The ceiling was oscillating – to and fro.
Her dilapidated cot creaked. As his groins thumped against her vagina, she moaned.
I love hard…but…I…fuck…harder. He was panting by now.
This wasn’t the first time she had a man talking while having sex. She had seen all kinds of them. Most penetrated her like animals. Some threw her around as they switched positions. A not-so-rare kind, though, talked before they fucked. To them, she would be more than a meatball. She would be a woman who listened.
He went down on her to implant a mushy kiss on her vagina. Then he headed up to suck on her breasts. When he lowered for a lip-lock, though, she put her hand to his face.
“I don’t kiss.”
“And I don’t care. I’ve paid.”
“Noooo!” She shoved her palm upon his face and jerked him away when he lowered again. He stopped.
“So, you’re one of those!” He scoffed.
“One of what?”
“Kiss is for the lovers, kind! Huh! Who would love a prostitute, though?”
“Someone who is not desperate for a woman’s validation that he is bad enough to be good enough for love. Somebody unlike you, ain’t I right?” She spat, shooting bullets with her unwavering, daunting eyes.
“I AM NOT SEEKING YOUR VALIDATION!”
“Of course, you are. You’re not rogue, you’re just pretending.”
Silence fell.
“I wish I were,” he broke it, “maybe then I would not scare them away.”
“What do you mean?” She asked.
“Falling in love is rare, but when it happens, it happens hard. I do…you know…everything right. Perfect, they all say. I am the best. The world needs more men like me.
They all say.
But that’s what we fear, right? A guilty conscience. Maybe they know if they hurt me, they will have nothing to explain to their conscience. Maybe, in their eyes, I command to be loved in the most perfect way. And they cannot trust themselves with me, so they flee my love, always.”
“Hatt chutiye!” She said, taking a drag from her cigarette now.
“What the fuck! What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No say!”
“The world is a nasty place. Tu seekh jayega,” she said, “and until then, to let you be is a favour they do, believe me. At least, they did not sell you for money.” She fell down the memory lane, landing hard on her chest, in the day her sixteen-year-old self had fled with her lover.
“Hmm?”
“He called me art. Flawless piece of art. Except, I’m not flawless.”
“But art. I can vouch,” he said, not so flirtatiously, running his finger down her face, her breasts, her navel, into her vagina. She let him.
“Get over yourself,” she said.
“I made you moan your lungs out,” he smirked.
She did not remember the last time she had moaned. Sex, to her, was routine now – erotic thumping, devoid of soul. Maybe she would feel it again, maybe if she ever made love. Maybe. Although, for her clients, she always moaned. Sometimes, she even feigned orgasms; she might, or might not tell them later. It was not for nothing they called her the perfect mistress – she knew how to play with a man’s ego.
“Of course, you did”, she said. She didn’t want to play with his ego. For once, she did not feel like a piece of meat, but a person. A person with with a life story she could tell him. Maybe if he leaned in for a kiss again, she would let him smudge her fiery red lips. Maybe, or maybe not.
“Listen, I am not perfect. I’m full of flaws,” he said. “I want them noticed, understood. It’s just so lonely this way.”
“What if you have only sought love in broken people? She asked.
“I am too empty for that kind of hope,” he said.
“You will find someone. They will fill you with everything you’ve emptied yourself of.”
“Achha! What if I fell in love with you? Would you keep me?”
At that she shuddered. Her hands shivered. That conversation was a sandcastle she didn’t know she had been making. And just when she had started to like it, he kicked it upon her face.
“Who…would love a prostitute,” she said, hiding behind a straight face.
“Hey! I am sorry…I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No. It is true.”
And like it happens always – two souls, each capable of the adventure the other desired so deeply, gave each other nothing but routine disappointments.
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