Loser

by Valerie J. Long

This good feeling lasted for a longer while, so even the worse clients, who only came for a quick fuck, couldn’t bring me down. Accordingly, I had more of them—even the quick act from behind is more fun with a whore in good mood.

  In this mood, Commissioner Ulf intercepted me on the Fressgasse—feeding alley—one day. “Hello, Jo!”

  “Ulf! Good morning!” I remembered my good intentions, hugged him and gave him two kisses left-right on the cheeks. That seemed to embarrass him and he quickly pushed me away.

  “Jo, I almost wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  With a smile, I assumed a pose. I wore tight tube jeans, a loose-fit turtleneck, and my favorite sneakers. “Yes—more textile than usually, ain’t it so?”

  “Suits you well. Really. Totally cute. Jo—I had promised you an invitation for a coffee.”

  “You did. And now you’ve got appetite?”

  Ulf sighed, then he laughed. “Jo, in your presence one simply can’t have no appetite. But yes, I think it’s time for a coffee now. Would you like? Can you spare the time?”

  “For you, always.”

  “How are you?” he tried an innocuous introduction.

  “Can’t complain,” I replied truthfully. “It’s going well.”

  “Mm. Business-wise? May I raise that topic at all?”

  “Sure, you may. Yes, it’s going well business-wise, too. There’s always demand for our services. For yours, too, right?”

  “Must be so, yes. You never get it all done.”

  “Doesn’t sound as if you’re happy with your job. May I say that so frankly?”

  He smiled. “Frankness for frankness, right? Yes, it’s frustrating. Are you happy then?”

  “Once more, once less.” I illustrated the findings that I already had discussed with Lydia—how our trade was on a slow descent again.

  “Hard job,” Ulf finally admitted. “I must admit, so far I hadn’t given much thought to it. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that many girls are doing it for the money, but I also thought that those who settle for it are coping with it and have some fun. I mean, you can have fun with sex nowadays, can’t you?”

  “Yes, sure—but you must be into exhibitionism to show everything to strangers and totally give yourself away. Otherwise, the mind shuts off. There are enough women who recline, spread their legs and simply tolerate the john doing it. Then it’s a truly crappy job.”

  “But not for you, or is it?”

  “Sometimes I do have my issues with it,” I admitted. “When I have nice clients who return something, then it’s as you say, then I have my fun. That’s bearable. Others I can educate to offer me something. Then there are those who only come to use us. They’re no fun for me, but I tell myself, it’s just sex. Those clients don’t get anything from me. I’ve separated that—my most intimate parts are in my head, not in my pussy.”

  “Which kind of clients do I belong to then?” Ulf asked sternly. “The latter, right?”

  “No. Even the clients that we don’t like pay for our service. They at least recognize that we’re worth something. Any man who demands sex without pay at our place of work is insulting and humiliating us in the worst possible way ever.”

  “Ouch.” Ulf indeed blushed. “That was very frank—but necessary.”

  “And if I agree to do it with a public officer, I commit bribery. What’s your view on corruption?”

  He stared at me. I gave him a friendly smile. “Too frank?”

  “No, no. It’s okay. If we’re already that far, I can get something off my chest, too, at least my personal point of view. You can divide us cops roughly in two categories. The first join the police because they think that the uniform gives them power. Some openly admit that, for others it’s subliminally so—but it still applies, even if they only want to direct traffic. The others join the police for idealistic motives. Fight crime, protect the people and so on.”

  “Plus the safe public officer status?”

  “Well yes—one of the other two motivations always comes along. Even if it’s a family tradition to join the police, somehow it’s still about the uniform or the urge to help. However, the second category cops someday recognize how rotten this society is. Since the Invasion—or at least since the Dragons have left—only money counts. Whoever has the money has the power. Whoever has the power has easier access to money. Have a look around—it starts with the kids. In every city, youth gangs thrive. Further up, it’s called Cartel. Each policeman quickly learns when to look away. Sometimes, open terror rules the streets. So you become a cynic sooner or later—and won’t turn down options to at least have your frustration and risk paid for.”

