The Choice

by Monica Belle

  If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s making myself work when I know I have to. My technique is to promise myself a treat once I’ve completed a certain amount; my favourite sweets when I was little, pieces of chocolate for my GCSEs, cans of lager for my A levels, and now that I was at Oxford glasses of old port, which seemed appropriate. By the Tuesday evening I not only had my essay done, but also had compiled several pages of notes for my speech, all between lectures, study groups and three brief but passionate liaisons with Stephen.

  One thing that quickly became clear as I did my research on prostitution and the state was that Giles Lancaster had set me up, both in the hope of gaining an easy victory for his side and to ensure I made a fool of myself. It was crafty, and pretty low down, but he wouldn’t have been giving Niccolo Machiavelli any lessons, because I’d realised what he was up to within a few seconds of typing ‘male privilege’ and ‘patriarchy’. Both terms belonged to the most radical feminist ideologies, used by extremists who’d lost all touch with the fundamental need for equality. Had I based my argument on what I found on the net I’d have been laughed out of the building, which might very well have been the end of my political aspirations.

  Stephen’s idea was far better, a little idealistic perhaps but that would probably be expected of me. It also made sense, because I’ve always felt that there should be somebody for everybody, and if people were just a bit less hung up about sex then nobody would need to sell it, or buy it. The only problem was that it didn’t really answer the question, except in that state-run brothels might make paid sex seem the norm. That part needed work, but I felt I was ready to discuss my ideas with Dr James McLean.

  Violet had passed on a message to say that he and the other two speakers would be meeting in the White Horse rather than the Chamber bar, allowing us to discuss our position without fear of being overheard. Given Dr McLean’s reputation and his casual suggestion that I should be dealt with in some unspecified but presumably kinky fashion, I was glad that there would be four of us there, but as it turned out he was polite and friendly, while the other two speakers were also female undergraduates, although third years rather than first. After making the introductions and a little casual chat, he got down to business.

  ‘Do you all know Giles Lancaster?’

  We nodded as one.

  ‘Then you’ll know the angle he’s likely to take; bread and circuses to keep the masses quiet, meanwhile eliminating the crime associated with prostitution by undercutting private enterprise, which in this case means traffickers, pimps and other thoroughly unpleasant people, an idea which has plenty of popular appeal. He used much the same arguments in the debate on the legalisation of drugs last Hilary term, as Komali and Susan will remember, and their side won. I have some ideas on how we combat the approach, but I’d like to hear yours first. Poppy?’

  ‘Um … OK. Essentially I want to argue that state-controlled brothels legitimise the concept of sex as a commodity.’

  ‘Which you regard as a bad thing?’

  ‘Yes. Sex should be a shared experience between loving, consenting adults, surely?’

  ‘OK. Let me ask you a question. Will you concede that a disabled person, perhaps in a wheelchair, still has a sex drive?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And that they have the right to express their sexuality?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now let’s take it a step further. He, or she, is also ugly and socially inept. How are they going to find their loving, consenting partner?’

  ‘Dating agencies, something online perhaps?’

  ‘Do you really think that would work?’

  ‘Sometimes, maybe … OK, not very often.’

  ‘Hardly ever, I expect. Realistically, their only opportunity for sexual expression will be to pay.’

  ‘I see what you’re getting at, but you seem to be arguing for the proposal, not against?’

  ‘Not at all. My argument supports sex work as a valid profession, but that in no way implies it should be controlled exclusively by the state.’

  ‘OK, I’m sorry. Obviously that wasn’t such a good idea.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m merely playing devil’s advocate, but the opposition might very well put forward the same argument.’

  ‘What do you think I should say then?’

  ‘Your point is valid, but needs to be qualified, while I’d also like the four of us to be singing from the same song sheet. One argument in favour of our position, and I expect the one Giles himself would use if he was on our side, is the capitalist argument, which is self-explanatory.’

