Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  “S … Sit down,” I urge.

  He sits, seems to shrink still further, be swallowed up in the sudden deathbed silence.

  “Er … have you driven far?” I ask. Crazy when I know he’s come from Vegas and a taxi driver brought him.

  “Please?”

  Christ! He hasn’t understood, can’t speak English. No, he must do. “Please” is probably just a courtesy. I wish I knew more about his country. Isn’t it Korea where yes means no and no means yes? God! I hope not. It could cause complications later on.

  I try again. “It’s … quite a place, Vegas, isn’t it? I come from London – well, Portishead, but no one’s heard of that. Have you been to London?”

  He keeps on smiling. He’s obviously polite. “London,” I repeat, slowly, very clearly. Those with meagre English can often pick up place names.

  He doesn’t. I try his own name. “Do I call you Kyung?” I ask. “Or Mr Chang?” (Was it Chang, or Ching?) “Or Chung, or … ?”

  There’s no start of recognition, no nod or gesture to confirm either variation. Maybe I pronounced it wrong. Or perhaps it’s not his real name, but a false one like Adorée which he gave to Carl to protect his true identity and has now forgotten. Or a name on an ID card which belongs to someone else. I can feel both our selves blurring into nothing, tipping into void.

  I start talking very fast to pull me back again, anchor me to solid things like birthday cakes or corgis; try tackling the same subjects which succeeded with the Wife.

  He looks bewildered. “Sorry?” At least he knows two words. Please and sorry. We won’t get far with those.

  “It doesn’t matter. Really.” It does, though. He’s sitting very straight, one hand trembling on his knee. I’ve failed, failed already. He’s more nervous than when I first came in.

  “Well, shall we … ? I mean, we might as well … ?” I stand up, take his arm, steer him through the door. Anything is better than trying to relax a man who can’t make out a single word you say. They should have given him to Angelique. At least she’s good at sign language, had years and years of practice with her brother. I long for her – or anyone – just to help me out. The private room looms and brags around us. This man is far too small for it, far too small for me. Thank God he’s booked the missionary position and not girl-on-top which might do him an injury. I realise now why everything was negotiated in advance. He must have done it through an interpreter, unless Carl speaks Korean, which I doubt. I remember reading somewhere that Korean has no relationship to any other language in the world. The thought is somehow terrifying, cuts me off still further.

  Those dark slit eyes are looking round, taking in the huge and glacial bed, the naked-lady lamps, the dildos and vibrator on the table. I should have sneaked him into my room, a cosy child’s room with a simple wooden bed and bluebird walls. But the VIP lounge costs more, much more. Have I forgotten this is just a business? The whole happy family thing which Carl keeps stressing is all geared to extra cash. Give the guys a niche in the bosom of the family, offer them a permanent relationship. Permanence means profit.

  So what am I doing dithering at the door? I’ve got to sell myself (and Carl), turn my client on. And then I have to check him before we actually get down to it. I loathe the thought of that. It seems so calculating, so cold and clinical, but Carl insists. Every guy has to be inspected, for his own protection, not to mention ours, then swabbed with disinfectant. I’ve been trained to do it, but it’s completely different giggling with Desirée over a set of written rules, than actually peering at a cock, pulling it around, dousing it with Dettol – or whatever that vile stuff is they buy in gallons here. With any English-speaking client, at least I could explain, ease the whole procedure with a joke or two, or a little sexy talk. In Kyung’s case, I’m tempted just to skip it, but supposing Carl’s watching me through that closed circuit TV? The thought makes me so nervous, I feel a wave of almost panic, want to run away, bolt out of this prison back to England. How? Have I forgotten the little matter of five hundred dollars for a one-way ticket? A thousand for two fares. I can’t leave Norah as another dependent sibling for Angelique.

  I sit down on the bed, coax Kyung down beside me, take his hand. He pulls it away. I feel hurt, offended, until I realise he’s delving in his pocket with it, wants to show me something – a photo in his wallet. Please God, not his girlfriend, some schoolkid I’m betraying because her parents would disown her if she did what I’m about to do. He edges a bit closer, passes me the snapshot. It is a female, but an ancient one, his mother, maybe, even grandmother. Her greying hair is scraped back from a flat and yellowed face; her eyes are lost in smile-lines. He’s pointing at her, proud.

