Authors: Laura D
30 March 2007
I
PROMISED MYSELF
I'd never see Joe again, but he
managed to appeal to me. I told him I was leaving for
Paris, stupidly believing that he'd leave me alone then.
Was I thinking straight?
'If you're off to Paris, you'll need money. You can't
leave with empty pockets. Go on, just once more, it's
such a little thing and it does us both a favour.'
He gave me his mobile number recently and he's got
mine. I gave it to him under duress and I now realise it
was a mistake. It would be lying to say he calls me
regularly – he's literally hounding me! He really does like
me, I seem to match his fantasy of a sexy flirtatious
student.
He's now made a crazy suggestion: nothing less than a
thousand euros for five hours. I can't deny it's very
tempting, but five hours is a long time. What's he
cooking up? I can't help thinking exactly how much
money it is. I've never achieved that sort of rate, and a
sum like that would certainly make going to Paris easier.
I could take my time to find a respectable job I like,
instead of grabbing the first offer in some tacky bar. I
can't contemplate landing up in the same shit I'm in here.
I'm well and truly running away from V. I don't want to
have to hide and scheme and lie any more. In Paris I'll
be a good girl.
We've arranged to meet at the same hotel as usual. To
be honest, I find the place reassuring. In spite of
everything and even though I admit it's stupid, I feel a
sort of trust in Joe. Yes, he made me scream with pain
and humiliation last time we met, but at least I know him
and I don't think I'm risking my life by seeing him. I
know that whatever he might do to me and however
much it makes me cry when I'm alone in my bed
afterwards, he won't strangle me or stab me. Basically,
he's got me under his control. He pays well.
At first we kept in touch off and on by email. He was
quite insistent about arranging to meet again and,
reading between the lines, I could feel his raging desire.
He constantly suggested times when we could meet and
I kept saying I couldn't make it. To pretend I was making
an effort, I suggested a meeting too but at a time I knew
he wouldn't be free. I often wonder why I played that
game, why I didn't just delete him from my mailbox. I
can't help myself; I see him as a safety net, someone who
can give me a bit of breathing space financially if I run
out of money.
And right now that's exactly what's happened. I need
money now that I've decided to exile myself, to run
away, because I feel my life is toppling dangerously
towards something I soon won't be able to control.
Obviously, the main problem is still cash. I haven't got
any, not even enough for my train ticket.
Mind you, I've got everything organised. A friend of
my mother's is going to put me up until I find a job
and an apartment. I've managed to get hold of a fake
medical certificate giving me permission to skip tutorials
at uni. One of my friends is going to copy all
her notes for me, and I'll come and take the exams at
the end of May. As for my job . . . Well, never mind, I
wasn't planning to spend the rest of my life with a
telesales company anyway. Friends and family know
I'm leaving soon. My father just sighed, finding it easier
to ignore me than bollock me. He feels as if he's
reliving my last year of school when I walked out on
lessons. But there's no way I'm giving up on my course,
I'm carrying on by correspondence. Uni represents my
only way out of all this, and I'm clinging so desperately
to that idea that I'm more motivated than ever to do
well.
Basically, this 'exile' is my last chance to break away
from prostitution, from getting swamped by it. As soon
as I've got the money for that sodding one-way ticket, I'll
be off.
But I haven't got the money. Ironically, I need to see
Joe again in order to escape my life as a prostitute. So
I've given in to his suggestions and in one of my emails
I asked him for his mobile number. After thinking it over
for a few days I've called him.
'Joe, it's Laura.'
'Hello, Laura, how are you?'
I don't want any small talk so I cut the conversation
short and get straight to why I'm calling.
'Five hours, Joe, and not a minute more. Five hours for
a thousand euros.'
He must be surprised that I've got down to business
right away, but is quick to reply, 'Err, that's perfect,
Laura. Five hours is perfect, and a thousand euros is OK
by me. Shall we meet at the hotel as usual? Shall we say
one o'clock on Wednesday?'
'Yes, Wednesday's fine. I'll be there.'
