Shit!
‘One minute please.’ The cashier takes the card from the boy but doesn’t put it into the card machine. Instead she calls security: ‘Eric, check private room number’ – she looks at me and I show her three fingers – ‘number three… yes… Julia was there… I need to know how long she stayed in the room.’ She redials without looking at us. ‘Yes... Alan, I need you here, thanks.’
She looks at my candy thief and says loudly and slowly, ‘Sir, this will only take a minute. Please wait,’ then turns to me and adds, ‘Don’t worry, this jerk will pay.’
Alan arrives when the cashier has Eric’s confirmation of the time we’d spent in the private room. He asks me to explain briefly, then turns to my client.
‘Sir, you had a lap dance plus four extra songs. You owe four hundred rand. Are you ready to pay?’
The boy lifts his shoulders, ‘No speak English. One lap dance,’ and pokes the menu again.
The manager smiles and calls the bouncer.
A minute later two huge guys in black suits, just like in gangster movies, arrive.
‘Sir, I don’t have the time for this. Swipe your card for R400 or I take you and your friends to the police station, where you’ll spend the night. If you’re lucky, your parents will free you in the morning.’ Alan’s smile is warm, his voice gentle.
The bouncers take him by his shoulders and push him to the door.
‘Okay, swipe four hundred!’ he shouts, now accent-free again. The bouncers stop and we all give him a long look. The cashier takes his card again, puts the amount in; with a miserable expression, he punches in his PIN.
I get my slip, say thank you, hiss a ‘Bastard, don’t ever waste my time again’ and turn to walk away.
‘Wait a second, Julia.’ Alan waves me over and calls the bouncer back.
‘Sean, take all of his friends and show them to the door. I don't want to see these men in here ever again.’
Nice. This is what I call justice.
Alan walks up to me. With the same impartial face, he says, ‘You are fined, Julia. You could have avoided this situation, if you didn’t drag the clients to the private room against their will.’
‘What do you mean, drag them? I was doing my job!’
‘If you argue with me, I’ll fine you again for being rude and arguing with the manager on the floor,’ his tone doesn’t change.
No matter how unfair it is, I can’t win this battle.
It takes a lot of self-control not to say anything more. I turn away and go to the dressing room, feeling an urge to cry that I won’t be able to control.
‘Jul, what happened?’ Nikita walks in to check her make-up.
I relay the story, adding more tears as I get to the end of it.
Nikita sighs, sits down on the make-up table next to me, and passes me a roll of toilet paper.
‘You know why you are upset?’ She looks at me, waiting for me to answer. I shake my head. ‘You are not upset because of what Alan did or said, but because you didn't expect him to act in that way.’
I blow my nose and frown.
She smiles. ‘When I first arrived here, I thought to myself: “Wow! What a place! These people are always friendly and look after the girls. They’re trying to do a straight business, keeping the place clean and the girls away from prostitution. It’s like heaven compared with the places we had to work at in Europe.” I felt secure and cared about, as if for the first time in my stripping career I was treated as a human. And the more I relaxed, the more hurt I was if something unfair happened to me. Weird, isn’t it? Then I realized that was a mistake. The care and friendliness is just an illusion. In reality this place is just like the ones in Europe. Jul, they are the same pimps as the ones in the European champagne bars! Except that they prefer to stay out of trouble and sell their girls outside the club’s territory. They “generously” leave it up to the girls to decide whether to go out with a client or not. But in reality they don’t give us a choice. They expect us to pay the levy no matter what, even if the club is empty. Yes, there is no daily norm like in champagne bars, but there are fines that are ridiculously high. There are no good guys in this industry. They are all the same. Some of them are just the lesser of two evils. No matter how they try to sugarcoat it, it’s still a badass business: the club is a cattleman that lashes us whenever he feels it’s needed and a ruthless butcher that sells us as freshly carved beef.’
She looks at herself in the mirror, fixing the red lipstick in the corner of her mouth.
