Lola Smirnova - Twisted

I even find a fun part of my occupation – watching the customers, discovering how freaky the freaks can be – and wonder at the certainty that I will never stop wondering.

Except for one incident, when I ended up puking in the toilet because of one degenerate client: while masturbating, he bent over, slid his asshole apart, scraped the shit out of it using four fingers, ate it off his palm, ejaculated into the same hand, then polished the cum off like it was a delicious topping to the brownie he’d just eaten…

Yuck! I still cannot forgive myself for not turning my face away or just closing my eyes and protecting my future life from these disgusting memories that keep on flashing through my head.

Generally, the weirdos don’t bother me. I do what I have to do: play sexy, climax once in a while and keep observing the pure deviation.

The guys like Lena’s new adorer, who likes to wear women’s stockings, don’t bowl me over any more.

Ha! Red stockings…? How about the pink G-string on the big, muscular guy who looks like the Commando starred by Arnold Schwarzenegger that can literally hold only one of his balls? Or the full set of white and lacy lingerie, including bra, and the pre-staged game in which the dude bends over the chair assuming the doggy position with his back to me while I menacingly shout at him, ‘You dirty, little bitch! I am going to nail you right now…’ while he frantically masturbates until he discharges, enjoying his humiliation.

Then there’s this other nutcase who masturbates without touching his tool. He takes his pants off, unbuttons his shirt and lifts his arms behind his head. He starts moving his body, violently throwing his penis against his stomach and hips. Um… how can I describe it? Imagine your garden hose, with the water turned to full pressure, that you’ve accidently dropped on the ground. Vivid, isn’t it? The extrovert whips himself with his own dick until he comes, while I play with myself, watch him, and pretend that I am extremely turned on by his routine.

Also, there is a Russian guy, Ruslan. He is one of a kind, as well. When he called me to the private cabin, he asked me not to take my clothes off and to do nothing but simply talk to him.

Yeah, can you believe it? That’s never happened to me before!

He hates cabarets, because, as he explains to me, ‘Each time I’ve been to one I’ve ended up trying to escape from another drunk girl who’d got all upset and personal because I didn’t want to sleep with her.’

It sounds suspicious. Why wouldn’t he want to have some ‘fun’ instead of talking? I bet his tool is not working.

I keep these thoughts to myself. It’s always better to get into the role of soul therapist than to rub my already tired and swollen pussy again.

The weirdos don’t take me by surprise any more, but I still struggle to understand why handsome young guys would visit such places. There are quite few of them. And I am not talking about pimpled high-school students, or the poor perverts whose childhoods, taking into account Sigmund Freud’s theory, I always tried to avoid imagining in order to preserve my mental well-being. I mean the guys in their late twenties or thirties, who definitely give the impression of some kind of success. Why would they come to a peep show in the first place? Why would they choose masturbation over sex, especially when they must have partners, given their fair looks and well-proportioned and functioning penises?

…Until, one day…

I had a private session with a very handsome guy with a very handsome limb between his legs. When I walked into the room, he stood right by the glass and asked me to do the same, holding me spellbound with his big, dark, far-reaching eyes. We were so close to each other that if there were no glass, we would feel the warmth of each other’s bodies. His gaze was deep and provoking. A wave of lust suffocated my body. He asked me to take off my silky lace nightgown, slowly, while he softly breathed how beautiful I was and gently brushed the glass as he would my body. I stood with my legs spread shoulder-width. With one hand, I lightly rubbed my clit; with the other, I followed his hand’s movement over the cold glass, caressing my flaming body. We both came at the same time.

I experienced a surprisingly powerful O, followed by the stream of hot tears that covered my face. As my body calmed down, my ecstasy became bitter sadness – one of my best sexual experiences had been sealed behind damn glass.

Interesting… what we find weird or freaky in the beginning can sometimes turn out to be very sensual and enjoyable. It actually doesn’t really matter why someone does this or that, as long as he or she finds pleasure in it without harming others.

Or maybe I’m totally turning into some kind of freak myself…

I’m surprised when, a few days after my psychotherapy session with Ruslan, he comes back to see me.

He takes a private dance, as he did last time, and spends 10 minutes on casual chit-chat. He asks a lot about my family and me. How I’ve got to Luxembourg and how much longer I am going to stay in the country. He seems charming, funny and sweet. When our session is over and he gets up from the chair to leave, he stops at the door, and, overcoming his childish timidity, asks if I would like to join him for coffee sometime and takes my number.

He is shy to ask me out – so cute!

We start meeting for coffee almost every day before my shift, in the café across the road from the club. We laugh a lot, talk about life and our families, about our plans for the future, sharing even the most unrealistic, and that is why embarrassing and never-spokenabout dreams.

For me, the biggest attraction of our innocent attachment (besides, of course, that he is smart, handsome, always light-hearted, and speaks my native language) is that my new Russian friend is not trying to get under my skirt. Our relationship isn’t going further than easy-going, joyful friendship and, sometimes, artless flirting.

I feel that I can relate to him. He also comes from nowhere and, just like us, he is trying to get out and have a decent life. Once, he shook me up with the fascinating and tragic story of his immigration from Russia to Europe, while he was still a teenager…

His mother, Ayshe, was Chechen. She was born and lived in a small village a hundred kilometers from Groznyy. His father, Bashir, died from a stab wound during some stupid fight when Ruslan was only three. Ayshe loved Ruslan’s father very much, and for a long time couldn’t get over her loss. But when the tragic news reached them, her parents breathed a sigh of relief. Even though Bashir was a good man and husband, his temper was easily inflamed. They suspected that he’d eventually get himself into trouble, and worried that the trouble may one day involve Ayshe and Ruslan too.

When the first Chechen war started, Ruslan was fourteen years old. It was then that Ayshe met a Russian soldier, Sergey, whose battalion was stationed temporarily near Ayshe and Ruslan’s village. The two fell in love at first sight. Their feelings were so strong that she ignored her parents’ warnings to stop her ‘outrageous sin’ (obviously, a love affair with the enemy was a betrayal) before it was too late: no one knew how dangerous it could become if the villagers found out about it.

The romance between Ayshe and Sergey was intense but short. When the battalion eventually pulled out, all she was left with were her lover’s promises that he’d come back against all odds, and the suspicious looks of her parents and neighbours when her belly started to grow. Was he killed, or was she just another trivial love story that he’d forgotten about as soon as he left with the troops? Time passed; he did not show up; Ruslan’s mother couldn’t keep her pregnancy a secret anymore.