Blah-blah-blah…
After twenty minutes of our causerie and a few glasses of champagne, he asked if I would like to join him upstairs, bought a bottle of Laurent-Perrier for €375, refusing to drink the shoddy swill the club sold for €250, and politely fucked me from behind. Before he left, he gave me his phone number and suggested that we meet outside of the club when next he was in town, offering a meal in a fancy restaurant, a room in a decent hotel and €300 for the night.
This overture sounded like a top-notch bargain to me, until our first ‘date’…
My Frenchman is one of those characters who never lets me out of his sight. He never stops hugging or touching me, or, more importantly, kissing me, usually with his wet tongue deep inside my throat. No matter what! While walking in the street, driving, sleeping, showering or even eating.
He loves to walk hand in hand through the Luxembourg streets and pull me every few minutes, clinching and grabbing me under the skirt or sweater, while constantly licking my mouth inside and out. Every red light we hit while driving to the hotel or restaurant he burrows through my tights and panties and plugs his fingers into my slit while searching with his tongue for my trachea. The bastard loves to join me in the shower, ignoring my protests and also insisting on us lathering and washing each other while, of course, kissing all the time… he never stops hugging me at night, groping my tits and my pussy even while I sleep.
Oh, and the most annoying part is the restaurants. He always sits next to me, periodically squeezing my thighs and deep-throat smooching while still chewing on his food. Thinking about it makes me want to throw up instantly… He keeps on gazing into my eyes and saying ‘Je t’aime’[9] while I fight the natural impulse to show the disgust on my face, smile instead and answer ‘I love you too’.
Yuck…
Guess what the most revolting part of our ‘dating’ is? Of course it’s sex. We fuck once or twice before going to sleep and usually twice in the morning – before and after breakfast. He cannot come without me stimulating his anus. Usually that involves my finger in his ass while he is fucking me on top, or sometimes he just climbs above my face and makes me lick his asshole while he jerks himself off.
Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!
After each of his visits I feel so squelchy and drained that the only thing that can pull me out of that depressed mental condition is intensive three-hour shopping therapy. A few hundred euro spent on shoes and clothes – that is the best medicine I’ve come up with so far.
Back to the SMS I received from the French sleazeball… He is arriving tonight and is going to stay for two days instead of his usual one-night visit. It’s a Saturday night, so he will spend it in our cabaret with me. As soon as my shift is over, he will take me to some magnifique[10] French hotel, outside of Luxembourg City, somewhere on the border with Germany, where we can ‘enjoy’ each other in full, until Monday…
Fuck! That is at least 42 hours of excruciation for my mind and body!
He arrives at the club and we move to the semi-private lounge. The only thing I can think about, while nodding and smiling to some boring stories he is telling with the excitement of an eight-year-old, is the 42 hours I am going to have to get through. I guzzle the champagne, hoping it will help me.
Already pretty loaded with alcohol, I go to the bathroom where I bump into Masha. She looks at me and roars, ‘What’s wrong, my baby? You look like a piece of trash! Do you need some extra stimulus? It looks like the alcohol does not love you tonight.’
‘Masha, nothing will work for me,’ I weep drunkenly. ‘I can’t stand the sleaze-ball anymore! I don’t need a stimulant; I need something that will switch off my brain for the next two days!’
‘Let me think…’ moans Masha. ‘I have something that just might work for you.’ She leaves the restroom.
A few minutes later, she returns with a small plastic bag with some blue pills in it, quickly hands it to me so my ‘beloved’ doesn’t notice, whispers in my ear, ‘Don’t take more than two at a time,’ and disappears.
I have no idea what is in the bag but swallow a few tablets without batting an eye. And then it comes… the world around me begins to modify. My arms, legs and eyelids get heavier… my attitude shifts too – from distressed and jerky to I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what’s-happening-to-me-at-all…
Feels good… I love it! I decide to make sure that this wonderful state will not leave me for as long as possible and have another two. I feel cool as a cucumber for a little longer, and then blank out.
I wake up the next day in my bed. I can’t remember anything: how I got here or what happened the previous night. There is Lena, sitting next to my bed with a worried face, and Masha, in a hyper state, doing some cleaning in the room and irritably answering Lena’s ‘should we take her to the hospital?’ questions: ‘She is going to be fine, Lena. You should rather go to the mall and do some shopping and let your sister sleep. Stop worrying.’ Judging by Masha’s tone, she isn’t saying this for the first time.
Apparently what happened was that some time after I had taken the third and fourth hit of Valium, I’d grasped my Frenchman’s face with two hands, digging into his skin with my nails, and with an unblinking loony stare hissed something not very nice through my clenched teeth. Then, abruptly, dropped back on the couch. My eyes rolled back and white, frothy saliva started to come out of my mouth. Sleaze-ball got a fright and, while staring at me, kept shouting something like, ‘Are you okay, my angel?’
What an idiot! Obviously I wasn’t!
Masha immediately understood what had happened, and with an ‘I told you, not more than two at a time!’ pulled me into the bathroom, where she pushed two fingers down my throat and made me puke, removing the excess of the sedatives.
When I’m finally able to switch on my brain and recalculate the outcome of the night, I genuinely smile.
I didn’t make any cash over the weekend. The following day our boss barked at me, threatening to fire me if he found out about one more drug incident involving me. But I missed it! I missed the weekend from hell. I learnt that Valium and alcohol are not a good combination for my body. And that my sleaze-ball is probably angry, because I haven’t received an SMS from him.
I wonder what I hissed at him… something tells me it was not sweet and pleasant, taking into account that it was not me speaking but my psyche that was freed from abuse and suppression.
My joy doesn’t last long, though. A week later my phone comes alive with a text from him. It informs me that he is sure that I was just not feeling well and didn’t mean what I said. And that he’d be coming back the following week and would love to see me. Oh, and that he was having some difficulties with money and would not be able to pay me, but believed it wouldn’t be a problem for us, because our relationship was built on genuine feelings…
Yeah, right!
I get ecstatic. My greed, my desire to make more money, always pushed me to handle one more bout of torture and prevented me from stopping abusing myself and ceasing our meetings. But thanks to his greed, I no longer have a choice. I write back that there is absolutely fucking nothing on this earth that could make me spend even an hour with him for free, and that when he talks about our ‘strong bond’ it makes me sick.