‘You see, in Europe we had no doubt that we were meat. We were prepared for the worst, which made us strong and grew us a thick skin that prevented anything from hurting us. If we don’t fall for their friendly smiles and concerned faces, we’ll be just fine.’
She rubs my shoulder and smiles.
‘I bet you’ve been through much worse than some prick with blue balls bullying you just to make himself feel like a big boss.’
I blow my nose again. ‘That’s true.’
20
‘What do you do that’s different from the others?’ The cocky smugness on his face is killing me. I look down at his hand. He is palming my thigh. I shrug away the irritation.
‘Look…’ I force the last attempts to keep my face friendly, but I no longer sound that way. ‘If you’re referring to something “extra”, it’s not going to happen. I am not going to let you stick your finger up my pussy or my ass. There is going to be no “kiss me there” or “jerk me off” scenario.’
I’ve been talking to this fucker for a while. He’s one of those freeloaders who wouldn’t tell you ‘no’ or ‘yes’. He shows his ‘genuine’ interest by asking all kinds of questions. He pretends that he is actually trying to decide whether he wants the dance. In the meantime he’s just deliberately wasting your time while getting a few juicy feels on the house.
I grit my teeth.
‘The lap dances are typical. I take off my clothes and dance for you sexually. I am good at what I do. You’ll enjoy it, guaranteed.’ I say, knowing I am wasting my time.
He picks his beer up off the table, pretending that he’s considering my words. He takes a sip while his other hand slides under my skirt and squeezes my ass. He knows I am about to leave and is trying to get as much of a free feel as he can.
‘Fucker…’ I hiss and storm away.
‘Julia?’ I turn to see who’s calling me. It takes me a moment to identify the man. It’s Brenda’s husband. His lost gaze and screwed-up eyebrows do not promise any good.
Oh crap!
‘Oh hi!’ I play dumb, hoping I’m mistaken and he’s here for some reasons that are not related to me banging his wife.
‘Sorry, Julia, didn’t want to interrupt you,’ he mumbles.
‘It’s okay. Are you here to have some fun?’
‘I need to talk to you.’ He shifts on his feet while clasping his pants on the sides of his thighs. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
I can’t believe it’s happening.
‘Yeah, sure.’ I nod towards a vacant table.
We sit down and order: a Coke for me, a shot of whisky for him. He stares at the table, his hands still on his thighs. He doesn’t say a word until the waitress brings us our drinks.
He knocks the whisky back and breathes out heavily. ‘I know… everything.’
I sigh, trying to hush the wave of pity mixed with irritation. ‘Look, hmm…’ Shit! I don’t know his name.
‘Felix.’ His voice trembles, ‘My name is Felix.’
With that name, no wonder he looks like Woody Allen… And that’s not a compliment.
His hands are shaking. There’s pain and desperation on his face.
‘You are sleeping with my wife but you don’t know my name.’
I lean over the table. ‘Look… Felix.’ I try to sound compassionate yet firm enough to make sure this conversation ends soon. ‘You are talking to the wrong person. I am not the one who vowed to be faithful to you. Brenda did… I am just… I was
just doing my job.’
‘She is paying you?’ his voice rises. He shakes his head as if trying to get rid of a new piece of information he can’t accept.
‘Yeah! I am not even a lesbian! Trust me, it’s hard enough for me to do my job because I am straight. Each time is like torture.’
‘It was more than once?’
Damn it! I am talking too much.
‘I can’t believe it’s happening to me… what should I do?’ He leans over the table, holding his head in his hands. ‘What if our kids find out?’
‘Look on the bright side. Some people wouldn’t even consider it cheating. Many men would kill for their wives to like girls. For some it’s better than winning a lottery. Bingo! Why don’t you ask Brenda to share her… hobby with you?’ I say and get up, hoping to slope off before this conversation turns to trivial drama.
He grabs my hand, ‘You know what? You know what I want to do? How much are your services, Julia? I am going to pay her with the same kindness. Get ready – let’s go fuck!’
