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
The Bottom Line//
He rang this morning to say that he would be half an hour late. Now, that’s a first. He’s always on the dot or, more likely, early. He’ll make it up to me, for the lost wages, he said.
I can’t remember exactly how many times he has called over the past two years. On average, we meet once every two months. So, it must be around a dozen visits he has made.
I like a regular. He is one of a few I have. You could say there isn’t much excitement in that, but I’m not in this business for excitement. The arrangement works for both of us: we know what to expect and the sort of routine we like.
Usually, he rings a week before the appointment. It’s always Thursdays he wants, Thursday afternoon; it has to be after two o’clock. His wife has an aerobics class in the evening and comes back late. Often she travels abroad, on business, staying away for two weeks, mostly in Japan. Some sales business, he told me. I never ask about their lives or circumstances. If a punter wants Thursday afternoon, as long as I’m not booked, Thursday afternoon he can have.
With him, it’s in calls only. Most married ones ask for that, unless they have checked into a hotel. And he always wants two hours. I don’t even ask. When he rings, all I say is, ‘the usual?’ and he replies: ‘Yes, thank you, Marcella.’ Him saying my name, that sounds friendly. I know he likes that. Nice, you could say. That’s what you get with regulars sometimes. It shows we have a relationship. Although, to tell you the truth, in the end, I don’t care. I don’t do this work for friendship. When he talks to me on the ‘phone, I can almost see him nodding his serious face. That’s how well I know him. I can imagine him now, saying, ‘workers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains.’
Most of them are tense, to start with, at least. It is only after a drink or two that I can make them smile. They are anxious, I suppose. They worry about their performance or whether I like them. Funny really, as if I would want to show them I didn’t. I see through a punter like that straightaway. And it always works: just tell them how much you are going to enjoy being with them, show them that you like what they are doing to you. I moan, I scream, I pretend to come. And what do they do? Lap it all up. I know they are not stupid. Perhaps days or weeks later, some might think back and wonder whether it was really that good for me. Others don’t. But, never mind. The fact is that I can relax them and make them feel good. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Making them feel good. A kind of social work, you might say. A friend once teased me and said I was doing a service to the community. I suppose I am.
He doesn’t need relaxing. Nor do I need to fake it with him. He isn’t like the others: he doesn’t expect me to have an orgasm. Just as well. He cares for me in a different sort of way; sometimes when we talk, I feel like one of those clever people who have opinions that others want to listen to.
I see him like Peter Pan, a boy who never grew up. I remember the words from the poster for the film I went to see a few years ago, with Myra. We were taking her son, as a treat. Little Damian became annoyed when we read the words to him. He wanted to grow up as quickly as possible, he said. But not this man. Despite his cleverness, his visits to me are a refusal to grow up. And we spend the entire two hours together. Some of them leave as soon as they have done it.
When I open the door, he is usually standing there in his shabby brown jacket, holding
a crumpled carrier bag. I move aside to let him pass. We exchange brief smiles. He
goes straight to my reception room, lowers himself onto the sofa and places an envelope
with the money on the coffee table. I don’t look at it or take it until he has gone.
I offer him a drink. It’s always a beer he wants. I fetch it from the refrigerator
in the kitchen – I have it ready -
He takes a sip of the beer, asks how I am, and then has another sip. Next, he questions me about something in the news. Usually, I have no time to read the papers, but before he comes, if I can manage it, I do check the headlines in the Mail. You have to make an effort and prepare for the job. I want every punter to feel satisfied, particularly my regulars. You have to take a special care with them.
What was it the last time? Oh yes, something about nurses’ pay. When he first started calling on me, I didn’t know what to say. People easily take offence if you disagree with them. I’ve learned that in this job. Best is to let them say whatever they want to say and nod, agree with them. How was I to know what his views were? I have to deal with all sorts. I bet some of my clients would fall out with each other. People are so different. Except when they want sex. Most men are the same there.
So, I wasn’t quite sure what I should think, except that I ought to be careful. But he took his time with me. He is a patient man. On that day he looked to me like a teacher. Perhaps he is; I have never asked him. Anyway, he explained to me what the dispute was about. I did think then that if only my teachers at school had been so patient with me… If only they had been like him, speaking slowly, without thinking me stupid. If only they had made sure that I understood.
