|
page-15
You see, she is also used to being totally spoilt and is the type of girl who needs a lot of attention. Otherwise, she's outa there! Sharlena said, 'He was probably waiting for the other blokes to buy you the drinks, to save himself some money. Either that, or he was waiting for you to buy your own.' 'Well,' Samantha said, 'I guess he was pretty broke these days, after buying his wife a house with a tennis court, swimming pool and all those sports cars, perhaps for all the stickers, darling!' Now that Samantha was devoid of human emotion, she could understand his situation. He's not stale in a marriage. He's trying to be cunning. Now don't get me wrong, it was not that she didn't acknowledge his gift of the sticker (after all, it was the thought that counts) but the fact that she didn't have a car to put it on. Sharlena said, 'Now all you need is the car to go with it! No, seriously, you should write to him and thank him for sending it.' So she wrote, 'Thanks for the sticker, sweetie. All the best, your love kitten.' But ultimately she knew that if she let him get away with the gift of the sticker, he would treat her worse the next time. 'If I let him get away with that, the next time he will send me a biro!' Poor Sam! He didn't hear from her again. Even if he had, then tried to make amends (which, incidentally he did not), with a bottle of perfume (which didn't have to be expensive), it wouldn't have mattered. He had already revealed himself by sending the sticker and his big issue about doing it, as if he had never sent anyone such an amazing gift before!
He must have either been completely loopy or thought that she was. The thing that mostly concerned Sam was that Christmas and her birthday were both coming up, and he already knew what date her birthday was. She was afraid that the sending of the sticker would have been 'the beginning of many more sticker type incidents', over the coming holiday season and during their relationship. So she felt it best to quit while she was ahead. As for me, I just wanted nothing and to be nothing and do nothing - with no men, no love and no art. Don't talk to me about art, Roxanne. I hate fucking art. It has fuck-all to do with my life! Roxanne said, 'Jackie wants to sit on the beach with her dog. She wants an oceanic present, as deleted as her past. One day she will walk out on this job for good, in time to watch an amazing sunset at Lee Point. It will occur without warning, after a half an hour booking with an amused Asian client who wanted to take her photograph, or after the twenty minute hand relief for the drunken Australian slob.' On some days that the job was wearing thin. 'I'm completely over this tonight,' I said, standing at the parlour bar. I was in a sullen mood when the next client started to question me about how long I had worked and how many men I'd been with. Of course, I had been working only a week and was fresh on the shift. I am innocent!'
He was the creative type with the small dick. I didn't mind them smaller. After they've handed the moolah over, the less of 'em the better, brains included. But the small-dicked men would never believe, that I couldn't give jack-shit about them. 'Do you love me, Jackie?' Sure I do, but get over it! Often just when I was about to bleed, there were always the insecure blokes who would insist that I come through the dental dam with the assistance of their tongues, while their small dicks remained in freefall. They seemed determined to give me oral despite my hatred of it, or as one client had said, 'I'd like to play your slit with my tongue like it was a piano.' Dumber than an arsehole.
If someone gave me a shot gun, I would have run out of bullets in Perth, where many hours were spent avoiding oral in the spa, while the receptionist chuckled at the monitor. Then there was this real dopey moron who insisted on getting to know me through his version of witty repartee. He didn't want oral sex on him or penetration. When I asked him, 'Would you like some French?' he thought, what did we want the French here for? I caught him frowning. 'It's oral sex, you dope.' Dopey bastard. He was a rimmer. I call them 'Jack the Rimmers'. 'If you thought the hookers of the nineteenth century were afraid of Jack the Ripper, well that ain't nothin' compared to the fear us girls have of Jack the Rimmer, right Sharlena?' 'Too right, honey. I don't want no shit pusher causing me no grief.' To cut a long story short, this guy did a lot of talking saying nothing. Then he thought that his tongue could replace his cock, which he felt very insecure about, and that rimming a woman's arsehole would replace penetrative sex. Wrong. These were not the rules of the industry. 'Parlour rules, sweetheart,' Sharlena said lightly, keeping her Mae West smile, 'Them's the parlour rules.' 'Oh to Hell with that cock and bull,' he grumbled half drunk and half way to Hell, to which Sharlena replied, 'Now you just listen here, okay, we make the rules in this joint.' |