I roll my eyes, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. Why don’t you rather go home and sort it all out with your wife.’ I drag my hand back and turn to leave.
‘Five grand!’
Well, that’s a good argument.
I stop, and walk back to the table, ‘Would you like to pay by cash or card?’
He hesitates. ‘Card.’
‘Okay, let’s swipe it, then I’ll change and we can leave.’
After all, it’s none of my business what is going on in their family. I have bills to pay.
We hire a cab. Felix tells the driver the address of the hotel he has picked, and we take off. I watch Felix in my side vision. He stares out of the window, quietly whispers something to himself and squeezes his pants on the sides of his thighs.
I wonder who I feel sorrier for: Felix for having such a bitchy wife, or Brenda for having such a sloppy husband?
We walk into the room without saying a word. The hotel is second-rate but the room is fairly clean. Felix walks to the bed, sits down on the side of it and switches the bedside lamp on.
I get straight to business. I drop my dress on the floor, go down on my knees in front of him and reach to open his belt. He stops me, and exhales, ‘I can’t do it… I love my wife… do you understand?’
I open my mouth to say something, then change my mind. I get up and walk to the TV stand. I open its doors, looking for the minibar. Luckily it’s stocked. I pick a little bottle of whisky, poor it into a glass and give it to Felix.
‘I think you need a drink.’
He looks at me, takes the glass and drains it with one gulp.
‘Maybe she is also suffering. She has something she didn’t share with you – her sexual preference, I mean.’ I pick up a can of Coke, go back and sit down next to him. ‘Maybe she is just ashamed of it… And all you need is to talk about it openly.’
‘When you slept with her, did she look ashamed?’ He turns and looks right into my eyes. I say nothing.
He laughs with an edge, then hisses. ‘You... women... You always cover for each other. You fucking bitches!’
My jaw drops open. In just a second he’s gone from being a quiet man to a mad bastard.
‘You all are evil, two-faced cunts!’ He’s almost screaming. ‘You’ve taken advantage of me since the third grade!’
‘What’s wrong with you? Third grade?’ I finally overcome my astonishment.
‘For all these years… since the third grade! Not even one of you has been a normal human being to me!’ There is so much hatred in his eyes. ‘At least once it will be different. I will be the one who takes instead of giving…’
He throws me onto my back, peeling his clothes off, climbs on top of me and furiously takes me.
Okay... third grade, huh..? Freaking loony!
21
‘I am a client with special needs.’ Once again, his greedy glance stops at my chest. He runs his tongue over his lips.
No shit… get in line, brother! All of you here have bloody special needs!
‘How much are your services?’
‘It depends. Is it a day or a night job?’ I answer, maintaining my bestseller smile. ‘Would you like to tell me first what those special needs are?’
He fidgets in the chair. He’s definitely uncomfortable talking about it.
‘I like role playing.’ He takes a sip of his iced water. ‘I would like to meet with you during the day.’
‘I like role playing too.’ If he knew my history, he wouldn’t be uncomfortable sharing his secret fantasies with me. ‘Do you like BDSM, or something more romantic – a French maid?’
‘No, it’s not BDSM, I don’t like pain, no physical suffering. Don’t worry. I have the outfit for you, you don’t have to bring anything. Would you be able to come to my place tomorrow at two? It will not take more then an hour, hour and a half.’ He talks very quietly, his gaze searching all over the place.
Another freak for my freak collection. One day I should write a book.
‘No problem, it’ll be R5 000.’
‘Would you mind if I pay you half right now? Let’s say, as a security deposit.’ He pulls his wallet out of his pants pocket.
‘Of course not.’ I look at him, puzzled. Should I start worrying or just enjoy the weirdo’s unusual approach? He is the first one who’s asked me to take the money up front.
I take the notes and toss them into my purse. ‘Aren’t you afraid that I will blow you and not show up?’ I laugh.
He turns to me, takes a lock of my hair, leans and smells it. His eyes closed. ‘I know you are a good girl. You wouldn’t do that.’
