Authors: Laura D
24 January 2007
P
AUL'S BAR SEEMS
to have become my home territory
of its own accord. I first found it a long time back,
way before I became a student. I immediately felt
comfortable in the place. The décor has a colonial feel to
it with dark wood. There are lots of pictures of actresses
from the 1940s on the walls and, even though I don't
know who most of them are, they soon felt familiar. Still,
I didn't go that often because I wanted it to create that
same magical impression every time. Paul would nod
hello when I dropped in from time to time and we'd
exchange a few words. In the early days, I took refuge
here after each 'professional' rendezvous. Then I started
coming more and more regularly: before or after work,
for a coffee or an impromptu chat if I bumped into some
friends.
The radical change to how important it is in my life
only happened when I scuttled back to safety here after
my meeting with Joe. Ever since then I associate the bar
with a feeling of relief, of comfort after physical and
emotional upheaval. I can drown my sadness and darkest
thoughts here, forgetting everything about my life. It's a
halfway house between the seedy hotels and my apartment;
I've really made a cocoon of the place.
Over time I've become friendly with Paul, the waiter.
I like having him around. I talk to him quite openly,
though I never go into details. Partly because I don't
want to (I'm not the sort of girl who tells her life story
to everyone she meets), but also because Paul's quite
superficial. He wouldn't be in the least bit interested in
what I had to tell him, except for the sex bits. I really
can't stand it when you're talking to someone and they
keep looking around for something more interesting to
latch onto. Given how little I trust him as a 'lifelong
keeper of innermost secrets', I've completely ruled out
admitting anything to him about my forbidden activities.
I still can't imagine revealing a secret like that to anyone.
I don't want to have to justify myself, to see the look in
his eye which might not go so far as to judge me but
would definitely pity me. Come to think of it, I don't
think he'd believe me anyway.
Paul is a skirt-chaser. He's got a huge ego and he flirts
with every girl who comes into his bar. Super-quick
conquests. He shags them and then dumps them a few
days – even a few hours – later. In fact he tried his luck
with me at first. I think he's set himself the task of
seducing every pretty girl who steps through the door.
He sweet-talked me quite a bit but there's no way I could
be interested in him: he's too closely associated with my
life as a prostitute. He could tell there was no point and
soon struck me off the list of potential prey. I don't think
he was really interested in me, he just saw me as another
conquest, and he certainly wasn't prepared to put in any
extra effort to achieve his ends with me rather than
someone else. It's not really his style to go to any trouble
over a girl. I also have to remind myself that, because
he's geographically so close to the places where I have
my mysterious meetings, he'll eventually work out where
I'm going and what I'm doing – if he can be bothered.
At the height of my time as a prostitute, the bar will
become a second home to me. I admit that the other
customers have a lot to do with that. Most of them are
in their thirties: crisp young businessmen or struggling
artists, the odd model, the place never feels old or boring.
All these people mingling happily at the bar, their voices
blending into a harmonious hubbub.
I've always felt more mature than other girls my age,
and as I chat to complete strangers – but these are
strangers of about thirty – I realise I feel most comfortable
with that age group. Ever since I was little I've had
to grow up more quickly than others, and my parents
brought me up with a strong sense of responsibility. So I
had real problems with all the childishness and pranks at
school. Sometimes my friends were fun but most of the
time I couldn't believe the sort of things they said. I
couldn't stand them gushing, 'Oh, you'll never guess, my
boyfriend's got a car!' My boyfriend at the time was
thirty years old and had had a car for a while. So nothing
exceptional about that, as far as I was concerned. I
couldn't motivate myself to join in their plans for
weekend sleepovers or their first experiments with socalled
soft drugs.
As a general rule, I went to school for my lessons and
left as soon as I could. I rarely mixed with other people
there. It's not that I was haughty, I just didn't naturally
mix in with them. I liked having them around during
the course of the day but never really 'made friends' or
arranged to meet them outside school. It was the same
with boys. For as long as I can remember I've always
found boys my own age incredibly boring, except for
Manu who's more or less the same generation as me.
