Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  He kisses me goodnight, a child’s kiss on the cheek, softly shuts the door. I feel banished and rejected as I listen to his footsteps fading away. I strip my dress off, stand naked on the little bedside rug, squeeze my breasts together so they look bigger than they are. Big or no, they’re obviously not wanted. I shrug, lose them in his oversized pyjamas, climb into the chilly narrow bed.

  Sleep won’t come. The room feels strange and I’m suffering a sort of mental indigestion – dregs of happiness fermenting in my gut along with confusion, disappointment, self-doubt (again), and even a touch of sheer contempt that any man should be so ludicrously old-fashioned. I mean, imagine paying Carl a fortune to keep me for the night, then shutting me in here alone. I just can’t make him out. He seemed so jealous of Snake Jake, so furiously possessive, yet now he’s got me to himself, he doesn’t want to know.

  I fumble for my cigarettes. He bought me a huge carton. Whatever else, he does allow his little girl to smoke. Little girl. Is that it? Perhaps he wants me as a child, is glad I’m even younger than I said I was; has some hang-up about school-kids like those weirdos at the Silver Palm. Except they were wild to screw me, and he’s not; doesn’t even want me in his bed. Okay, then, Victor, separate rooms. Goodnight, sleep well, and where’s my teddy bear?

  By half past five, I’m still awake and freezing. I’m tempted to wake Victor up as well, but it seems unfair when he looked so tired and drawn. And what’s the point when he’s already made it clear he prefers sleep and solitude to any kind of contact? Perhaps I’ll make a cup of tea, find a book or something, even watch TV. I creep out of bed and down the passage, put the kettle on, take my cup to the sitting room where at least I’ve got the fish for company. They don’t look all that thrilled about it. I think most of them were dozing and the harsh light woke them up.

  I turn it off again, switch on just a lamp, trail over to the window, lift the curtain. With the garden lights turned off, everything looks completely blackly barren. This is still the desert – arid, ruthless, bitter cold at night. I shiver in my thick blue-striped pyjamas. I keep tripping on the legs, losing hands and fingers in the sleeves. The pyjamas are well ironed, very crisp and clean. Does Victor iron his clothes himself? I can’t see him with a maid. He seems to have put himself in quarantine, bought a house which is miles from any neighbour, along a bumpy winding dirt track, and in a tiny hamlet which is too small to be even a dot on any map. He hasn’t bothered much about comfort – things like scatter-rugs or cushions, and if his bedroom’s much the same as mine, then there’s nothing but the basics: bed and cupboard. All his care and skills have been poured out on the garden, the aquarium. That tiny square of lawn has been nannied like an invalid, and he spends two hours of every day on just his tanks – cleaning them, testing the purity and balance of the water, preparing special feeds for faddy prima donnas.

  I mooch back to admire them, lay my hands against the glass which is really basking warm. That water must be kept at over eighty. Chilly for mere humans, tropical for fish. I’m getting almost jealous of these fish, the time Victor spends with them, the finger-flirting, pet-names. Some of them are ugly, even monstrous, with huge negroid pouting lips or spiny beards. I’ve forgotten all their names now, except the clown fish which I remember because of Norah. They’re really comic and so bright they seem unreal – a show-off dayglo orange which makes marigolds and tangerines look pale, with three wide bands of Persil-white gleaming round their torsos. I touch noses with one through the glass. It darts away, startled, conceals itself behind a piece of coral, itself a fiery red; stays there, shy and cowering.

  “Better call you Norah,” I say out loud. I wonder when I’ll see her. It all depends on Victor, how long he wants me, what he plans to do. Perhaps he was just tired last night. Men of his age are always better in the morning; fresher, recharged after sleep. I suspect he’s also shy, or even scared. It’s surprising how many men are nervous, even regulars, whom you’d imagine would be hardened. At first, it used to throw me, make me jittery as well, but now I’ve learnt to handle it. At least, I can with other guys. Victor’s different, special, which makes me nervous too. I’m not sure how to deal with men I actually feel fond of. If he does want sex, will I be able to respond? I’ve faked so much, I’m no longer all that certain I can do the thing for real. Do I even want to? I let rip with Reuben – heart and soul and body, gave him everything, and look what happened there. Anyway, I’m still a bit on edge that Victor may be kinky in some way. Oh, I know he seems quite normal on the surface, in fact exceptionally sensitive and gentle, and he’s never done the slightest thing to give me cause to worry, but I’ve learnt already that you can never tell. My most brutal client yet was wearing a tee shirt which said “My second name is Love”.

