That's an in. I'm here about the job. Presumably I'll be taken
somewhere, to talk to somebody. Maybe I can ask to use the loo and find a way to sneak upstairs to the top floor. Maybe I'll find out that Chase is into dungeon sex. Maybe I'll be knifed by a gang boss. What the fuck am I doing?
'Yes,' I say. 'I am.'
The man shifts himself reluctantly, leading me around a corner, where a row of booths are found. The pungent smell of stale semen and sweat hangs over the place. Three of the five booths are occupied and we walk past the overcoated backs of the peepers, most of whom seem rather elderly. I suppose this might be a dying 'art form' – the young men all go to Spearmint Rhino now.
'We'll wait until Sonia there has finished her set, and then you can show us what you can do,' the man tells me, to my barely concealed horror. 'What? Did you think you were going to have a formal interview?' He laughs. 'This is an audition, love. Under Job Description, it says, ''Being sexy, so that the punters jack off and come back for more''. You don't need no business qualifications for this game, sweetheart.' He laughs again, uproariously, and I pretend to join in.
'I know that!' I lie.
'Good. Get your kit off then, and put this on instead.'
He flings a hideous skimpy gold lamé minidress with matching thong at me and shuts me in a cupboard to change. It occurs to me that I may well not be the first girl to wear the knickers, and I decide against putting them on. Am I really going to go through with this? Can't I tell the man it's a mistake, that I got the wrong address? I work at calming down and gathering my thoughts. It's not that bad. Dancing around in next to nothing for five or ten minutes. I've done it for lovers; why not for strangers? Anyway, I can ask to use the loo before I go on and escape upstairs. Or should I wait until after the show? I probably should wait; he won't care what I'm doing or how long I take once I've performed.
OK. Deep breath. I unbutton my blouse, unzip my skirt, unfasten my suspender clips and get naked in the cupboard, which has a bare light bulb, a flyblown mirror and a faded pink velvet vanity stool in the way of furnishings. I fold my clothes neatly on the stool and struggle into the ugly gold dress. It has a halter neck and the top half barely covers my tits – just two diagonal lengths of fabric that skim my nipples and then meet around a large metal ring which is all my midriff gets in the way of cladding. A tiny stretchy skirt, skimming the cheeks of my bottom, makes up the rest of the outfit. Just as well I had a wax this morning; a less than impeccable bikini-line would be blatantly evident in this outfit. I frown at my legs – summer's tan is long gone and I could use a can of spray-on, but I will have to do. A horrid pair of knackered gold high heels, like something you'd find in a child's dressing-up box, completes the outfit. One of the heels needs mending, so I have to practise walking around the cramped space before I emerge.
'Very nice.' The tattooed man leers, his eyes zeroing in on my breasts. I would disagree, but there seems little point. 'Give us a twirl then.'
I rotate a slow three-sixty, worrying that the hemline will give him a flash of my snatch, but I'm not sure why that would worry me. Where has that shred of modesty come from? I have to abandon it in the next few seconds when he says, 'Bend over.' There is no way I can do that without exposing my privates. I lean forwards, my arms hanging down to my ankles, feeling the skirt ride up the cheeks of my bum, above the point where my shaved lips and vulva will be visible. He takes his time, gets a good long look, then growls, 'Oh yes. That'll do. Stand up then.'
'Do I keep the dress on?' I ask him, trying to be as casual and businesslike as possible.
'Depends. We give each punter a notebook and pen. They get to put their requests up in the booth windows. You just do what they ask.'
'Everything they ask?'
'Yeah, unless it involves something dangerous or illegal. You'll get the odd chancer who will ask if you can let him in the room, or meet him outside for a blow job, but you just ignore those. It's usually standard stuff. Bend over, spread your legs, feel your tits up, type of thing.' He shrugs, as if he has just recited a mundane shopping list. 'Ten minutes, and, if everyone's happy, you get a short break before the next lot. If someone hasn't come yet, he might pay for another five minutes. You'll be told if that happens.'