I don’t know why he wants to talk to me about such serious issues. I bet he knows people who talk about what’s in the papers, politics and that stuff. I remember that, at first, I found him tedious. I didn’t care to know what he was talking about. Except that his manner, that patient and slow way of explaining, did eventually win me over. These days I even look forward to his questions. Oh yes, I do. Well, sort of. It makes a difference from the usual conversations.
He always has a magazine, a newspaper or a book in that carrier bag. He reads out to me, then he looks at me and waits for me to comment. I have learned that nothing happens unless I say something, no matter how brief. The word that he often uses is exploitation. He says, ‘Marcella, the world is full of those who exploit and those who are exploited. In our system, all relationships are about exploitation.’
So, if my mind wanders a bit or what he reads is difficult to follow, and I am at a loss what to say, it seems I can’t go wrong if I mention that word. As soon as I say it, his face lights up. That’s the teacher in him: his pupil’s doing well and he is proud. As for me, I always remember the words old Miss Joanna said to me when I first worked for her: ‘This business is part of the service industry and you are here to please.’
Another time he read out something about men not helping women with housework. Again, I used the word exploitation, and he was pleased. But I didn’t agree with him. In my opinion, any woman who shacks up with a man should expect that. That’s how men are. You can’t change them. I remember my mother putting up with the lazy, drunken man until eventually she threw him out. That’s why I am my own woman.
So, we have a little talk. But as soon as I have answered the question, he launches into an explanation of what the problem is about. With the nurses, he said that their union was not as powerful as the doctors’ and that because they were mostly women, while doctors were mostly men, the nurses were bound to be paid less. Again, I wasn’t sure I agreed: doctors are cleverer as well, they know and can do things nurses can’t. While he talks, I keep quiet and just nod from time to time. He doesn’t mind that I don’t ask questions; he said the last time that he was pleased how well I listened. Well, sometimes I am almost interested in what he says, or, if I am not, then I remember that I am being paid to do as he wants. As long as I nod and look at him, I can think my own thoughts.
Last week, he read an article about women working in textile factories in India and how little they were paid. ‘Marcella,’ he said, ‘coming here on the bus, I looked at people’s feet. Half of them were wearing trainers. I wondered how many of them were made in places like the Philippines, where the wages are very low and the factory owners and their western masters are making huge profits.’
I was thinking of Lia, the Philippino girl, who lives in the flat below mine. She does a bit of work for Miss Joanna’s massage parlour and she says that the oldest men and the dirtiest men who come in are always given to her. I know that’s the pecking order at the establishment. She has no work permit; she has to keep quiet. No good arguing with Miss Joanna. So I got interested when he talked of the Philippino women and the trainers. But he had to go and we never finished the conversation. Last week when he rang for the appointment, I remembered that. I thought I could tell him that it is not just the trainers. I am going to mention Lia today.
The conversation takes approximately half of the time. Once he has finished his talk,
he asks me a question or two, usually to check how much I have understood and then,
very gently, he stands up, puts his hands together, looks at me and says.
‘I
am ready now.’
‘Good.’ I say. At this point, my voice sounds rough and determined.
I walk to the bedroom and he follows. Now, I am fully in charge. I sit in the armchair and I ask him to kneel down in front of me. He obeys immediately.
‘Kiss my shoes,’ I shout. He covers them with urgent kisses.
‘The soles as well,’ I shout and he carries on until I order him to stop.
Then I ask him whether he has been a naughty boy.
‘Yes, miss. Very naughty.’ He whispers, his eyes on the floor.
‘Then you deserve to be punished.’ He starts shaking. I order him to kneel against the bed and pull his trousers down. He does.
‘That’s no good,’ I shout. ‘You naughty boy, you must present your naked arse for me to deal with.’ With no hesitation, his hands pull down the underpants and he assumes the kneeling position.
‘Lift the arse,’ I order. ‘Higher, higher, now, that’s better.’
I start with a hand, slapping each buttock in turn. When I feel the warmth exuding from the skin, I take a slipper and hit him with it, gradually striking harder and heavier. If he cries out, I hit him more ferociously.
I say: ‘Marcella wants you to be a good boy. Tell me, why does she want that?’
‘Because, because – ‘
‘Answer me quickly.’ Another hit.
‘Because she loves me,’ he blurts out and I reward him with a hit more ferocious than before.
‘Repeat that. Speak clearly.’
