Bartered Orgasms

Bartered Orgasms with Agonies of Faith

(Part One. Possibly stand alone.)

(An "adult" read of more than 10,000 words. This is an effort to touch on the implications of whoring in periods of social tumult and political upheaval. There are no pretensions of expertise in the history and culture of South Africa. The author is acquainted, however, with knowledgeable expats and a few persons involved in intense commercial and political exchanges.)

Anyone not legally an adult, at least 18 years old in his or her locale or state, must find another story. Characters described here-in are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is unintentional and purely coincidental. The story is about wives under unimaginable stress and the political nominalization of sex. It is not conceived to provide gratuitous sexual entertainment or depict sex acts or scenes not germane to the story or character development.)

*****

JOHANNESBURG, South Africa, 2019: Fourth Avenue in Parkhurst, an upscale "Happy Hour" suburb...

Life had become an endless tedium for James Conroy. He felt the weight of impending dissolution, a premonition of extinction, as he observed the three motorcycles that continued to track his Mercedes.

Were they taunting the nominally defeated "white" man driving a luxury car; or were they sniffing the pheromone wake of his marketable wife, a recent entry in the sweepstakes of whoring renown?

Within the turn of a calendar year, James had phased from an expert in global finance as well as a credible husband, father and proud Jo'burg citizen into a pathetic shell of a man. Furthermore, James had observed this tragic comprehensive descent more consciously than anyone in the targeted South African "white" minority.

So profound was his humiliation that with increasing frequency he had entertained the aberrant thought of suicide. Ironically, he was reprieved by his besieged moral compass that surfaced in each crisis reasserting that "life is sacred."

Whether common-place citizens routinely using the street or paid assassins, helmeted persons on motorcycles had become a source of alarm for "white" men like James. He spontaneously gripped the steering wheel more forcefully and darted his eyes spasmodically to the rearview mirror. During the past ten minutes, the bikes had remained within a few feet of his bumper as he maneuvered slowly through the dense Friday traffic.

Janet Conroy studiously ignored her husband's maturing fear as she peered intensely into her purse. Taking a quick final inventory of the whore's essentials that she would need for her working weekend, she suddenly moaned a stream of profanity under her breath.

She had left her KY lubricant on her dressing table.

"Damn!" she moaned in exasperation. "Maybe I'll have time to buy some Astroglide in the sundries shop in the lobby."

"What did you say?" her husband asked, though his attention was distracted as he nervously glanced at his rearview mirror.

Watching the three bikers had kindled an apprehension that was becoming a burning fear. James forced a smile as his troubled eyes rested on his four-year-old daughter's happy face. From her car seat behind him, Brittany watched the Friday night crowds gathering and obviously was fascinated with the assortment of persons on the sidewalk waiting to be admitted to the upscale restaurants and clubs.

"Nothing important! Just drive!" Janet fumed. "Or I'm going to be late!"

It was important that she arrive at Colonel Bantu Mbonyum's suite before six! She had agreed to perform until 10 p.m. The Colonel had specified that she be there when he reviewed the rules for his "Knock-Up Roulette."

Tonight's sanity defying pay-off from Colonel Mbonyum and his nine furtive associates, once deposited by wire transfer, would make The Banquede Luxembourg her most impressive banking depository. She had not set a magic number, however, for an earnings goal when she and her friend, Jennifer, had begun whoring. Convinced of their altruistic motives, they had consummated their first ventures in prostitution under the proclamation that they were raising funds for the defense of the South African "white" minority.

Now, after almost three years, they had abandoned all pretense of innocence. All week she had refused to think about the insanity of her most recent agreement with Colonel Bonny.

Offering her womb as the "Knock-Up Roulette resolution receptacle" should have played out as a hysterically absurd joke; but the prospect of as much as 5,000 pounds Sterling from each of the nine sex partners and ten per cent of the pot had moderated her threatening malaise, a combination of angst and compunction.

