Twisted (6 page)

‘Chris, would you like …?’ Before I can finish, he leans towards me, pushing me to lie down.

‘Oh yes, Julia, I would like …’ and he starts covering my body with clumsy kisses while pulling my little strapless red dress down to the floor. And as I turn away to let him wet my neck rather than my mouth, I see naked Claudia rhythmically moving on the top of the also already undressed friend of Chris.

Okay. I get it … we are not going to move to another room …

For some time, we just intensively hump in front of each other; it feels absolutely insane to be watched while having sex and eyeing the other couple doing the same in front of you.

By the time we’re onto bottle number three, a few hours later, all four of us have ended up on one couch, creating an agglomeration of human bodies that is moving wildly and making sluttish noises.

I start getting used to the weirdness until the
garçon
, who enters the room in the middle of our action to bring more champagne, ice or condoms, takes me right back to the point at which I’m shocked by witnessing and experiencing all of this …

Another few hours, and absolutely nothing feels strange to me anymore. We’re so stoned that I hardly know where I am and what I am doing …

We drink, sniff and fuck, regularly changing positions and locations.

For the last few hours of our explicit freestyle race, we are incapable of doing anything more than just lying naked on the couches, staring at the ceiling, smoking, talking crap and laughing like we are 13 years old again, spending the night in summer camp. It is now that Claudia shares her story with us. The guys are so drunk that they are moved almost to tears, ignoring the fact that they just did all sorts of things that straight men would never voluntarily go through.

That night, we opened more than 16 bottles of champagne, and drank most of them. I didn’t even remember how I got to my bed.

Ow … that hurts!

I try to open my eyes and understand what woke me up. Natalia is in my room, walking around, picking my clothes up off the floor while talking to me. Despite the time – already about 5 p.m. – her every word feels like a hammer against my head. I quickly shut my eyes again.

What the hell is she doing here?

Apparently, the fact that I am incapable of doing any kind of activity, including having a conversation, is obvious only to me.

When I finally turn my brains on and understand what she is talking about, I can’t believe my ears. She has actually come to lecture me about my alcohol and drug use and how much damage it can cause to my life and health!

Seriously?

She refuses to notice when I turn away, covering my head with the blanket in irritation. She just goes on and on about the risks to my future wellness. Then, she ignores my ‘Please Nata, not now, my head will explode!’ and jumps in, dressing me down in her favorite soapbox manner about how I should avoid drinking to excess and enumerating the ways in which we can fool the customers.

‘Where is your wooden stick?’

Her tone is driving me mad. She is standing in front of me with my work purse open.

‘Jul? Answer me. Where is it?’

I moan.

‘I can see lipstick, condoms and chewing gum. Where is the fucking wooden stick I gave you?’

I can’t believe it; she’s actually raising her voice at me.

‘I am not using the stupid stick. Leave me alone.’ My voice is hoarse from smoking too much last night.

‘Why not?’ she exclaims with fury. ‘You know it helps to stay sober!’

I remember the day we arrived. She’d given me this wooden stick with a star-like tip, calling it a ‘magic wand’. It came with a half-hour lecture on why we need to use it.

Apparently, if you stir the champagne in your glass with this stick, it goes flat faster. ‘It’s not a secret that the fizz speeds up the absorption of the alcohol into your bloodstream. This is a killer for us, Jul. So, all you have to do is stir it a few times,’ she’d said, trying to appeal to my common sense.

‘What is the point, sister? The fun is in getting drunk. Why delay it?’ I’d jokingly answered, knowing that as soon as she left the room I would throw this piece of magic into the garbage.
Seriously, how else am I supposed to deal with doing this crazy job every day? I’m not Miss Perfect like you, Nata ...

‘Jul!’

She was losing it. And just like today, I decided not to make any further comments, to get her to leave faster.

‘Very often, Jul, the amounts of alcohol you will have to consume are crazy. And you don’t want to get sick on the client or pass out when you could make more money. Listen to me. You must try to drink as little as possible.’

I’d nodded, hoping that she was finally done with her useful tips and tricks. But she’d just carried on.

