He looked at me and his eyes got wider but he said nothing. I kept sensing he was about to move a hand out towards me like a cat swiping at a fly, but it never happened.
“I know who you are.” I continued.
There was still no response. I thought he might have been resting his voice. They tell singers to do that these days don’t they?
As my conversation skills were clearly making no headway, I decided to go for the kill strait away. I had five minutes at most before the waifs languishing in the alcoves worked out where the main deal was and wondered over, so I stood up.
“I can’t hear you over all this noise.” It was a bad excuse. I couldn’t hear him because he wasn’t talking. Also “this noise” happened to be his most recent single, but I didn’t know that at the time.
I took his hand and pulled him upright. Compliant type, I thought. He’s going to have me do all the bloody work tonight. Then I noticed he had soft hands, very soft like babies’ faces. They’ll shoot him come the revolution.
We reached the back wall and my zero clicked the door open. He followed trustingly, and again I was struck by his naivety. I was a good deal bigger than him and could have been leading him anywhere. He was like a downy bunny rabbit, unaware that he was prey because he did not have the mental capacity to understand flesh can be food.
We walked downwards. I was still tugging at his soft, soft hand and he was following behind me. It’s rare to be given such control down here, rare for someone to submit so totally to my powers. Even the ones who wanted a battering usually sent a list of requirements out beforehand, right down to the obscenities they wished to be called and the dimensions of the tools they wanted to be assaulted with. No one comes here to be spell bound.
I miss that, the old power trip of the seduction. It was the highlight of the job, the reason I stayed in it. You negotiated sex into a little box where you made the rules and at the end you were paid for it.
I read somewhere that three quarters of all prostitutes were sexually abused before they entered the profession. Desdemona would laugh at such figures, say Christians or lesbians in dungarees compiled them. But she was careful to recruit only from the unbruised twenty-five per cent. She knew she was looking for the elite of the profession when she declared she didn’t want workers who were acting out psychodrama.
My name is Michael and I am not here to act out psychodrama, yours or mine. I’m not here to appeal to your unconscious mind, to re-arrange the shadows in your head. I’m here for the body only, for the little nodules under the skin, the ultimate zipperless fuck. I’m a stimulant, not a hallucinogen.