The Pink Room
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Chapter One The Four important things in life - Ranked. Love. Money. Power. Fame. LOVE: Love can be defined as a deep romantic or sexual attachment to another human being. It is a feeling that ignites warmth and offers comfort; an emotion we all crave, and at some point in our lives, hope to experience. In keeping love alive in its purest form, a high degree of trust is crucial in the construction. To be loved, to feel totally and completely precious to and by another human being, can feel (at times) consuming. Love can at times be both a disease and a cure. When discovered, it is hoped and prayed to last a person’s lifetime. She can feel loved for about ten, maybe twenty minutes, stretching to a full hour if there is enough foreplay involved. This feeling of being ‘loved’ however is all part of the superficial ‘act’. The fantasy. The falsified feeling is something the customer ‘gives’ freely, just so he can ‘get-into-the-swing’ of things. She often wonders whether it is easier for her client to say ‘I love you’ to her, a complete stranger, than to the wife they have been married to for seven years, some with children, others with the first on the way. Maybe it was easier for them to say ‘I love you’ to this ‘fictional’ girlfriend, like a lifeless message scribbled in a Valentine’s Day card, for unlike the wives, she only ever asks for one thing in return. The one thing that will help keep her warm, allow her to care for herself, the one thing she really craves: Payment. Once her work is done, she finds herself emotionally right back in the same situation before her client has even walked out the door – completely alone – truly unloved.
MONEY: As much as love, money is something we all need in order to survive in today’s manic cosmopolitan world. Just as with love, money can be here one minute and gone the next. An increasing level of money can indeed help to increase the level of ones happiness, but if love fails to be in place to assist in the careful equilibrium, money can spoil and corrupt us from within. For better or for worse, money, in considerable amounts, can change your present life and your future. She can earn a fair amount for a single day’s work, sometimes even for just a few hours of trade. The work involved, however, does play havoc with her body and to a certain extent her mind. At the end of an encounter, when the final four-figure bill is handed out (the first digit preceding the zeros tailored to fit the social/business hierarchy of her client), she smoothes out her hair and wipes her lips clean before applying a fresh coating of colour and final gloss. The four, and if available, five-figure clients are the ones she adores doing business with. A three-figure client, if constant throughout a business period, would be deemed as a less fortunate day on the job. In her line of business, you will not find a good girl for under three figures. Once payment is received (always cash in hand and on the spot), she walks out of her temporary office and back onto the streets, waiting for the schedule of her next client to reach her, either via her boss or very occasionally, direct from the new client himself…or herself. Although the money she makes is good, the demand for work itself is, at times, very seasonal. During the holidays, especially Christmas when the good clients don’t have time to come out to play, her money comes from the lower ends of the social hierarchy, forcing her into many a desperate situation; the two-figure clients. Money laced finely with cocaine. Valued pieces of green paper that have been rapidly passed down from one businesswoman to the next. Scum. Of the good money that she does manage to earn, she can comfortably pay her bills and still have enough spare change to buy herself some new, ‘nice’ things, while the work itself creates a clutter of old, rotting things inside her
head, and if unlucky, her body. POWER: Power, can be regarded by many people to be a positive possession. However, in order to successfully achieve power, you first need to obtain the fulfillment of having love and then money in your life. Power as a ruler. Power as a follower. Power as an instructor. Power as a listener. Power as a creator. Power as a destroyer. Power as a provider. Power as a consumer. Just as with love (and in some cases, money) there are many different forms and types of power. Love and money can be yielded for the greater good or as a method of abuse. People often say that once you have power, always put up a fight never to let it go. If lost altogether, love may fade and money will fall through your hands as easily as trapped sand in a revolving hourglass. If executed wisely, power can often be the final, secure knot towards the two preceding factors. Power of the mind. Power of the body. Power over one’s own destiny. Power is something she has never obtained or yielded, although it is something she desperately craves in her line of work (coupled with a bonus helping of love), for money is the only possession that she manages to achieve and have some form of control over. Her total lack of power can be seen vividly; saying ‘no’ repeatedly to an unethical business proposition, but being forced into the transaction anyway, sometimes with long-term, even fatal consequences, after the merge has taken place. Power and control are instantly depleted once her legs begin to part through another person’s force, her body pushed to the ground, screaming and crying. Defeated. The collection of unwholesome scenarios, of deals being forced onto and into her body and even deeper inside her mind are unfortunately, quite common. After each miserable transaction has taken place, she will be left feeling raw and blue on the inside and if the transaction did not go as well as the opposing party had hoped, she would be made to look raw and blue on the outside as well. Key areas of target would include her arms, legs and especially her face, the horrendous ordeal subsequently putting her out of work for at least a fortnight. All without sick pay.