‘Besides using the stick, you could also pour the swill onto the carpet, couch or curtains. On anything that can absorb liquid. Although,’ she smiled, ‘the client could easily detect this fraud. So the best way is to pour it right into the ice bucket when he leaves to use the bathroom …’

Natalia drags me back from my memories, handing me a glass of water and two aspirins.

‘My point is that if you continue drinking like that, Jul, in a few months all the money you’ve earned will have to be spent on gastroenterologists.’

Arghh … where do you even get these words from??? Why can’t you just shut up and leave me alone?

‘You think that drunkenness helps you to be relaxed, funny and confident, but in fact it just makes you lose control. How can you not understand that?’

I wrinkle my nose, trying to keep my head still – the pain of every movement tortures me. But, again, Natalia chooses not to notice my hangover suffering, and continues, ‘You were just lucky last night. Those guys would have spent all of that money anyway, even if you were a monkey. But if it had come to a situation where you had to manipulate or influence them to make them pay, you wouldn’t have been aware of it. You are always wasted, Jul.’

I am watching two tablets dissolve. I can’t believe that she is actually saying all this instead of just being happy for my success last night!

‘You’re just jealous, Nata, aren’t you?’ I wheeze.

‘Oh, please, Julia. Jealous of what? You literally killing yourself? How long will you be able to carry on like this?’

‘Well, you don’t really expect me to do this job forever, right?’ The bubbles of the fizzing aspirin are tickling my nose while I down it in one gulp. ‘And what do you mean by losing control? Control over being fucked in front of other people, Miss I-do-everythingthe-right-way? Guess what, Natalia – not everybody is perfect like you. Just deal with it! Jesus, my head is really going to explode now … Can’t we leave this preaching for some other time? I am in pain and I need to start getting ready for work.’

‘Whatever, Jul … I was just trying to be helpful’, says Natalia, heading towards the door. Just before she leaves the room, she turns to me and adds, with a sarcastic smile, ‘By the way, congratulations. You did extremely well last night.’

My loving sister Natalia induces the boss to change my shift to the daytime for the next month. She wants to save me from drugs and separate me from Masha.

Isn’t it charmingly naïve?

The day run finishes at 10 p.m. As soon as it’s over, I go to the nightclubs with different clients, who are more than happy to supply me with a hit in the hopes of free intercourse after the party.

Nice try, Nata. But I’ll find a way if I want to ...

Unfortunately, working in the day also means working with the freakiest freaks in Luxembourg. In this particular club, what also helps to bring these pathetic bastards in is a big screen that runs non-stop hardcore porn without sound.

It is the end of my first week on the day shift, which hasn’t gone too well for me business-wise. I wasn’t quick enough (the other girls were really good at roller skating), or the clients simply didn’t want me. Yesterday, already, I could see the manager giving me sidelong glances, so I am really under pressure to make it work today. While I am busy thinking about my difficulties, the door slowly opens and the first customer walks in.

He is a pale, tall fatso in his late 80s – yes, still a frequent visitor to such places, and yes, who still regularly goes upstairs for nookie! Okay, maybe the word ‘goes’ is too strong; he battles to move, with the help of his walking stick or sometimes even a barman. Among the girls, his nickname is Death.

When he shuffles in and heads to the bar, all the girls sigh together with dislike and turn away from him. Despite the tough competition, not one of them tries to get to Death first. To me, the dodderer looks like a harmless dude. My first guess why the girls have given him such a discouraging name is that he looks like he is going to die very, very soon. Nice try, but far from the real reason …

Apparently, he always likes to try the new girls, so it is my turn to get to know him better.

The barman, Franc, is chatting to Death. He waves to me, and without extra words, directs us to the stairs. When we finally reach the next floor, grandpa and I make ourselves comfortable on the two-seater couch in a small, square room with a coffee table, dustbin and miniature hand-wash basin hanging on the wall, which is papered with dull flowers. Franc opens and pours the champagne, using the best manners and etiquette, while engaging in a little talk with my playmate, politely pretending that he is interested in a conversation. At the same time, I am trying to calm myself with the idea that if Death can hardly move his limbs (you should see him climbing up the stairs, with barmen behind him as a backup in case he collapses), any further activity should not go beyond an innocent chat or, at most, some modest cuddling.