‘Okay. See you tomorrow.’ I get up and leave.
I ring the bell. A minute later, the door flies open.
‘Hello Julia.’ He is wearing a white shirt and dark blue velvet trousers with a high waist and suspenders. His hair is wet from hair gel, brushed back and parted on one side. Every inch Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind, only a hideous version. ‘Come on in.’
Okay...
Soft classical music comes from the back of the apartment.
‘The bathroom is there. Go change. Follow the instructions, please.’
I raise my brows, but do as he asks.
The outfit is folded carefully on the washing basket with the note on top of it: ‘Dear Julia, you will play my daughter. Please call me Daddy.’ I take time to dress. It’s a schoolgirl skirt, a white polo T-shirt, and a large, white hair clip bow, similar to what I had in the first grade.
When I’m done I glance at myself in the mirror, shake my head at my reflection, and walk to the living room.
‘Hey, honey, how was your day at school?’ He starts his act right away. ‘Come on in, your mom and I are waiting for you. Lunch is ready.’
‘My day was very good, Daddy!’ I mumble, checking out the setup.
The oval dining room table is covered with a white tablecloth, and three places are laid, with a bowl of steaming hot rice and salad in the middle. It smells quite nice. There are three chairs around the table. One of them is occupied by a blow-up doll from the sex shop, with its open mouth and dodgy long black wig.
That, apparently, is going to be my mommy.
The rest of the room is furnished in a classy and simple way. The furniture looks quite old, except for the flat-screen TV in the corner.
‘Sit down, honey. Your favorite honey-lemon chicken breasts are probably ready.’ He walks to the doll and pats it on the shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, sweetheart, I’ll bring it.’
I sit down without taking my eyes off the doll – the smeared red lipstick on her face, some other stains of unknown origin, and oily fingerprints all over her exposed breasts.
I take a deep breath. ‘Hey Mom! You’re looking great today.’
He comes back wearing an apron and oven gloves, holding the hot dish. He places it on the tray in the middle of the table and sits down.
‘Let’s pray.’ He reaches to take ou
r hands and closes his eyes. ‘Dear Lord.’ The doll’s body bows on one side and its fake hair moves, covering half of its face and left eye. ‘We humbly receive and thank you for this food you have given us. Amen.’ He lets our hands go and begins to eat, sweeping the food away and without lifting his eyes off the plate.
Seriously?
I poke the plate without enthusiasm while taking in all the details of my entertaining afternoon.
‘Excuse me,’ he gets up, leaves the room, and comes back with a pink backpack. He opens it and pulls out a notepad.
I guess this is my school bag.
‘Well, well, well… Let’s see how you did today.’ He opens the notepad and starts turning the pages while spitting on his fingers.
‘Again!’ I jerk as he slams the notepad onto the table. ‘Math test – 70 out of 100. Do you have any idea how hard your mom and I work to pay for your schooling?’
I shrug.
‘I am sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know how that happened.’
‘Oh, are you?’ He leans over the table, pressing his fists over the tablecloth. His eyes drill through me. His natural shyness has vanished. He is a confident family man.
‘I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m so sorry.’
‘You are a bad, bad girl.’ He turns to the doll. ‘What do you think, Marta? What do you think we should do?’
He pretends to hear the answer. ‘Yeah? You think so? I agree. She has to get what she deserves. You’re right Marta.’
He takes my hand and leads me to the TV lounge, which consists of a set, a dark-blue flowery two-seater and a chair. He takes a remote control from the TV stand.
‘I’ll show you what we’re going to do to you,’ he utters, and turns the volume up. He then goes back to the table, picks up Marta and sits her down next to me. Her wig slips down onto her face. Now only her red, vulgar open mouth is sticking out of the black mop. He stops, standing behind the couch.
Okay. He is definitely going to make the top five list in my future bestselling novel The Freaks Contest. But let’s get down to business. All this is too freaky, even for me.
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