The longer she is forced to remain in the business, the more she understands that ‘power’ is not one of the perks that accompany the job over time, just as much as ‘true love’ is never an unexpected bonus. FAME: This is the last and least important possession for an individual to have in one’s life. That is not to say however that being ‘in the spotlight’ isn’t a nice experience. To have your face upon the front covers of all the leading glossy magazines, two page stories written about your recent achievements in all the newspapers - such exposure and attention can be exhilarating. Nevertheless, if all you possess in life is the single ideal of fame and all the glory and fortune it is supposed to yield, the glossy pictures will always convey the fact that the other three possessions in life are lacking or simply not in place at all. The possession of fame is valued on a scope that is wide-ranging, from those who crave it like an addiction, to those who have no interest in it what so ever. Metaphorically, fame is a scorpion; make sure which end you pick it up, as you could sting yourself and be forced to suffer the unpleasant consequences. Fame will eventually come to her, but not while she is alive. Like all good artists and performers, she will only gain attention in the media’s eye once she is dead. Unlike the wild-child movie stars overdosing on drugs, rap singers being shot in drive-by gang shootings or extravagant fashion designers committing suicide, she won’t be reported on the front page, page two or even page ten of the newspapers. Once departed, you may find her pushed down at the bottom of page thirty-four, where the trashy news goes. It is a safe bet that with the pun the media vultures will use for the story of her horrifying death, her murder, no one would bother to read the article. No one will care. No one will remember. Like all good artists, she will meet her end by being shot, strangled or over-dosed with a high level of illegal drugs, all while she is in her prime, her cheap-looking beauty to never falter. Her expected ‘five minutes of fame’, which pop-philosophy tells us everyone is entitled to, will in reality pass as quickly as it takes for you to next blink
your eyes and then she’ll be forgotten, just like she always was in people’s men's - lives. Money. Fame. Power. Love. Ranked by a prostitute. ~ Chapter Two WE WANT YOU! Do you want a job with flexible hours? Do you dream of tearing yourself away from that tired, mindless, low-paying, uniform itching type job you have found yourself stuck in longer than you planned? Would you enjoy working with new people on a daily basis, in various, exciting locations, all around the city? Would you like to become part of a professional, high quality service team? If so, please call 444 625 357 ~ OK honey, just sit yourself right down there and I’ll talk you through it all. It’s all quite straightforward. Don’t look so worried! No qualifications are needed and relevant experience is not of great importance, as training is provided whilst on the job. However, it should be noted that you will be expected to always look your best and to put more than one hundred and ten percent into all your work. O.K. Honey! I don’t think you’ll have any problems with either of these small requirements! By the way, I simply love your make-up. Did you do it yourself? Your place of work will range to suit the type of customer you’re dealing with. From apartments to hotels, alleyways, a massage parlor, cars, bars, hallways, doorways, basements, offices, executive suites, parks or fields, and maybe even one or two barns if you go further afield. I can name two
girls who have and made a pretty good earning! Well, lets just put it this way...when they want it, where they want it, you’ll give it. But, and this is a personal word of advise hon, if you don't want mother-fucking psychos in your life, I strongly advise that you don't use your own place of residence. You don't want some narked off customer banging on your door when you’re watching frickin’ Oprah, or some shit like that, if you know what I mean. The wages you can expect to earn will, as with the location, vary from client to client. Payment will only be made by the client if he, or she, if you’re prepared to swing that way, feels that you have delivered the service to a high enough level and that he/she is totally satisfied with your work. The cut of the wage taken by management will vary, low to start with, but as your client list increases, so will the level of the cut. As part of the firm’s precaution to our clients, you will be expected to attend a health check at least once every week. After all hon, they’re the ones that keep us going and need to be kept in tip-top, satisfied order. OK, now down to the actual ‘activities’ that will be involved in your work. You will be expected to be penetrated, either vaginally, orally or anally. It should be noted that gangbanging activities, where you may be penetrated in all areas at the same time, is a double fee payout for each client involved in the activity. Actual penetration in these orifices will range from penises, fingers, fists, toes, feet and tongues. Other objects of penetration, just to give you a brief run down of what you may be faced with, may include; dildoes, fruit, bottles, bats, DIY tools, guns and in some rare cases, animals. You should be expected to allow yourself to be bound and/or gagged, dressed up, tied with ropes, chains, bed clothing or other flexible materials. You will freely allow yourself to be burned with cigarettes and be suspended from doors, trees or other supporting features. You will ask no questions or decline when asked to be involved in fetish fantasies, whatever it may be. Some clients occasionally like to photograph or even film you at work. This is something we don’t particularly like our girls participating in and would hopefully not give you a client who wants you to do this. If however such a case arises, we advise you wear a mask of some kind. It’s for your own
long-term safety and privacy. Right, understand all that? You OK honey? You got any questions? No.... …told you it was all straightforward! Now, before we proceed in taking you on officially, I must inform you what the management, are not responsible for while you’re at work. We are not responsible if the client does not pay you, even if you have given a service that you believe met the mark and beyond. It is completely out of your hands. We are not responsible for sexually transmitted diseases or any pregnancies which may result from your work, so please don’t come running to us for some ‘extra cash’. Even for a red flush Hon, it won’t happen, O.K? We are not responsible for any injuries that you may sustain whilst working with a client, such as cuts, bruises, broken bones, fractures, disfigurations, mutilations, haemorrhaging, dismemberment of any kind, suffocation and well… basically death. There we go. That’s the final chapter. That all clear? Basically Honey, you can be fucked in any way imaginable. Just make sure you keep going for the regular health checks, keep taking the pills we give you and you must understand that any accusations of rape will be taken as a serious breach of your contract. You will be fired instantly and have to go back to your previous job. That is of course, if you can get it back and if you do go back to that life, that's when the devil starts grow inside of you. So, how about it Hon? Want to be a part of our team?