  I smile and babble back. “Yes, she’s nice. She’s like you – got your eyes. Her hair must be quite long to get it in that bun.” I sound stupid, insincere. I’m sure this isn’t right – not mothers in a brothel, not family albums when he’s paying for a whore.

  He’s produced another photo – a young girl this time, so young she’s still in pigtails. His sister? Niece? I’ve got to stop him before he runs through the whole tribe. It’s probably all my fault. I expect he sensed my nervousness and is trying to relax me, doing what I’m meant to do for him. I need a drink. We both do. It would kill two birds at once – relax the pair of us and help to swell Carl’s profits. Do Koreans drink, though? Or are they mostly Buddhists or one of those religions which disapproves of booze? I’m so ignorant, I feel ashamed. I hardly know where Korea is on the map.

  I return the photos, take Kyung’s hand again, lead him to the bar. He can’t be that strict or he wouldn’t be with me. I point out the champagne, the best twelve-year-old malt whisky, leave the cheaper drinks to speak (softer) for themselves. He seems undecided, so I pick up the Krug, cradle the green bottle between my breasts, stroke its swollen belly, run my hands down lower to its base. It works. He’s nodding, smiling. The next hazard is to open it without spilling all the fizz. (I’ve had lessons in that, too, but not with a client watching.) I pass Kyung his glass, clutch my own, knuckles white around its stem. Those scared hands should be working, taking off his clothes. I wish he had a few less on. He’s dressed for a board meeting in a three-piece suit (yes, even a formal waistcoat in this heat), white shirt, silk tie, black lace-ups. Too many fiddly things – buttons, laces, tie-pin. I put my glass down, ease his jacket off, fight a private battle with the tie-pin, suck my bleeding thumb. He tries to help, but we’re in each other’s way, fumbling with buttons, knocking elbows. No wonder this profession’s so well paid. There’s a skill in all the tiny things – how to slide off socks or inch down trousers while keeping the erotic tension high, and not forgetting timing.

  Already I’ve gone too far too fast. I haven’t checked him yet, and I’m meant to do that first, before removing all his clothes. If I find anything suspicious, any lumps or sores, redness or a discharge, then he has to leave immediately. It will be terribly embarrassing to buckle him back into all that pinstripe armour. And how will I explain? Yet it’s equally embarrassing to start inspecting him cold-bloodedly. I wish I had the chutzpah of that ghastly Dr Bernstein who inspected me on Monday. He wasn’t shy – far from it. By the time he’d finished, there wasn’t any hole or slit he hadn’t stuck his hands up. He took smears and scrapings, blood and pee; helped himself to bits of me without a by-your-leave; jabbed needles in my bottom, shoved hardware up my cunt, accompanied the whole process with a stream of stupid jokes.

  All I’ve got to do is a quick check of a prick. The trouble is I can’t see the sodding thing. Kyung’s sitting on the bed again with his legs pressed close together, looks rather like a girl – skinny back, no shoulders, pale and slender arms. His skin is very smooth, without a hair on it. I’ve got more down on my legs than he has on his body.

  I kneel between his feet, stroke my hands slowly up his thighs, gently part them. No. He’s not a girl, though his cock’s so limp and tiny, it reminds me of a baby’s. Peg’s new grandson would have a
little bud like that. I take it in my hands, feel him tense as I roll the foreskin back. Baby’s crying, frightened, needs his mother’s touch. I start to sing, very very softly. “Rock a bye baby on the tree top …” He can’t understand the words, but the tune is soothing, lulls us both. I feel him relax, even harden just a little.

  “When the wind blows, the cradle will rock …”

  I think he imagines it’s some erotic song. It is, in its effects. He’s stiff now, really stiff, and completely clear and healthy. I’m so relieved, I want to kiss him top to bottom. I can’t. That costs more, has to be negotiated. He may not understand, refuse to pay the extra. I can see Carl’s grey eye again snooping through the wall. We don’t give favours here, okay? Every item is contracted and then charged. And get on with the washing, girl. You’re slacking.

