‘I’d rather be the wife of a millionaire’, says Lena, also with a dreamy look on her face.
‘Let’s say you’d rather be a wife, no matter whose,’ adds Natalia, and we giggle.
‘By the way, Nata, I hear from Jul that you are dating somebody now!’ Lena sounds very excited. She leans over the table and lowers her voice, ‘A black guy?’ A light blush covers her face.
‘I’m not dating him, I’m just fucking him,’ replies Natalia, and swallows a succulent salmon roll.
She explains that they met in the club. His name is Carlos and he is from Portugal. He plays semi-professional soccer, doesn’t speak a word of English, and his French is even worse than Natalia’s. He is good-looking, with a hot body, and is very young.
‘He is only 19!’ says my eldest sister. ‘It feels like I am taking advantage of the kid!’
He bought her a demi-bouteille and acted like a gentleman, without asking her for anything in return but half an hour’s company and a chat. Afterwards, he offered her €200 to join him at his place after work. Natalia agreed, telling us that he is so sexually attractive that she ‘would probably even go with him for free!’
Nevertheless, by the time her shift was finished, she was so tired that she regretted promising Carlos that she would go home with him. But the deal was done and he was waiting for her outside the club. Natalia jumped into the shower, fighting her tiredness using an old and proven method – converting the amount she would make into hryvni and counting how many months it would take her to earn that money in Ukraine. That always worked. Fifteen minutes later they were catching a cab together on the dark and quiet street not far from our club.
Carlos’s place was actually a small room in a lower-class apartment building that he was renting. It didn’t even have its own toilet. There was only a sanitation unit that the entire floor used. The only furniture in his room was an old cupboard, a chair and a double bed.
‘Disappointed, I thought to myself that semi-professional soccer doesn’t pay that well…’ continues Natalia, while sipping her drink.
‘And there it started – the best sex I’ve ever had!’ Her cheeks and ears are burning from the red wine and the memories of the passionate night. ‘We did it for three hours, with short breaks to take a leak or smoke. It was so good that I even forgot that I was tired. And, I’ve been coming back since then almost every night after work, ignoring my exhaustion. For free! I even pay for the cab myself. Can you believe it?’ finishes Natalia, with a contented smile on her face.
Lena and I nod, raising our eyebrows in surprise while ravenously chewing another piece of juicy sushi.
‘Nothing wrong with that, Nata. It’s called love! When two halves that are meant to be together, meet each other!’ exclaims my middle sister, and my eyebrows rise even higher. ‘I wonder what your children would look like … they say that mixed-race kids are very beautiful!’
Natalia starts choking, from the wasabi or most probably from what she’d heard. ‘Bite your tongue, Lena! It amazes me how quickly you turn everything into a serious relationship!’
‘Okay. I agree. I may be a bit too much of a romantic person. But you cannot deny the fact that that’s a woman’s purpose – to reproduce and continue the human race. And for that she needs to find a good man, marry him and give him beautiful children …’
‘Yeah, right! Stay at home, cook, clean up and wash his socks while he is fucking around with other women like us. How many of the men who come to the clubs are married? Your concept of life is a bit out of date, my dear sister. You’ve got to wake up. A woman is not a thing that has a purpose! She, like any other creature on this planet, is born to enjoy life, to be free and happy. People like you also think that a cow has a purpose of supplying humankind with milk for as long as it lives. You are wrong! They are only supposed to produce milk to feed their babies, like any other mother does, including humans. Things like coffee machines and hairdryers have a purpose. The first makes coffee, the second helps to keep you prettier. But don’t tell me that I was born with the purpose of getting married and becoming a baby-making machine!’
I stop eating and look at Natalia. Cows? Machines? Did I miss something? How did we get here?
The deeper my sister gets into the philosophy of life, the more emotional she becomes. Her sparkly eyes stand out starkly against her reddened face, and her intense gesticulations bring a lot of passion into her speech.
