Some people hate that word: whore.
I think it is beautiful.
Look at them, now. They cannot see you. The window is mirrored. I watch it all from here. My girls and their clients. The ancient dance, the men and the women. Always the same, yet always different.
Look over there, now, by the bar. See that girl in the silver mini-skirt. Tamsyn. The one with the long, ever so slightly kinky dark red hair. I’ve had her for two years now. Isn’t she a dish? Isn’t she a thousand volt stunner? I think she’s sex on wheels, or on stilletto heels in any case. Some people like their women skinnier, but who would not want her? She is so sensual: that flat little tummy poking out from under her top, her long smooth arms, the white swell of her breasts, her graceful legs. Looking at her, don’t you want to fuck her? Just imagine how sweet her nipples will be, just imagine her soft thighs around you. Do you think she will give good head? I can tell you that she does. But let her ride you if you really want a treat. She’s a sweet, sweet girl, and sweet sweet fuck.
I know. I’ve had each and every one of them. Part of my job. I want to know who’s on my floor and what they do. She’s fantastic, a special experience. Don’t take my word for it. Your’re welcome to try her. It’s on the house. You’ll love it.
Watch how she moves. She looks ever so slightly bored, distracted, looking off into the distance, looking just as if she does not notice that dude in the blue suit gazing at her body. Don’t be fooled. She’s well aware of him; he’s the one who does not know how she’s been checking him.
He’s nervous, can you see? I bet you he has not been with a whore before. He lights a cigarette: his hands tremble ever so slightly. He’s watching her over his drink. He’s come here three or four times before. Sometimes after business hours, sometimes late at night. He’s lonely. He’s looking for company, and I think tonight’s the night. Tamsyn will go for him. She’s been around, she knows the signs, and she can spot a good trick when she sees him. It’s a necessary skill. You need to know your client.
There are all kinds. Some people just come to watch. They look at the strip show, they check out the topless waitresses, they might take in a lap-dance or try to cop a feel. They’re harmless, and some of them get on well with the girls, but they’re strictly a waste of time. They’ll never book a lady. What you do with them, is you keep them buying drinks.
Then there are the scary ones. Sometimes you can confuse them with the just-watchers. Look at that guy now, the one at the back, skulking in the shadows. His face is like a fucking mask. See how uptight he is. Every time the door opens, he checks who it is, as if he’s scared his wife will come in and see him here. You’d think he’s harmless, just one of the oglers. But you get a feel for it. Those are the guys who hate the girls. Hate and want. I don’t know what it is. There is something that lures them here, some hot desire, but they don’t have the balls to admit it. For them a whore is a shameful woman. But they’re the shameful ones: shame eats them up like a cancer. They come here and they hate themselves for coming here, and before long they hate the women worse. At best they’re not too bad – they just treat the girls like shit, walk all over their feelings. But when they’re bad they’re the worst fucking news on earth. I’m talking serial killer here. I don’t tolerate that shit. I keep an eye on it, and I protect my girls. You remember that New Ripper scare some years ago? Someone was cutting up street girls and escorts? You remember how it stopped, all of a sudden? Suffice it to say that the coldhearted fuck showed up here. Thin, handsome man: wealthy, manicured hands, expensive suit, flat, expressionless eyes. In the rooms he pulled a knife on Sandi. I won’t say what happened to him. You mess with my girls, let’s just say they won’t find your body. Ever. I don’t like a man who cannot respect a whore.
Respecting a whore, sounds like a strange idea doesn’t it? But those are the good customers. Guys who come here wanting some company. Wanting what a woman can give a man in a place like this: a warm body, a friendly touch, an instant of pleasure. Accepting the girls for what they are, and treating them decently. Some of them will show up only once in a while; sometimes they will come back again and again to the same girl. I’m not talking guys who fall for the girls or any of that “Pretty Woman” bullshit. The girls tend to run a mile from that sad nonsense. In the end, it’s a business transaction. But you can do it badly, and you can do it well. You can make a man feel like he’s just jerked some sperm out over some cold bitch, or you can give him what he really wants, which is just a human touch. A spell in dreamland. And that goes both ways. The girls don’t like to be treated like they’re bits of kleenex. They want you to play along too.
Look at Tamsyn now. The man has caught her eye. She’s going over, sashaying ever so slightly, giving him that warm smile of hers, bending forwards to give him her hand, letting him know he can ogle her breasts. She’s asking him whether he will buy her a drink. She likes Pimm’s. That or lemonade with bitters. She’s sitting down, all friendly and demure. Look how he casually puts his arm around her shoulder. She’s looking at him sidelong. He’s gone all shy. She touches his knee, and then leans into his arm. They laugh; he’s made some crack or other. She runs her hand through his hair, pecks him on the cheek. She likes him. The girls like a man who can be funny. Defusing an awkward moment with a joke, putting them both at their ease.