Complicating her perspective of the sex tournament, moreover, was her unconstrained anticipation that she would once again have Herculean sex with the enigmatic Captain "Jax," known in his native land of Somalia as Jackson Angoli Kanyatta. At Colonel Bonny's invitation, on several occasions Captain "Jax" had taken leave of his duties as the foremost bloody pirate of Southeast Asia to fuck Janet and Jennifer in exhaustive sex tournaments. Always, the intimidating and baffling sophistication of the murderous hulk from the Somali desert left her quivering like a jello salad, having experienced the terrifying "le petite mort."

Contributing to her combined excitement and anxiety was the subtle implication that more sex-sport enthusiasts were interested but not yet committed. And all of the potential contestants would have no problem with her fee, the 5,000-pound ante. Tauntingly, the always pretentiously majestic Colonel Bonny had implied that some of the world's celebrity players had enquired and a few had requested entry forms.

This undoubtedly would score as the most exciting and profitable weekend of her whoring enterprise. After serving her contractual four hours of the "Impregnation Derby," as Colonel Bonny had labeled his tag-team sex event, she would ride the lift six floors up from Colonel Bonny's flat to the opulent suite of Doctor Zo. There she would join her friend Jennifer; and they would party without restraint until the clients collapsed, or they heard the chimes at 3 p.m. Sunday.

All of these patrons of their sexual services awaited her arrival at the luxury residential hotel only three blocks away. It would be a busy if not chaotic weekend of incomparable whoring. The sexual variables were too numerous to catalog.

While "whites" had built the impressive residential edifice as a tribute to their incredible business and social success, a chartable progression over the span of their almost 400 years in South Africa, only a few "essential whites" remained as tenants. The present occupants were predominantly black officials and shadowy predators dogging the post apartheid governing class. Colonel Bonny served as the putative leader of only one of the many intimidating factions of the uniformly black government.

To no one's surprise, the harsh tribal caste system had permeated the post apartheid power structure the moment the vanquished "white" officials had stood down and surrendered their seals of agency. What no one had anticipated, however, as Janet and Jennifer were to learn, was that quality whores always have withstood the slings and arrows of time as an extralegal if not protected footnote.

"Astroglide? So! You're taking it up the butt again this weekend," her husband rasped, hardly breathing. "You're crazy to take another chance after your last trip to the emergency center."

His voice low and vitriolic, James replayed his classic rant describing a recent Saturday midnight when a young surgeon had stitched her colon, warning her in cryptic tones that her sphincter was "losing tension."

This spurred the memory of that horror in the emergency center as she briefly yielded to a fleeting consideration of his warning; but that moment of lucidity quickly became a constrained mixture of disillusionment, fear and anger. Shocked at her failure to restrain her growing reservoir of anger, Janet covered her mouth and nostril with her handkerchief. She wiped drool.

Damn it! Now her idiot husband once more had caused her to foul her expertly applied make up.

Traffic as usual was maddening and required her husband's concentration. James seemed inured to her vitriol, though fortunately for him her most hurtful words were lost in an unintelligible spew.

Couldn't he just get through the traffic and keep his mouth shut? Her face darkened and twisted momentarily into a mask of contempt that bordered on hatred.

Friday nights along Fourth Avenue in Parkhurst, the upscale restaurants and clubs had always drawn a cross section of Johannesburg's propertied millennials and rapidly diminishing management level "whites." The Jo'burg suburb had long been home to the skilled and accomplished, most of them high techs, affluent small business owners and professionals, most of whom happened to be "white."

Once James and Janet Conroy had been included as exemplary participants in that select party crowd. They were gifted with multifaceted personalities capable of experiencing controlled excesses of partying without compromising their incredible professional successes.

Both were credentialed academics holding essential fiscal and money management positions. Their lives had changed abruptly, however, when Janet had become angst ridden and almost moribund with the conviction that "rabid blacks inevitably would launch a genocidal blood bath and 'cleanse' South Africa of 'whites'."

They were entering secondary school when the blacks had seized power and displaced the "white" minority in all phases of governing institutions. Efforts had been made to normalize and mute the transition; but they had witnessed an aggressive trend of too many black leaders toward the advocacy of "racial cleansing." Public discourse was laced with a significant genocidal rhetoric.

