Extract from Superhooker: How I Met Lopes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

This is chapter 8 from Superhooker, newly edited.

I wake late in the afternoon. I sit on the balcony, drenching myself in the sun's rays. I have stripped, naked, on all fours, then crouch, an animal, a savage, wishing the sun to banish the ugliness from my skin. I inspect my skin close up, magnified. Stubble on my legs, red flea bites. In the mirror I check the spots on my chin, the white heads, a cold-sore forming on my top lip. I am dirty, poisoned, venom, toxins, bubbling up beneath the epidermis, forming those white spots on an inflamed chin. “You are beautiful!” the men at the club exclaim between champagnes and glances at the strippers dancing skillfully around the silver pole. They stare into my painted eyes, bewitched, stroking my legs in the dim light, infatuated. They want me to touch them, touch them like their wives never will. I feed their egos, seize each compliment and twist each nasty little criticism around with a joke or intelligent comment. Most of the men are looking for sex.

I have sex with only one person, Lopes. A Brazilian, so different from any other man I have had sexual pleasure with. He is intense, twisting me around into positions I never even knew existed, licking me from my neck down to my toe, all the time whilst fucking me hard with his small, firm cock. I love to be his bitch, I know that is what I am. I cannot fight nature. He made me scream so loud that the other girls in the house stopped talking to me and then complained because of the noise.

I went downstairs one afternoon after Lopes had stayed the night and Alexandra, who cannot speak English, did not say ola but looked at me as if I was a nasty insect, a processionary caterpillar, that had just unexpectedly crawled into the kitchen. I presumed that she had family or boyfriend problems as she had just been speaking animatedly on her mobile telephone. Jessica came into the kitchen and instead of saying boa tarde began, “It's like this. When you have a shower do not leave water on the floor. Be quiet and don't slam the door and have a shower late so you don't wake us up. It's like this. When you have used a plate wash it, like this, then rinse it and leave it here....”

“Fuck you,” I walked out of the kitchen, taking my plate of cut-up oranges with me.

I began to cry after my initial anger, hating the house, hating them ganging up on me, hating them not wanting me to have any happiness in my life. Jessica did not mention Lopes but I have seen the way she looks at him when we are working in the club. One small moment of happiness had to be spoilt by the jealousy of others, who wanted to snatch that happiness away from me, they want that happiness and joy to be theirs instead. I am different from the other girls but we are all emotionally desperate in one way or another. “If you wanted to make me unhappy, then you have succeeded!” I called down from the stairs. I tried to explain to the Russian man what had happened. I was crying and shouting.

Nao compreendo!,” he kept repeating.

Yeah, but I'm going to tell you anyway!” I yelled. And I wondered why, and when, seemingly overnight, a new cleanliness regime had started.

I told Miguel about our argument and he said to Jessica, “Don't make her cry.”

Jessica said that some new girls were coming to the house and they would not even discuss the matter but would just start fighting. She said that is why they wanted to keep the house tidy. However, when the new girls arrived, two Brazilians, they were kind and generous. They shared their meals with me and gave me some gold nail varnish and a home-made summery top. I danced with Mel (Portuguese for honey) on the dance floor as St J's. We discussed the unpleasant odour of the house. Mel disliked Jessica and her bossiness as much as I did.

I walk into Almancil to the gym for a sauna. I have got my MP3 player on so the sounds of the men shouting or hitting their car horns as I march by the side of the heavy-trafficked road are submerged in heavy hip hop beats. The shamans, the Native American Indians, used saunas for their well-being and it was like a religious ritual for them. They would say a prayer for their family, or their future or any other concern that they had as they entered.

I want the poisons to be drawn out from my skin. I sit, head bowed with heat, wrapped in a thick beach towel. A layer of filmy sweat forms over my skin, dripping down my face, I lean forward, towards the red wooden floor, head on hands.

Out, out, out, this is a prayer for my future, out, out, out, the dirt, the nicotine, the bitter venom from the hookers, the alcohol, the strangers’ hands on my body, dirty lips on my face, strangers, foreigners, complete strangers, mind games, jealousy, bitchiness, lies, out, out, out, let  it be drawn out until I am clean again.