  “Which category are you belonging to then?”

  “Me? I’m a power-hungry cynic. I’m simply a corrupt asshole. That’s why I don’t understand why you bother dealing with me.”

  “Because I’m a cynical whore who knows how valuable it can be to know a corrupt asshole cop?” With a wink, I eased my statement.

  My opposite burst out in laughter. I joined him.

  “Jo, you’re okay,” he finally said.

  “I’d guess we’ll get along fine,” I returned. “I’d only ask you for one favor.”

  “Which?” Was there a suspecting undertone in his voice? I winked at him.

  “If you want to collect your bribes next time, your place, not mine. Okay?”

  He immediately relaxed. “Okay!”

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Thirty

  Ghost had reassured me that the doping tests wouldn’t find anything. It stayed that way. The doping testers had gawked when they found a wellness brothel under my address. However, as sperm didn’t belong to the banned substances, they had had to accept it.

  Intrusion of pointy objects into the body can be effectively prevented. This statement from my help component had kept my mind busy and still did, while I attended my competition.

  The light, unpadded swimsuit that I had chosen stirred up a lot of attention when I approached my bike after swimming. I didn’t have time to worry about that, as I had to make sure that I quickly put on my clip-pedal shoes. On the biking leg, I then had time to ponder pointy objects.

  What does that mean? Only syringes—or knives, too?

  —The outer skin layers can be reinforced to resist accidental cuts.—

  But not the deliberate stab?

  —Correct. This would be part of the extended functions, which are not unblocked yet.—

  Well then. Nevertheless, it made sense and was good to know. Jerusalem thorn, roses, barbed wire, sharp-edged metal fences, glass shards—there were enough obstacles during my missions where I could desire a more robust skin. This useful extra moved quite a lot of additional targets into reach that I so far had avoided. Now I could start planning for them.

  Meanwhile, my body routinely conquered the Taunus ascents that a likewise experienced sadist had written into our tour itinerary. Surely my nano-technical enhancement could have significantly helped me to ease these efforts, but I had firmly planned to complete this competition on my own, honestly and fairly. Were my competitors honest, fair, and not doped? I didn’t know. In any case, they were strong, and I had a hard fight to stay close to the top.

  Later, I told myself. Later, after the competition, when I’d be reclining in a hot whirlpool in our wellness center, my nanos would be allowed to become active and chase away the traces of the previous strains.

  The competition’s leading female athlete, last year’s Europe champion, looked back at me again. Yes, I’m on your heels. You can’t escape me.

  The next ascent forced my competitor to reduce her speed. Finally, she let me pass. I slowed down, too and allowed her to close up to my rear wheel—I’d need my power for the running track.

  Beginning rain made us go easy with the final downhill—no competitor was inclined to slip on the wet track and suffer painful scratches, not to mention the loss of time. Ah, no, I didn’t have to fear scratches or bruises.

  Another
change—away with the bike, away with the clip-pedal shoes, into the running shoes and off we go! Together with my direct competitor I tackled the running track. Forty-two kilometers to the finish, an infernal strain for each participant.

  More or less automatically, I adapted my pace to the next woman. When she gave in, I slowed down, too, when she sped up, I copied her. Was I truly so good? Would I be able to outrun her? How could that be, if my nanos didn’t help?

  At least they didn’t help me actively. But during my entire training, they had subtly optimized my body, had supported the muscle build, had adapted the oxygen supply to the higher demand, changed the blood mix, repaired the typical tiny strain injuries of muscles and strings. My body was in the best shape. By and by I realized that I could easily win this challenge if I really was up to it. Not with much head start, but reliably. Did I want that? Was it fair?

