The Flying Aspidistra 2009 ©
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V ictorine Meurent, Manet, A Woman With No Clothes On, V R Main, VR Main, fiction, novel, art, history, romance, sex, Paris, France, amazon.co.uk, Waterstones, writer, writing Edouard Manet, Dejeuner sur L’herbe, Olympia, scandal, 19th century, nineteenth century, painting, obsession, Guardian, Socialist Worker, novelist
Lilith//
‘Wow’, he thought as he opened the door of his hotel room. Her chestnut coloured hair was longer than on the pictures on her website and she had a kind smile.
‘I’m Lilith’, she said, pecking him on the cheek. She looked straight into his eyes: ‘You must be Michael.’
He waited for her to ask whether she can call him ‘Mike’, like all the others had done.
‘Michael’, she repeated slowly as if savouring the name. He always used the same alias.
His cheeks were flushed and he was as apprehensive as ever. No matter how many times he had told himself that he was the one calling the shots, he worried that they would not be attracted to him. When he looked coolly and rationally at his encounters, he knew perfectly well that the women didn’t think like that. They took the money and hoped that nothing violent would happen to them. As one of them had told him in a moment of rare frankness and genuine communication, one of the rules of the job was not to remember the man.
The worst time was just before they arrived, that half an hour or so between the ‘phone call he would make to confirm the booking and the moment of their arrival. He sweated, listening to every step in the corridor, thinking it was his visitor. Sometimes, during that period of waiting, he would ring his wife at home. A few words about the children and domestic matters helped him feel normal and dispelled the anxiety. He could see the irony of the situation: unwittingly, his wife made it easier for him to have sex with the prostitute.
On occasions, he had felt so apprehensive that the only way he could calm his nerves was to persuade himself that once he opened the door, he was going to pay the woman and tell her that she was no longer required. Occasionally, he would find comfort in the thought that he had done everything he could to make himself presentable: he showered, he wore clean underwear and his breath did not smell. Whether they liked him was outside his control. He could not help having grey hair, a bit of a paunch and a few warts on his back.
When they arrived, he tried to smile and make small talk, but that was not always easy with a complete stranger and you had to pretend that you were interested in them beyond the business at hand.
But this time, as soon as he saw her, he could tell Lilith was different. She was
too naturally attractive for a woman of her profession: her hair was not dyed, she
wore a dark skirt, just above the knee, and a sensible v-
He offered her a drink. She asked for a cranberry juice, but he persuaded her to share his bottle of white wine. He had already started it.
Lilith was chatty. Her husband ran an off licence, she said, ‘renowned for spirits’. She sounded proud of the fact. They had two children. She helped in the shop whenever she could and ran the house.
He watched her as she talked. He was struck how familiar she looked, but he couldn’t place her.
Lilith was a better kisser than any others he had known. She was as good as the best of his girlfriends, as good as his wife.
He took his time undressing her, savouring the unfastening of each button and clasp. He was in no hurry: he had paid for two hours and that is what he was going to use. Next time he is in town, he will book her again.
He was pleased to see that she did not wear a basque, a suspender belt or a thong.
Over the years, he had become tired of the cheap paraphernalia that passed for erotic
clothing. Lilith’s underwear, a cream, full-
As she looked at him, he knew why he felt so comfortable with her. Her oval face, her slightly plump build and even her voice and intonation, reminded him of a girlfriend, Marissa, from his student days. He had not thought of her for years.
When he licked Lilith, and when she moaned, he could tell that she was enjoying herself. He remembered the others moaning rhythmically and monotonously, no matter what he was doing with his tongue or fingers. With her, he could sense the tightening of her vaginal muscles, the moisture oozing from her lips, her struggle to stop her knees coming together. He could have gone on and on if only his tongue had not become tired. He felt he was being sucked in. Clearly, she desired him, he told himself.