When I was old enough to start going out with boys I
never considered my peers as potential boyfriends. I
prefer more accomplished men who aren't going
through some post-adolescent crisis or trying to find
their own identity. Sometimes I regret growing up so
quickly because at school I felt lonely, misunderstood
and out of step with what was going on and what I was
experiencing. I think like a thirty-year-old; my mind is
ten years ahead of my age. At the end of the day, I
would like to have fun like a girl my own age, doing
silly superficial things and not always thinking like a
responsible adult. I sometimes feel tired of being who I
am but I can't help myself: I've got to face the fact that
I'll never be someone who likes childish fooling around,
even just for a bit. I haven't been that naive for a long
time.
That's one of the reasons I immediately felt at home in
Paul's bar. I almost always come here alone, knowing I'll
end the evening chatting to someone new.
When I get to Paul's bar this evening the place is
packed. There's a rock band playing and a gaggle of
half-drunk customers have turned the bar area into a
dance floor. Their good mood is infectious and I catch
myself smiling the minute I step through the door. Paul
sees me and quickly brings me a glass of wine, to 'relax
me' he says. I know that he's actually showing off to the
men leaning up at the bar who are having a good look
at me while I kiss him hello. It's his way of saying, 'Yup,
lads, I know her.'
Well, it works. Two of them try to strike up a
conversation with me straight away.
'Hello, do you often come to this bar?' one of them
begins, not very originally.
'I've never seen you here and I know I wouldn't have
forgotten a pretty girl like you!' the other says, full of
inspiration.
How imaginative! Their opening gambits are bargain
basement material. I can sense a man's sexual intentions
at a hundred paces. I answer their questions like a good
girl and even allow myself to ask a few bland questions
of my own, out of courtesy. The two blokes know each
other well and, as we talk, the conversation gets competitive.
Which of them will be taking the girl home this
evening? Whoever formulates the sentence that coaxes
the biggest smile out of me? I force myself to stay polite
but I'm dying to walk off so that they grasp the fact that
they haven't got a hope in hell with me.
All of a sudden I spot him behind the two men. He's
been watching me for several minutes. Brown hair with
a few stray locks hiding his eyes, which I think are
probably green. He's wearing a striped cotton shirt with
the sleeves rolled up. Very average clothes but, in spite
of that, the moment I notice him I can't stop looking at
him. He's captivating. There's something kind and
friendly about the way he looks at me. It's not the first
time I've seen him here. I've seen him chatting with Paul
over a cup of coffee a few times. I smile as I contemplate
serving him up the standard issue 'Do you come here
often?'
He's trying to communicate something to me with his
eyes but I don't have time to interpret it. Two seconds
later he's next to me, putting his hand round my waist in
front of the two flirting competitors. I hardly need say
they straighten themselves up pretty sharply, ashamed to
have got things so wrong. Silence descends on us,
punctuated by their embarrassed coughs and throat
clearing.
'Oh . . . Hi,' one of them manages to stammer.
A couple of polite niceties later and they've withdrawn.
The saviour turns my body round to face him
without letting go of my waist. The situation is terrifyingly
erotic and I feel a shudder run through me, making
the hairs on my arm stand on end. I can't take my eyes
off him and he watches my face without a word. He's
really not what you would call good-looking, but I'm
fascinated by him. I could stay like this for an hour but
after a minute or so, I decide to break the silence.
'Thanks, they were becoming quite a pain.'
'Yes, that's what I thought.'
He points to a table that's just been left empty, then
orders us a couple of beers and, just like that, quite
naturally, we spend the evening together, laughing a lot
and talking about our day-to-day lives. His name is
Olivier. He doesn't do much in life and even seems a bit
bored. He looks and lives a bit like a Bohemian. Unless
someone comes up with a time-machine, he seems
resigned to the fact that he won't be able to go back to
the 1970s. He got the wrong decade when he was born.
It's a happy, comfortable evening, I feel great. I don't
know why everything suddenly seems so easy. And I
don't try to work out why it is you sometimes feel so at
home with a complete stranger, even down to telling him
very personal things. I talk about my family, my course
at uni and Manu. He listens attentively and tells me
about the events and experiences that marked his childhood
and the more recent past. It's a healthy balanced
exchange, each of us giving a little of ourselves. And it's
all done with smiles; even pain and suffering come across
as constructive trials.