  He glanced between us and I was pleased to see that I wasn’t the only one looking blank. After having my own idea squashed so easily I didn’t want to speak up again, but Susan was bolder.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Essentially the argument is that prostitution should be legal, but run like any other business, designed to make a profit but regulated to prevent abuse, the idea being that any state-controlled system inevitably panders to the lowest common denominator, resulting in a dull, uninspiring service, low wages for the producers – in this case the girls who actually do the work – and a top-heavy management.’

  ‘Isn’t that just right-wing theory?’

  ‘Yes, it is, which is why I want Giles to think it will be the main thrust of our argument when in fact I intend to emphasise the social disadvantages of state control: government intrusion, data gathering and its potential misuse, poor service and so forth, topical things that will resonate with the audience and, hopefully, win us the vote. Also, I want to …’

  He carried on, the three of us listening as he outlined a complete plan, leaving only one question I wanted to ask.

  ‘How are you going to make sure Giles thinks we’re going to use the capitalist argument?’

  ‘Because, Poppy, you are going to tell him.’

  I couldn’t have hoped for a better task. Not only was it great fun, making me feel like a secret agent, but it gave me an excellent opportunity to revenge myself on Giles for his behaviour. The only question was: how to go about it without arousing his suspicions?

  Approaching him directly wasn’t going to work. He was much too crafty to fall for it, and for all his arrogance he had to be aware that I wasn’t best pleased with him. If he came to talk to me it would be different, as I could pretend to let something slip, perhaps after one too many drinks at the Chamber bar, which was where I went after my Wednesday-afternoon tutorial. Giles was there, as I’d expected, but to my surprise so was Stephen. They were talking together, and when I came up to them I was sure there was a hint of embarrassment or even guilt in Stephen’s voice as he greeted me. ‘Hello, Poppy, everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, fine, I just fancied a drink after my tute.’

  Giles was his normal self. ‘After an hour of Jarrow John on social philosophy I bet you need one. Let me get it. What about you, Mitchell?’

  ‘Another pint, please.’

  ‘Port, please.’

  ‘You’ll get gout. Have a gin and tonic.’

  He made for the bar, leaving me to sit down beside Stephen. There was a question I’d been meaning to ask ever since they’d met in Jackdaw Lane. ‘Why do you and Giles call each other by your surnames?’

  ‘It’s a school thing, at Laon Abbey and most other public schools.’

  ‘That’s weird.’

  ‘Not really. It was normal in the nineteenth century, among higher classes anyway, and the tradition has been maintained, that’s all, much the same way as judges and lawyers wear wigs or we wear gowns when we matriculate.’

  ‘I suppose so. It just sounds so formal.’

  ‘Maybe, but for me it’s something I only do with my closest friends.’

  ‘So I’ll know you really like me when you start calling me Miller?’

  He laughed. ‘I will if you like.’

  ‘No. It would be too much like being told off at school. Are you coming to hear me speak t
omorrow night?’

  ‘Yes, of course, and Giles. He’ll win, you know, he always does.’

  ‘You might be surprised. Dr McLean has some very strong arguments.’

  It would have been the perfect opportunity to drop my little piece of disinformation into the conversation, but Giles had managed to get served in record-breaking time and was already on his way back. Besides that, I couldn’t guarantee that it would have been passed on. As soon as I’d got my drink I tried a different tack.

  ‘What are your arguments going to be, Giles?’

  ‘Do you really think I’m going to tell you that, twenty-four hours before the debate?’

  ‘Why not, if you’re as good as people make out.’

  ‘I’m good because I don’t let my opponents know what I’m doing. So, have you got your dungarees pressed and your copy of Andrea Dworkin ready?’

  ‘No. That line of argument wouldn’t have stood up for a minute, as you perfectly well know.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Oxford’s full of bluestockings, always was.’

  ‘Anyway, we have something far cleverer.’

  ‘You do? Don’t tell me, you’re going to argue in favour of prostitution as free enterprise?’