Chapter Three Marysville - Seattle Life is a Sweet Lullaby. The night of October 27 1973, in Marysville - Seattle, was so bitterly cold. th
Life inside the Madderson Building appeared to be frozen by the chilling atmosphere outside. In contrast to this particular lifeless night, the history of the Madderson Building itself was one all about ‘movement’. In a bygone era the building had once been a sleazy ‘get-together’ motel. A place for people from all walks of life to meet. Naughty office men and women who wanted to rent out a room for a quick fuck, a brief blowjob or anything they could get that was mildly stimulating. So once upon a time, the Madderson Building had been a place where all the nasty, white-collar fantasies could come true. As well as a haven for all the frustrated office workers to go and let off some steam, it had also been a place where the young could go and do the same, only with a lot more vigour and a lot less sense. Young, uncomplicated love. Girls and boys fucking as if their lives depended upon reaching orgasm. Spreading their used condoms all over the semen-encrusted carpets that covered the equally bad-smelling wooden floorboards underneath. Queers were not excluded from the orgy-like party, although for them, it was more of a place to hide. Rooms were inexpensive and though the walls were thin and the doors shaky, they were seen as a place of ‘less risk’ when compared to giving head in a public toilet or in one of the local parks at night. Four thin walls offered a greater feeling of safety for queers, insuring that no one could see them. Not even, in some cases, their wives or girlfriends. Unlike Noah’s Ark, the Madderson Building did not believe in a strict two-bytwo policy. The building was a place for the single pleasure-seeker to equally enjoy. Accompanied with a brief case, shoulder bag or even one made of brown paper, the single guy would book a room for no longer than an hour, simply to masturbate over his magazine of choice, or to play the
nasty porno flick recently purchased in one of the many local sex shops (that was too extreme to risk viewing at home). Old VCR’s were courteously supplied in all the rooms. All of it was foul. All of it was sexual. All of it was messy. All of it was wrong. Six years prior to 1973, all this sordid business had stopped abruptly. The office workers had to find somewhere else to hold their ‘meetings’. The young teens had to find somewhere else to spread their love. The queers were pushed back into the bushes of the parks and the ‘solo traders’ were back on the streets, knocking on new doors, or simply spent more time in the local sex shops that reeked of leather and rubber. It all stopped, because six years ago, someone obtained the building. The buyer was never disclosed. Shortly after the purchase, the Madderson Building was transformed into low-cost, no frills apartments. The whole process had seemed strange, for the only things that occupied the streets and buildings of Marysville were a large accumulation of sex shops, along with an adequate pharmacy (for the pills and rubbers), a news-agency (for all the glossy cover, wipe-down magazines), and a small grocery store, (for all those ‘extras’). Social meeting places, such as the numerous bars, were simply a home-from-home for the district. Lap dancing bars, peep-show bars, strip bars, naked wrestling bars, tits-out-only bars. A rather rundownlooking McDonald's (where you could still get a blowjob for $10 around the back on a Tuesday and Friday, when a seventeen year old girl called ‘Domino’ took the day shift), was the only ‘real’ place you could go to grab some unpleasantly (un)real food. The big puke-yellow coloured ‘M’ glowed opposite the sign for ‘Felicity’s Fucking Frolics’ that radiated a striking redhot florescence. Of the newly created apartments, each had a small living room, a tiny kitchen, a minute bathroom, two small bedrooms (each one half the size of the living room, which was still very small indeed) and a shoe-box-size storage room.
As soon as all the changes were complete, once the various papers had been checked and signed, people rather surprisingly began to move in to the building. Currently, there are more people actually living down the stretch of Marysville, occupying the rooms of the Madderson Building (for longer than a few hours at a time) than there were six years ago. Real homes had been created and established. Of the fifty poky apartments in the Madderson Building, one in particular captivates a special interest. A history all of its own. Apartment Number Fourteen. On the cold night of October 27 1973, a small boy of twelve years old, th
named Walter Manning, was sitting in the middle of a floral patterned sofa, in the standard-looking living room, perched next to his mother. With that dayâ€™s newspaper resting in her lap, head tipped lazily to one side, her mind and eyes were dead to the world. In contrast, the boy sitting to her side was completely wide-awake. An old gramophone was alive with the slightly crackling sound of opera, the music somehow managing to flow graciously from the large, clumsy looking silver horn. The mother of Walter Manning had experienced an exhausting day at the local diner serving as a waitress. After she had fixed them both some dinner, a corned-beef sandwich on week-old white bread, she had placed one of the big black discs on the turntable and wound the machine up to bring it to life. She had drifted to sleep half way through the first act of the opera, Romeo and Juliet by Charles Gounod. In the near darkness, little Walter Manning simply sat listening to the music, along with the sound of drug pushers shouting in the room to the right and a newly wedded couple fucking their brains out to the left. The darkness was penetrated only by a pink neon light that ebbed from the lap-dancing bar directly next to the Madderson Building. Its presence was made in flickering intervals. The faint rose-hued glow managed to cast many strange shadows across the walls, unusual shapes and even different shades of pink, that if looked upon for too long, would cause a rapid spiral into a state of insanity. On October 27 1973, sitting next to his mother, Walter Manning was just an th
innocent child, but on that very day, that very evening, Walter Manning changed. This small boy became something else, something that would establish the foundations for what he would later become and ultimately, make his name immortal. In the years to come, his actions would give the Madderson Building another new, distinctive chapter, in its already notorious history.