'Don't forget to bring some sexy clothes.'
I hang up straight away. He always asks me to come
equipped with skimpy provocative clothes because my
jeans and T-shirts don't turn him on much, or not
enough. What he wants is a student playing at being a
grown-up in women's clothes. That's what he likes.
On Wednesday we meet outside the hotel and he asks
me to go in first. I can tell he's dreamed up some
scenario, and I imagine there's a letter waiting for me on
the bed as usual.
Bingo, yes, there's a note on the bed:
Hello, Laura,
I'm very glad you've agreed to come. I'm sure today
is going to be perfect.
As usual, I'd like you to take a shower first. Then
you will go out of the room and come and knock at
the door. When I answer, you can come in.
These are his normal requests: the shower, the knocking
. . . nothing new there, then. In a way I find it reassuring.
I put the letter back down and go to the bathroom.
So I have my shower, letting the scalding water stream
slowly over my body. I feel lethargic, I haven't got any
energy. I don't think I've got the strength to answer back
today.
When I've washed thoroughly I come back into the
bedroom and find him lying on the bed. Without a word,
I carry on following his instructions and leave the room.
I knock and – again not giving him time to answer
because I'm terrified at the thought of meeting someone
in the corridor – I go back in.
He doesn't move and doesn't speak, just indicates I
should pick up the letter where I left off.
Today we're going to stay in the room for about
half an hour to talk, then we're going to a place I
want to show you, very close to the hotel.
A place? What place? Even though this hotel reminds me
of disgusting things, at least I know it. I don't know what
other sort of places Joe might go to, they could be
dangerous. Anyway, I really don't want to end up
outside with him, where everyone can see us. I don't
want to be exposed. My head is weighing things up: on
the one hand it's screaming at me to leave, but on the
other the 1,000 euros sit there glittering. This isn't
looking good at all.
It's a sex shop I know well. We're going to have
fun there and enjoy ourselves.
I look up at him, my eyes full of questions and unspoken
fears.
'Here, come and sit next to me on the bed,' he says.
So this is what he calls 'talking'. He's going to trot out
all his arguments to persuade me to go to that dismal
place with him – I can picture it already.
'Listen, there's nothing wrong with the place, it really
turns me on. It's just along the road from the hotel and
no one's going to see us on the way there. It's very close
by.'
'Joe, I really don't feel like doing this. There'll be
people there and I don't want to be seen. I don't feel safe.
I really, really don't like the idea. I'd rather stay here.'
'Come on, Laura, don't get upset. It's nice there,
there's nothing to worry about, I promise you. No one
will see you. There's a room at the back of the shop they
keep for regulars. It's very dark in there, no one will see
us, you can trust me on that. There are videos we can
watch together. It's very exciting. I've been there lots of
times with women and everything's always gone well.'
He knows he has to handle me carefully, that I'm
bound to refuse. Obviously, I'm not familiar with places
like that and the only impression I have of them is grim.
I'm not sure what to expect and that's exactly the
problem.
'Listen,' he says after several minutes' silence, 'let's go
there and then we'll see. If you really don't feel comfortable
we'll come back to the hotel. You know, I completely
understand. I'm very shy and discreet too.'
I sigh but a voice inside me whispers,
A thousand
euros, Laura, then you can scram. You can leave all this
shit behind. Without this money you'll never afford it
.
'OK. But as soon as I want to, we come back,' I
eventually agree.
So we head off for the sex shop which really is very
near the hotel, on the corner of the street.
As we walk in the doorbell rings and I find myself face
to face with the cashier. He's about twenty-five or thirty
and so good-looking that I'm rooted to the spot for a
minute. Wow! Out on the street, in different circumstances,
I might have asked him for his phone number. But
here, in this place, with Joe who could easily be my
father, I blush furiously.
He's noticed me too. I can tell from his expression, just
for a split second, that he likes me, but it soon changes
to a look of disgust. He's judging me and must be
thinking I'm just some little tart who comes to sex shops
to get fucked. He's probably annoyed with himself for
liking the look of me for a moment. And, even though
I'm a strong character and nothing ever gets the better of
me, I admit I feel I've fallen about as low as you can go.