  Counter-question—if my competitor could do so well without nanos, was that normal? Was it fair? Or was she doped? My Analogy gave the answer—without doping and without nanos, her performance couldn’t be explained.

  This realization thoroughly spoiled my fun with this sport. While I still was happy about my body and my own performance, regarding the competition itself, I asked myself where this should lead to.

  Okay—if it wasn’t about fun and not about sports, it wasn’t about fairness either. Let’s get through with it, let’s see what’s possible. No restraints. I kicked it up a gear.

  My competitor wheezed when she tried to keep up with the increased speed, but a few hundred meters later, she had to let me go. We approached the thirty-kilometers-mark anyway, and thus the infamous wall that a marathon runner hit when its body depleted its glycogen stores. This wall would be significantly softer for me, as I already knew from my training.

  The spectators along the track cheered and hooted. Why? Oh yes—my lap times looked promising. Here and today I could break the record. Or was it due to my sweat-soaked jersey?

  They might guess how strenuous my performance was, very surely they could read a part of the exertion from my face, but they couldn’t have the slightest idea of what torture this competition meant to me. It’s just pain, was my mantra, and I simply refused to slow down only for burning muscles or stars before my eyes. I had endured worse!

  The day had been long enough. After eight hours, twenty-eight minutes and forty-seven seconds I reached the finish. New world record for women!

  One and a half minute after me the previous European champion reached the finish. Only now, I realized that this title would be passed on to me. The press would lie in wait for me, my peace and anonymity would be done with. That wasn’t my biggest problem, however.

  When I approached the new runner-up to shake her hands—why, after all, if I knew she was doped?—she gave me an awkward smile. “Congratulations. You did a great run.” Very quietly she added. “Certain people will be very angry now.”

  “Why? Who?”

  She leaned close to my ear. “Cartel.”

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Thirty-One

  Pretty crap.

  I wouldn’t want to challenge the Cartel. That was highly unhealthy. It also was highly unhealthy to talk about it—or even give it a deeper thought.

  Regarding this Ironman, the horse had already bolted. Perhaps I could save the situation during the press conference?

  The media’s obligatory first question to the winner was, “How do you feel?”

  “I’m all over the moon and totally surprised,” I began. “I’ve been training so hard for months and ground myself, and somehow I had no feeling where I was performance-wise. I hadn’t expected to keep up so well. I’ve been so excited, that’s spurred me during my run—and the spectators, of course. That simply let me forget the exertion.”

  As if I had forgotten. As if it were the spectators. I felt every step and still ran.

  “Did you have a special training plan? Didn’t you compare the timings?”

  “My training plan mainly said that I’d do something every day—depending on how much time I had to spare, I went bicycling, running or swimming. No, I didn’t care for my times. I only wanted to score a respectable result and prove to myself that I still can do it.”

  “You’ve made a long break. Why?” another journalist asked.

  “Oh dear. There was the Invasion, then I’ve been overseas for a while, been busy in my job, somehow it never worked out. I’ve never stopped training, but couldn’t get to signing up. It’s a hobby, nothing more.”

  “Will you continue now?”

  “I want to do the Hawaii Ironman at all cost. I’ve only been to Hawaii once before, I’d like to go there again. However, I think I’m done with competitive sports thereafter. After all, it’s quite strenuous.”

  “Do you have any goals for the world championship?”

  “Well, if I join such a competition, I want to score well, that’s clear. But I don’t have a specific goal. Are there sharks in the Pacific? I believe I’ll be highly motivated to swim faster.”

  There was laughter in the hall. I raised one hand to say more, and the journalists calmed down.

  “I only want to stress that I’m amateur and that I only want to do this season and only these two competitions. It’s not about money, so that’s why I’m running without ads on my jersey. Yes?”

  “Don’t you think that your jersey is the best self promotion you can have in your trade?”

  Again there was laughter, but not with all present. Some appeared clueless.

