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  Smart girl! What can I say …

  After a few more attempts, I finally pull him back onto the couch. We catch our breath and then dress. Before leaving, Death shoves a €50 note into my hand with the words, ‘You are a good girl, Julia.’ I take the money, say thanks and wish never to see this man again, even if it means that he has to give up the ghost for it.

  20

  The next day, the shift is even worse. Normally trade picks up towards the weekend, but not this week. I am glad that at least I made a bottle yesterday, because it looks like for most of the girls, it will be a second day in a row with zero.

  Just before the end of the shift, I manage to convince one weirdo to buy me a demi-bouteille for a hand-job in a semi-private lounge. As soon as we get comfortable and the barman opens the bottle, I reach to open the zip of his pants, but he stops me, turns my face to his and passionately asks, ‘Kiss me first, please.’

  The case is well dressed, about fifty years old, not too ugly or repulsive. But there is a strange – I would even say maniacal – shade in his eyes.

  I answer ‘Sure,’ and let him kiss me on the lips.

  Here we go again! What’s wrong with all these men?

  Once again, he just sticks his wet and slimy tongue down my throat and forces it around, trying to get as deep as possible for a couple of minutes.

  How someone can even call that a kiss? Yuck!

  Then he pushes me away, holding my shoulders firmly, and says, ‘Please come with me tonight. I will pay you €300 for the night.’

  Oh my fuck! Another nutcase …

  There is no way I am going out with him – especially since I already have four regulars. They are my constant income from my out-of-the-club activities that keep me quite busy …

  One of them is a Jewish lawyer whose abnormality is his absolute normality. He is not an attractive or a generous man at all, but he loves good food, treats me with respect and his knowledge of sex doesn’t reach beyond the missionary position. Another one is from Belgium. This guy loves to go to restaurants and guzzle like it is the last day of his life. He always jokes loudly about sex and how good he is at it, despite having an extra-small dick that is generously shaded by his big belly, making him the perfect candidate for the Dickie Do Award 4XL T-shirt. On top of this, he laughs pathetically every time he ejaculates. Then there is a German guy, one of the most normal men I’ve met in Luxembourg: a good fuck, but absolutely unemotional. And another regular is a Portuguese guy. A nice fellow, but with some shortcomings as well – he comes too quickly. I feel sorry for him and always try to move more slowly and less intensely, making sure that the intercourse and his pleasure lasts longer, but our record is 4 minutes and 10 seconds from the moment I unzip his pants.

  In other words, I definitely have enough of a bizarre clientele in my after-work life!

  I am free as a bird tonight, seeing none of my regulars, but I shake my head and say, ‘Can’t do it, I am busy tonight.’

  The nutcase takes my hands in his and passionately responds, ‘Please, Julia, I will give you €500! Please come with me tonight!’

  Seriously … how can I say no to €500! So what if he is a creep?

  At the end of my shift, my new case is waiting for me in a cab. As soon as I jump in, he tells the driver his address and we leave.

  It is close to 11 p.m. already and in the darkness, I don’t follow where we are going. The area we arrive at looks decent; he stays on the third floor of the four-storey apartment building. It all seems good until we walk into his place. It is a studio stuffed with rubbish and old junk. It is so cluttered that there is no space even to sit on his only couch. The smell inside is so intense: a mixture of naphthalene, dirt and staleness. Screw the money – I will not be able to spend the night in here.

  I quickly look at my phone, fake concern on my face, apologise and explain that for some unforeseen reason I can’t stay the whole night, and that if he wants to, we can do a quickie for half the price and then I have to leave.

  He looks upset, but nods with understanding and offers me a glass of wine in the meantime.

  I agree that this is a great idea. As soon as we clink our glasses, I drain mine. The alcohol relaxes me right away, but some time later I start feeling heaviness and drowsiness too.

  I wake up in the morning, naked in his bed, covered with smelly and dirty sheets. The bastard must have drugged me. I quickly get out of the bed, still feeling dizzy, and find my clothes hanging on the chair. While I am hurriedly dressing, I try to remember what happened last night and think what I’m going to do next.