This bloke's showing me everything I refuse to see for
myself: the image of Laura in her other life, Laura the
prostitute who lets dirty old men support her financially.
Yup, as far as he's concerned, I'm just a whore. But, hey,
he works on the till in a sex shop!
Joe pays our entry, a tiny fee of a few euros, and heads
quickly towards the room at the back hidden behind
black curtains. Curtains again. They're always there,
every time I'm with a customer, confirming that what I'm
doing is wrong and dirty. I slip into the room, avoiding
eye contact with the employee, who's stopped looking at
me anyway.
It's very dark inside and it takes me a few seconds to
adjust. The only thing I'm aware of straight away is a
strong animal smell, a smell of human flesh. A shudder
runs through me. When I eventually make out what's
around me I see a big projector on the far side playing a
porn film of a crude blonde shrieking with pleasure.
About twenty chairs are arranged in rows in front of the
screen. At a glance, I'd say there are around ten people
in the room, all men, slumped on the chairs or standing
masturbating. I have to suppress a groan of disgust. The
room's quite big as far as I can make out and it's
decorated entirely in black. The overall effect is a bit like
a nightclub, and you can tell someone's made an effort
to make it look cool, but the effect fails: as soon as you
step into the place you know it's intended for dubious
activities.
'Here, have a chair,' Joe says. 'We can watch the film
together for a bit.'
I'm lost, I can't think what to do now. Sitting down
next to these men would give them a chance to see who
I am. What if I know one of them? I haven't got a single
viable excuse. Being in a sex shop to choose a DVD just
about works, it would give you a reputation as a slightly
pervy flirt, but there's no alibi for being seen in this
room.
Glum as a six-year-old, I listen to instructions from
this man who always assumes a paternal role. I scan for
empty spaces that aren't too close to the other men, and
sit down in the second row. Joe stays a little way behind,
still standing so he can see everything. He watches the
other customers and keeps glancing up at the film. I can
feel people starting to look at me. I'm the only woman
here. They must all be thinking how lucky they are
today; they might be able to act out their fantasies with
a woman, a real one.
I force myself to watch the film and stop thinking
about things, but I just can't. What with the blonde
screaming up on the screen and moans of pleasure from
these men, I can't shut out the sounds. I don't want to
close my eyes. I want to stay in control of myself as much
as I possibly can in the circumstances.
Joe comes over to me and, pointing to a man of about
fifty, whispers in my ear, 'You can let him get closer. I've
mentioned you to him. He won't hurt you, I know him.
Him too, he's OK.'
This time he means another man of the same sort of
age, sitting in the front row. He points at them quite
openly; they're far too busy with their film anyway. So
he knows them all and – worse than that – he's told them
about me. I can feel a horrible trap closing around me. I
was relying on Joe to protect me but he's responsible for
my being here. I whisper a quick 'OK' and carry on
looking round, as if trying to work out where danger's
most likely to strike first.
'That's enough, we've seen enough pictures for today,'
Joe says, as if dragging me away from something I love.
Actually, given the circumstances, I'd definitely prefer to
stay watching this sex film for five hours. I know that
when I get up and follow him the serious business will
begin. I'm shaking at the thought.
'Did you bring your clothes?' he asks.
'Yes,' I say pointing to the plastic bag I propped up
against a wall when we came in.
'Well, go and get changed now. You can use one of
those cubicles.'
He gestures towards a cubicle I hadn't noticed behind
me. There are three exactly the same along the wall
opposite the mini-cinema.
I pick up my things and go in. There's just room for
one person, and an ordinary chair is the only furnishing.
The white light blinds me slightly when I go in from the
almost complete darkness of the main room. I take a
skimpy low-cut black nightdress from my bag and
change quickly, worried someone might come in and try
to touch me. When I look up I realise the cubicle is
dotted with little holes at different heights, but I don't
grasp what they're for straight away.