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Even those desperate girls who resorted to rimming and sucking on their balls weren't getting the work. Sharlena said, 'At the rate they're going, soon they'll be paying to lick arseholes! They should just advertise in the paper: Hey, I'll lick your arsehole and pay you for the privilege!' One guy rang up Sharlena. He asked her if she did golden showers and had the gall to leave his mobile number. When he rang Jackie and asked, 'Do you give golden showers?' she said, 'No. But I shit on people!' Sharlena said, 'When they ring up and ask for anal, you say, I'm Michelle, not Michael! They should hire a bloke if they want it up the poo-chute!' 'I'm not lettin' any dirty prick stick it in that way. It's all those army blokes that want it,' said Samantha, 'but I'm not a poof, sweetie! I'm Samantha not Simon!' 'They really want a poof,' said Jackie, 'but they're too gutless to come out of the closet, so they keep practicing on women.' She remembered one American sailor she'd had, and how he wanted to 'Try anal for the first time,' and how she had bent down and whispered into his ear, 'I'm tight enough, honey.' As it turns out, he still couldn't get it up with the condom on, and so she had to provide hand relief. Hand relief was such a funny term. It was like they had a serious burn and needed ointment applied, or that their cock was a painful thing to them and they had to be relieved of it in some way. Relief occurred after they had ejaculated semen into a hooker's hand, hence hand relief. 'They should call it cock relief 'cause they don't relieve my hand, darling!' said Samantha, and then added, 'Actually they should call it hand belief 'cause they believe in it so much!' They all giggle. 'And these guys that want to finish,' added Roxanne, 'they get on my nerves sometimes. Well, Roxy, they say, I can't afford to extend but I want to finish.' I say, 'Well I'm not finishing you in five minutes, sweetheart, it's not my style.'
Roxanne speaks: It's like they have to get to the finish, the finishing line, like they run their race in some way. Well, the project began so let's finish it. Finish me off, baby! It's the finish, the edge of the known universe. It is physical death. What has begun now must finish.' It is a concept of completion that is merely a boundary, that is the point of singularity, along a linear continuum that is an illusion, that is mostly imaginary, because the energy of which all life is made up from, can neither be created nor destroyed, but as always it will exist somewhere, as some part of the cosmos in its many different forms. So you see, there is no finish line for me. But for him the finish is ejaculation, with no further exploration. It's not after sex play, or sleeping, or the love that goes on. It's a squirt of salty thick semen into a dusky lit room. It's a brief release of bodily fluids across the hip, up the gut, through the chest hairs, over the lacy lingerie, upon the tit or the throat, the pearl necklace, into the sheet and onto the pillow, or down into the arseholes of the stupid and desolate girls who don't know anymore. It's in the throats of those women who want to choke and gag, while a man simply crosses the finish line like an athlete or a racing car. It's that finishing touch that makes an artwork complete, that final be-all and end-all, arse in after arse out. The el cheapo client has completed the race of his life. He is satisfied. He has come to the finishing, the finish line. He has paid for this and now he leaves. Abigail said, 'You think you've got problems. I feel like a door. Nobody's opening me.'
Nikita speaks: I will admit to not knowing the first thing about the blonde-haired security guard. But I wanted him to rush over and lean across me with that mouth set firm and thin. I wanted all that guard stuff goin' on while I hugged his slender waist and hips. I had already called him over after yet another pommy backpacker had fallen asleep drunk. He was 'as gentle as', tapping the guy and when he didn't wake, Mr. Security Guard was calling quietly for assistance. He all but fascinated me. After he picked me up off the floor I'd be eternally grateful. Then his chest would be close to my face, with all that radio equipment between us. Then I'd like to run my fingers through the word 'Security' that was arched like a rainbow across his back. He followed me with his eyes through the darker sections of The Vic. I didn't go for another man, even though about twelve had asked me to go and dance and why not count 'em? You work by numbers these days. Abigail said, 'Let's go and stand by your man.' But as we got closer we realised that this guard had dark hair. 'Oops, wrong one!' 'That's okay, Abbey. I guess they're all the same.' Of course I was joking again, trying to convince myself of my detachment in that pathetic way. I wanted the guard. I like to break the tough men down, to work the sex inside them. As May West said, 'It's not the life in my man, it's the men in my life.' (Um, darling. I think you have that the wrong way around.) (Yeah, nice try.) But you know I'm only human. He was trying to do his job, scanning the place like a terminator, the seedy blue smoke billowing out from the office of the disc jockey. 'Hey, Nikita,' said Abigail, 'here's my quote of the week. Ready for it? 'A man who does not drink is always thirsty. What do you think about that?' The security guard stood up on a corner of the stage with a view to the place. It seemed as if the entire pub was drunk and that we were the only two left who were sober. He looked over at me and smiled briefly. It was like we had entered a world apart from the world. I saw his tough manly stuff through a fog of noise and commotion. There were glimpses of his soft grey eyes and gentle manner. He wasn't too big and masculine. His ego appeared compact, as though it could fit into my handbag, if I decided to snatch it. He seemed like a manageable security guard. And I wanted to feel secure. |