Lena is looking down into her plate. I can see the shade of regret of starting this conversation on her face. It’s time for me to break into my sisters’ discussion. I really don’t feel like listening to the theory of why we come into this world for the rest of the lunch, and throw in the first thing that comes to my mind.
‘And how big is his penis, Nata? I’ve heard black guys have huge …’ I say, with my mouth full of rice and fish.
Without even changing her pontifical tone, my elder sister jumps straight from women’s predestination to the sizes of men’s genitals.
‘It’s definitely bigger than normal … at least of all the ones I’d seen so far.’ She looks at me, smiles and adds, softening her voice, ‘You want to change the subject, Jul? Fine! But I don’t want to talk about Carlos either – too much attention for just a fuck buddy. How is it going with Michel, Lena?’
‘Oh, it’s going great! He sent me a huge bunch of roses the other day, without any particular reason – how romantic is that? And he is taking me out for dinner to a very fancy restaurant tonight!’ She is radiant with happiness. ‘He is young and handsome with a good job; he treats me well. And on top of that, he told me that he loves children. I think he is The One for me …’
‘Here we go again …’ sighs Natalia. ‘The fact that he loves children doesn’t mean that he wants to have them, and especially, it doesn’t mean that he wants to have them with you.’ She starts getting agitated again. ‘And I’m not saying it to upset you, Len. I just don’t want you to amplify Michel’s words with your imagination or fantasy. What I mean is, try to see the direct meaning of the words without adding anything to them. It will prevent you from being hurt in life. The problem with most women, including you, is that you draw your perfect picture, meet a man and then, by putting your meaning into his words, try to fit him into your picture, which usually makes your life more complicated. And even if he did say that he wanted to have children with you, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that he meant it, which brings us to another conclusion – don’t listen to his words. Look at his actions. The two unfortunately don’t always match.’
I nod. Even though it’s not pleasant to watch Lena’s happy face turn sour, I add, ‘Natalia has a point.’
But Lena doesn’t want to give up and exclaims to Natalia, ‘You are such a cynic! You cannot assume that all people around you are motivated by selfishness. We must think that all people are good unless proven otherwise.’
It is funny, but I nod again. I hold myself back from saying that Lena has a point too. I decide to stay out of it; it doesn’t look like I am going to help to stop the argument, anyway.
To my surprise, Natalia just smiles and very calmly replies, ‘I am a realist, Lena, A 11’.
Natalia had done this so many times before – tried to change Lena’s way of seeing things in life – but it had never really worked and, as all three of us know, is not going to work this time either.
‘Anyway, I am very glad that it’s going well with you two, Lena. Just please try to take it easy this time …’
‘I’ll do my best, I promise!’ smiles Lena and winks at us. ‘Now it’s your turn, Jul. What’s new in your life since I last saw you?’
‘Nothing much, if we’re talking about my private life,’ I answer after a short pause. ‘Thanks to you, Nata, I’m so busy with the day shift freaks in the club that I don’t have any desire to see them in my free time … unless I’m getting paid for it, of course.’
I take a long, deep drag of my cigarette, and watch the smoke I slowly blow out
of my mouth. ‘One thing I know for sure is that when I leave this place, there are going to be two things I’ll never be able to enjoy ever again – men and champagne. I swear, if I ever had to meet the motherfucker who invented this whole getting-paid-for-drinking system, I would punch him in his face. Last night I had to carry Monica upstairs again! Can you believe it? Loaded, she passed out right on the client! They must either put in an elevator or get a bouncer to carry the drunken bitches upstairs. I’m sick and tired of it!’
The rest of our Sunday meeting we spend chatting about how sick and toxic the club system is. It is normal at the end of a night for some girls to be unable to walk up the stairs without help. But the problem isn’t the absence of the lift or the bouncer, and we all know that. The problem is that nobody in the club – owner, manager, barman or clients – cares about the girls’ health. They would watch you drink yourself to death, as long as they make their profit and have fun.
Champagne bar? Champagne slaughterhouse, more like it.
