Mephisto and Me - 2

By Lily Edwards

"How do you talk to them like that.......did you actually like the guy?"

"Course not."

I actually thought most of them were just nice, nervous guys. I certainly wasn't attracted to any of them, but I usually found something to like. I rarely admitted this to other girls.

For some girls actually talking to the clients seemed the most compromising act of all, involving as it does your imagination as well as your body.

Not for me though, I loved to work them out and chameleon myself to be exactly who they wanted me to be. Their dream girl. It was addictive.

It worked for me too; the ones that want to fuck your mind always pay more and want less sex. If they just want a shag they go to the brothel and pay two hundred bucks. For one thousand dollars an hour I would let them believe that I found them hilarious and fascinating. I would be a brilliant PHD student just gagging for it or a spoilt little rich girl who was rebelling from daddy or a borderline, boundary breaking wildcat. For two thousand dollars an hour they could lead me around the room by my nipple clamps. Whatever.

I was a great whore.

Now I'm a bit of a liability. I know it, the receptionists know it and I hate that they know it, so still I keep up the pretense that I'm on top of the eight ball.

"Why haven’t you been answering your phone Georgia?"

Because I smell like a goat.

I can hardly be bothered lying, there seems to be very little point, but I do. I haven't learnt to tell the truth yet.

"I am sooo sorry Dawn, I've just been soo busy with my thesis… and looking after my niece…Polly…she’s 8…"

I know the niece part is maybe going a bit overboard. It's compulsive with me though, a reflex action to paint a picture of responsible respectability wherever I go. In truth I think Polly felt scared last time she stayed here and so did I.

Dawn's not listening anyway; she's been trained to assume that all the girls are lying. I've been trained to lie and to assume that I will never be trusted.

What is this doing to my head?

"Okay Georgia, thousand an hour job at the casino. Cash. You're booked for three hours but try to extend. Go as Peri, twenty-four. You're a swim suit model. He thinks he wants boobs so wear a good bra. Your driver's on the way. He'll be there in thirty."

Fuckit!

"Great, actually can you make it forty? I’m just in the middle of painting my toenails?"

"Too bad, he’s on his way; just do your make up in the car."

"Okay, sure…thanks Dawn."

Right. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. What was I thinking? Of course I was going to get a job tonight. What's with this self sabotaging lately? Am I crazier than I think? Why can't I get my shit together? I haven't waxed in ages. Just have to shave. Fuckit! Shaving means more ingrowns, means more ice driven ingrown harvesting sessions. Last time I lost four hours just sitting on my cold bathroom floor picking at my crotch. Four hours hunched over like that gave me a numb bum and jammed my neck up worse than a twelve hour shift in the blowjob bar in Tokyo.

I didn't even notice the pain till after. Not a twinge.

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