I swallow. 'Right.' Suddenly, I am weirdly turned on by the whole idea. I've decided to ignore their faces and pretend they are all hot men. Chase and a group of his friends. That's the way to get through this.
The door to the peep show room clicks open and a girl wearing nipple tassels, chain-mail bikini briefs and a fuchsia feather boa ambles out, yawning.
'All right, Sonia? This is Sophie. We're trying her out. You can take a half-hour break if you want.'
'Good, these tassels pinch like bastards,' she remarks, sidling into the cupboard-room without so much as a glance in my direction.
'Right, you'd better get in there. I'll go and take the money. You start when you hear the music. Yeah?'
'Fine,' I say briskly, then I totter into the peep show room. It is a long rectangular box, wallpapered in black, with black rubber tiles on the floor. Along one wall are five perspex letterbox windows, narrow enough that I won't have to see the punters' faces, but wide enough to place a readable message against. One armless chair rests in a corner, but other than that, there is no furniture. I go and sit on the chair until it is time to do my 'act', staring up at the spotlights on the ceiling, which are red.
I'm a sex worker, I think to myself. After years of being a sex player, now I'm finally a sex worker. I'm getting paid to be lewd. He hasn't told me what the remuneration is, I realise. What is the going rate for this kind of thing? And where is Chase? What is he doing right now? Is he buggering some young man, dressed in a corset and high heels? Is a tweedy lady whipping his bum with a riding crop?
My speculation is interrupted by some saxophony elevator music crackling through the ancient wall-mounted speakers. Five sets of eyes gleam at me from the wall. I rise to my wobbly feet and begin to gyrate slowly, wiggling my hips, rubbing a hand up and down one thigh, licking my lips. That's sexy, isn't it? I'm not sure. Within a couple of minutes, I spot a message, in fluorescent felt tip, at window number three. 'I want to see your nips,' it says.
It is almost a pleasure to push aside the scratchy gold cloth and expose the throbbing nubs. I take my spindly heels over to window three and thrust my nipples towards him, holding my heavy tits upright with my hands. It is Chase, and when I finish dancing, he will lick them and suck them until they are like shiny wet cherries. But first there is a request in window number four to attend to.
'BEND OVER AND WIGGLE YOUR ARSE.' Capital letters, so he must be serious. Picturing Chase's pupils in a state of dilation behind his desk, I turn my back to the window and reach down again for my ankles, feeling the rough hemline move up above the spot where bottom meets thigh. I shake my hips, feeling my rear cheeks jiggle, then I stroke my hands up from the backs of my knees to my lower bottom, rubbing the rotating globes provocatively. Is that enough? I straighten up again and see two more messages at each side of the booth.
'Pinch your nipples,' says the first, while the other reads, 'Lift up your skirt.' I can do these simultaneously, I decide, so one hand hikes the cheap rag up, up to the top of my thighs so that my smooth mons peeks out while the other pinches and tweaks my nipples.
Three out of five windows now carry variations on the instruction 'Frig yourself.' One of the others goes for the more controversial 'Fuck yourself with a shoe.' I go with the popular vote and fetch the chair from the corner before sitting widely astride it, skirt around my waist and thighs splayed. I pretend to ride it like a horse along to the rhythm for a while, then I press my fingertips into the soft pink flesh. I am playing with myself at Chase's suggestion; he wants to watch me make myself come so that he knows the way I like it. As I push a finger into the yielding slot, he is crouching between my legs, watching with a frown of concentration.
Are you tight there, Sophie? Do you ever use a vibrator? Should I touch your clit while I'm fucking you?
His ghost ques
tions urge me on so that I begin to buck hard on the chair, its front legs lifting every now and then. The paper messages have ceased; all five of my voyeurs appear to be transfixed by my performance, until window number two warns me 'U'd better not be fakin it girl.' I shut my eyes, shut them out, lock Chase in. It is his fingers now, not mine, probing singly and then doubly and then triply in my warm slickness. His thumbs keep my lips well spread and his tongue bathes my clitoris.