  I fetch the Peter Pan. (Yeah, that’s a joke – the pan they wash the peters in. They have their little jokes here, the cutesy words and phrases which hide the blatant facts.) Kyung doesn’t need a wash. He’s so shining clean all over, it’s as if he’s had three baths already, scrubbed his nails, washed his hair, polished up his skin. I feel that I’m insulting him as I swab him down with water. The disinfectant’s worse. He starts, looks quite offended, immediately subsides. I feel quite upset myself, want to make it up to him. It may be unprofessional, but I rather like the lad. I’m so grateful that he’s nice, disproves Naima’s theories, that I long to give him everything. Angelique said not to go all out, not to get “involved”; if I must respond, then fake it; not to waste my energies, and a lot of other “not to” s which I accepted at the time, but which now seem mean and grudging. She won’t know if I try to make it memorable, stay a human being instead of acting like a robot.

  I start to take my clothes off as sensuously as I can, repeating all the tricks I learnt at Ritzy’s. Kyung makes no move to help, seems too shy even to watch, just snatches guilty glances at me, then eyes back to the carpet. At Ritzy’s, I had cheers and adulation, thunderous applause. Here, just Kyung’s nervous in-breath, countered by the out-breath of my zipper, the soft thud of a shoe. I remove my g-string, toss it over to him. He squirms with embarrassment, seems uncertain what to do with it. He looks so vulnerable, perched there on the very edge of the bed, hands torturing the scrap of scarlet lace, cheeks childish-plump against the thinness of his body. Once naked, I feel vulnerable myself, as if I’ve stripped off all my skin as well as just my clothes. The silence makes it worse. I never really realised how useful conversation is – as psychological Polyfilla. If it were my first time, what would make it special? I remember Jon, me squashed into his sleeping-bag. He coaxed me out of it, told me I was wonderful, refused to put the light off so that he could keep gawping at my breasts, admiring my blonde bush. Those praises reassured me, made me feel all woman. Compliments won’t mean much in a foreign tongue, but I can praise his body with my hands, my eyes.

  I plump the pillows up, persuade Kyung to lie back and relax, stretch myself beside him. I feel too big, too fleshy, overlapping on to him. I wish he’d speak, even in Korean. I need compliments myself, or at least some reassurance. Does he like me? Like what I’m doing with my hands? Want to touch me too? No. Carl emphasised that we are to expect nothing back in bed. If we do enjoy the sex, that’s fine, but purely incidental. (And pretty bloody rare as well, according to Joanne.) Our chief satisfaction comes later – with our pay cheque. He said I might find some problem with a few clients (very few) who are so conditioned into thinking of the woman, that they can’t lie back and just give themselves to pleasure, without feeling guilty about not reciprocating. That’s not Kyung’s problem. He hasn’t even touched me yet.

  I guide his hand towards my breast. He strokes it, warily, as if it’s something dangerous, which may blow up in his face. His prick is still quite minuscule, even when erect. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it makes the whole thing easier – as if it doesn’t count as sex. He’s just my little boy and we’re cuddling up in bed. I never thought I’d be much good at mothering, but I rather like the feeling. I’m gentle loving Peg with a baby in my arms. I hold him close, try to comfort him. Perhaps he feared he’d never get a woman, feared he was too small.

  I reach down again, use both my hands to measure. “Big,” I say. “Very big. I like it.”

  I think he understands – not the words, my hands. I suppose I ought to guide him in. One of the problems of this job is timing. It’s like stripping, in that way, so Angelique said. You mustn’t go too far too quickly, yet can’t overrun your time. It’s all slightly schizophrenic. You have to appear abandoned, passionate, while all the time you’re working out your moves, or have one eye on the clock. I can’t relax at all. I’m still up in my head, wondering if I’m handling things all right. There’s another conflict, too: I want to succeed, want to make him come, yet another part of me is shouting “Stop! Stop now.” Up to this moment, I can still claim to be an innocent, a visitor, a friend of Angelique’s staying at the brothel as a guest; maybe just helping out with Kyung, until she turns up herself, takes him over. But once he’s actually entered me, there’s no going back. I’m a whore – and that’s official.

  He must have sensed my struggle. He’s losing his erection. I’m half relieved, half worried. Almost automatically, I use my hands again, try to pretend I’m only hands; force my mind to switch off, my conscience to shut down. I continue till he’s stiff again. Now I’m hands and legs: legs opening, spreading wide, hands to guide him in. Now muscles: contracting, tensing, to keep him there, keep him stiff. I’ve done it. It’s all right. I feel nothing. Not shame, distaste, remorse. Just relief.

