Coral Hull: Prose: Work The Sex: Anyway, it wasn't as if I was the only sucker. It even happened ...

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: WORK THE SEX
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Anyway, it wasn't as if I was the only sucker. It even happened to Roxanne in the new parlour. That's where the real fantasies took place. She's so affectionate with them all, a real favourite and the girls adore her. It's a wonder she wasn't touched emotionally in return by someone sooner. You put it out and you're going to get it back. 'Why do you come into these places?' she asked an obnoxious drunk. 'Because I'm lonely,' he said. Then he added, 'Oh, you are a very good saleswoman Roxanne. I want to stay many hours with you here.' He kept asking, 'So how much time have we got left now?' Roxy was always straight down the line, with no extras apart from the pampering and intimacy, and most importantly no unsafe sex. Although there was no saliva exchange involved, she still kissed him lightly on the cheek. The trouble began when she looked into his deep blue eyes with the long lashes and once there she felt butterflies in her stomach. What was going on here? She remembered what her father had said about Labradors, how they were useless dogs, good only for licking, and how if an intruder came they would hide beneath a wheelbarrow shivering and how they were only good at chasing butterflies. I'm chasing the butterflies in his eyes, she thought. He has eyes as deep as midday over dry scrubby woodland. She withdrew in order to take a second look. 'Would you like a bourbon?' 'There's something vulnerable about you that I like,' he said. Roxanne thought, not the smart arse drunk, not him! What's wrong with me tonight?! She ordered two bourbons for the room and they came as doubles. Then they came as two more doubles and so on. He was a long booker and the butterflies were extras. 'I really need this,' she said, feeling herself in trouble. Why love in the first place when, as soon as we love we lose? Apart from childbirth, losing love is the closest we come to physical death.

The police academy boyfriend had been a psychological terrorist. She said, 'You're killing it.' When it died, it was their relationship that died and his part in it. Not that he had killed her with his actions, but that it had died. It was very painful to find out that once it had lived, it hadn't lived forever. As soon as we love, we lose. But the thought of not having loved is like not having lived. Love is life and life is for living, and it's also for losing. 'You're allowed to cry,' the blue-eyed client said. He held her close as she blurted out how lonely she was and how she had lost everything and couldn't stop the world from suffering. It was brief and not too dramatic and no one heard the deep pain of Roxanne, except for the obnoxious drunk who turned all soft and considerate. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'I've failed at my job.' But they were only human and often the industry was tough and yet emotionally charged with the men and women who were vulnerable and a little frayed around the edges, and who were only human. 'What I don't understand,' he said, 'is why you're not going out with anyone.' She shrugged. Later on he asked, 'Okay, where is he?' They were both drunk.

Roxanne was not receiving the signals. The signal said that the train was coming, so she crossed the track when she should have chilled out. She thinks he's wonderful, but is very independent. At the same time she needs reassurance and gets discouraged quickly. He said, 'You lack a bit of confidence.' She reared up. 'Not in most situations.' But she thought, he lacks confidence too, because he apologises when there's nothing to apologise for. She had uncovered yet another weakness. When people lack confidence, they tend to cling on and become insecure on their own. Roxanne does the opposite in that she lets go too quickly, fades out of their sphere, flies the coop or shoots through. She's got the hell out, has taken off and loses track of them within the hours and days that extend as long as foothills hovered down upon by thousands of butterflies. If he wasn't constantly attentive, she felt that he didn't want her any more. 'I need encouragement,' she said. She had fluid identity. She was anybody's and almost anything that they wanted her to be. She had spiralled down to inside the shell of the tough and caring whore. She was nothing but a wisp of smoke, and when he smoked a cigarette some of it blew across her face. He said, 'Oh sorry. I had better stand on the other side of you.' 'That's okay,' she said in her slow soft voice. 'No, it's not okay,' he said. Part of her was shocked that it had been okay for her. She was a fake, with no thought except that it was okay to receive and breathe in secondhand smoke.

    

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