t get me wrong: I am not trying to promote this job, even though it can be the best recipe for many women for how to find the damn G-spot. We all know that practice makes perfect. I am not going to be insincere either and tell you that I fuck for money because I love sex. I do love sex, but the clientele does not come from my imaginary perfect world. The guys who are more often part of my reality are ugly, fat, smelly or sweaty. Hookers usually aren’t in a position to be picky, because they have already made their choice – the money. What’s more, this trade wouldn’t be my first choice if there were other well-paid jobs available. Trust me, if teachers earned the same as sex traders, I would not hesitate to change my clientele from adults to the under-aged.

So, this is not an attempt to find the merits or reveal the evils of this profession, or to justify my choice. It is about my curiosity. I am curious about my ease with what I do.

I don’t think it is my sisters’ fault, although they did set an example. I was okay with this even before I learned what kind of job they did in Luxembourg. The first time I had sex in exchange for the agreed-on-in-advance amount was when I was sixteen.

During the summer holidays, my school friend Sveta and I took jobs as waitresses in one of the resorts on the Black Sea. It was a great opportunity to get tanned, hang out and make a little bit of money. We made friends with all of the staff, including three security guards – who, although a lot of fun, annoyingly hassled us.

Once, the barman, Sergey, called both of us for a little chat. ‘Dolls, would you like to make some extra cash? There are two men from Moscow. They want some fun, but because their wives and kids are here too, the fun must be quiet and decent. They saw you two on the beach and liked you. Tomorrow they are going fishing on the lake and would like you two to join them for few hours – one hundred dollars each,’ he finished, and smiled.

I looked at Sveta. She was stunned. After a pause she threw ‘No way!’ at Sergey with disgust, and left the bar. Sergey confidently followed her leaving with his eyes, and a sarcastic ‘Sure, princess. Go! Eventually you will get fucked by one of those callow guards anyway …’ He turned to me with a questioning look and added, ‘… for free, of course.’

It was a surprise to me, but I didn’t rise in revolt from the proposition. What was even more shattering – I totally agreed with the barman.

‘How safe is it?’

‘They are normal dudes; if they weren’t, I wouldn’t handle the negotiation.’

The next day, at about ten in the morning, one of them picked me up in his latest-model black Mercedes, a few kilometers away from our resort as we had agreed. I had never been taken for a drive in a car that stylish. It took us fifteen minutes to get to the peaceful glade with its small lake, where his friend, it turned out, was already fishing – for real.

‘I will give you another hundred if you do my friend as well,’ my driver announced with ease, as if we were talking about the weather. ‘Your choice; we will not force you to do anything.’

It took me some time to convert two hundred bucks into
hryvni
. The sound of the anxious pulse in my head slowed my brain down. Nevertheless, the amount was equivalent to four months of my salary as a waitress, with tips. I tried to calm myself down; I made sure that my voice stayed firm and replied, ‘Okay, but one at a time.’ He nodded ‘No problem,’ then asked me to undress and to move to the back seat.

Before we started, my employer quickly took off his shorts and T-shirt, rolled a condom over his cock, and, before climbing into the car, wisely covered the leather seat with a beach towel.

We started with me on top of him. Very soon he got tired of my flat chest and lifted me up, turning me around at the same time. He pushed my head down, squashing my face into the leather that was now stripped of the towel, and bonked me from behind. He was rough but didn’t hurt me; more importantly, it didn’t take him long to come.

As soon as he was done, he mumbled ‘Good girl, stay where you are,’ put his shorts back on, and walked away towards the lake.

When his friend came to the car a few minutes later, I was lying on my back, bashfully covered with the towel. The friend was cool as a cucumber: he smiled, unzipped his shorts, wrapped his swollen member in rubber and climbed on top of me. It was my lucky day: he was even faster than his friend. Ten minutes of rhythmical rocking in the missionary position and I was free to go with two hundred bucks in my pocket.

The barman was right: the ‘dudes’ were ‘normal’, and one of the security guards did screw Sveta after all … for free.

When the summer ended and we went back home, Sveta started to complain about pain in her throat and discomfort when she urinated. The blood test showed the clap and a few other X-rated infections. When I asked her if they had used any protection, Sveta wiped her tears and blubbered in embarrassment that he had told her that he’d put on the condom, but it was dark and she couldn’t see. She was too shy to check with her hand.

That summer story didn’t shape my views about life: the barman’s words were not news to me. So, I look for answers in the earlier stages of my life, but can’t find any clues in my childhood either. We grew up in a friendly, strong and intelligent family; our parents had a healthy relationship. We were raised on Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky and steeped in the concepts of integrity and fairness. I think that my I-am-okay-with-being-a-pro attitude is simply a consequence of my observations of everyday life.