Chapter Four No Need to Fight - (Just Surrender) Exactly thirty-one flashes of pink light per minute entered the room. This was contrasted with only six long beams of green. Systematically, these two colours danced in front of my eyes. The origin of the luminous streaks of fierce colour was the crazed flashing sign constructed of bent glass tubes, spelling out ‘XXX Hot Hard Action’ (green light) and ‘The Pink Room’ (pink light) situated across the street from our apartment. As my eyes absorbed the vitality of the light, my ears were unavoidably drawn to the multiple groans and screams that were booming from one of the apartments situated behind where I sat. Number Fifteen. We were Number Fourteen. Some of the vocal action heard was that of a man, whilst most of the groaning seemed to be coming from a female vocalist. Their moaning voices were occasionally juxtaposed with a faint banging sound against the wall, a rapid sequence of percussion, that at times caused my mothers one-dollar antique plates of Charlie Chaplin to clatter and jingle with each vibrating thud. The name of ‘God’ had already been screamed from the room seven or more times. His precious son, Jesus, only ever had one calling, usually at the very end, when the whole commotion and cacophony died away into silence. Over time, I had learned that ‘God’ was the most popular guest at the McCarthy residence. His name was always being called out, practically on a daily basis, but sadly, I never got a chance to actually bump into him while wandering in the corridor, or greet him in the lift.
From the wall directly in front of me, apartment Number Thirteen, vast amounts of problematic shouting could be heard from my other neighbors. I had yet to learn what any of their names were. All I knew was that three large black men and one white woman lived there. My lack of knowledge of those resident at Number Thirteen was due to the fact that my Mother had warned me that if I ever saw them, whether in this building of ours or in the street outside, never to go near any of them. The collection of voices now sounded harsh, intense. So far nothing had been thrown against the wall, but the tension was definitely building. It was only a matter of time before something was destroyed. At apartment Number Ten, situated directly opposite our own apartment, lived the two young Everton brothers, well known for their drug runs in the area. Being key players, consumers as well as exchangers, for some of the ‘good’ people who lived in our very building, my mother referred to the Everton brothers and ‘their sort’, as ‘the utter scum and low lives of the earth’. As per my instructions for the residents of apartment Number Thirteen, I was told that I should never give the Everton brothers the opportunity to ‘get to know me better’ as my mother phrased it. Despite her instruction however, I do occasionally say ‘hello’ when I see them in the building, just to be polite. Mother often tells me that I should not always be polite to people, for you are never guaranteed to get a polite response in return. From my birth, I had grown up with these sounds, these voices, these demons that were hidden within the Madderson Building. In my home life, the concept of silence was one that I had experienced very little. For me, the reality of silence simply did not exist (could not exist). If ‘God’s’ name was not being screamed out in the room behind me, or horrific verbal abuse being shouted from the room in front of me, the turbulent noises from people and police cars out in the streets, the room I occupied would usually be filled with the sound of music, of my mother’s opera records. It seemed that even when I closed my eyes at night, when I escaped to my dreams, silence could never be found. Of the current collaboration of noise, it was the one created within our own
apartment that I found myself concentrating on the most. My mother’s beloved opera. My mother had never actually been to a live performance of opera, to experience the sheer intensity. To compensate this lacking, she had a vast collection of LP’s. Whenever she had the spare time to do so, she would listen to them. Even if she were asleep, as she now was on the sofa next to me, the music would play on regardless. On a subliminal level, I knew the reason why my mother played the records, almost constantly. It was a form of distraction. A method to drown out all the other sounds. Although, even when not present in the room, when the couple had stopped fucking, when the drug pushers had gone out to deal, when all the windows were completely shut, it were as if she could still hear all these unpleasant noises. Scratching constantly on the inside of her fragile skull. Whatever the real reason, if playing the records non-stop kept my mother in a state of tranquility, then I was more than happy for the music to be played twentyfour-seven. Just after eleven p.m. that evening, my mother had fallen asleep on the sofa next to me. She had been reading the newspaper for a good hour before succumbing to slumber, taking in all the day’s news and mindless gossip. Another method of escapism. With the constant flashing pink and occasionally green lights from the signs outside, the bright beams had started to make my eyes feel itchy. I decided to make my own way to bed, to try and drown out all the sounds around me through sleep, hopefully escaping to pleasant dreams. For me, dreams were the greatest form of escapism of all. ~ Sitting in my bed, with my knees tucked in to my chest, I had wrapped the bed covers tightly around me. Despite this, I could still feel the bitter coldness from outside seeping through the thin glass of the window next to me. The harsh, chilling sensation slid along and crept through my thin covers, gently groping my body, causing my entire frame to shiver. The flickering of green light from outside was now faint, but the pink light was still a dominant feature in my room. It crept between the cracks of the closed blinds on my window and flickered in my eyes, almost developing
