Did I ever tell you about the time I visited a brothel? Yeah, I slept with a few prostitutes, but these girls were not your stereo-typical junkie skanks. They had A-levels, and teeth. An enclosed Tudor cottage, thick black beams, gravel drive and daffodils would greet my sight, as well as the usual array of exec. cars, lined up outside like trophies. Cheating bastards. I would often wait a few moments on the junction opposite the gate, I assumed everyone round here knew what was going beyond the flowers and wall. Once inside, anonymity was everything and I never saw a soul.
Customers were ushered about like Chess pieces, through doors and down stairs. The players had names like Chantelle and Roxy, Becky and Fiona. They were Queen’s in black and white, taking your 80 quid all smiles and lingerie, returning to me all socks and sheepishness. 80 quid got you half an hour, and if you came before that you were out. More money, more time.
I went there early on a Saturday once, about 10 O’clock. The night had been one of MDMA and Cocaine. My two friends had fallen asleep, having had a decent amount of brown. I however still avoided it most of the time, so had to ride my buzz out. The drive down to Dorney was one to remember, the morning was crisp and bright. I felt a sense of purity, like a new-born. Sunlight was breaking through the clouds, which seemed to hang low and come through my window with the breeze. Wide-eyed and window down I carved through the country lanes to the cottage. At the door, car out of sight and head down from camera, a familiar woman came to answer.
- Another early bird.
- Ha, yeah. Hello.
- I remember you, come in, come in. Fiona will be down in a moment.
- Ah cool.
- We’ve just had the drive done, wasn’t too severe was it?
- Oh no, it was just fine.
I removed my shoes and carefully placed them to the side of the large doormat. There were no others to accompany them. This I liked; whenever my hostess said ‘so and so is cleaning up’ I felt a little rough. I never went at the end of the day. I figured if I go in the morning, they may actually get a little turned on.
The rooms were always soaked in a soft but deep red light. Some of them contained full length mirrors, TV sets on tables, accompanied by empty DVD cases. All windows were covered with thick sheets, giving the feel of constant darkness, little doors opened to servants quarters, where they would bathe and soak the dirt away. I was offered a shower once, but declined. The smell of baby oil would always follow me home, clinging to my clothes and back.
Fiona appeared on the stairs in front of me. She was Norwegian and older than most of the girls here. She wore black underwear and heels, her hair blonde and long. She had a fringe, her roots were deep and dark. She smiled and took my hand, leading me up the stairs to a short, narrow doorway. With financial obligations done, she returned. She too said that she remembered me.
It all starts with a massage to your back, there is a strict routine. We went through the motions, I watched her intently, above the bed hung a mirror on the wall. Gazing into it, she went through her lines, moving backwards and forwards with rehearsed familiarity. I could see hate and love for what she was doing, this became more interesting than the sex that I had paid for. Fiona began rubbing her breasts up and down my chest, softly moaning all the while. Turning her head with the movements of her body, I knew I wasn’t gonna cum. I was still fucked. Time was up.
- You didn’t? I’m sorry.
- It’s because I was taking drugs last night. It’s not normally like that.
-Drugs? Like Cocaine? Like a model? Naomi Campbell and all of them do that. To stay thin.
She was stood at the other side of the bed, she looked a long way away.
- Have you ever?
- Once, a long time ago. Where does a young guy like you get money, being
here and doing that.
- I dunno. It won’t last.
By now I was dressed, I put my jacket on.
- You’ve got the look of a catalogue model.
- What do you mean?
- I don’t know, you’ve just got that ‘look’
-Thank you.
She led me back to the front door, apologising at least twice on the way down. My shoes were still there, though the lady who had let me in was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was having tea with a few lady friends, neighbours perhaps. It was such a respectable area after all. On the way out she kissed my cheek. Some girls were very funny about tongues, Fiona was one of them, I can understand why. Once back in my car, I rolled a cigarette. I thought about how fucking messy it was, and about what had just taken place. My pleasure was her livelihood, and people take pride in their work. I felt guilty. I would not go there like that again.
FLAT OUT
Thanks David, I'm really pleased you thought that.. It's actually taken from a much longer piece that I submitted as part of my degree, and I can't really explain the development leading to and after the events described... it's basically a semi-autographical portrayal of downward spirals and middle class drug abuse. Kinda satirical, and ironic..
