Lola Smirnova - Twisted

For the last two weeks, I’ve been hired every single night; plus, once in a while Alexandra gave me a day job too, which I hate as much as I hated the Luxembourg day shift. The sunlight customers, as usual, are mostly boring, married guys who need a quickie and who are never up for the consumption of stimulants during their sessions.

Of course, I like the night calls more. They always involve booze and, quite often, drugs. From time to time I love to have a little bit of white powder – it makes me feel more confident, lulls my anxiety, and sometimes even encourages my horniness. It helps me to handle those dull or I-cannot-come-for-hours fuckers more easily. The only problem that I bump into every time is that as soon as the blow appears, I become much more compliant, and if the client is very persistent, I often agree to sex without protection. I’ve found a very stupid way of dealing with this problem: I do not think about it.

Yes! Latex-free intercourse is a common feature of the local clientele. Damn it! Every time, all sense of this being a highly civilised country slams into ‘ Aşkım , you can trust me. I am clean. Let’s not use a rubber – I hate it!’ This collision makes me feel like I am working in the middle of wild Africa.

Also, what is with the fucking-for-hours thing? In my short but quite experienced career, I’ve never met so many men in one place who struggle through rushed convulsions for hours each time they want to come.

In Inna’s opinion, it has something to do with circumcision. ‘I think the absence of the foreskin on the head of the penis – unlike members left in a primordial state – exposes it to unnecessary friction. With time, it loses its sensitivity.’ My roommate pulls her favourite I-am-so-smart expression. ‘First I thought it was a coincidence, but then I realised that I’ve fucked too many men in this city to consider it my ill fortune.’

I nodded, wondering where Inna gets all these theories, and tried to joke. ‘I think this annoying problem has a simpler explanation. Maybe they just like to masturbate too much?’

On the other hand, the lack of perversion among Turkish guys – with the exception of the creepy yogi, and unlike my almost daily Luxembourg experience – is really helping to reduce my stress and tension during working hours. Most of the time, Turkish guys prefer straightforward sex in traditional positions.

In my two weeks here I’ve had only one case of the routine being different – I had a threesome. Alexandra sent me with another girl to join two young guys for a couple of hours. They were having a good time with booze and dope. The only thing missing was a duo of sexy girls. Sadly for my co-worker, neither of them liked her, even though they were both pretty hammered. So they apologised, gave her money for the cab and sent her back.

This can be unpleasant, but it’s not the end of the world. All call girls are rejected once in a while.

The moment my teammate left, one of the guys called my pimp to ask for a replacement. Alexandra apologised, explaining that it was a weekend and all the girls were busy, and promised to send somebody as soon as possible.

We decided to wait a little while drinking, smoking green goddess, talking and laughing a lot. Then my clients left the room, ‘to have a word with each other’, as they put it. When they returned, they timidly explained that they both liked me, and asked if I wouldn’t mind fucking both of them. Either because I was already quite smashed, or because the guys were really fun, the idea didn’t seem that bad at all, and I agreed. As a result, we ended up performing all sorts of sandwiches in the fusion of drugs, fun, and lust.

So, after two weeks of intensive whoredom in Istanbul, I’ve made $1,560. Of course I want to make more, but I am not disappointed.

I am not feeling used and have nothing to complain about. It is my choice to do what I am doing. I could choose another route, like most of my schoolmates: enter the Kherson State Pedagogical University and go to work in a school, teaching history or Russian literature. Of course, one salary would not be enough for me to live a decent life. No matter how many extra hours I’d work or private lessons I’d give, there would still be days when I would go shopping for some basics like food or clothes, and would have to choose the tights over the kilogram of bananas because I wouldn’t be able to afford both. Eventually, I would get married to some decent husband, not because I’d be madly in love with him, but simply because our union would hopefully help us both to pay the rent or make our lives more affordable.

No, this is not the way I want my life to be. My situation is not the model of perfect living, but at least it is a realistic attempt to grab a chance to improve things.

The lively melody of my cellphone interrupts my thinking. I see Alexandra’s name on the display.

It is about ten o’clock in the evening. I am standing at the front desk of a very fancy residential building in Şişli. Inside and out it looks like a luxury hotel, the only difference being that these are fully serviced apartments instead of rooms and suites. I am waiting for the receptionist to check if I am an invited guest. He nods a few times into the receiver, then shows me the way to the elevator.

‘Floor seven, madam.’

I smile my thanks at him, and head towards the wide, shiny elevator doors. Inside there are predictable full-length mirrors. I take in my reflection critically, trying to judge my appearance as objectively as I possibly can. My fairly pretty face is enhanced with skillful make-up (something good and useful, at least, from my friendship with Masha – all her life she suffered from a fear that she didn’t look feminine enough, so she mastered the art of war-paint perfection). My wavy blonde hair flows down my shoulders. I’m in a modest, chic outfit – short-sleeved, light-blue blouse, knee-length flared white chiffon skirt, and some elegant silver high-heeled sandals that are high, but not overdone. I look sexy, but without the candid ‘I AM A UKRAINIAN WHORE’ look. I hate those I-know-who-you-are-and-why-you-are-here looks of the staff and guests of these hotels, and try to make sure that each time I cross another lobby, I at least plant a seed of doubt in those minds and make it harder for them to draw such conclusions. I’m happy with the reflection in the mirror, except for the obvious weariness in my eyes.

I look and feel exhausted! No wonder – it is my third call for today.

First, Alexandra woke me up in the afternoon from a comatose sleep resulting from last night’s job, which I’d generously supplemented with some heavy consumption.

‘Victoria, I have a job for you. Özgür from Ortaköy – I’m sure you remember him. He will be waiting for you in the same place as last time, at 3 p.m.’

I switched autopilot mode on and threw myself into a cold shower. It always worked – at 3:10 p.m. I was at the required destination.

Özgür was a ringed creature who was quick to come, always while wearing a condom, and generous to tip. To put it differently – a model client.

My 5 p.m. also wasn’t bad, but the emptor lay on his back like a cripple on the bed, inducing me to spur him on to a gallop for the whole, endless hour.

At 7:30 p.m. I got back home, took a shower, and had dinner. As soon as I’d comforted myself with the remote control and a bottle of beer on the bed, my phone buzzed again.

Trick number three turns out to be no older than 25 and answers to the name of Ali. He is a short youngster, although well-built. He is definitely a regular in one of the local gyms.

I don’t even look at his face until he hands me a glass of whisky on the rocks.