Bent by Teri Louise Kelly

Author:Teri Louise Kelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Books
Published: 2014-09-09T00:00:00+00:00

Leah (Not Her Real Name)

Leah is a prostitute. I'm a long way from home and I've never used one before, never understood what the attraction was. She's paying her way through university; one day she'll be an architect or a lawyer or an advertising executive and all of this will be forgotten (qualifications are vital in a dog-eat-dog world). I guess I'm contributing to her education in some small way, and who knows, maybe one day I'll need a good lawyer. Not that I really needed all of this small talk; she's eating up time—she'll make one hell of a lawyer. Still, this is the face of brutal socio-economics in a supposed civilised society; you can order a vagina as easily as you can a pizza (if you've got credit you're good to go—discreet billing too). She takes off her clothes. How many times does she take them off each night, I wonder? She's attractive in a cold, legal kind of way, but over talkative too, businesslike. The whole thing bothers me. This isn't sex, it's a business transaction, and who the fuck could get it up during a deal like this? She takes out a condom—God, safe sex, how the world has changed! I'm not excited; I'm not supposed to be. I'm supposed to feel ashamed, guilty by association. I'm only doing this because I've got money. I'm a capitalist, I buy and sell things. I've bought her, for forty minutes, forty minutes of her life and her body now belong to me. Down she goes, it's like watching the Titanic sink—she busies herself with the business of pretence, pretending she's getting off sucking some stranger's dick, like, as if—I feel nauseous. I yank her up. Labour isn't working, and neither am I. Maybe we can pretend she's a nubile native and I'm a pale-faced pastor—I don't want my face too close to hers—I don't know where it's been. No kissing—no worries. I bury my face in the pillow and try to think of something erotic, something stimulating, but all I can conjure is a vision of last night's KFC in my fridge—why am I so hungry? I roll off. I've got seven minutes left to deliver. I tell her she can keep the seven minutes as a tip—she's got off easy. She goes to shower. I listen to her showering—she has nothing to wash off other than financial worries. She smokes a cigarette, smiles, says thanks and leaves. I lay there a while—what a mess, what a waste of money. I masturbate and then I eat the cold KFC.

Good things do not come to those that wait; forget it, more homespun bullshit brought to you by the sour-faced crones at "Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up Incorporated". This is a fact, because I've waited long enough: we've only been back here in the sun-burned country for a few months but already the ball of yarn masquerading as the "family" is unwinding. Charlie Manson had a family, too.

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