  I flop down on the carpet. There’s not a sound outside. Victor’s house is off the road, so you don’t hear any traffic. The birds are still asleep, if any bird is fool enough to live here. Why did Victor choose a place like this? Okay, so he’s keen on peace and quiet, but you can find those just ten minutes out of Vegas, without holing yourself up in the back of beyond.

  I switch the TV on, tune into a party – couples dancing, chatting guests. Nobody alone. I loathe the early hours. Things seem so depressing then, and empty. Las Vegas solves the problem by outlawing the night – a twenty-four hour city where nothing stops or fades. I wish we’d gone for dinner there, stayed out on the town. If Victor sleeps till nine or ten, that’s four more hours cooped up here on my own. I’d feel more at home in my poky litle boxroom at the Silver Palm. At least I’ve made it cosy. I glance around the room again. That one marooned armchair looks quite pathetic, as if Victor never shares his life, or has company or friends in. I keep wondering why he never married. Perhaps he’s gay. No – gays don’t go for Suzie. They’ve got their own special brothel, ten miles up the road. It’s funny, but I can’t get rid of Suzie. She keeps popping up to bug me, remind me she’s had Victor when I haven’t.

  They’re kissing on the box now – a stunning blonde with Suzie’s nose. Funny how he didn’t even kiss me, not on the lips, not even when we were lying on the floor. I switch the kiss off, check through Victor’s bookcase. No distraction there. All fish manuals or gardening guides, or huge tomes on engineering. Nothing frothy, no romance. I choose a book on breeding axolotls (whatever they are), take it to the light. A moth got there before me, a small brown stupid moth which keeps fluttering round the lamp, falling back as if it’s singed, then flapping up to burn itself again.

  I force myself to concentrate. “The female lays five hundred eggs, sometimes several times a year. At least three-quarters of these will die after hatching …”

  I slam the book shut. Suzie wouldn’t be shivering here reading death statistics, with her client lying a few yards down the passage in a cosy double bed. I jump up from my chair, slip along to Victor’s room, open his door a crack. He’s not asleep at all, just propped against the pillows with the bedside light switched on. I start to giggle. Crazy. Both of us awake in separate rooms.

  “Jan? Is that you?” He sounds wary, almost sharp.

  “No, it’s Carole.” I pad over to the bed, still giggling, lift the covers. “Can I get in? I’m cold.”

  “I’ll … er … find another blanket.” He’s trying to slip out the other side. I stop him, squeeze his hand.

  “You’re warmer than a blanket.”

  “Look, Carole, I think it’s better if we …”

  I kiss him on the lips to stop him talking. Of course he’s scared – it’s obvious. I should have been less selfish, thought of him, rather than myself. I’m a professional now, with a few tricks up my sleeve: how to take the initiative myself without appearing dominant or threatening; how to coax a shy man, build his confidence.

  “Let’s just lie together, shall we? It’s nice like that, relaxing.”

  “I’ll … make some tea.”

  “I’ve had tea.”

  “Well, breakfast then. I bought some sour
dough muffins. Or there’s …”

  “Victor, darling, it’s still not six o’clock. We don’t want breakfast yet. Just relax.”

  I undo my pyjama top, let him see my tits. He makes no move to touch them. He’s lying there, absolutely rigid, trying to cover his body with the bedclothes. I coax them off again, lean over, so my naked breasts are poured out on his chest. He shuts his eyes, lets out a sigh so deep it’s more a groan, starts to stroke my nipples. They love it, stiffen up immediately. I’m tremendously relieved to see I can respond, even down below. Yes, dead cold Abigail is slowly resurrecting, stirring into life. I unbutton my pyjama bottoms, slide my hand across to his, fumble for the fastening.

  He’s out of bed – just like that – blundering towards the door, reaching for his dressing-gown en route, clutching it round him, mumbling something about having to switch the immersion heater on, and how about some fresh-squeezed orange juice; using words to keep me at a distance. Actually, I haven’t moved. I glance down at my silly eager nipples. This is more than shyness. He must have some real problem. Hundreds of men do. Impotence, premature ejaculation, are as common as the common cold. At the Silver Palm, we flatter both the rockets and the squibs, tell them all they’re wonderful, to boost their egos (and erections), keep them coming back. I probably handled Victor wrong, frightened him by stripping off like that.