The drinks keep coming as the night wears on. We're
getting more and more drunk, launching us into the
peculiar logic of alcohol which makes us reveal everything
about our lives quite readily and without any
hang-ups. I've got this strange feeling I can tell him
everything, even and particularly the one thing I'm
hiding from everyone else. More than once I catch myself
wondering how he would react if I told him about my
debauched activities. He's the one who makes the first
move towards major confessions.
'You see, after thirty years, I feel as if nothing can
shock me now. Don't you think that's a shame?'
The opportunity's too irresistible and my secret's too
heavy for me to go on bearing it alone.
'Nothing can shock you? Really?'
'Really.'
'I'm pretty sure I can shock you.'
Egged on by drink, I'm getting more and more
adventurous. I know I'm playing with fire, but some
strange instinct is urging me to trust him. He doesn't say
anything for a while, as if trying to think how to reply.
He can tell that, whatever I'm thinking of confessing, I'm
still hesitating.
'If you're sure you want to, I'll listen,' he says.
He can tell I can't quite make up my mind. Revealing
my hidden life would mean trusting him completely and
counting on his loyalty to keep the secret. But I don't
know him. How and why can I trust him? I look at him
searchingly and know he won't say anything. Still,
there's a glimmer of lucidity left in me which stops me
going further.
'Don't worry. It'll stay between you and me. I can
swear it.'
So I throw myself in. I turn the words round and
round inside my head to find an appropriate verbal
construction for them, because I've never said them out
loud.
'Do you know where I was last week?'
He shakes his head. He can't possibly know.
'I was with a fifty-year-old man who paid me to touch
my body. I'm a prostitute.'
I've spat it all out without thinking. Once I've actually
done it I back away slightly as if it was someone else
talking.
For a second his eyes probe mine even more keenly
and the upper part of his face screws up but, remembering
his promise, he's quick to adopt what he hopes is a
neutral expression.
'I see,' he says simply.
He doesn't lay a hand on my shoulder, doesn't make
a single compassionate gesture which would exasperate
me. No, he just wants to understand and asks me loads
of questions. The rest of the night carries on like the
beginning; my revelation hasn't done anything to ruin
the evening, quite the opposite – it's brought us closer.
Paul eventually breaks the spell which has lasted about
six hours. Six consecutive hours when there was nothing
in the world but the two of us. I really didn't notice the
time passing and I think Paul must be joking when he
comes over with the floor mop, having a clean-up before
closing time.
'You're going to have to move on, we're closing!'
The two of us burst out laughing, both realising we've
lost all track of time. Olivier gets up and holds out his
hand to me, to take me outside. Drunk and giggling, I
give Paul a quick wave goodbye. When we get outside,
Olivier walks me home, holding me up by the waist
because I'm zigzagging all over the place. Both of us
laugh hysterically all the way, under the effects of excess
alcohol. Outside my door he makes sure I've got my keys
and can open the door all right. Then, slowly and gently,
he kisses my cheek.
I smile at him and go up to the apartment to fall asleep
alone. But happy.
4 February 2007
M
Y BIRTHDAY'S GETTING CLOSER
by the minute. I'm
going to be nineteen. 'A wonderful age,' everyone
always says. I'm not really fussed what number it says on
the dial.
Nineteen years old. Two relationships (one of which is
on-going), a literature Baccalaureate under my belt, a
year at uni which is turning out better than expected and
a hidden life as a prostitute. Not bad at just nineteen.
Only nineteen years have passed, but I feel ten years
older than that.
I'm nearly nineteen and still just as desperately short
of money. The balance sheets don't look good, far from
it. My tiny mobile phone package has been withdrawn
by my service provider. I've got financial priorities, like
my rent, that I'm struggling to meet, and most of the
time I don't buy a ticket when I take the Métro to uni
because I can't afford the luxury of a travel card.
I try to look on the bright side of things. I love my
course. It's four months now since I joined the huge
student body, and I couldn't be happier about it. Even
when I'm tired, I go to lectures gladly, very conscious of
the opportunity I'm getting to study (almost) for free. I'm
still just as eager to learn and I'm sure I've found my
niche with modern languages. My tutors are very encouraging
and one of them even admitted recently that he
could see me as a future high-flyer in language teaching.
