Show No Mercy — Excerpt from 'The Birthday Present'
She wasn’t what he’d expected at all. When he rang the agency to book an evening with ‘Krystal’, he’d had visions of a living doll turning up on his doorstep, someone beautiful and voluptuous with immaculate hair and make-up. He’d pictured her in skyscraper heels and a stylish trench coat, which she would discard to reveal a basque worn with tiny lace panties, suspenders and seamed stockings. He had fantasised about the things he would do to her, the things he would instruct her to do to him, had seen her on her knees looking up at him, on all fours, peeking coquettishly over her shoulder, then underneath him, long stockinged legs wrapped around his body, stiletto heels bobbing at the ceiling.
In his fantasies, the woman he ordered from East End Girls had been variously blonde, auburn and brunette, but always beautiful and never in the slightest like this creature.
He looked again at the woman on his doorstep. She was an emaciated mouse with corned beef legs, shivering in an orange fanny pelmet, bubblegum pink fun-fur jacket and scuffed gold shoes. Her hair was in a scrunchy, her make-up made her face look like something a child had crayoned, and she both smoked and chewed gum. The ceaseless chomping made a vein in her temple crawl back and forth like a wayward snake. His breath caught in his throat: he’d saved up for her for weeks.
‘Come on, man, let’s in,’ she demanded, hefting the huge shoulder bag she carried. ‘It’s fucking brass monkeys out here.’
Once inside, he ran to find a saucer for her to use as an ashtray. When he returned, he found her picking through his CDs, a scowl on her face.
‘Have you not got nothing more poppy?’ she asked, clearly unimpressed with his jazz collection. ‘Bit of Kylie?’
It was his birthday: she was his present to himself, the only one he would get. At thirty-five, having reached what his mother called middle-age, he thought it was time he had a woman in his life. Leaving work he had felt buoyant, excited, for once the first one out of the door.
He wiped his palms on his trousers, bought new from Matalan for the occasion, then shook his head.
‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ She gave up on the CDs, dropped the cigarette into the saucer and wriggled out of her jacket. It lay on the couch where she dropped it like a sulky, hairy, pink pig.
‘Do you like me tits?’ she asked, pushing them together and leaning forward. ‘I got them for Christmas. Mint, aren’t they?’ He nodded, then noticed the scabs and bruises, the tracks on her arms. He swallowed, feeling queasy. ‘I do hand relief, oral and full straight sex. Give us an extra twenty and you can have anal. I won’t be tied up or slapped nor nothing, mind, and I don’t perform with pets. Oh, and I don’t do nothing without a condom, plus lubrication for penetration. Got that?’ He nodded. ‘The agency’ll charge your card for whatever you have. Anal gets charged as a straight shag and I get to keep the twenty.’
He wanted her to leave. He wanted his first time to be special, couldn’t imagine doing anything with this woman. He looked at her hands, rough little monkey paws, bitten nails coated in chipped purple lacquer, and felt he would rather die than have her touch him. He felt cheap and dirty, his fantasies sitting in the pit of his stomach like an indigestible meal.
‘What’s up?’ She rummaged through the bag she’d dropped on the floor and pulled out a condom. ‘First time?’
He swallowed. There had been moments, fumblings, when he was at school. Then magazines while he cared for his mother, films after she went into care. The nursing home ate his money like a gannet ate fish. She had meant first time paying for it. She had no idea.
She grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll soon get you warmed up, then you can tell us what you fancy.’ She nodded at the bag. ‘I’ve got all sorts in there if you like toys.’
He hadn’t wanted to pick up any of the girls who hung around the industrial estate after the workers went home. Besides, he didn’t drive, couldn’t afford a car. The care home costs … He had been grateful when he heard someone at work talking about that particular agency: East End Girls, who came at east end prices. He wanted a girlfriend. He was lonely, had been lonely for as long as he could remember.
But this woman was not what he wanted. Not what he wanted at all.
‘N— no,’ he said.
She rolled her eyes and went to work, taking charge, leaving him no room to protest. Half an hour later, he felt much, much better about the whole situation, and after an hour, he no longer understood why he’d ever had reservations. He negotiated a price for her to stay the night, to hell with the expense, then let her handcuff him to his mother’s brass bedstead. Later still he fell asleep, wrists abraded despite the lining on the handcuffs, a strangely satisfying ache in his balls, and dreamed of trumpeting angels.