  I punch the pillows flat, collapse against them. Can’t he talk, for heaven’s sake, at least explain what’s bugging him? He probably doesn’t realise there are ways of getting round these things, and that Suzie’s not the only one who knows them; slow-down techniques for young or inexperienced guys who can’t hold it back (especially wealthy ones who can afford to pay for extra time); speed-up skills for when we’re busy, short of girls. The ex-streetwalkers are pretty good at those – it’s all speed-up on the beat; grab your cash in hand, then get the whole thing over as quickly as you can. Victor needs a different tack completely, something very subtle and low-key. I’d better go and find him, start again from scratch. Sudchit taught me an Oriental foot massage, which is specially good for problem men. It doesn’t just relax them, it disarms them. Feet are safe, they think. Actually, it’s surprisingly erotic, as if there’s a hotline from the big toe to the prick. I’ll have a shot at it. I owe him that at least when he’s paid so much to keep me here all night.

  He’s in the bathroom. I can hear splashing, running taps. Perhaps he was just embarrassed about BO. I like him for that, actually. Too few men consider it.

  I knock. “Can I come in? I’d love a bath myself.” That often works as well – relaxing in warm water with the guy, letting him imagine that the bath is just a preliminary, then surprising him offguard.

  “I’ll run yours after mine, okay?”

  God! He is a prude, can’t even share a bath. I try the door. It’s locked. That’s the bloody end. To lock me out as if I’m some pesky little kid, instead of a skilled courtesan who’s been trained to give men baths – French baths, Japanese baths, spa baths, fantasy baths. How can I try anything if he won’t even let me in? I lean against the wall, see Reuben’s cracked old tub again, feel his greedy soapy hands edging up my thighs. He was wild for me, betrayed me. Victor’s honourable, devoted, and a wimp. No wonder Adrienne and co find comfort with their own sex. I stomp into the kitchen, pour myself some orange juice. I’ve finished half the carton by the time he comes to find me. He’s double-wrapped in pyjamas and a full-length stripey dressing-gown, which makes him look like some aging Arab sheik.

  “Water’s running, Carole. I’ve put some bubble bath in and there are clean towels on the stool.”

  I don’t say thanks. I still feel irritated, maybe just dog-tired from lack of sleep. To hell with fancy massages. The sooner I can get away the better. I’ll snatch a few hours kip at Angelique’s, then devote the rest of this weekend to Norah. She won’t lock me out.

  The bathroom’s hot and steamy, smells of pine. My bath is far too full. I try to turn the taps off, but the shower comes on instead – ice-cold. I twiddle knobs and dials. No good. Still that jet of fierce and freezing water. The water’s rib-cage high now, threatening to spill over. I dash along to Victor’s room, burst in through the door. “Victor, that dratted shower’s gone crazy and …”

  I stop, clutch the door handle. Victor’s about to step into his underpants, wearing nothing but a shirt which is unbuttoned, hanging open. He freezes for one panic-stricken second. So do I. He sees me staring. I can’t not stare. I feel sick, shocked, yet my eyes won’t move from that horrifying sight. Suddenly he snatches up the dressing-gown, uses it like a shield.

  “Get out!” he shouts. “Get out of here.”

  I’m out, pounding down the passage, unlocking the front door, dashing through the garden and along the dirt-track. It’s still dark outside and fiercely cold. My feet keep sliding, tripping on loose stones. I even fall once, graze my knee. I don’t feel any pain though. Nothing else will register, save that one first shock.

  I keep on running, almost blindly, blundering into bushes, sweating and shivering both at once. I can hear my own breathing disturbing the dank silence of the night. It is still night, not a glint or chink of morning; dark and angry clouds racing overhead as if I’ve set them off by my own ungainly pace.