like a photograph inside my head, never to be forgotten. The bright neon colour seemed to flash with a hunger, wanting to be noticed. Its primary aim, after all, was to draw the attention of a passing eye to the building situated directly opposite my bedroom window, across the ally way that separated us. The explosion of pink came from a popular strip club called ‘The Pink Room’. It was a gathering place for groups of office workers, gangs of teens and single men to get their kicks and have their deepest fantasies fulfilled. Anything from a long soothing blowjob, to a quick fuck, a lesbianmasturbation show, to full-on gang-bang action. The Pink Room offered everything and anything. An abundance of sex, an assortment of drugs and a large selection of hard liquor. From an unusually young age, I soon discovered that it was not only The Pink Room and other sex houses around the area where ‘business’ took place. Alleyways, like the one that separated myself from the brothel nextdoor, were common places where the exchange of cash for flesh and fluid was made. Many a night I had been woken by the same sounds, although lower in tone when compared to the ones that came from apartment Number Fifteen next door. The sounds of pleasure would echo in the alleyway below my window, keeping me awake, forcing me out of my dreams, from my haven of unconscious distraction. Laying in bed, I would hear these alluring noises, wanting desperately to see exactly where they were coming from, to actually witness the exchange. Yet every time I turned in my bed, ready to look out of my window, my mother would interrupt by entering my room, probably hearing the noises herself from her own room, alerting her to knowingly intercept my course of action. At such times, she would always insist that I should sleep with her in her room. She would always accompany this instruction with the little white lie that she had experienced a bad dream and wanted some company to help her sleep better. On the odd occasion, when her interception had for whatever reason been delayed, I had managed to briefly look outside my window, to glimpse moving shadows slithering against one another, touching, but I had yet to witness anything explicit to the eye. All the ‘filth’ my mother usually talked about, and profoundly condemned, was still confined
to the fabricated illusions of my own growing imagination. Nearly every evening, before going to bed, my mother would instruct me never to look out of my window late at night. Recently, probably due to my advancing years, to ensure her instruction was carried out she would tie the cord of the blinds tightly around a small silver hook in the middle of the windowsill. With her specialty knot, curiosity could never get the better of me, for the knot my mother made was a special bow-type knot, one that I had tried to untangle and failed to do so on a number of frustrating occasions. Despite my mother’s cautious ways, I had an understanding of what sex was, whether my view and interpretation of it was a normal one or not. I had after all been born into a place surrounded by sex, the physical action being practiced and experienced all around me, during most, if not all hours of the day. The underlying message about ‘the birds and the bees’ had been evident from a very young age. Only these metaphorical birds were not pure white doves or little blue-coloured birds found in Disney movies like Snow White. They were large menacing hawks that dug black, ice-cold talons deep inside my heart, with tips covered in the most sensuous of poisons. Of the bees, a whole army had been attacking me throughout the years of my young life, stinging my brain repeatedly and turning the growing mass into a honey-glob chamber of bad memories. I knew what a ‘nice bit of pussy’ or ‘cunt’ was and I knew women always liked to have ‘a nice big, thick cock rammed into them’. I knew these basic desires from viewing the explicit pictures that were plastered all over the windows of the many sex clubs I had to walk past on the way home from school. Sex and its spectrum of visual feasts, all captured in static form, were literally thrust into my face on a daily basis. I had a full comprehension of what a prostitute was, again from the wise words of my mother, yet I did not seem to have the same opinion of them she held. I simply thought of them as funny looking women. Females of varying ages, shapes and sizes, wearing tight clothes that displayed more than the imagination could handle. With various big hairstyles that looked like palm trees in stormy weather and heavy, garish make-up, they resembled grotesque clowns on crack. When I was younger, I sometimes
literally thought that this was what they were. Bizarre clowns, walking around with their pale white faces, big red lips that enhanced their discoloured teeth and heavy black eyes, painted-on like a raccoon. To me, as I was sure they were to many others, these ‘street women’ were simply a form of all-round entertainment. Yawning, I now stretched my body out and twisted down further in to my bed, trying to make myself a little more comfortable. The opera music was still playing in the living room where I had left my mother resting, locked in a deep state of sleep. Rubbing my left eye quickly, I continued to watch the pink beams of light as they now moved across my bed covers, doing so as different parts of ‘The Pink Room’ sign lit up outside. I desperately wanted to close my eyes, but for some unknown reason, this simple physical act seemed impossible to do. After about ten full minutes of just laying awake in bed, the music from the next room gradually began to fade away. The LP had finished its recital, as the repetitive scratch-clunk-scratch-clunk noise of the needle gliding around and striking the inside of the record indicated. The gramophone my mother played her records on was practically an antique and did not have an automatic stop facility. Scratch-clunk-scratch-clunk. Over and over again, the device simply waited in torment for someone to relieve it from the suffering, to itself and the poor record it could not help but scratch. With the heat of my motionless body gradually warming the bed I lay in, I began to feel drowsy. The lids of my eyes felt incredibly heavy, ready to close for a good few hours. This pleasant feeling however did not last long, for the repetitive sound of the gramophones needle hitting against the record was joined by another rhythmical tapping sound, only this new beat was coming from outside, down in the ally way next to my window. The familiar clicking sound of someone in high-heeled shoes echoed down the alleyway. For a while they moved, then curiously, came to an abrupt halt. Remaining in my bed, the bright pink shadows across my bed covers entranced me once more. The idea of being able to close my eyes and fall instantly asleep had now completely escaped me. My mind was fully alert. My curiosity woken.