On top of that, I've had the results from my exams in
January. I passed them all with an average of 75 per cent!
I couldn't believe it when I got my marks through the
post. So there is some justice in the world; I didn't do all
that work for nothing.
My limited budget obviously means I can't buy all the
books I need, so the library has become one of my
favourite places. I like browsing there and killing time
over the more precious volumes. But it's not particularly
big and it's often been raided before I get there, at least
the books I need for my course have gone. Still, these
recurring inconveniences don't knock any of the innate
enthusiasm out of me, they just slow down the learning
process a bit. I'm envious of students who go straight to
the local bookshop to order books in the original
language and hand over their credit cards with a serene
smile.
I'm also desperate to have my own laptop because
they're becoming well and truly indispensable. The idea
first came to me one day with the telesales company.
Someone who worked there told us all there was going
to be a prize draw and the top prize was a laptop. You
can imagine my reaction to this news. I took up residence
on internet sites for computers as soon as I had a spare
moment and drooled over the latest technological marvels.
I chose my theoretical favourite, knowing full well
my parents would never be able to afford to give me one,
even for my birthday.
I feel helpless when I think of my everyday expenses.
It was over a month ago that I had that first meeting with
Joe. In that time, I've had three big customers who
temporarily fished me out of the red by giving me over
600 euros between them. Thanks to them, I settled my
major financial problems, the ones that had been building
up for a while, but there's still the rent, bills etc. It's
endless. Too many things to think about and pay for. I
feel swamped.
I go back to my ads on the internet.
First I contact an amateur photographer . . . who
makes me wear the most improbable outfits. Even in my
most outrageous fantasies I couldn't think up things like
that. As the session goes on I find him more and more
dubious. He gets demanding, almost aggressive in the
way he speaks to me if I don't do what he wants.
'Oh, come on, Laura, don't stand like that! Do you
really think you're going to turn anyone on in that
position? Don't be such a lump! It needs to be sexier, yes,
like that, with your mouth open, good!'
I bring the shoot to an end as soon as I can. When I
pocket the money I realise it's not as much as I can get
from sleeping with a stranger. And, anyway, I'm not at
all comfortable with the idea: photos leave a trail. I'm
not prepared to take that sort of risk. I'm keen to stay as
discreet as possible. The guy calls me back several times,
even suggests threesomes with another girl.
'It's OK, she's a student like you, you'll get on really
well, I know you will!'
Just the thought of ending up with some other poor
girl in the same shitty situation as myself makes my
blood run cold. He can tell I'm hanging back so he raises
the fee, going higher and higher till he's quoting sums
that seem unbelievable to someone like me. All the same,
I get this feeling that if I accept the offer I'll fall into his
clutches. He's got every characteristic of the classic pimp:
cajoling and protective one minute, violent the next. He
seems to be part of a network that operates all over V.
If I let him get close to me, I'll never get out of
prostitution. I can't see this as my future – not that any
prostitute can, mind you.
The fact that I've come so close to the downward
spiral of networks like that makes me shudder. I feel
weak and powerless in their manipulative hands but at
the same time strong for keeping my head screwed on.
So far I've succeeded in spotting danger in time and
haven't just accepted any old thing. I've managed to
avoid pimps, but how long can I hold out? Once you
become a prostitute you can't help being in a world
where people know you and recognise you. I haven't got
any money and it feels as if the deeper I go into this
hidden life, the more trouble I have making ends meet.
With every new financial crisis I'm tempted to turn to
prostitution. It's a vicious circle, scoffing at me and
dragging me down like quicksand: the more money I
earn, the more I spend and the more I want.
I do know that I've been 'lucky' so far. No one has
forced me and I haven't landed up with any nutcases. I
shake at the thought that I may actually be waiting for
something more shocking to happen before I put an end
to this double life. And what if that catalytic event never
happens? What if the limits are pushed back bit by bit,
so gradually that I don't see the danger coming? Will I
be one of the so-called 'professionals' one day? Will I
have the strength to get back out?