18
After lunch with my sisters, I go to a nightclub. As always on Sundays, the crowd consists mainly of my colleagues. All cabarets are closed on the holy day, and it is the only night for the girls to party.
There are also a lot of clients in the crowd. Mostly jerks and assholes. The ones that never spend money on champagne during our working hours, brushing us off with ‘not today … I am so tired … maybe next time’ bullshit. However, when the acquaintance with the girl ‘accidentally’ takes place outside of the cabaret, they turn into pesky mosquitos, that all of a sudden are full of enthusiasm, hoping to get the romance for free.
God! I hate these cheap bastards!
Even though the DJ is rocking it and I’ve had a good amount of tequila and coke, I can’t get into a clubbing mood. Every now and then one of these insects comes close with a stupid ‘What is your name?’ or ‘Where are you from?’, dragging me out of my flying-high-with-the-music state. I boldly put an irritated expression on my face, turn away and continue dancing. I don’t even bother to respond.
I go back to the bar, order tequila, and start raiding my purse for money.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get it.’
I look up. He is tall, handsome, in his mid-thirties. His perfect grey suit accentuates his macho body type. And I don’t remember seeing him before. Most likely he is not one of the regulars of our ‘establishments’; at least he’s missing that degenerate look in his eyes …
… Oh my fuck … his charming blue eyes … hmm …
He signals to the barman, who without delay starts carrying out the silent order. Then he turns back to me with a naughty smile, ‘I have an indecent proposal for you …’
I lift my eyebrows – that is an unusual pick-up line. He’s got my full attention.
‘I am here with my girlfriend,’ he nods towards the VIP section. ‘She finds you very attractive,’ and after a quick pause with a charming twinkle, ‘and so do I, of course … Sometimes we like to have a little bit of fun, and tonight, we would love you to join us …’
‘I don’t do girls,’ I throw, turn to the bar counter, and pointedly pay for my drink.
He bursts into laughter and steps close to me, giving me no other choice but to shift back and face him. He is so close that our lips almost touch and I sense the strength of his body. The wave of tempting lust surprisingly drinks me in.
Hmmm … those blue eyes …
‘Let’s have some fun … I am sure you wouldn’t mind doing me, would you?’ His body language screams arrogant confidence but his face is full of genuine excitement.
The barman puts a bottle of Dom Perignon and two glasses in front of him. ‘Anything else, Mr. Harvey?’ Without taking his naughty look off me, he replies, ‘Bring me a third glass. This pretty lady is going to join us.’
Hmmm … Harvey? You’ve got it all … including your bloody girlfriend …
She is a beautiful, well-groomed, young and extremely sweet girl. ‘Hi, my name is Katherine,’ she greets, as if we had been best friends all our lives.
The night is flowing fabulously. We drink, sniff, dance and laugh like crazy.
Then, my new friends suggest that I continue the party in their suite. They are staying in some luxury boutique hotel, five minutes away from the disco club. I seriously doubt the proposal, but their story about the generous mountain of coke they left in the room doesn’t really leave me a choice.
As we walk in, Harvey heads straight to the coffee table, elegantly drops onto the chair and picks up the phone.
‘Bring us two bottles of Cristal and ice please. Merci.’
He hangs up and lights a cigarette.
Katherine playfully grins, ‘Let’s blow his mind away …’ and pulls me into the bathroom.
It’s a spacious, white marble room with two basins, a huge shower and a stunning free-standing tub. She switches on the water in the shower, intriguingly smiles and presses the button next to the light switch. A white blind starts rising, surprisingly unveiling the show window, which is the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom.
Oh wow … he is going to watch us doing it … this is mind-blowing!
Katherine quickly drops her clothes onto the floor, steps under the stream and playfully beckons to me. I follow her steps. We soap each other and kiss while slowly rubbing with white foam every part of our bodies. Her knowing hands are playing with my clit. The hot flow pleasantly strikes my neck and shoulders, while she sucks and bites my nipples.