‘So, what ya got?’ Very distinctly, a woman's voice rose up through the night. Although the tone sounded almost robotic. Her working voice could definitely do with some improvement, spinning a more alluring edge to it. This simple open question clarified to me that the woman below my window was a whore, speaking to a new client. A considerable pause followed her question. Then, to my surprise, I heard her laughing. A deep, snorting sound occasionally mixed in with her hilarity. The noise gradually tapered off to a girlie sounding chuckle. ‘Hmmm baby. That’ll only get ya a simple tongue flick. Four hundred bucks for a good eat. Seven hundred for an even better fuck’. Another long silence followed this description of what her menu had to offer. Turning my body over onto its side, I wrapped the thin bed covers more tightly around me. I now faced directly towards the window of my room. As the silence lingered outside, intrigue finally got the better of me and I rose from my bed. As the bed covers fell away from my neck, the coldness of the room bit hard at my flesh with teeth as sharp as needles. A gnawing sensation slivered down the entire length of my spine. Once sitting fully upright, I stared at the window, at the closed white blinds that concealed the transparent plate beyond. The pink light from outside continued to run under the long lines of the blinds, hitting my body in long vertical fluorescent stripes. The thin cord that operated the blinds was situated to the right side of me. The end of the cord was simply looped around the small silver hook. No bowey knot by my mother’s skilled hand existed. There was no secure protection in place. Despite this potential ‘open door’ scenario before me, I simply sat motionless, waiting. ‘Well, Big Spender. Lets get ready.’ Faintly catching the whore’s cue, I quickly turned my head towards my bedroom door. The door itself stood open only a few inches, allowing a thin beam of pure white light to enter my darkened room. The noise of the gramophone’s needle still hissing upon the constantly turning record was still present. Whilst staring at the door, I prayed that my mother would remain asleep over
the next few minutes. Swiftly turning back to face the window, a strange, light-headed feeling overcame me, accompanied by a swirling sensation that began to stir in my stomach. Nerves feeling a little on edge, my hand slowly reached out and touched the cord that operated the blind. Once the excess had been unlooped, I slowly began to pull down upon the cord. One by one, strip by strip, the blind began to gather. The pink light from outside no longer entered my room in a shaded formation of lines, but now engulfed me, covering my entire body in its garish colour. I was now able to see across to the sidewall of â€˜The Pink Roomâ€™, viewing the exposed orange bricks, the majority of which were covered in masses of psychedelic graffiti. Once the collected blind reached the very top of the window frame, I moved a little closer towards the glass, leaning over, peering down. The walkway below was quite dark. Coupled with the brightness of the flashing neon lights blazing from the front of the strip club, I found it quite difficult to focus my vision. Gradually, with some effort, I could make out a few black garbage bags that were scattered along the sides of the walls. I could not however detect that there was anyone directly below the window. Then, as my eyes moved to the left, my vision became locked upon a woman who was standing directly in the middle of the alleyway. It was difficult to see in any great detail her exact facial features for her skin was dark, aiding her to blend in with the dark alleyway. I could not see how beautiful (funny) looking she was. Allowing further time for my eyes to focus, I could faintly see what she was wearing. Her clothing consisted of a pair of black, high-heeled stiletto shoes, with some sort of ankle bracelet attached around her shapely left ankle. Her legs were long, thin. Well sculpted and toned. From her ankles, they seemed to climb forever, until the bottom of a tightly fitted short purple skirt began. A silver chain-like belt was looped and hung around her waist and, what appeared to be a well-toned stomach. A fitted red top to equal the tightnes s of her skirt supported her breasts quite firmly, displaying one her best assets. Her hair was jet black in colour. Long and straight, it ended just above her shoulders. A precision-cut fringe gave her a sense of added style.