Their drinks arive; they touch glasses. She laughs again, burying her face in his neck. Watch: she makes the move. She’s toying with her straw, she’s asking him a question: Is this just a friendly drink, or is he going to want….? He looks a bit shy, but he nods. Look – that’s our signal. She smiles sweetly, gives him another peck, and she turns the menu stand on the table on its side. That’s the house code. He’s agreed. He’s hers for now. The other girls will keep clear and the floor manager won’t hassle her. She settles back, nestles against him. They’re in no hurry. Kiara is stripping on stage – now isn’t she the prettiest little poppet? - and they can enjoy their drinks. Still very tentatively, his fingers run through her hair. You can’t see from here, but I bet you her hand is on his cock by now, teasing him through the material. She’s a pro, Tamsyn is, in the best sense of the word. Knows how to make a man feel special. And she loves to fuck. That’s essential. Don’t ever take a girl on in this business if she does not enjoy the sex.
I remember when she first appeared on my doorstep. This was two years ago.
There she sat, all five feet nothing of her, her long red hair ironed straight and tied back in a severe ponytail in those days, nervously clasping and unclasping a purse in the leather settee in the outer office. That settee is big and voluminous, and it all but swallowed her. Through the video link on my desk she looked small and petite and vulnerable. She did not look old enough at all.
“What on earth have we here?” murmured Laura, my floor manager at the time, peering at the video screen over my shoulder. “Do you think she knows where she is? Is she looking for a waitressing job?”
“I know what you mean.” She looked like jailbait. “Either way, we’d have to turn her away.”
“Would be a pity, though. She looks absolutely tasty.” Laura went both ways, and she used to enjoy the odd staff encounter too from time to time. “Let’s bring her in, see what she thinks she’s doing.” She went to open the door. “Good afternoon, sweetie, you can come in.”
I don’t always remember the first time a girl comes through my door but I won’t foget Tamsyn. She’d looked pretty over the video link, but in the flesh she was breathtaking - beautiful in that unearthly way only a girl in the first full flush of her womanhood can be. It was as if God had only just invented cool green eyes, long fiery red tresses, ever so slightly freckled pale white skin, ample hips, pert breasts. She was simply and subtly dressed. Nothing gaudy or crude: just a pair of knee-length pants that emphasised her slender ankles and that hugged her hips, and a green satin shirt that seemed just a size too small. Her tummy peeked out under its lower edges. The top buttons of that shirt strained to hold it closed over her young, full breasts.
I felt my cock stir inside my pants. After twenty years in the business you might call me jaded, but she got me right in touch with my inner caveman. My fingers just ached to pop those buttons then and there. Behind her, Laura made big eyes at me and mouthed “phwoaar” – Laura’s come to us from the UK – and then she continued in her normal voice. “Hi. I am Laura. That is Stephen. He’s the boss. Thanks for coming in. You can sit down. Want a drink?”
“Hi Laura. No thanks. I’m fine.” She sat down on the heavy leather armchair in front of my desk and folded her hands together over her purse. She pressed her knees tightly together, took a deep breath, and looked straight at me with those cool green eyes. “Er, I’m Tamsyn. I’ve come about, uh, about the ad.” She sat up straight, trying to look confident, but I could see her slim fingers squirming on her lap. Laura sat down next to her, perching gracefully on the broad arm rest.
“Hi Tamsyn. Thanks for coming in.” I hesitated. I’d been in the business for some time, and I was used to summing people up at a glance. Tamsyn had me floored. She did not look at all like the usual kind of woman who walks into my establishment offering her services as a prostitute. She looked young and…. well, innocent is not really the word. She came on like a woman all right, she radiated sex. But she did not look desperately poor, and she did not have that matter-of-fact-hardness some women get when they’ve been on the streets too long. She did not look like a whore. She looked like a sexy secretary, like a juicy barmaid, like a high school hottie. What was she doing here?
I cleared my throat. “We, we’re glad that you’re interested in, um, working here. You are, uhm, you are aware of what the, uh… job is you are applying for? ” Behind Tamsyn, Laura carefully kept a straight face. God, I hadn’t heard myself sounding so lame for a long while.
“Yeah, I am, ” she said, and she lowered her eyes. I waited. She realised that she was not going to be let off the hook. She breathed out hard again, and looked me straight in the eye. “This is, this is a brothel. A whorehouse. The job is, fucking strangers. For money.”
“And, are you prepared to do that?”
Her eyes did not leave mine. I was wrong: they were not cool green, they were hot. “Yes, I am.” Her cheeks were pink. The freckles stood out clearly.
“Tamsyn, how old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