He awoke in the early hours, at first puzzled by the animal warmth of the small body at his side: then he remembered, and he smiled. He looked down at her, her features lit by the landing light shining in through the glass above the door. Mascara was smeared around her eyes, streaked on her cheeks, and her arm was thrown up above her head, her stubble-filled oxter a smudge, the track marks on her arm seeming to glow faintly in the artificial twilight. Her mouth hung open and she made little snorting sounds as she slept. He adored her. He decided her pet name would be ‘Piglet’. He could hardly wait to tell her.
In his fantasies, the woman he ordered from East End Girls had been variously blonde, auburn and brunette, but always beautiful and never in the slightest like this creature.
He looked again at the woman on his doorstep. She was an emaciated mouse with corned beef legs, shivering in an orange fanny pelmet, bubblegum pink fun-fur jacket and scuffed gold shoes. Her hair was in a scrunchy, her make-up made her face look like something a child had crayoned, and she both smoked and chewed gum. The ceaseless chomping made a vein in her temple crawl back and forth like a wayward snake. His breath caught in his throat: he’d saved up for her for weeks.
‘Come on, man, let’s in,’ she demanded, hefting the huge shoulder bag she carried. ‘It’s fucking brass monkeys out here.’
Once inside, he ran to find a saucer for her to use as an ashtray. When he returned, he found her picking through his CDs, a scowl on her face.
‘Have you not got nothing more poppy?’ she asked, clearly unimpressed with his jazz collection. ‘Bit of Kylie?’
It was his birthday: she was his present to himself, the only one he would get. At thirty-five, having reached what his mother called middle-age, he thought it was time he had a woman in his life. Leaving work he had felt buoyant, excited, for once the first one out of the door.
He wiped his palms on his trousers, bought new from Matalan for the occasion, then shook his head.
‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ She gave up on the CDs, dropped the cigarette into the saucer and wriggled out of her jacket. It lay on the couch where she dropped it like a sulky, hairy, pink pig.
‘Do you like me tits?’ she asked, pushing them together and leaning forward. ‘I got them for Christmas. Mint, aren’t they?’ He nodded, then noticed the scabs and bruises, the tracks on her arms. He swallowed, feeling queasy. ‘I do hand relief, oral and full straight sex. Give us an extra twenty and you can have anal. I won’t be tied up or slapped nor nothing, mind, and I don’t perform with pets. Oh, and I don’t do nothing without a condom, plus lubrication for penetration. Got that?’ He nodded. ‘The agency’ll charge your card for whatever you have. Anal gets charged as a straight shag and I get to keep the twenty.’
He wanted her to leave. He wanted his first time to be special, couldn’t imagine doing anything with this woman. He looked at her hands, rough little monkey paws, bitten nails coated in chipped purple lacquer, and felt he would rather die than have her touch him. He felt cheap and dirty, his fantasies sitting in the pit of his stomach like an indigestible meal.
‘What’s up?’ She rummaged through the bag she’d dropped on the floor and pulled out a condom. ‘First time?’
He swallowed. There had been moments, fumblings, when he was at school. Then magazines while he cared for his mother, films after she went into care. The nursing home ate his money like a gannet ate fish. She had meant first time paying for it. She had no idea.
She grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll soon get you warmed up, then you can tell us what you fancy.’ She nodded at the bag. ‘I’ve got all sorts in there if you like toys.’
He hadn’t wanted to pick up any of the girls who hung around the industrial estate after the workers went home. Besides, he didn’t drive, couldn’t afford a car. The care home costs … He had been grateful when he heard someone at work talking about that particular agency: East End Girls, who came at east end prices. He wanted a girlfriend. He was lonely, had been lonely for as long as he could remember.
But this woman was not what he wanted. Not what he wanted at all.
‘N— no,’ he said.
She rolled her eyes and went to work, taking charge, leaving him no room to protest. Half an hour later, he felt much, much better about the whole situation, and after an hour, he no longer understood why he’d ever had reservations. He negotiated a price for her to stay the night, to hell with the expense, then let her handcuff him to his mother’s brass bedstead. Later still he fell asleep, wrists abraded despite the lining on the handcuffs, a strangely satisfying ache in his balls, and dreamed of trumpeting angels.
He awoke in the early hours, at first puzzled by the animal warmth of the small body at his side: then he remembered, and he smiled. He looked down at her, her features lit by the landing light shining in through the glass above the door. Mascara was smeared around her eyes, streaked on her cheeks, and her arm was thrown up above her head, her stubble-filled oxter a smudge, the track marks on her arm seeming to glow faintly in the artificial twilight. Her mouth hung open and she made little snorting sounds as she slept. He adored her. He decided her pet name would be ‘Piglet’. He could hardly wait to tell her.