Her exposed arms were thin, but as with the rest of her body, well toned. Standing in the middle of the alleyway, she looked like a sculpture, captivating with both beauty and temptation. Violins. Flutes. An angelic voice. The sudden crashing of a full orchestra engulfed the living room beyond my bedroom door. The noise came cascading into my bedroom, causing my heart to fail. The record my mother had been listening to was now playing from the very beginning. The realisation that she had now awoken and placed the needle back to the start of the LP made my whole stomach leap into my mouth. I quickly released the cord, the blind rapidly falling down, fanning out, and concealing the window once more. As the blind fell back in to place, I simultaneously dropped backwards down onto the bed. Frantically covering my body with the bed covers, all the way up to the tip of my chin, I closed my eyes tightly. Trying to be as motionless as possible, I waited patiently for my mother to enter my bedroom, to check exactly what I was doing. The longer I had to wait, the more I could feel my breath becoming heavier. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, I heard a voice, my own inside my head whisper, ‘come on, do it now! Just come in. Check and then GO!’ I wanted desperately to take up my viewing position once more, to return to the woman outside, but I knew I had to wait. I now decided to count to fifty, very slowly. One…Two… Forty-eight…Forty-nine… Fifty. Still my mother had failed to enter my room. With my eyes remaining closed I contemplated the notion of rising from my bed, of taking a peek outside my door to see if my mother was in fact still in the living room. The more I thought however, the more I felt that simply remaining in my bed was a wiser move to deploy.
The opera music was soon in full swing. The collaboration of wind and string instruments, accompanied with an angelic voice, all seemed to be on a perpetual brink of crescendo, failing to realise the climax of the piece. Once more I found myself counting, again to fifty, only this time at a much quicker pace. One…Two… Forty-eight…Forty-nine… Fifty. There was still no physical sign of my mother. Waiting it seemed, would not prevail. Rising quickly, the white blind was raised hurriedly. My curious gaze peered outside once more. She was still standing in the middle of the alleyway, hardly changing her position, as if she had been waiting for me to return to observe her work. I now noticed however, something I hadn’t before, that she was in fact facing towards someone who was lurking in the shadows of the alleyway. Once again, due to the poor light, I could not see what they looked like. Leaning forwards, literally pressing my face up against the glass of the window, the coldness of it clutching at my skin, I feebly attempted to somehow get a better view. A sensation of needles piercing my skin ran quickly across my flattened cheek. No matter how hard I pushed my face up against the window however, my attempt to see exactly who the woman was looking at, exactly who her client was, did not yield results. Still holding the blind up away from the window, the cord gripped tightly in my hand, I proceeded to watch as the performance got underway. The dark woman began to undo the knot at the front of her red top, the fabric becoming less tight around her breasts the more the knot was loosened. Slowly and very delicately, she began to pull across one half of the red top, exposing the large, well-formed curve of her breasts. When the flashing pink light fell correctly, I could see that her deep black nipples were hard and jutting. Once the other half of the red top had been pulled to the side, she proceeded to slide it off her shoulders. She did not however remove it
completely, but allowed it to hang limply upon the inside kinks of her arms. Her hands then began to move over her exposed chest, cupping her breasts, fondling her nipples, occasionally pinching them to further tease. The movement of her hands was gracious, yet there were elements of the â€˜routineâ€™ about it all...that this was the way she always did it. This was her set performance. The fondling of her breasts grew in ferocity, making her skin twitch and quake with false desire, deceiving her body to satisfy the client through such simple, sensuous actions. After she had toyed with her breasts for a good while, her hands began to move elsewhere, sliding down her flat, toned stomach. Rubbing her waist with her fingers, her nails began to follow her hip line, moving down to the centre of her skirt, then spreading out to the sides where her exposed thighs began. I continued to watch, captivated as this gracious woman performed, her actions seeming to flow with ease to the music, which for a reason unknown to me, filled my sanctuary once more. She looked angelic and beautiful. With hands moving down the full length of her thighs, her upper arms pushed her breasts gently together. Like individual serpents, her fingers continued to work over her dark flesh, moving from the front to the back of her legs. Having worked her way down to her knees, she quickly slid her fingers back up the length of her thighs. Once reaching the end of her skirt, the tips of her fingers picked up the hem of the skirt and pulled it dangerously further up her thighs. Becoming more captivated by her actions, a strange tingling sensation began to run through my entire body, building gradually to a type of convulsing motion. The short dress continued to slide up her thighs, eventually showing a completely smooth curve of dark flesh where pubic hair should have been. In her case, it had been completely shaven away. Her hands then moved around to the back of her exposed ass, her
serpentine fingers fondling each mound of flesh as she stood with her legs spread apart. Her left hip was pushed out more than the right, her head tilted back slightly to one side. She was ready. It was then that something about the whole set-up of the scene changed. The client who had been standing in the shadows finally came into view, walking out from under the blind spot of my window, moving closer towards the woman. The figure appeared to be a man, wearing black trousers and a black shirt. A baseball cap, that shadowed most if not all of his face, caused me to grit me teeth slightly out of frustration. With a feeling of suspense I continued to watch as the two bodies grew closer. The client walked past the performing woman. Following the movement of her client with her gaze, she eventually turned her body around. The client was now leaning up against the wall to the building of ‘The Pink Room’. The woman took a few sultry steps forwards, moving closer, until she was standing right in front of her client once more. Ceasing in the caressing of her ass, her hands moved around to her front. Leaving her own flesh, her hands reached out toward the client’s stomach and with ease managed to slip her hand under his black top, feeling his chest. ‘Mmmm, nice baby. Yeah.’ The woman spoke in a slow, sensuous voice, putting one hundred and one percent into her performance. While her left hand continued to caress the chest of the client, her right moved down to touch the zipper to the pants the client was wearing, then slowly began to pull the it down. Once an opening was made, her hand slid inside and began to feel, caress and work at the flesh that was hidden beneath. ‘Ohhh, baby yeah, nice and wet...’ With a quick flick of her head to the side, I managed to catch sight that a smile had crept along the whore’s lips. Now lowering herself into a squatting position, she began to pull down at the figure’s pants. Despite this exposure, the blazing pink light could not seem to penetrate the darkness