I take a cold shower afterwards, they say that is the best thing to do as it leaves you more alive and refreshed. The skin on my chin looks a lot better. I inspect it closely in the mirror.

When I first arrived here, Lopes was waiting at Loule train station. I did not take much notice really. He was just very tall, dark hair and serious looking, a typical heavy in a suit. A fleeting thought was that he was a gangster-type, part of the organization of the strip club and someone who I should be wary of. “Hey, you like Dire Straits?” he asked, grinning, taking both hands off the steering wheel as he talked, singing along to 'Money For Nothing' as we wound along the dark, rural streets to the house. I was afraid, slightly turned on by the danger of the situation and I had a feeling that I was about to embark on a new adventure with this man, although the logical side of my brain was tutting knowingly and patronisingly, warning me not to get involved.

We got to the house and he told me that I had half an hour to get ready for work. I quickly took my hair out of its plaits so that it was wavy, put on some make up, a short skirt, a denim jacket and knee-high boots. Lopes was five minutes early and I dismissed his comment that I looked beautiful as an insincere form of flattery because that is what all these type of men in these clubs say; they are all the same. When we got to the club Jules asked me if I had any clothes for dancing. I said that no, I did not have anything to dance in. He showed me around the club and asked Lopes to drive me back to the house because I seemed tired. On the way out, Lopes asked me if I liked St J's. “Sim,” I replied yet thought, not bad for a whorehouse.

Driving through Almancil, the police stopped the car. “Fuck you!” cursed Lopes as the pistol-wearing policia urged him to stop at the traffic lights. He asked Lopes for ID and then wanted to see the papers for the car. Lopes did not have the correct papers and the men continued their heated diatribe for a while. Lopes told the policia where he worked. “See how he say I can go when I tell him St J's?” he smiled.

“Why?” I asked but got no reply.

Back in the house, my room was very cold and depressing. An unwelcoming bed with a grim, grey sheet and a couple of inadequate blankets. It had the atmosphere of a prison cell, only more fun. I expected the Algarve to be hot and I had even packed my bikini. With a disappointed sigh I turned the radiator on and began to get changed. Suddenly, sinisterly, the light went out. I guessed that the fuse had tripped and began to search for my cigarette lighter, then walked slowly down the stairs, burning my thumb on the lighter's switch as I pressed it down for too long. Perhaps there was a spirit in the house trying to tell me something by turning off the electricity. I had entered the underworld after all, doing something not strictly legal, beyond the mainstream where sex was exchanged for money, where anything could happen. I looked for the fuse box yet could not find it. Continuing to burn my thumb, I went back up to my room, to my opened suitcase and discarded clothes and crouched over the small orange flame.

I looked into the flame, questioning the reasons why I was there. The answer was simple: money. The northern phrase, 'Where there's muck there's brass' seemed appropriate and reassuring. I searched in the dark for my clothes and got dressed again, including my jeans and coat and got into bed, arms folded across my chest, still cold and with the transient thought that I was getting too old for this.

In the morning I realized that the glass sliding-door leading to the balcony was partially open, which explained why I was so cold. The sky was overcast and on the wall there was a picture. A print of a semi-naked woman reclining. Perhaps when this place was fresh and new, the boss had a fantasy of it to be some time of boudoir for his ladies to relax and pamper themselves in before entertaining the gentlemen at the club. How different male fantasies of women can be from reality.

A few days later there was the party. The other girls in the house were mad at me for dancing in my room with my MP3 player on. I did not know that every move was ricocheting around the whole house. The girls told Arabelle and she decided it was time for a party. I had started it off without even realising it. There were Jessica, Alexandra, Arabelle, Lopes and Miguel; I brought down my CDs and we all got drunk and danced. We all had problems and secrets to hide but for a short while we were united and free. I danced with Lopes. He was trying to kiss me but I was telling him, no. He took out his gold hoop earring and put it in my ear. Miguel was dancing with a sanitary towel stuck to his forehead and an expanding tampon in his glass of beer. He took the tampon out of the beer, put it in his mouth and sucked on it. Alexandra showed me how to dance to Brazilian music. She is exotic- dark skin and died-blonde hair- with a loud catlike voice. During the night I got a definite feeling, a feeling I have had before in other houses, that there was another presence in the house, another person or spirit.