  I was taken aback, but only for an instant before I had to force myself not to smile. He laughed at my reaction as I made a hurried and deliberately unconvincing denial and that was that, my job done for me. Anything more and he might have realised I was bluffing, so I hastily changed the subject.

  ‘Did you join the Commodities Trading Club, Stephen?’

  ‘Yes, I did. It’s invaluable for me.’

  Giles broke in. ‘He is also up for election to the Hawkubites, aren’t you, Mitchell?’

  Stephen responded with an embarrassed nod and a questioning glance in my direction.

  I hastened to reassure him. ‘I don’t mind. One thing I learned a long time ago was to let the boys have their nights out.’

  He still sounded awkward as he answered me. ‘It is an all-male society.’

  ‘I do trust you, Stephen.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Just don’t expect me to bail you out if you get arrested for trashing some restaurant, that’s all.’

  Giles made a casual gesture. ‘Don’t worry, we retain a lawyer for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather expensive?’

  ‘Being a Hawkubite is expensive. That’s why we don’t let the riff-raff in.’

  ‘Despite modelling yourselves on them?’

  ‘As I believe I mentioned before, it’s not vandalism if you’re correctly dressed.’

  ‘You did, yes. Would you like to come to hall with me this evening, Stephen?’

  ‘Um … I’d love to, but Giles is taking me to meet the committee.’

  ‘Afterwards?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’ll be in my room.’

  I swallowed down what was left of my drink and went back to college. Despite what I’d said I wasn’t particularly happy about Stephen joining the Hawkubites, who were nothing more than a gang of upper-class yobs. I had meant it though, because if there’s one thing guaranteed to wreck a relationship it’s trying to reform your partner, especially by stopping him, or her, going around with their friends. Stephen and I were getting on well, and the last thing I wanted to do was put him off by being too bossy.

  With my essay out of the way I was keen to finish The Woman and the Puppet, which I’d put aside as being too distracting. The final part was a little disappointing, as I’d hoped for something even juicier than the scene in which Don Matteo lost control with Conchita. It did get wonderfully tense, but the climax I’d been anticipating never came, leaving me with a faint sense of dissatisfaction.

  By then it was nearly ten o’clock and there was still no sign of Stephen. Violet wasn’t about either, so I went for a coffee with my downstairs neighbours, both male second years, one reading botany and the other history. The conversation was pretty dull, but I was hoping Stephen would come back while I was still there, so that he didn’t think I’d been sitting in waiting for him. It was half past eleven when I finally made my way back upstairs, and I was unlocking my door when I heard footsteps below, far too heavy for Violet and taking the stairs three or four at a time. Stephen appeared, looking flushed and apologising even as he took me in his arms.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so long. Come here.’

  I responded, letting my mouth open to his despite the taste of beer and something else which I couldn’t quite put my finger on, something quite strong and musky. He was drunk too, and horny. I quickly pulled him into my room, not wanting Violet to catch me having my bottom groped up against her door, an action he took for assent. My top and bra were up before I’d even managed to get the door closed, and I had to wriggle out of his grip to shut it or she might have seen a great deal more.

  ‘Slow down, Stephen!’

  ‘I want you.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  My words broke to a gasp as he pushed his hand up my skirt to squeeze my sex through my knickers.

  ‘You’re wet. Have you been thinking about me?’

  I hadn’t. I’d been thinking of what Don Matteo had done to Conchita, but it looked like I was going to get the same treatment, so there was only one sensible answer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bad girl. Come on, knickers off.’

  He’d got hold of them, and tugged them down even as he spoke. My arms were around him, but he pushed me back onto the bed, rolling me up with my knickers twisted in one big hand, much as he had done on our first night together. His spare hand found my sex, rubbing at me, and I gave in. A finger went inside me, just briefly, and he was fumbling at his fly as he clambered onto the bed.

  His cock came out, straight into my mouth and I was sucking as he began to explore my body, playing with my breasts and bottom cheeks, fingering me and rubbing a knuckle between the lips of my sex, all the while with my legs held up to keep me helpless and exposed. I was happy like that, and would gladly have let him make me come, but he was erect in no time and keen to have me.