As soon as the door closes behind the barman, Death starts peeling his clothes off. I freeze in stupor.

The words ‘Take off your dress’ bring me back to my disturbing reality. With credulous optimism, I down a glass of champagne and obey.

What follows is worse than a nightmare …

For the whole hour that we spend together, he deep-kisses me on my mouth, forcing his sour, mucus-covered tongue down my throat and sadistically biting my lips. I cannot even describe the smell that his whole body emits, but I finally figure why the girls gave him his nickname. He stinks, as if he is already dead and rotting from the inside. All I can think about is how to suppress the urge to vomit.

He likes it harsh – asks me to squeeze his nipples hard and pinches mine exhaustively too. A stifled ‘ouch’ uncontrollably slips out while my face distorts from the pain. The son of a bitch sulkily pushes me away and wheezes with irritation: ‘Don’t you like it?’ Clearly, to earn the bottle, I don’t only have to participate in this aversion – the pretense that I’m having the best time of my life is also required. I force a smile and assure him that I am certainly turned on, but it is just a little bit too intense for me. He ‘hmmms’ and goes back to his sadistic manipulations.

He keeps pressing my face into his full, hanging breasts, forcing me to bite and suck his nipples, while poking his crooked fingers into my dry pussy, scratching it with his nails. I try to keep my eyes closed: his pale and wizened skin is covered with blue knots of varicose veins, which doesn’t make it any easier for me to fight the reflex to puke.

This revolting scene ends up with me on my knees, sucking the disgustingly soft, eighty-year-old cock, until Death finally comes in my mouth. I wash down the thick and smelly fluid with another glass of champagne and genuinely smile. Incredible … I feel happy.

The torture is over, but not my amazement. The dodderer is so tired after the session that I actually have to dress him. Think of a hundred kilograms of calf’s-foot jelly that has to be pushed into a human’s clothes. It takes me some time. After I’ve worked up a good sweat, the barman helps Death to get down the stairs. And he leaves the club alive. Again.

I go to the toilet and wash my hands and face. I rinse my mouth and chew bubblegum, but cannot get rid of the rotten smell and taste in my mouth.

I cannot stop thinking about why I didn’t simply tell Death to fuck off. It’s not as if I have five little kids waiting for me at home and no money to buy them food. What can I say? I guess it’s life … You never know what a lack of money, poor social security, alluring TV shows with their fabulous people and luxury things, a desperate desire to have a decent life, and young age can do to you.

Still deep in thought, I go down to the bar and ask for a shot of tequila. Even though we are not allowed to drink any alcoholic beverages except champagne with the clients, Franc nods and pours me a double.

It is the third month of our trip. Lena calls me to meet for coffee.

This month she had to move to another club. Our boss wanted to hire a few new girls, and Lena simply wasn’t his favourite. Her new club, ‘Angels’ House’, is somewhere in the suburbs, close to the German border, about 30 minutes away by bus.

The place is dodgy and we mock it by calling it ‘House of Slumbers’.

It is a small, country-style bar with a female owner. To save money, she is the barman as well as the only waitress, which makes the place a total fuck-up considering that she’s a ‘striking’ boozer too. Usually she doesn’t hire more than five or six girls. Four of them work constantly, and also drink like fish; the remaining one or two are new girls every month, like Lena, to refresh the trashiness.

What tops off the place is the shiny lever on the bar. Girls are allowed to enjoy (or, rather, abuse) the limitless beer on tap. Obviously, the alky-owner looks better from an outsider’s point of view when everyone around her is drunk too. By the time the first clients start entering the club, the bar looks like the Land of Nod.

This is the first time I am going to see Lena in three weeks. Besides the fact that lately I spend all my spare time on catching some Z’s after my nightly festivities, Lena seldom has a chance to get to town.

The snag is the club owner. She lives in one of the rooms on the second floor of ‘Angels’ House’, together with the working girls. The wooden floor in the hallway is old and creaky. So, while she sleeps to recover from her crapulence, the crazy woman doesn’t allow her employees to come out of their rooms until noon.