Having joined prestigious global companies immediately upon receiving their advanced degrees, they had accepted the dictum that "all was well" in post apartheid South Africa and consistently rejected friend's suggestions that they should become expatriates.

But reports of black gangs perpetrating unthinkable mayhem upon defenseless 'whites' progressively changed Janet and her friend Jennifer. Their determination to "survive" crystallized one afternoon when they cognitively ingested the morbid details of the brutal rape and maniacal murder of a university student.

"It's coming, James!" Janet had warned her husband increasingly during the past five years. She had begun to obsess to the point of nervous exhaustion until three years earlier she seemed to have broken. James remembered the morning when she had assumed a radical stance, vowing to "organize a resistance underground." He had casually listened and kissed her in good humor as they both had left for work, she to the government Statistics and Trend Analysis Agency and James to his brokerage.

Perception had always served James well. Dismissing the threatening phantasm of the bikers, therefore, was not possible. This division of his attention between driving and serving his apprehensions, however, did not impede his blistering asides to his wife.

Now Janet's mood darkened perceptibly as she became obsessed with her purse and overnight kit. James glanced at her as she squirmed and muttered under her breath, but the traffic and the three motorcycles continued to claim his concentration.

As James watched the bikers, a memory fragment floated unsolicited. It had been a gripping moment when he initially had called her a whore.

"You are not sacrificing your body and soul to finance an underground army," James had snarled two months earlier when she had gone away for a weekend "economic policy retreat" and returned infected with both gonorrhea and chlamydia. "So now you know," she had responded unemotionally. "It's every whore for herself, James, and Jennifer and I discovered that we are not just good at it. We are gifted, and we are simply acknowledging that the black tribes have won; and we have a very saleable product not only in Jo'burg but all over the globe."

Black tribal leaders had seized all agencies and institutions in 1994; and too many had vowed to eliminate the minority "white" Jo'burg population. Janet had become militant as "blacks," outnumbering "whites" ten to one, had confiscated "white" owned property and literally driven "whites" from their jobs. With increasing frequency gangs had murdered white farm owners and their families, purportedly leaving no actionable clues for the police authorities.

But her zeal for racial survival, incomprehensibly ephemeral though psychosomatically complex, somehow had faded into a zealotry for whoring.

As Janet spoke in hushed tones into her cell phone, obviously reassuring her impatient clients, James became more somber, his eyes darting with growing anxiety from the busy cross walks in front of the Mercedes to the three bikers crowding his rear bumper. His agitation was aggravated by his wife's impassively dismissive attitude toward him and her daughter.

"Those bikers are still with us," he said. "Do you suppose they are clients trying to flag you down to buy a piece of ass; or maybe they've been sent by your competition to object to your selling ass without buying your franchise from them."

His wife of ten years, squirmed in the passenger seat as she lifted her miniskirt and adjusted a garter belt. Janet had never worn a garter belt for other "hospitality" clients. She glanced at James and realized that his nerves were fraying as he watched the cyclists.

***** *****

(An aside. Scrolling to the next section, however, will not obscure the thread of the story.) Having continued in his demanding capacity as an essential business executive, James had resisted acknowledging the genocidal tendencies of factions of the ruling black parties. His financial services firm had escaped corrupt government officials only because it was a subsidiary of a London financial conglomerate dominated by Arabs. Furthermore, his office, though a private concern, was vital to the new regime in all monetary matters as well as fiscal policies.

Without a doubt, most of the reigning black officials either overtly or covertly expressed a sincere desire to succeed in their offices. They quickly had grasped the implications and realities of the fragile nature of the world's sociopolitical and socioeconomic balances. Global consequences of geopolitics governed without regard for tribal egomania; and they grudgingly compromised. Consequently, James and his professional associates were considered to be "essential," at least in the breach.