  ‘Come on, bottoms up.’

  I didn’t get any say in the matter, twisted over and lifted by my hips. His cock settled between my bottom cheeks, rubbing in my crease before he took himself in hand and slid it up, deep inside me. I was ready and took him easily, which was just as well, because he was too drunk and too horny to take his time with me, thrusting deep and pushing himself in and out so fast and so hard that he was knocking the breath from my body.

  ‘You look so good like that, Poppy, so good.’

  I looked an undignified mess, my breasts pulled out, skirt up and knickers around one ankle, but I was in no state to complain. He had taken hold of my thighs, lifting me clean off the bed, my thighs spread so wide that his balls were pushing at my sex with every thrust. I was going to come, if he could only keep it up for a few more seconds, and I was begging him not to stop as I let what he’d done to me come together in my head.

  He had just pushed his way into my room, stripped my clothes aside to get at what he wanted and fucked me. If I hadn’t insisted on shutting the door it would still be open, wide open, allowing Violet a prime view of me being had from behind. I could imagine her, her hand to her mouth in shock and delight as she watched Stephen’s cock push in and out of my sex, giggling for the state I was in, her hand sneaking down between her thighs …

  I came, screaming as it hit me, too far gone to care about the neighbours or anything else except the glorious sensations running through my body. Stephen grunted and I knew he’d done it inside me, driving me to a second peak higher even than the first, so long and so intense that I was still gasping out my pleasure even as he withdrew. Only then did it occur to me to wonder if it was his name I’d called out in my ecstasy, or Violet’s.

  6

  WE WON THE debate, by 219 Noes to 191 Ayes, in no small part due to the way I’d wrong-footed Giles Lancaster. His openi
ng speech was good, with a combination of humour and argument that quickly won the audience around and had well over half the heads in the audience nodding agreement. Fortunately for us, Dr McLean was more forceful still, setting out his argument in the sort of clear, authoritative voice that made it hard even to think of disagreeing. He also spoke with complete conviction, making the argument more compelling still, for me as well as everybody else for all that I knew he regarded the debate more as an exercise in logic than as a chance to promote his beliefs.

  By the time he stepped down I was sure we were heading for victory, but that didn’t stop me feeling nervous as the other speakers went up one by one. The man who had seconded Giles was a bit of a clown, playing to his friends in the audience and probably doing more harm than good, but Susan was too quiet and diffident. Her speech bored the audience, leaving them restless as the only woman in Giles’ team came up. She was very good, answering Susan’s points in a clear, serious voice, but she was clearly aggrieved by the idea that anything but the state should run anything at all, which meant her argument was full of holes and I was frantically scribbling notes so that I could incorporate elements of the capitalist angle in my own speech.

  My stomach was churning at she resumed her seat, but I managed to reach the podium without falling flat on my face. After that it was surprisingly easy, really no different from addressing the assembly at school. When there are four hundred or so people all looking at you they seem to merge into one, while I knew to avoid Susan’s mistake and keep my head up and my mouth close to the microphone. I’d been worried that because I was female and a first year some of the wilder spirits might heckle me, but my entire speech was delivered to a respectful silence followed by a gentle murmur, leaving me relieved but not sure if I’d done well or badly.

  Their summation followed, with Giles’ final speaker doing little more than reiterate what had gone before. Komali was better, summing up our argument well, but she insisted on qualifying everything in such minute detail that the audience had begun to stir restlessly, making me wonder if we might lose after all. As the voting began it was clear to me that there were plenty of people who’d have voted for Giles if he’d proposed painting the Radcliffe Camera purple, and a roughly equal number who’d have voted against him unless he’d proposed his own resignation. The floating voters swung it our way, leaving me with a warm glow of success as we made for the bar. Dr McLean treated us to a bottle of champagne, and insisted on pouring me the first glass.