He was going to do it slowly this time. She seemed to guess his thoughts:
‘Would you like to use any toys?’ she said. That was standard. He had had his share of vibrators, nipple clamps and restraints. No outfit excited him any more. He had slept with too many police women, teachers, nurses and chamber maids.
‘I have something special,’ Lilith said, noticing his lack of enthusiasm. Oh yes, they all said that. He waited.
‘I can dress up as a ghost,’ she said. He laughed. At least an examination by a buxom nurse in a mini skirt and stockings was a fantasy that had plausibility.
‘Fear increases sexual tension’, she said, fixing his eyes. That was sophisticated language for a whore. Next she will be talking of endomorphins. But she had a point.
‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’ He couldn’t help laughing again.
‘Neither do I.’ Lilith smiled back and shrugged. ‘Never mind, it was just a thought. Some people like it.’
By now his erection had gone and he wondered whether a bit of silly amusement might help him recover his excitement.
‘OK, let me see what you can do.’
‘Are you sure?’ It was not up to her to ask.
‘Of course I’m sure. That’s precisely what I want.’ Her hesitation had made him determined.
Lilith went to the bathroom. He poured himself another glass of wine and sat in the armchair, sipping it slowly. In less than five minutes, the door of the bathroom opened. She was wearing nothing but make up. Her eyes were rimmed with black kohl; her lips were scarlet red, with matching nail varnish. He wondered why he had not noticed before the incredible length of her nails. But the biggest surprise was her skin: it was no longer pale, it was ghostly white. Under the light of the bedside lamp, her skin even looked grey, in places. He didn’t laugh.
He marvelled at the skill with which she slid off his trousers. He lay on the bed and Lilith hovered above him, her flesh barely touching his, her weight almost imperceptible.
When Lilith had slid the condom over his tumescence, she asked whether he had a favourite position. He was grateful. No one else had asked and even if they had, he would not have bothered telling them. It had never been his desire to prolong the experience. But it was different with this woman.
It was more than politeness that made him ask about her preferences. She met his eyes when she spoke:
‘My favourite is to lie underneath. But let’s leave that for later.’ He was surprised at her strength: she lifted him in mid air while he entered her.
When she threw back her head, for a split second, his thoughts went back to Marissa. They had been together for a few months when he ended the relationship. She had tried everything to get him back. No matter how many times he had told her that there was nothing that she could do, because he had simply stopped being attracted to her, she persevered. And even now, he could not explain why he had left her. She was attractive, she was kind, and they shared many interests. The sex, he could say without exaggeration, was the best he had ever had before or since. A year after they had split up, he heard through a mutual acquaintance that she had killed herself. He had been sad to hear the news but he could not feel responsible for what she did. Perhaps that is why he had so thoroughly expunged her from his memory.
Lilith moaned loudly. There was no doubt that she loved having him inside her. The more insatiable she was, the more his excitement grew. No other woman had fitted him as perfectly as this one. Each curve in her body corresponded to an accommodating contour of his. Had she not been a whore, he might have allowed himself to dream that, at least physically, they were made for each other. He rode her and his pleasure knew no limits. His head grew lighter and his vision blurred. He must have had too much wine and now there was too much excitement. Then Lilith screamed. Her body tightened. She screamed again and again. He kissed her and pushed deeper inside her. And more and more, and more. His body floated into space.
He rolled off gently, closed his eyes and lay quietly. He could hear his breath but had no sensation in his body. All his nerve endings had been numbed.
He could not remember how long he had slept. The air was freezing cold, and the room was dark, except for a thin ray of yellow streetlight coming through the crack where the curtains met. Without getting up, he could see that Lilith’s clothes were still on a chair where he had left them. He turned towards her. He screamed. He jumped off the bed.
He had been lying next to a skeleton. The skull was framed by the chestnut coloured hair. And there was something stuck in Lilith’s pelvis. His body was shaking, his teeth rattled and he dared not move to inspect it. He screwed up his eyes and stared. Then he felt between his legs. His testicles were there all right, sticky with congealed blood and his semen.
But that was all.
All stories © V R Main