He obeys. I pick up the cane and swing it in the air. His buttocks stiffen with anticipation. I swing the cane again and make it land on his bottom. He utters a sigh. I go on, increasing the force with each hit. Red streaks appear on the skin. His breathing is deep and loud, mouth wide open. In between my strokes, he screams ‘more, more, I have been very naughty,’ and I oblige. I hit him harder and harder, faster and faster; there is hardly a second between each landing of the cane. The skin is breaking and drops of blood bubble from his buttocks. My cane smears them; red treacle makes its way down the inside of his thigh.
Now he is panting loudly, his body tenses, his back convulses back and forth and there he is: ejaculating. I stand by and watch him. He collapses on the bed, panting loudly. He’s quiet for a few minutes.
‘Marcella, you are an angel. That was wonderful.’
‘I do what I can.’
‘Oh, Marcella, you surpassed yourself this time. It gets better and better.’
I thank him.
‘Could you pass me a mirror?’ I have it ready.
He turns so that his back is reflected in the wardrobe mirror and then holds the one I’ve just given him in front of him so that he can catch the reflection. His cock begins to stiffen again and he sighs. I always make sure that one of the lines is particularly deep and prominent. I hit the same place again and again. He runs the tip of his finger along the deepest cut and the breathing intensifies. The second coming.
Then there are a few minutes of absolute stillness, with him lying on his side, eyes closed. At this point, he likes me to lie next to him, my arm around his back. I remain fully dressed. I reckon that the welts from caning must take ten days or more to heal. With the wife away for two weeks…
When he opens his eyes, he smiles at me, and he always goes back to our initial discussion. He says something like, ‘Remember Marcella, those factory workers in the Far East; we must help them. It is a small world; we all depend on one another.’ I agree with that. I depend on him making these visits.
He arrives exactly half an hour late, as he said he would. Immediately, I notice that he has no carrier bag. Perhaps he has a book or a journal stuffed inside his jacket pocket. I watch as he makes his way to the front room, places an envelope on the coffee table and sits down. I remind myself to tell him about Lia.
He doesn’t want a drink. Something is wrong. I wait.
‘Marcella, we need to talk,’ he says. His face is gloomy.
‘What have you got today? What are you going to read?’ I try to show interest.
‘I am not going to read.’ It must be because he’s late and has to leave that part out.
‘Off to the bedroom straightaway?’ He takes a deep breath, looks down and then back at me.
‘I’ve thought a great deal about my visits. As you know, I’ve always enjoyed them. And I’ve developed certain feelings. Well, how shall I put it? I have developed a caring attitude towards you.’
He pauses and stares into my eyes. He has the soft glaze of a little boy’s face.
Oh God, has he fallen in love with me? Wouldn’t be the first to think so. How little men know themselves. I try to remember what I said last time it happened with some other guy. I look down.
For a few moments we sit in silence, then he says: ‘Marcella, I’ve realized that what I am doing is not right. Look at me.’ I look up and he says: ‘I’ve been exploiting you.’ I shake my head.
He says: ‘Listen, the business you are in is about men using their economic power and exploiting women like you. I’ve been hypocritical. I’ve been showing you how people exploit others, while at the same time, I’ve been exploiting you.’
It’s not true. He pays me good money. I shake my head again but he ignores me.
‘I’ve been exploiting you and that has to stop. That’s the bottom line. That is the bottom line for me.’
I stare at him. He can’t mean what he is saying.
‘I’ve come to apologize. I am ashamed of myself. Please forgive me, Marcella.’ He stands up to go.
I don’t know what to say for a while. As he turns towards the door, I know I have to speak:
‘So you don’t want to, you don’t want me to spank you?’
He looks at me: ‘I’ve left some money, a bit more than usual. To make it up for future lost wages.’ He walks out of the room. I follow him to the corridor.
‘Good luck, Marcella. Remember our conversations. You must not allow anyone to exploit you.’
He rushes out, closing the door behind him. I don’t know what to think, except that he has always been a bit strange. Well, as old Joanna says, ‘you lose some, you win some.’ Perhaps he was bored with the routine. In this business, they always want something new. If only he had asked.
My next appointment is not until this afternoon. I’ve several hours to spare. Perhaps I’ll pop down and see Lia; have a cup of coffee with her.
All stories © V R Main
All stories © V R Main