Janet, however, had been employed by a government agency as a consulting statistician charting financial policy data and global economic trends. She tested the "anti white" violence indicators daily and had very soon become alarmed and finally terrified. Her daily exposure to the incidence of official hatred for "whites" was exacerbated as the result of several savage attacks in which white university girls had been savagely raped and murdered.

Accordingly, surrendering to the obvious need for massive financing, she and her life long friend, Jennifer Kroger, had gradually initiated a plan for a "resistance movement." Most assuredly, they agreed, it was a "composite of schemes of desperation and consumed money like whores at a Mexican cartel's sex carnival." It was Jennifer's whimsical remark about whoring, derived from a magazine story about Mexican cartels, that spurred Janet inexplicably to fixate on whoring as a logical source of the required income.

Obsessions are unpredictable but always nurture a degree chaotic panic. So, it came to pass that they elected to finance their "defensive underground" through limited prostitution; and, whether related to the fantastic change in mentality, Janet had begun to evidence episodic bullying tendencies, accounting perhaps for her adopting an abusive attitude toward her husband.

Whatever the explanation, James had succumbed to her unyielding demands that he deliver recreational drugs, a vital part of the post apartheid social enigma. Of morbid curiosity, Jennifer aimlessly had asked in the initial stages of their new vocation if a correlation existed between the high end of the Bell Curve for income and resorting to drugs to achieve a recreational result.

"It seems that we can scale the risk level of the dope to the level of the academic or professional degrees," Jennifer often mused rhetorically. "Fracturing of a culture never simulates art, civility or justice as I was led to believe."

It's the rich or those imbued with the idea of being wealthy who make snorting coke a recreational event collateral to sport sex, Jennifer had concluded once their clientele had developed. She had taken pride in the fact that her first black benefactors had proudly presented their Harvardian and Oxfordian credentials as if uncertain of their qualifications to buy her "pussy." Devoted whores soon discover the value of a hint of intelligence and gentility. And as they persist with a modicum of success, the more complex practitioner of the order discovers the parallels between geopolitics and the merchandizing of sex, the most intangible of all benefits of the civilizing process.

"It is the rich who inevitably seem to become brutal revolutionaries," Janet had ruefully added, "while all uncontested brutes seem to become rich."

Revolutionaries always appeared first in the halls of academe, always assaulting an existing culture with the endemic radicalism of youth and the opportunistic collegiate mentality and always "high on something." Jennifer, a time passed, realized that revolutionaries beget revolutionaries.

"Janet! What do you think about when you're doing it?" she asked one afternoon as they prepared for a night of whoring. "I never think about 'The Movement' anymore, and I become humiliated and depressed when I enjoy the fucking."

But Janet reassured her that whoring was as natural as banking. And Jennifer joined her friend in soldiering on into another night of "tag team fucking," the most profitable exercise on their whoring agenda.

In recent weeks, however, James had begun to withdraw from their now established enterprising existence, at times briefly confronting both his wife and Jennifer. Their "regimen as survivalists" was now suspect, and he no longer hesitated to raise questions; consequently, he guilelessly had sharpened his inclination to oppose his wife's more radical schemes for fund raising. As the recovery of his traditional strengths of character progressed, the few remaining vestiges of intimacy and respect disintegrated.

From the outset James had reacted with revulsion and veiled skepticism when Janet rabidly had insisted that prostitution and peddling recreational drugs were her acceptable options given her self-sacrificing motivation. It was in these arguments that he had initially weakened and revealed submissive tendencies. Humiliation had trended into manic depression, even to the brink of suicide.

At the moment, caught inexorably in suffocating traffic, they apparently had phased into a strangely antiseptic finality, an obligatory destructive scene that could not be bridged. Sine die, James whispered as he studied her merchandisable features.

(End aside. Resume the account of their drive to Janet's whorefest appointments.)

Now, as James transported his whore wife along Parkhurst's Fourth Avenue, he was regarding her with what was becoming an endemic contempt. This was a recently revealed phenomena.

It came at a most inopportune time. Janet had realized for several weeks that her "whore moments" were becoming her reality, her defining chemistry.