With you I have no pride
I crawl and plead
I promise you my soul
Pledging my life for your touch
Gift me with your seed
That which I can turn into a garden…
Could Mark have whispered these touching words to Linda when he reacted with a tight hug to her heavy, wavy, unexpected slap?
She writhed and wriggled in his arms and when she could not break the lock on struggle; she relaxed, eased her muscles and gazed at his brown wolfish eyes with an awe of admiration; of his inimitable machismo and sexism and chivalry mixed up around strength and strong manly character.
He looked back at her, her eyebrows, well trimmed — with a silvery hook, a piercing, cutting deep under her skin, towards the faded edge of her left brows, slightly above those fake, perfectly laid lashes, complementing the thick application of eye shadows; unevenly spread and unprofessionally smeared on both eyelids.
Much as she bore natural curves, Linda was more fake than naturally beautiful. Her face thick with makeup. A mask to the incomplete skin lightening process — freckling — with blotch of black and pale patches on both cheeks, knuckles and knees. Her jaws tight but great for the revelation of that petite posture of a beautiful face. Even greater, her perfectly lazed nose, complimented by a dazing stud and the adjunct earring chiming under her lobule.
“Let’s get out of here.” she whispered into his ears, in a pleading tone. Their bodies swaying to the slow blueish music, her voice, low-key and sexy and in control. She was the bitch and she acted the part, so well, to satisfaction, dragging him out by his neck tie to the back of the bar, a squalid prostitution room with a single bed — musty and rusty and spread carelessly, (as if the previous client had been quick to create room for the next) with old stripped blankets.
Mark was quick to notice the dilapidated condition when she gleefully flung the door open with her red high heeled stiletto boots, dragging him inside, without further words. She growled all over him like a female hyena on meat, pregnant and hungry. Their lips rubbing ferociously with less friction, salivary skids. Tongue to tongue. Moans, moans, moans and more. Cloths flying to different directions. Mark now in boxers and Linda naked laying in her back, thighs apart, hoping for moksha in a few seconds.
If the ride doesn’t come with displeasure, which it does when instead of lunging under her, Mark pulls away and sits at the edge of the bed supporting his chin with one hand and holding Linda’s toes with the other, then spontaneously tells her to sit upright too, for a little chat.
Linda has been in the sex business for at least 6 years and for a client to want to talk right in the middle of pleasure is sometimes good news. She’s developed good listening skills over the years and knows that if they (clients) talk a lot before fucking, they end up not having sex at all, because when their heavy laden is shared, they get the strength to go home and face their monsters (often cheating wives).
When she lands on such stupid men her day brightens, the advantage is hers, because they still end up paying even when they have not dipped their sausages into her mayonnaise. Payments always, premium. You don’t waste Linda’s time with your hullabaloo and pay basic when done. After all she is not a counsellor!
From Mark, she listens, sullen, hoping he doesn’t start whining about the premium prices charged over the vile accommodation and the must and the dirty toilets (everything inhuman).
In her experiences, very few clients talk before sex, especially if they really needed it and are paying for it. Most people however, say a lot afterwards (if the sex is good that is) and a good chunk will not talk at all, at least not say anything personal.
Whatever weights they hold, they believe sharing with strangers can’t lessen the trouble. Their reason for walking into these rooms with stern personality; cowardice, stress, marital issues, exam failures, joblessness all masked behind the facade. And they demand everything intuitively (because sex workers are always wet) or should they be?
“Remove your cloths,” they say as they undo their flyers and when they are done they don’t lay beside the women because laying beside a prostitute is a weakness, forlorn, suicidal, downcast and it can never be normal especially, if leaving with bedbug and bites and buds should be your potion.
“Let’s just talk, OK. I’ll still pay for the service, even so, ” Mark said
“Go ahead. I’m listening,” Linda replied crawling to him, to snug an arm on his shoulder and drape the warmth of her breast on his back.
“By any chance, do girls get boyfriends from these jobs. I mean, if a guy is interested in you for a long term relationship, off the streets, do they mention it? Anyone ever been brave enough to do that?” he asked, blank. Tension pilling up in his voice as he uttered the unexpected.
She stopped strocking his head for a moment, silent and in disbelief.
“who the fuck is this guy?” She thought.
Never in the thousands of years of her lives had someone sounded more a joker than real to her, naked, in the streets or off the street. People who already knew what she did for a living would not dare date her and the white men marrying off the streets were a hoax too. Or hoaxed. At least some.
“What? I’m not having this conversation with you. Not today. Who are you by the way? A journalist? O. M. G! Not today my friend. Never.” She bumped out of bed and slithered her vivacious body into the trench coat that replicated as a dress. Without another word, pocketing her panties in haste for the door.
“Wait Linda, relax, wait. I’m not a journalist,” he said, standing between her and the exit. His broad chest silhouetted by the dim embers of the blue bulbs lighting the room.
“I said I don’t want to have this conversation. Period. Get out of my way else I scream and you don’t want to be caught between me yelping and the security breaking through this door.
Out of my way Sir, out.” she gestured with her index finger, frustration inking fast on her face.
“Ok I’ll let you go but just so you know, I’m really interested in you. It’s never been easy, since we first met, here.”
She stood, listening, almost rapidly relaxed, avoiding a break of her furious facade by a passing euphoria which she more than fought from curving her lips into a smile. She liked where the conversation was headed. How funny, even prostitutes want boyfriends. Men to go back home to after a hard day’s work and bluff about how her boss wanted sexual favors and she declined. 😂
“Believe me, I’ve been here more than I’ve been to my house at night, from when we met and almost kissed. Because I never got enough of you and I don’t think I ever will if you keep dodging and pushing me away.”
He had the poorest choice of words but it did not matter because she didn’t seem sane a woman to pin him down. For instance, when he said, *because I never get enough of you*. Imagine being Linda, what would you reiterate for that statement?
*so chances are, when you’ve got enough of me, you’ll throw me back to the dump street! Uh! * By that time I will have lost all my clients. And? uh! Or how do you mean Mark? Speak up or I’ll scream… Blllhh.. Uhhh… Security! You’ll try brawling and he’s say, “relax mrembo (beautiful), relax. I didn’t mean it in that context. I meant I need more of you.”
But you are not Linda, so you don’t get to ask questions where she doesn’t.
As a matter of fact you should be impressed that she challenged him to pay what he owed, KES 1000 for the nonsense she put up with. Costly or is it? The cost of promiscuity.
As Mark pulled back his trouser, she stood there, still, in the middle of the room, thinking… What if he meant it… He is my tribesman… What if he is my Savior off these streets. After all, I have been here longer than anyone else. Every client knows me by name. Much as I earn more here, I wouldn’t trade beginning a family to continuing the business. Plus, he said he wants us to go out on a real date tomorrow. Should I go or not?
Poem at the top by Lusike Wabuge
Come back Next Week to find out if she went