She is good … it’s all so unexpectedly good …
She turns me around, puts both of my hands on the glass and starts fingering my pussy from behind. Her other hand wanders between my neck and my breasts. I roll my eyes in pre-orgasmic rapture and don’t even notice that the room service guy is here.
The young man hurriedly places the cart-table and the shiny ice bucket with two golden necks sticking out of it, opens one of the bottles, gets Harvey to sign a check and leaves the room while demonstratively looking away from the window. But I don’t care … neither does Katherine … she doesn’t stop until I come …
… I open my eyes. I am in my bed.
I have a horrible hangover and cannot really understand if last night was a drunken dream or a stoned reality.
I reach to my side table to get some aspirin and bump my purse. I open it and find €1,000 and a note:
I took the liberty and hope I didn’t offend you. You were so pleasant and tasty . I just wanted to show my appreciation and this is the best way I know … Thank you, Julia.
H.
The memories of last night fragmentally begin to come back. His greedy lips … his strong and wide shoulders … his attentive and demanding hands … his swollen and pulsating …
Hmmm Harvey, Harvey … you are not just a good lover but a gentleman too … I wish you had it all but your bloody girlfriend!
19
It is Monday. The shift is quiet – no more than we expect it to be. In the first hour, there are no customers at all, then one or two useless Coca-Cola regulars arrive. As always, they just sip the virulent brown liquid and stare at the big screen’s perverted porn. The girls and I kill the first two hours chatting. As we cover all the latest news that is travelling around the cabarets, some juicy gossip from around the world, and even the current weather conditions in Ukraine and Russia and how they are influencing the wheat crop, Death shows up.
The procedure of his visit remains the same; he hobbles to the bar table, where the barman enthusiastically greets him and pours his usual soda.
Of course he greets enthusiastically – it’s not his job to go with the oldie upstairs! His job is the easy one – just opening the fucking bottle. God, I hate them all!
A few minutes later, the manager comes out of his office and they start their casual chit-chat, which all the girls know will end up with the manager recommending one of the girls and Death choosing his next victim.
We also all know that there is only one person in th
is place who is not aware of what is happening, and it is a new girl. A moment later, the manager calls her and the three of them go upstairs.
All the girls including me sigh with relief, and go on with our usual talk about how the new girl is going to take her baptism of fire, and how nice it would be if Death kicked the bucket and went in peace forever. And if he did, and it happened while he was upstairs, would the police close down the cabaret and investigate? For how many days would it stay closed?
Our ‘innocent’ conversation doesn’t last for long. Ten minutes later the new girl, covered with tears and snot, runs down the stairs straight to the bathroom. The manager comes down too, looks around and waves to me, indicating that I have to take up the new girl’s duties.
Oh, crap!
On the way up, I keep wondering which is worse: to go there for the first time and learn, one by one, each of the disgusting things that will happen, or to go there as I am, fully aware of what is about to come next.
In the middle of my dilemma I enter the private room. This time, for some reason, the manager has taken him to the VIP séparé that has a shower in it and a free-standing leather couch right in the centre of the room. Death is sitting on the couch, already naked but observing proprieties by being covered with his white undershirt. There is a striking indignation and dissatisfaction on his face.
You old bastard, you actually think someone could enjoy this?
I join him on the couch. Deeply and morbidly I breathe in, thinking to myself that if I’ve done it once I can do it again. I breathe out, smile and come out with, ‘Hey sexy! What’s up?’
You know what happens for the next hour; I am sure you don’t need a reminder, and I am trying hard to think about these moments as little as possible.
As soon as we finish, I pick him up from the couch to help him to get dressed. He is so weak that he loses his balance and leans against the couch, which is fucking free-standing! The leather seat slides away and Death falls onto the floor. I try to pick him up, but can’t. There is nothing in the room that we can use as a point of support except the walls, which are not an option because Death is stretched out right in the middle of the room. I rush to the door to call somebody to help, but grandpa stops me. He explains that he doesn’t want anybody to see him naked and helpless on the floor. I nod, go back to him, and before trying to get him back on his feet, take off my killer 21 cm heels.
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