  At last I stop. A dark shape off the path turns into the ruins of a house. I creep inside, slump against the damp and crumbling walls. I hear a sudden rustle. A mouse? A bat? I’m terrified of both, but I’ve got to stop and rest. My own pain is throbbing back, aching knee, sore and stinging feet. I close my eyes, but I can still see Victor’s body, the lower half horribly scarred. The skin is gnarled and puckered, cobbled up as if someone’s ripped it off, then sewn it back too tightly. It doesn’t even look like skin. It’s dry and dead with little raised and twisted ridges running down his stomach and his thighs, flat discoloured patches in between. His cock’s affected, too, lumpy and thickened as if it’s got some cover over it. I could never ever look at it again, couldn’t bear to touch him. I’ve always been squeamish about things like scars or blemishes, even if they’re tiny, and his are massive. It’s bad enough seeing them on strangers, let alone a man you’re involved with, almost went to bed with. Horrible. And then the way he shouted, really yelled as if I were a dog. That was quite a shock as well, when he’s never even raised his voice before. I felt utterly put down.

  So what does he feel? Loved and wanted? Hardly. I let my back slide slowly down the wall till I’m sitting on the floor. I could have shown more sympathy, reacted less hysterically, instead of bolting out in pyjamas and bare feet as if he were a leper. Poor Victor. What in God’s name happened to him? Some ghastly car crash probably, like that poor sod Angelique described. Or an accident at work maybe. Yet couldn’t he have told me, warned me in advance? He’s deceived me, really, posing as a normal guy, pretending he’s like anybody else.

  The floor feels damp and soggy. Christ knows what I’m sitting on – dung or shit or something, or the remains of a dead bird? I shudder, try to stop my mind racing round and round in circles, darting from pity to revulsion to resentment. What am I going to do? Stay here all day, go back and say I’m sorry, go back and say nothing, pretend I never saw a thing – or simply disappear?

  Something runs across my foot. I jump, dodge across rotting piles of debris to the door, blink as I emerge. The windows of the house were boarded up, so I couldn’t see the first grey ghosts of light filtering from the east. Dawn seems reluctant and bad-tempered, not rosy-pink, but a sallow mauvish-grey streaked across the sky.

  The mountains are still blurred and bulky shapes, only their peaks shining spooky-white with snow.

  I stand dithering on the path. One way leads to Victor, the other to the garage and the store. The garage has a public phone. I could call a cab, escape to Angelique’s. He’d never find me there and he’s far too decent to complain to Carl or make trouble for me at the Silver Palm.

  Decent. Yes, he is. Kind, loving, honest; generous with his
self and time and money. And no one’s ever worshipped me like he does. It’s marvellous being worshipped. All your bad bits simply seep away and you bask in being beautiful, inside as well as out. Can’t I do the same for him, then, make him feel good, overlook the scarring? After all, it doesn’t show, not in public when he’s dressed. His arms and legs and face and chest are fine. It’s just that middle band, only puckered skin, for heaven’s sake. Is it really so important, so horrendous?

  Yes, it is. I take the right fork, scramble down the dirt track to the garage and the phone. If I go the other way, Victor might want more than I can give. I’m prepared to be friendly, but not to go to bed with him – not now. No one could expect that.

  I stop a moment. Suzie went to bed with him. I can see them suddenly, walking down that passage in the Silver Palm, chattering and laughing. She didn’t seem disgusted. In fact, she praised him to me, called him quite some guy. It’s easier for her, though. She’s used to all the horrors – disabled men and perverts, wrecks in wheelchairs, amputees. It’s just a job to her, a sort of social work which I could never face myself. Maybe I’m selfish, but you could also call it sensitive. Suzie’s so thick-skinned it’s as if she’s scarred as well.

  I lurch on down the path, trying to avoid the roughest of the rocks. God! I look a sight. Ripped pyjamas, bleeding knee and feet. These little hamlets are buzzing hives of gossip and the garage man knows Carl. Suppose he reports me, says a wild girl in men’s nightwear came tearing in at dawn and asked to use his phone. All-Niters last past dawn, so Carl will know I’ve run out on my job. That could mean the sack.

  He’ll be pretty mad already. I forgot to call him, say I was okay. You’re meant to phone once or twice on out-dates, so he can keep a check on you. It’s a stupid rule, in fact. You could be phoning in at knife-point, or with a gun held to your back. That happened once, apparently, to a French girl called Thérèse. She was lucky to escape alive. Carl was pretty shaken, but he didn’t stop the out-dates, just charged more for them.