  The sound of the toilet flushing frightens me. I turn towards the bathroom and there he is, standing in his boxers and socks. The pathetic motherfucker smiles at me as if nothing had happened, and serenely says, ‘Good morning, beautiful. Would you like some coffee?’

  The sound of his absorbing voice sparks some memories of last night: him taking me to the bed, me still sluggishly objecting, but already unable to move my hands. I remember him kissing, grabbing and fucking me dazed and unconscious, and how he kept repeating maniacally, ‘I know you love me, I know you do …’

  The vivid recollection punches through me like an electric shock.

  I don’t even put my shoes on, just grab them with my bag and back up towards the door.

  As soon as I touch the handle of the door, I freak out, ‘Where is my money? You haven’t paid me, you sick bastard!’

  The look in his eyes changes from dull-innocent to reptilian-mean, but his voice stays the same.

  ‘Sorry, beautiful, but I don’t have the money. Come, have some coffee with me, my love.’

  I storm out of that place, down the stairs to the street, and run until I see a cab that is driving past. I wave to stop it, climb in, tell the driver the address of the club and then just start crying …

  My anger and resentment for the dickhead as well as for myself rend me into pieces. I can’t stop my tears, even when the cab driver starts giving me discontented looks in the mirror. No matter how much I hate the prick, I know it’s my fault. I dragged myself into this situation …

  I decide not to tell anybody. I am too ashamed to talk about it. I have to try to forget it. It never happened to me.

  21

  It is the end of another working shift. I had very satisfying trading – went upstairs twice, plus a few piccolos at the bar – so I’m slightly smashed. Besides, I sniffed some in the toilet with Margo, the only girl I have something in common with, of all the girls on the day shift. We are quite spaced out and are having a jolly chat at the bar when this guy walks in.

  Margo recognises him on the spot, but oddly turns away and starts looking attentively at her nails, pretending that she hasn’t noticed him. I point the man out with my eyebrows and nudge her with my elbow, asking if she is going to work. In response, without taking her gaze off her hand, she snaps ‘I don’t feel like working; he is yours.’ The fermentation never makes me extra suspicious, but the enigma of why Margo, who hasn’t made any money today, gives up the opportunity so easily, does not bother me at all. Plus the buzz is great. Without any hesitation I jump off the bar stool and slide towards the man.

  He is a droll character: short, plumpish, with a James Bond attitude. His pants, jacket, and even his cowboy hat are made of black leather.

  I wonder how many poor animals had to die for him to dress today.

  He really looks funny, and it takes an effort not to show the amusement on my face. Instead I put my oh-you-are-so-cool-and-sexy look on, and whisper a seductive hello. He looks at me without any enthusiasm, then turns back to his gin and tonic without acknowledging me.

  Normally this type of attitude drives me mad. I start to freak out, and most times just leave the rude bastard – but because my successful day has kicked my mood up, I decide to try again. I draw very close, pressing my body against his shoulder, then slowly but firmly grab his bull neck while tickling it with my nails, and whisper in his ear, ‘You wanna fuck?
’

  He turns to me again. I pierce him with my signature smoky come-to-bed look and add a come-hither-I-am-so-horny smile.

  The left corner of his mouth curves, indicating a smile. He looks me over, as if I am a sweatshirt he is about to buy in the shop, and says, ‘Okay. You asked for it,’ before rushing towards the stairs.

  That was an easy one. Margo would kick herself if she knew how quickly I arranged my third bottle.

  The rest is supposed to be a piece of cake: quickly screw the cowboy and fuck off home, maybe even go to celebrate my highly fertile shift with a few hits in a nightclub.

  When the champagne is served and the garçon leaves, the rolypoly unbuttons his jacket, pulls some stuff out of the inner pockets and places it on the table. The stuff includes metal serrated and chained nipple clips, a few rubbers, a tube of anal lubricant and a bottle of poppers12.