  “You’re relating to my job as prostitute. Yes, I’m standing by it, I frankly say it. My job is to give other people happiness. My jersey’s got nothing to do with it—I simply didn’t give it another thought. I have a healthy, toned body that I don’t need to hide, that’s all.”

  “Are you looking forward to the competition in Hawaii in October? Or to Hawaii in general?”

  “As I said—I’ve only been there once before, and I’d like to see it again. The volcanoes, the culture, the people, perhaps the beaches, too.”

  “Will you wear the same jersey?”

  I grinned at the inquirer. “On one hand I know, of course, that the Americans store great value in decency, on the other hand, the only thing missing in the immigration rules is flying nude. I believe the jersey is an appropriate tradeoff, so why not?”

  Laughter.

  “What are you doing with the prize money?”

  “I’ll need that for my ticket to Hawaii, for my bicycle, and me.”

  More laughter. The moderator decided that my time was over. I could only hope that I had found the right balance between innocent naivety and intelligent professionalism, so that the Cartel would regard my interference as the unpredictable accident that it truly was. Otherwise, I’d be in serious trouble—trouble that I couldn’t discuss with anyone. Once anyone would even guess that I knew about the Cartel’s involvement with this competition, I’d be as good as dead. Even a friend like Ronnie or Ulf wouldn’t protect me—and if the person I addressed was a member, I’d be dead even sooner.

  My competitor shouldn’t have told me. If she told someone that she had told me, I’d be due, too. Damn, why did my life have to be so complicated?

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Thirty-Two

  A few weeks later, Jen was back. Ronnie came to welcome her and to be the first client for her reentry. Jen couldn’t have found a better option—obviously Ronnie liked her, her scars didn’t bother him, and he was just the friend she needed now. To me, it even seemed as if he’d be interested in more than entertainment.

  Kat announced her exit. She’d marry Dieter. Was it just a long-time job, or was love involved? In the end, it didn’t matter. She had found another way to secure her future, and Dieter was a good guy.

  A brothel as marriage market? No—the two girls doubtlessly were exceptions. Both were a bit too nice for the job, and they both had the charisma that attracted a certain kind of male protectors.

  That wasn’t my way.
Limit myself to a single man? Always together, not only when he’s in the mood for sex and tenderness, but also when he’s in a bad mood? Cleaning and cooking for him? Bear his friends’ jokes, when they’re mocking about my job? Give him a baby? The thought of my own child made me briefly dizzy.

  No. I had become accustomed to my freedom. I wanted to command my time—oh yes, and then there was my profitable side job.

  Why was I still here, actually? It wasn’t for the money, as sex couldn’t earn me as much as poker and my prowls. No, I stayed out of habit and loyalty to the girls. Above all, Kat and Jen were dear to me, but those two were taken care of now.

  I grew older, and I had to expect my body to show that soon. The breasts followed the pull of gravity, and the skin didn’t stay as tender as a baby’s, unless I’d use my enhancement. That would be noticed eventually.

  Sex rarely was real fun. After a brief recovery, the clients’ demands were fading again.

  So I’d expand my radius of activity, search for promising targets around Europe, tap new game circles with solvent gamblers and save my sex for hand-picked partners—either because they physically appealed to me or because they were interesting in other regards.

  Changing locations would make it more difficult for the Cartel to find me. I’d never learn in time if and when they decided to take me out, but if I never stayed in the same place for long, I might have a chance.

  Yes. It was time to go.

  Part Twelve—Independent

  Chapter One-Hundred-And-Thirty-Three

  My instinct—my fear, if you wish—told me to leave immediately. Now, this minute. But, of course, that wasn’t possible. Nothing would bring the Cartel on my track so reliably as a sudden, apparently completely unreasoned flight. No, I had to stage my farewell carefully. I had to say goodbye to my friends, so that they, too, could believably assure the Cartel that I indeed had opened a new page in the book of my life, as aging whores would do occasionally.