  Go on, then, woman, don’t lie back. There’s more to it than that. I close my eyes, make noises, shake my hair about. It’s damned hard work, in fact – the acting, panting, the tensed and gripping muscles, but at least it stops me agonising. I’m the professional now, controlled, in charge, with a job to do, a job I’m doing well. I even feel a certain pride. I’ve got out of my head; I’m pleasing my client, not thinking of myself; he likes me, he’s relaxed. I tease my hands across his shoulders, then down beneath his balls, tongue his ears and eyes. He lets out a sudden gasping noise – the first sound he’s made so far. I’m thrilled. Baby’s first word. He’s moving now, thrusting. I lie back, move in time with him. It’s all pretend, except my sense of triumph.

  “Great!” I shout. “Wonderful. Go on. Yes, move. Go on!”

  He stops. Stops dead. I must have scared him, yelling out like that, or perhaps he thought he’d hurt me. I can feel him losing contact, slipping out. I sit up, almost crying with frustration. Desirée told me her first virgin client came in just two seconds, before he’d even entered her. Desirée’s more exciting, obviously.

  Suddenly I freeze. He’s still got one blue sock on. How could I have missed it – or he either? I mustn’t laugh, though he does look quite ridiculous, one bare foot and one navy nylon one. We’re useless, both of us. I can’t undress a man and he’s completely thrown by a woman’s cry of passion. Except it wasn’t passion, was it? He’s so damned sensitive, he probably picked up my pretence. He’s wet-sock limp, back to where we started, and I’m as jittery. I mustn’t let him see it, must try and act relaxed. I use my hands as lightly as I can, just feathering them across his chest and stomach. He lets out a deep sigh. I stop holding my own breath, start humming the Dream Topping jingle, a silly catchy tune which has been trilling in my head since last night’s commercial break.

  Lighter, whiter, helps your weight …

  I move my hands to the rhythm of the song, creeping lower, till I reach his balls.

  Makes apple pie a winner,

  Turns jello into dream …

  It’s working, he’s responding. I stroke one finger round and round his slowly stiffening tip.

  All the taste without the fat …

  He’s harder now, much harder. I’ve got to make it real this time – less pretence, more passion. I don’t care what Angelique says. She’s probably so
experienced, she can fake and get away with it. I can’t. I shut my eyes, guide Reuben in, not Kyung. He’s huge, almost hurts me as he rams in deeper, deeper. I can smell his smell – aftershave and Gauloises, feel his hands, strong hands with dark hairs on the thumbs; dark hairs on his legs, his belly, back. He’s booked me, paid Carl a fortune to run through the whole menu, hors-d’oeuvres to dessert. I move against him, whispering the vulgar words he taught me, words I can’t pronounce, but which excite him. He’s not listening. He’s talking to some other girl – Desirée. His mouth is on Desirées, his hands on Suzie’s breasts. The bed is packed with bodies, all female save his own. Sudchit’s giggling, that maddening tinkly giggle which grates on my nerves. Reuben loves it. He’s tonguing her brown nipples, calling her his bubeleh, his pushke.

  “Reuben, she’s a whore – worked in some low bathhouse in Bangkok before she signed on here. You’re just another nameless client who’s bought her for an hour – and bought her with my money.”

  I slam against him, furious. I never knew you could thrust with rage as widly as with lust. I’m like an animal, teeth bared, talons clawing down his back.

  “I loved you, Reuben, don’t you understand? That’s why I gave you all my winnings. I wanted you to have them for the things you cared about. I cared about them, too. Isn’t that what love is?”

  He doesn’t answer, doesn’t give a damn. His face is lost in Kristia’s hair, thick blonde muffling hair; his hands round her fat arse. I jerk my body, try to force the filthy two apart. My movement just excites him more. He’s coming. Far too soon. He never came that quickly, or so quietly. He always made a noise, heaved and groaned, shouted out my name. This come is shy and almost guilty, just a stifled bleat, a shudder. I open my eyes, stare into a small and childish face, soft cheeks filmed with sweat, tiny dainty features, grimacing now, screwed up.