  I swallow a glass of bubbly and sigh. Even though I am heavily intoxicated, it is not difficult for me to imagine the full version of what is about to happen if my vaquero is going to use all these items on me. Especially considering that I am an anal virgin, and that just the idea of somebody sticking something up my ass seriously freaks me out. And my nipples, although they have a boyish look, are quite sensitive.

  What can I say? It looks like I am in deep shit again.

  He looks at me with a smile, as if he reads my mind: ‘Those are for me, but if you want to try them, you are welcome.’ I also smile – with relief – and mumble, ‘No thank you.’

  He liberates himself from his tiring outfit and throws my dress down to the floor. For some time we just kiss while he squeezes my thighs and digs my slit with his fingers. I palm his dick and rub it down, but it is still soft.

  He attaches the clips to his nipples, picks up the poppers and makes himself comfortable lying on his right side, leaning on the armrest, with his legs spread wide. He grips the back of my neck, presses my face to his hips, and sniffs from the little bottle. His body reacts immediately and his cock swells and stiffens in my mouth.

  Damn, this shit smells terrible.

  The erection doesn’t last long; just a minute or two. As soon as his penis softens again, he picks up the lubricant and condoms from the table and goes back to his relaxed position. He orders me to go down on the floor on my knees, sniffs again and pushes his solidifying cock to the back of my throat.

  A few minutes later, my kinky cowboy unpacks a condom. Instead of putting it on his penis, he grasps my hand, straightens my fingers and unrolls it over them, stretching the rubber down my wrist. Then he squeezes some lube onto the condom, draws in some more of the smelly shit and orders, ‘Put it in,’ while placing my hand at his bunghole.

  Unfuckingbelievable – my horseman turns out to be headless for real!

  My mind boggles for a moment but I push my hand in. Whatever! As long as he doesn’t encroach on my ass. When all my fingers drown inside him, he takes my hand and pushes it further, until it disappears up to my wrist.

  ‘Crook your fingers inside,’ he orders again with ease. I peep at him. His face is ridiculously delighted. I cannot see my hand but I visualise my long nails that will scratch him inside and shake my head. He sniffs some more and smiles. ‘Don’t worry, doll. Just do it. Make a fist.’

  The rest of our hour-long session I anal-intrude him while enthusiastically sucking his cock, helping with my left hand to maintain its hardness. When eventually he comes loudly, I remove my hand. It’s covered with blood. I roll off the condom and hurriedly wipe the remains of the red stains off my hands. I fight the strong urge to vomit, quickly dress without saying a word, and rush out of the room. But I realise that I will never make it to the bathroom, come back and puke right into the champagne bucket.

  * * *

  The rest is a haze. The next thing I remember, I am in the middle of the club sitting on top of Margo, on the floor, kicking her and pulling her hair.

  She knew. She didn’t tell me.

  The night shift is already here. When I turn to dodge Margo’s attempt to slap me, I spot Natalia’s distorted face above me. It looks like she is trying to shout something at me, but no words are coming out. Like somebody has turned the volume down. All I can hear is humming noises.

  Natalia is trying to drag me off Margo, but the rage makes me surprisingly strong. I brush her away while slapping and scratching my victim underneath me.

  ‘Jul, stop it! Jul! If I told you, he would have never taken you! This prick’s main thrill is to stun and sicken the girl!’ Margo keeps uttering but I can’t hear her either.

  Unfuckingbelievable how booze so easily transforms some people from normal to angry, strong and absolutely stupid creatures ...

  Apparently, we make so much noise that even the boss steps out of his office to check what’s happening. He estimates the amount of damage and calmly tells Natalia, ‘Get your fucking sister out of here or I will fire her.’ When he sees that I am totally stoned and out of control, he grabs a jug from the bar and splashes me with ice-cold water.

  I freeze. Margo fizzles, removes me – setting herself free, she throws ‘Crazy bitch!’ at me and leaves the club.