I only let myself think like that very occasionally. Not
that I'm in denial: I'm perfectly aware that I'm playing
with fire. I'm just trying to protect myself. At the
moment I haven't found any other way of getting money
quickly, so I might just as well try not to weigh myself
down too much with what I'm doing.
All this self-destructive introspection is feeding my
schizophrenia. I can feel two different versions of me
emerging while I think. I'm not all black or all white; I'm
not completely a prostitute or completely a student –
every aspect of my life's a contradiction. The rest of the
time I believe firmly in the future. I can see myself with
a little family in a beautiful house, doing a job I love, far
removed from all this crap. I know I've got the resources
to clamber back out of the hole. I'll get through this, of
course I will. Later I'll always have a secret sense of
having succeeded, of victory. Where few girls have
triumphed, I'll serve as an example.
Later, I've made up my mind, I'll be a good person.
Right now I can't afford to be.
I've started thinking more and more seriously about
the Joe solution. Since we met the first time he hasn't left
me alone. I get emails from him every day and I delete
them automatically without even reading them. As a
newcomer to the profession, I can't contemplate seeing
the same customers again. But I'm quickly coming to
realise that regulars are exactly the people I need to rely
on because they really are a safety net for us in our
trickiest times – 'us' being prostitutes.
I think I'm stupidly hoping for a
Pretty Woman
scenario with a Richard Gere lookalike coming along
and taking me away from all this hell. Although I do
remind myself that's not going to happen if I keep seeing
the same customers. So I'm looking further afield for my
rare pearl, avoiding Joe like the plague. I can't help
smiling when I think that, even with a customer, I'm
dreaming of a sort of Prince Charming.
But this Richard Gere is taking his time and when I get
yet another letter from my landlady saying I must pay the
rent by the end of the week, I tell myself I can easily find
customers all over the place. Customers I know I can
trust are not so easy. The ads often ooze with rampant
perversity which stops me replying to them. Joe's different.
The lasting impression I have of him is that I took
him for a ride. He was quite happy to pay me for
virtually nothing: just rubbing his hands over my body a
bit. For now his fantasies strike me as perfectly manageable.
I've forgotten the horrible feelings I had while I was
with him, all the embarrassment and disgust I felt. I
haven't yet worked out that that's exactly where the
danger lies: only remembering the envelope full of
money.
My landlady's letter is followed the next day by my
payslip. I smirk at the sight of my salary: peanuts, that's
what I'm earning with those phone calls.
I contact Joe that same evening, from a cyber-café,
initially just asking him how he is. The poor bloke must
live in front of his computer because he answers within
seconds.
In the very next email I tell him it's OK to meet up in
the next few days, and the sooner the better because I
need money in a hurry. He seems eager to agree, urged
on by his desire. But, being polite, he does still ask how
I am. I slip the fact that it's nearly my birthday into my
reply, and suggest we could meet up on the day. Without
a moment's hesitation I send the page about my dream
laptop as an attachment.
I know many people will find that shocking. I feel that
if these perverts want to have me, then they can pay a
high price to get me. Even so, I still can't get used to the
idea that I'm a 'prostitute'. I feel as if I'm worth more
than that. And money is the only way I can find to prove
it to myself. I'm going to be nineteen and, this year more
than any other, I need support and reassurance. I have
this stupid idea I'll get that from a computer given to me
by a customer. God, I can be thick!
His next email doesn't come so quickly. I can tell I've
unsettled him a bit. But how could he begin to think I've
got back in touch with him because I like him? The only
thing I'm interested in is his money. Still, he does answer
by asking why I need a computer. I explain that having
one would make my everyday life as a student much
easier. I lay it on a bit thick with the treacly details
because I know I'm dealing with a protective daddy
who's quite easy to soften up. I get his reply a few
minutes later:
Laura,
It seems times are pretty hard for you at the
moment, and I can quite see how badly you need a
computer. Which model are you interested in? Do
you have any particular preferences? . . .
I instantly know that it's in the bag. I'm not even
ashamed of myself. Right now I think I would accept
anything from him because I'm convinced that our next
meeting will be my last experience as a prostitute.
He takes the lead and arranges to meet in three days'
time. The actual day of my birthday.