Lola Smirnova - Twisted

…I open my eyes. I am in my bed.

I have a horrible hangover and cannot really understand if last night was a drunken dream or a stoned reality.

I reach to my side table to get some aspirin and bump my purse. I open it and find €1,000 and a note:

I took the liberty and hope I didn’t offend you. You were so pleasant and tasty . I just wanted to show my appreciation and this is the best way I know… Thank you, Julia.

The memories of last night fragmentally begin to come back. His greedy lips… his strong and wide shoulders… his attentive and demanding hands… his swollen and pulsating…

Hmmm Harvey, Harvey… you are not just a good lover but a gentleman too… I wish you had it all but your bloody girlfriend!

It is Monday. The shift is quiet – no more than we expect it to be. In the first hour, there are no customers at all, then one or two useless Coca-Cola regulars arrive. As always, they just sip the virulent brown liquid and stare at the big screen’s perverted porn. The girls and I kill the first two hours chatting. As we cover all the latest news that is travelling around the cabarets, some juicy gossip from around the world, and even the current weather conditions in Ukraine and Russia and how they are influencing the wheat crop, Death shows up.

The procedure of his visit remains the same; he hobbles to the bar table, where the barman enthusiastically greets him and pours his usual soda.

Of course he greets enthusiastically – it’s not his job to go with the oldie upstairs! His job is the easy one – just opening the fucking bottle. God, I hate them all!

A few minutes later, the manager comes out of his office and they start their casual chit-chat, which all the girls know will end up with the manager recommending one of the girls and Death choosing his next victim.

We also all know that there is only one person in this place who is not aware of what is happening, and it is a new girl. A moment later, the manager calls her and the three of them go upstairs.

All the girls including me sigh with relief, and go on with our usual talk about how the new girl is going to take her baptism of fire, and how nice it would be if Death kicked the bucket and went in peace forever. And if he did, and it happened while he was upstairs, would the police close down the cabaret and investigate? For how many days would it stay closed?

Our ‘innocent’ conversation doesn’t last for long. Ten minutes later the new girl, covered with tears and snot, runs down the stairs straight to the bathroom. The manager comes down too, looks around and waves to me, indicating that I have to take up the new girl’s duties.

Oh, crap!

On the way up, I keep wondering which is worse: to go there for the first time and learn, one by one, each of the disgusting things that will happen, or to go there as I am, fully aware of what is about to come next.

In the middle of my dilemma I enter the private room. This time, for some reason, the manager has taken him to the VIP séparé that has a shower in it and a free-standing leather couch right in the centre of the room. Death is sitting on the couch, already naked but observing proprieties by being covered with his white undershirt. There is a striking indignation and dissatisfaction on his face.

You old bastard, you actually think someone could enjoy this?

I join him on the couch. Deeply and morbidly I breathe in, thinking to myself that if I’ve done it once I can do it again. I breathe out, smile and come out with, ‘Hey sexy! What’s up?’

You know what happens for the next hour; I am sure you don’t need a reminder, and I am trying hard to think about these moments as little as possible.

As soon as we finish, I pick him up from the couch to help him to get dressed. He is so weak that he loses his balance and leans against the couch, which is fucking free-standing! The leather seat slides away and Death falls onto the floor. I try to pick him up, but can’t. There is nothing in the room that we can use as a point of support except the walls, which are not an option because Death is stretched out right in the middle of the room. I rush to the door to call somebody to help, but grandpa stops me. He explains that he doesn’t want anybody to see him naked and helpless on the floor. I nod, go back to him, and before trying to get him back on his feet, take off my killer 21 cm heels.

Smart girl! What can I say…

After a few more attempts, I finally pull him back onto the couch. We catch our breath and then dress. Before leaving, Death shoves a €50 note into my hand with the words, ‘You are a good girl, Julia.’ I take the money, say thanks and wish never to see this man again, even if it means that he has to give up the ghost for it.

The next day, the shift is even worse. Normally trade picks up towards the weekend, but not this week. I am glad that at least I made a bottle yesterday, because it looks like for most of the girls, it will be a second day in a row with zero.

Just before the end of the shift, I manage to convince one weirdo to buy me a demi-bouteille for a hand-job in a semi-private lounge. As soon as we get comfortable and the barman opens the bottle, I reach to open the zip of his pants, but he stops me, turns my face to his and passionately asks, ‘Kiss me first, please.’

The case is well dressed, about fifty years old, not too ugly or repulsive. But there is a strange – I would even say maniacal – shade in his eyes.

I answer ‘Sure,’ and let him kiss me on the lips.

Here we go again! What’s wrong with all these men?

Once again, he just sticks his wet and slimy tongue down my throat and forces it around, trying to get as deep as possible for a couple of minutes.

How someone can even call that a kiss? Yuck!

Then he pushes me away, holding my shoulders firmly, and says, ‘Please come with me tonight. I will pay you €300 for the night.’

Oh my fuck! Another nutcase…

There is no way I am going out with him – especially since I already have four regulars. They are my constant income from my out-of-the-club activities that keep me quite busy…

One of them is a Jewish lawyer whose abnormality is his absolute normality. He is not an attractive or a generous man at all, but he loves good food, treats me with respect and his knowledge of sex doesn’t reach beyond the missionary position. Another one is from Belgium. This guy loves to go to restaurants and guzzle like it is the last day of his life. He always jokes loudly about sex and how good he is at it, despite having an extra-small dick that is generously shaded by his big belly, making him the perfect candidate for the Dickie Do Award 4XL T-shirt. On top of this, he laughs pathetically every time he ejaculates. Then there is a German guy, one of the most normal men I’ve met in Luxembourg: a good fuck, but absolutely unemotional. And another regular is a Portuguese guy. A nice fellow, but with some shortcomings as well – he comes too quickly. I feel sorry for him and always try to move more slowly and less intensely, making sure that the intercourse and his pleasure lasts longer, but our record is 4 minutes and 10 seconds from the moment I unzip his pants.

In other words, I definitely have enough of a bizarre clientele in my after-work life!

I am free as a bird tonight, seeing none of my regulars, but I shake my head and say, ‘Can’t do it, I am busy tonight.’

The nutcase takes my hands in his and passionately responds, ‘Please, Julia, I will give you €500! Please come with me tonight!’