  Without taking his sinister eyes off me, the boss shouts, ‘Stop staring and go back to work, people.’ He turns to Natalia. ‘With all my love to you, Princess, next month this junkie is out of my club.’

  22

  The next few days I spend in bed – I call in sick and don’t show up at work. Four months of being deeply soaked in booze, stress and perverted extremes have exhausted my nerves. I haven’t been able to eat anything for three days – my memory won’t let go of the bright images of my adventure with the cowboy, which has wiped out my appetite. The only substance that enters my body is the fume of the burned cannabis plant.

  Someone knocks on the door. It can’t be Masha. She went for lunch with some customer from last night (the poor guy probably didn’t notice an Adam’s apple in the darkness of the club). Besides, she knows the door is not locked.

  ‘Go away! Nobody is home!’

  I turn away from the door and pull the blanket over my head.

  ‘If nobody is home, who is speaking, then?’ laughs Lena and lets herself in. She walks through the dark room, flings open the curtains and continues, ‘Jul, what’s happening? Aren’t you going to Natalia’s birthday dinner?’

  Crap, I completely forgot about it!

  ‘I don’t feel well, I can’t ...’ I mumble, burying myself even deeper under the blanket while making my voice sound sick.

  Damn, why didn’t I lock the door?

  Lena comes to the bed, peels the blanket off me and chatters, ‘You are definitely going to get worse if you don’t go out and get some fresh air. Look at you! Nothing but bones. You must eat something! We are doing Italian today, seems like a good place. Get up now, dress and put a smile on your face.’

  I know there is only one way to keep her quiet … I pull on the sweater and jeans that are the first things to come into my hands, ignoring Lena’s telling-off that I must dress up because we are going to a restaurant. I brush my eyelashes with mascara a few times, grab a jacket.

  ‘I’m ready. Let’s stop at the florist first.’

  I’m surprised to see Margo at the table, next to Natalia. I stop indecisively, holding the flowers. Margo smiles at me.

  ‘Oh, stop it, Jul. I’ve already forgotten about it. If I were in your place, I probably would have lost it too. I should have warned you anyway.’

  When, finally, I find the strength to look her in the eye, I notice a few scratches on her cheek.

  ‘Was that me? Sorry, Margo, I didn’t mean to …’

  Natalia takes my hand, and pulls me down to sit. Then she takes the flowers.

  ‘Thanks Jul. They are lovely.’

  We order drinks, make the first toast for the birthday girl. The conversation flows and the evening is pleasant.

  Natalia tells us about her idea of how to invest our money when we get back to Ukraine, reminding
Lena how pointlessly they blew their earnings after their previous contract. The plan is simple – to put our money together and buy an apartment in Kiev. She has already found a flat through her friend, a realtor. The owners are chronic alcoholics, and desperately need money to pay some debts, so they are not asking for much. Her friend promises to hold it for another two months, knowing that Natalia is a cash buyer. They bargained and met at 55 grand US, a fantastic price for a three-bedroom apartment close to the center of Kiev. ‘We could pool together and buy it!’ finishes Natalia, with a spark of excitement and confidence in her eyes.

  ‘We could renovate it and maybe rent it out!’ exclaims Lena, and we all nod in agreement.

  ‘It sounds so cool! Now I am jealous. I wish I could go in with you, dolls, but I’ve already promised my brother I’d help him with his businesses,’ Margo sighs and pouts.

  The food is delicious. We order more wine. We talk and laugh a lot. Oh … I’ve missed these always-fun times with my sisters.

  When we move on to dessert, Natalia looks at me with a slight touch of worry and asks, ‘Where are you planning to work next month?’

  I shrug. ‘I have no idea …’

  ‘Well, I have a few places in mind. Would you like me to check it out for you?’

  ‘Oh, Nata, what would I do without you …’ I move closer to hug her and realise that my eyes have filled with hot tears. ‘Thank you so much …’

  Damn! When did I become this emotional?

  ‘No worries, you know I love you, my Poppy-seed, so much, and would do anything for you …’ she says while hugging me back.