Revolver

By Sonia Ramos Rossi

The blue police cap lies on the old wooden chair that stands by the open windows. Even from two stories up the street noises are clear. Horns, bus engines, the occasional drunken shout, they all swim up from the busy commercial avenue, through the green leaves of the tree beneath my window. It's nine o'clock in the evening, summertime rush hour in Barcelona.

He's a motorcycle cop. His shiny, black, knee high boots are under the bed, his gun belt is slung over the back of the chair, his uniform is on the floor, his underwear around his ankles. He has me pinned to the bed, my knees pressed into the pillow either side of my head and he is slowly pushing his penis into my anus.

I know it's going to be a long night; I can feel it, right inside me.

We met two months ago, in a bar. I was working in one of the back rooms when all the shouting started, on my knees in front of a client. He had his hands behind my head, pushing himself down into my throat. I tried to pull away, warn him of what was about to happen, but he was too far gone to notice anything, couldn't have stopped for the life of him. He pumped faster and faster as the shouting grew nearer and all I could see was his hairy white belly mounding out above me, blocking out all view of his face, wobbling in the air with each thrust. I knew he wouldn't make it in time though.

When the door burst open the jock was just about to come, took one step back to separate from me in his surprise and managed to shoot his load over my face. I shut my eyes in time, but then found I couldn't open the left one, he'd scored a direct hit, the warm jism covering my eyelid and dripping down my cheek. The plain clothes cops had a good laugh, hauled the punter off into the corridor and left me there on my own to clean up.

One of them put his head round the door five minutes later, "Get some clothes on and come through to the front, we'll want to see your papers." It wasn't the first time I'd been booked. It comes with the territory in my profession. It's just something that happens, not unusual. Some of the girls have been booked twenty times or more. This must have been my number five. I knew what was coming, kind of, but there are always variations on a theme, something new always happens to catch you off your guard.

So anyway, these motorcycle cops who were going to process us came strutting in to the bar, with their skintight stretch pants and their small waists, big holsters swaying on their hips as they walked, the wooden pistol butt jutting out like some kind of freaky fashion accessory. Jackets with turned up collars and mirrored sunglasses would look gay on anybody else but, hey, these guys are big cops, so they carry it off. They’re smiling too. It’s a small protection racket they have going on. The bars still get raided if they pay up, but nothing happens after. It’s all for show. The girls get to spend the night in the lock-up, the guys who run the club sleep easy.

When the cops lined us all up against the zinc bar, took our ID cards and checked us all out, he was the one that took down my details, put me in the book. He'd taken his sunglasses off to do the paperwork and I could see him eyeing me. Top to bottom, bottom to top. I'd washed my face to get rid what my previous client had kindly sprayed all over my face, and I had no make-up on. I felt naked beneath his stare.

Some of the girls take a night in the cells as a short holiday. They were laughing all night long, shrieking, bouncing their hard words off the bare prison cell walls. I didn’t sleep at all that night, just tried to ignore the piss smell and settled myself as comfortable as I could on the prison mattress to watch the show. They were still at it at eight o’clock the next morning when we were called up to the magistrate’s court to be fined.

It doesn’t take long to be processed through the court system. Half an hour and it was all over for me. I went home, took a yogurt from the fridge, slipped into my workout gear and jogged over to the gym. I could feel the dirt from the cell still stuck to my skin, embedded deep in every pore, like some kind of infection, so, instead of my normal workout, I stayed in the sauna for an hour. The high pressure shower cleaned the last of the clinging prison stink, changed my mood. My smarting, tingling clean skin felt alive, and I didn’t care what the police, or anyone else thought of me. I took the rest of the day off, curled up with a slushy romance paperback and a bottle of white wine, telephone switched off.

A week or so later I was walking back down the Ramblas, towards the marina where all the expensive white yachts are lined up for inspection by the evening strollers, a forest of bare masts pointing up into the cloudless dark blue sky. It was June, a perfect early summer's evening. Fresh, not too hot. I'd just come from a hotel job, feeling free. Three beer-breath German tourists with blonde pubic hair, and bright red knob heads to their German pistons had just spent two hours filling me with their spermy milk. There was an extra for taking all three of them at once. They'd wanted to see if they could ejaculate at the same time. They couldn't of course. The guy with his cock in my ass was the first to come by a good five minutes. I was being banged so hard by the kraut fucking my cunt that I could hardly give a good sucking to the other one but, crazy, they both came at the same time, so they were pretty pleased. I got my bonus payment, and I was happy too, smiling as I walked carefully down the Ramblas. The Germans were quite gentlemanly afterwards, very polite.

You can earn good money if you'll let the guys do what they want. I set up my own little website, to advertise my services, and that's what I say: I'm up for anything. I didn't write it down in so many words, but that's what all the punters understand when they read, "Skin to skin", "Greek on demand", "French au naturel", no protection wanted, none needed. We all die in the end and I wasn’t going to let a little rubber get in the way of me and my money. Who wants to be a fifty year old hooker anyway?

So, I always lived nice. I rented my own apartment; I ran my own business, set my own hours; paid my way. If I worked at the club it was on a strictly freelance basis and if I wanted to take a day off then I could just stay in bed all day, reading paperbacks. I wasn’t one of those loser whores that hang out on street corners. I did hotels or apartments only, and I charged top money. I could afford to; I looked after myself, see? Two hour gym session every day, and I took care what I ate. I looked good, and was worth the money, every single Euro cent.

It was fine. I had the risks under control. No-one ever told me what to do, I was independent. No-one ever touched me, not beneath the skin anyway, not until Jordi came along.

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