When it got light, Miguel drove Jessica and I to the garage next door to buy more beer. There was music playing in the forecourt and I danced to it in front of the car, smiling and waving at him through the car window. Jessica opened the fridge in the garage and she accidentally smashed a bottle of beer on the floor. The shop assistant remained undisturbed in a typically laid back southern Portuguese manner and told her not to worry about it. Then Miguel and Jessica smoked a joint in the car. We got back to the house and Arabelle took photographs. Lopes took off all of his clothes apart from his underpants. There are now photographs of Jessica trying to pull his underpants off. In one of the photographs she is kneeling in front of him and it looks as if she is giving him a blow job.

We all raised our glasses and gave a toast to our friendship, vowing that we would always be friends. These friendships have since been tested, they have either lasted or expired.

Miguel began to strip for Arabelle, slowly pulling off his socks first and spinning them around. Arabelle lay on the sofa bed giggling. They are lovers and have been for three months. Her uncle could not find out because he does not want staff to be involved with each other. I rested drunkenly against Lopes. He felt so safe and comfortable, always laughing. He kissed my forehead and put his arms around me. Lopes leaned back, watching Jessica dance in front of him. Then she flopped onto the sofa, annoyed because he was with me. I reached forward and stroked her auburn hair. In the arms of Lopes I felt safety and protection, almost as if I was a child again, yet I had never felt that way as a child. I did not know him but he gave me love.

I lay in bed after the party and cried hard and long. I did not have any cuddly toys or photographs of my family in my room. I am not like the other girls….

 

The processionary caterpillars are outside the house. They live in the pine trees. There are long lines of caterpillars clinging together by a silk thread. “Mau,” warns Lopes as I point to them. Lopes tells me that his favourite animal is a wolf. That is what he would be if he were an animal, lobo.

The cat is ill. He is thin and silent, forgotten by his owner in the empty house. It is night, I am isolated in the surrounding darkness and woods. Friends and familiarity are a distance away. Gaspar's leg is raw and painful. I pick the cat up, he is very placid for an un-neutered tom, and cradle him in my arms like a baby. I shake him gently, up and down, he does not purr like he usually does. “Poor leg, poor leg,” I say, tears running down my face. He is looking at me like a helpless green-eyed baby. There is no food or water left out for him I pour water in a Planta margarine tub and hold the cat to the water until he starts to drink, and drink greedily. It is like he is ill yet is unaware that he is. He is mangy and smelly and seems to have stopped washing himself.

I make the cat a sick-bed in the corner of the front room using the cushions from one of the chairs, then pulling the chair across to make a den for him. I put a bowl of cat biscuits and water inside the den. I place Gaspar carefully onto a cushion, stroking his grey-white fur. How unloved he is, how undeserving of love he seems to feel. He is just an animal and treated as such. I stand up to leave. As I walk away, the cat follows me, limping. I place him back onto the cushion. I leave again. The cat follows me and lies down on the kitchen floor instead.

I think about what Nuno (Nono) said, “We are animals, after all.” Is that what I am reduced to here? An animal.

A dark, clear sky and the large white moon. I feel more powerful just before the full moon. The shift in tide, mood and moon during this evening making me more able to make money from the men that come here. I dance for the men, they are away from their wives, from their jobs, their families, their other lives and they have changed, they are changing still as they are watching me, calling, clawing, baying. They howl at my shows as I strip down to my skin.


Submitted: January 09, 2023

© Copyright 2023 Amber Libra. All rights reserved.

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Comments

willnorman

What a tragic tale of someone trapped in a life of sadness and drudgery. At least she has Lopes. You write beautifully.

Tue, January 24th, 2023 12:51am

Author
Reply

Yes, she is crying a lot during this chapter.

Tue, January 24th, 2023 3:56am

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