I was agitated. I didn’t know why exactly I was there. Maybe because my ex-girlfriend had been fucking someone else for months. Or maybe it was simply because I hadn’t been laid for too long. Until the last moment I was uncertain whether to go or not, but in the end, I decided, it had been too long since I had seen any pussy hair. I followed the directions on the poster. It was winter, it was cold. The sunsets early in winter. As the sunset, I had the impression that my conscience would also be clear. In the night people cannot see you, but I had not come to terms with myself. I was in a classic middle-class suburban neighborhood. All the houses looked alike, all the front doors for some reason were green on a white wall. The house number was on the right-hand side engraved on a grey tile. I was looking for the number 56. I hope no one is coming. I look around and everything seems to be still. From a distance, the only figure I could see is a lady walking her dog. I wait a moment. To try to cover my decidedly lost area I decide to walk. Shit! What am I doing here – I think. Well, by now I have arrived and I already have the money with me, the last step is a phone call. I can’t find any real reason why I should go back and cancel everything. Then, maybe what I need is a good blowjob. I pick up the phone and call.
“Hello”- a female voice answers, sounding sweet. I get the feeling he’s trying to sound provocative. The part doesn’t work for her, it makes me tender.
“Yes, hello. I parked but I can’t find the house number. Here, the houses all look the same to me. Right now I’m near the stop sign, I see a big tree, I think it’s an oak tree…could you tell me where to come?”- I answered. My voice was trembling. I was sweating, but it was done. I could not turn back.
Until a moment before I had two options: to call, or to get back on my scooter and go back the way I came. I had chosen. But I still didn’t know if it had been the right choice.
“You’re almost there, honey, see that door on the street corner by the lamppost? That’s where I am. Come on, I’ll open it for you”- she said.
In front of the door stood a woman in her early thirties in a black dressing gown. She was Caribbean, and although she was wrapped in the thick black dressing gown that she was holding on to because of the January cold, her body, without speaking, suggested that hers was a story of suffering.
“Please come in… what is your name?”- she asked.
I told her my name, and I asked her hers. Her name was Jasmira. But I don’t think it was her real name, I think it was just the one she used at work.
As we walked down the driveway of the small garden that surrounded the house, we exchanged a few pleasantries.
She said I sounded young, but she didn’t think I was that young.
I smiled embarrassedly.
We entered the house. I have to say I didn’t expect a house like this. It was a nice house. The kitchen was very large. It didn’t look anything like a brothel, at least not like how I was imagining a brothel.
She took me straight to the bedroom. It was very minimal, there was only a bed, a bedside table, and a piece of furniture on the opposite side. The shutters and windows were closed. Two lamps in opposite corners of the room created a soft light. It created a very detached atmosphere. She closed the door and told me to make myself comfortable and she would be right back.
I started to undress myself, but from the next room, I heard the sound of a baby crying.
The detached atmosphere that was already making me uncomfortable, after the noise of the baby, made me see everything with disgust. I couldn’t believe it. I was disgusted.
But what could I do?
I kept undressing. I stifled that whimpering in my head.
Jasmira returned to my room when the noise stopped.
She took off her big black dressing gown. Underneath she had lace underwear, also black. Her two big mulatto breasts lay in front of me. She had two big black nipples that were throbbing, you could see that she had recently suckled. Her hips were very wide. She had two scars on her belly, one from the cesarean section, the other God knows what.
In a soft voice, she told me to undress completely.
In that situation I was not aroused, my member could not rise.
Anyway, I lay down on the bed. I didn’t know what to do, but it seemed the most natural thing to do.
Jasmira undressed in turn, leaving only her stockings on. Her pubis was shaved. Mine wasn’t. I never liked shaved pubes.
She joined me on the bed.
When you go with a prostitute there is a rule, no kissing. At least, this is what people say. If they kissed, probably people would never leave. Maybe that’s why hookers don’t kiss. It’s the kissing that makes sex love, otherwise, it’s purely mechanical synchronicity. It’s the kissing that makes you fall in love. And love, for a prostitute, is definitely bad for business.
She began by touching my member. Her hands were rough and cold. They were working hands. Through my limp member, I could feel the fatigue of every single hour of work Jasmira had had to endure.
She knew how to handle a penis, who knows how many she had seen, who knows how many different shapes and sizes. She went down on it, but nothing. Not a single vibration of excitement, not a single gasp.
Everything was becoming unbearable in my mind. The atmosphere for me was turning out to be uncomfortably hangover-flavored, in total sobriety. I wanted to go back in time and kick myself off half an hour earlier. Yell at him that this was no place for him, to go home, find a girl and go fuck someone his own age, not to have to enter that context. But it was late now.
I couldn’t leave like that. Jasmira was a prostitute, but if I left like this, wouldn’t she also wonder why? Yes, I would have paid her, but in any case, I had a distinct feeling that she would feel rejected. No, it didn’t feel right either, I couldn’t leave. Staying wasn’t the right thing for me, but if I left I would offend Jasmira, and she didn’t deserve that.
I closed my eyes, trying to isolate myself from everything. I breathed. I concentrated on the warmth emanating from the fluid movement of Jasmira’s mouth on me.
Not without effort, I succeeded. Still, with my eyes closed, I penetrated her. Our pubes were touching. The dance of mechanical synchronism began. I prayed to myself that it would soon be over.
Jasmira was warm. Isolated from everything, I had the impression that the crying child in the next room had never been there. I had the impression that that child was me. I was inside Jasmira, but in me, I felt that I had always inhabited that damp world. Outside that room the universe had collapsed, nothing existed. Only Jasmira and I existed. Only Jasmira and her child.
At this thought I ejaculated.
We got dressed. Neither of us spoke.
I paid Jasmira, and for what it was worth, I thanked her.
“Come on, I’ll walk you to the door” – she said.
As we walked down the corridor, I saw that a door was ajar, so I peeked in.
I saw a man with a baby on his lap watching TV.
Now I knew.