Lola Smirnova - Twisted

When he shuffles in and heads to the bar, all the girls sigh together with dislike and turn away from him. Despite the tough competition, not one of them tries to get to Death first. To me, the dodderer looks like a harmless dude. My first guess why the girls have given him such a discouraging name is that he looks like he is going to die very, very soon. Nice try, but far from the real reason…

Apparently, he always likes to try the new girls, so it is my turn to get to know him better.

The barman, Franc, is chatting to Death. He waves to me, and without extra words, directs us to the stairs. When we finally reach the next floor, grandpa and I make ourselves comfortable on the two-seater couch in a small, square room with a coffee table, dustbin and miniature hand-wash basin hanging on the wall, which is papered with dull flowers. Franc opens and pours the champagne, using the best manners and etiquette, while engaging in a little talk with my playmate, politely pretending that he is interested in a conversation. At the same time, I am trying to calm myself with the idea that if Death can hardly move his limbs (you should see him climbing up the stairs, with barmen behind him as a backup in case he collapses), any further activity should not go beyond an innocent chat or, at most, some modest cuddling.

As soon as the door closes behind the barman, Death starts peeling his clothes off. I freeze in stupor.

The words ‘Take off your dress’ bring me back to my disturbing reality. With credulous optimism, I down a glass of champagne and obey.

What follows is worse than a nightmare…

For the whole hour that we spend together, he deep-kisses me on my mouth, forcing his sour, mucus-covered tongue down my throat and sadistically biting my lips. I cannot even describe the smell that his whole body emits, but I finally figure why the girls gave him his nickname. He stinks, as if he is already dead and rotting from the inside. All I can think about is how to suppress the urge to vomit.

He likes it harsh – asks me to squeeze his nipples hard and pinches mine exhaustively too. A stifled ‘ouch’ uncontrollably slips out while my face distorts from the pain. The son of a bitch sulkily pushes me away and wheezes with irritation: ‘Don’t you like it?’ Clearly, to earn the bottle, I don’t only have to participate in this aversion – the pretense that I’m having the best time of my life is also required. I force a smile and assure him that I am certainly turned on, but it is just a little bit too intense for me. He ‘hmmms’ and goes back to his sadistic manipulations.

He keeps pressing my face into his full, hanging breasts, forcing me to bite and suck his nipples, while poking his crooked fingers into my dry pussy, scratching it with his nails. I try to keep my eyes closed: his pale and wizened skin is covered with blue knots of varicose veins, which doesn’t make it any easier for me to fight the reflex to puke.

This revolting scene ends up with me on my knees, sucking the disgustingly soft, eighty-year-old cock, until Death finally comes in my mouth. I wash down the thick and smelly fluid with another glass of champagne and genuinely smile. Incredible… I feel happy.

The torture is over, but not my amazement. The dodderer is so tired after the session that I actually have to dress him. Think of a hundred kilograms of calf’s-foot jelly that has to be pushed into a human’s clothes. It takes me some time. After I’ve worked up a good sweat, the barman helps Death to get down the stairs. And he leaves the club alive. Again.

I go to the toilet and wash my hands and face. I rinse my mouth and chew bubblegum, but cannot get rid of the rotten smell and taste in my mouth.

I cannot stop thinking about why I didn’t simply tell Death to fuck off. It’s not as if I have five little kids waiting for me at home and no money to buy them food. What can I say? I guess it’s life… You never know what a lack of money, poor social security, alluring TV shows with their fabulous people and luxury things, a desperate desire to have a decent life, and young age can do to you.

Still deep in thought, I go down to the bar and ask for a shot of tequila. Even though we are not allowed to drink any alcoholic beverages except champagne with the clients, Franc nods and pours me a double.

It is the third month of our trip. Lena calls me to meet for coffee.

This month she had to move to another club. Our boss wanted to hire a few new girls, and Lena simply wasn’t his favourite. Her new club, ‘Angels’ House’, is somewhere in the suburbs, close to the German border, about 30 minutes away by bus.

The place is dodgy and we mock it by calling it ‘House of Slumbers’.

It is a small, country-style bar with a female owner. To save money, she is the barman as well as the only waitress, which makes the place a total fuck-up considering that she’s a ‘striking’ boozer too. Usually she doesn’t hire more than five or six girls. Four of them work constantly, and also drink like fish; the remaining one or two are new girls every month, like Lena, to refresh the trashiness.

What tops off the place is the shiny lever on the bar. Girls are allowed to enjoy (or, rather, abuse) the limitless beer on tap. Obviously, the alky-owner looks better from an outsider’s point of view when everyone around her is drunk too. By the time the first clients start entering the club, the bar looks like the Land of Nod.

This is the first time I am going to see Lena in three weeks. Besides the fact that lately I spend all my spare time on catching some Z’s after my nightly festivities, Lena seldom has a chance to get to town.

The snag is the club owner. She lives in one of the rooms on the second floor of ‘Angels’ House’, together with the working girls. The wooden floor in the hallway is old and creaky. So, while she sleeps to recover from her crapulence, the crazy woman doesn’t allow her employees to come out of their rooms until noon.

The public buses only pass by every hour. The first bus after noon comes at 1 p.m. Lena’s shift starts at 5 p.m. The four hours of available time is too little to go to town, considering that one of them is wasted in transit. The girls also have to get ready for their shift, but there is only one shower for all six of them, making it impossible to keep their preparation time short.

Imprisonment in their rooms applies not only to the girls’ going out of the building; while the boss is sleeping, they can’t even use the bathroom or the kitchen. The latter is in a very small room without a fridge, a table, or even a sink. Girls have to wash the dishes in the bathtub. The only equipment that makes the room look like a kitchen is an old electric kettle and oven, which hardly heats up. The rest of the space is stuffed with old, dirty tableware and food products that are stored everywhere: a few overloaded shelves and even the floors.

Lena is very lonely there, which is why she called me and kept insisting on a reunion, saying that she misses me a lot and has something to tell me. I couldn’t say no. She sounded almost desperate on the phone.

When I get to the place, our fave café on the Place de Paris, Lena is already waiting for me. She rises from the cane-chair, hugs and kisses me. On my how-are-you-sis she tiredly sighs, ‘Don’t even ask…’ then drops back onto her chair and sighs again.

‘I haven’t slept all night. We had a situation…’ She pauses to role her eyes.

I wave to the waiter to bring me the same, while pointing at Lena’s already cold cappuccino and keeping an oh-my-god-whathappened expression on my face.

Turns out that her roommate Sasha was having some kind of a heart attack last night, and when one of the girls tried to call an ambulance, their alky-boss prohibited her because ‘it would cost too much’.