where the client stood, for I still could not tell if the figure was male or female. The fact also that the woman’s head obstructed my view did not assist in this matter, as it now began to move from side to side, hiding the client’s genitalia. I swiftly decided to come to the conclusion that her customer must have been a man, as every time the whore moved her head towards a new angle, I thought I could see the toned muscles of the client’s arms tensing, then relaxing, in a spasmodic fashion. There was no point wondering, or in continuously guessing. The decision was now clearly fixed in my head. Her customer was a man. I continued to watch the performance, the whole voyeuristic experience still causing my body to shiver and quake uncontrollably. A feeling of excitement was crawling over my body, but outside in the alleyway, something began to unfold that made my skin turn suddenly cold my gut clench in an icy grip. The client had at some point reached into one of his jacket pockets and retrieved a weapon that was now fully revealed and held in what appeared to be a leather-clad hand. A knife. The cutting instrument was one of severe length. I was now more captivated by this than the previous show I had borne witness to. The blade was completely flat along the topside, while along the bottom edge, tiny jagged teeth had been crafted into the metal. The menacing cold blade was a shining harbinger of death. My hand that held the cord to the blind, my entire body for that matter, had now completely frozen. With my physical self no longer shaking, my mind felt as if it were drawing nothing but blanks over and over again. For the next few seconds that passed, I no longer knew what to do, what to think, what to feel. Unsuspecting, the woman’s head continued to move while the hand of the client that held the blade gradually began to rise higher up in the air. The pink light ran down its silver body like a droplet of liquid. From the living room, an intense crescendo of instruments began to wail,
the screaming voice of the opera singer once more, at which point a voice inside my own skull began to boom and holler. ‘STOP!!! Quick...leave her alone...my God...Stop! Please! STOP!!’ Something happened then, something that I had no physical control over. My free hand was now pounding heavily upon the glass in front of me. Once. BANG! Twice. BANG! BANG! The flesh and bone of my left hand struck the glass with an almost animal-like ferocity, to a point that I thought the pane of glass was bound to shatter. On the third sequence of intense thuds, the woman’s head ceased completely in its movement. The strings, woodwind, brass and other percussion instruments that had been escalating to a grand climax in the next room suddenly slithered away, leaving complete silence in its wake. Slowly, the whore’s head began to turn, her gaze looking up...up to where she had heard the sound, to where I was. Up to my window. Up at me. The pink light filled her eyes as she gazed up at me, our attention locked upon one another. Realisation filled the woman’s eyes as to who was looking at her...a child. ‘Oh no.....’ Rapid. A quick movement swept in front of the whore’s neck, causing her head to turn viciously in the opposite direction, her gaze torn away from mine. Very faintly a strange cracking noise filled the alleyway, almost like a whispering cough. It all happened so quickly. The leather clad hand of the client that had retrieved and brandished the knife high in the air was now still being held over where the whore sat crouching, appearing as if it had never moved. The near invisible movement however yielded a result that was clearly evident. The silvery blade of the
knife was now tarnished with a thick streak of deep red liquid, the colour evident across its entire length. The blood dripped from the numerous metal fangs. For a few brief seconds, the whore’s body remained completely motionless, her head still locked facing towards the opposite direction at the side. With her body still crouching down, she did eventually start to raise herself from the low squatting position, the movement jerky, as if she were about to topple over at any moment. Her arms began to wave a little in the air, her legs moving along the ground in a spasmodic fashion. I continued to be captivated by this harrowing sequence of events, as this woman fell from grace. Tears began to roll uncontrollably from my eyes and down my face. The lustrous, highly sexual movements she had only seconds ago displayed had all now turned into that of a child who has not fully mastered basic motor-skills. After a few further near stumbles, I finally got a better view of what the client’s knife had done to her neck. Now completely unable to control which way her body was moving, her body spun around completely. One of her hands was held mid-way up to her neck, the flesh of which was covered in the same substance I had seen licked across the blade of the knife. Her own precious blood was pouring uncontrollably from a wound now gaping at her neck. The unnatural opening displayed a bright, fleshy pinkness that should have remained hidden under her dark skin. With a wide unblinking gaze, the whore continued to stagger down the alleyway, in a desperate bid to try and get away from her attacker. With a birds-eye view of the situation, I knew that all efforts she was about to exert were in absolute vain. Completely pointless. Her feeble attempt to escape was predestined to fail. The knife-wielding client, who was now properly attired, needed to take only three steps forwards to catch up with his bleeding-to-death victim. Once close enough, the knife flashed across and down into the whore’s left side. The motion was quick and executed with great force. The savage, deep penetration of the blade forced the whore’s body to arch backward, almost
snapping her into this new position. Once her body was impaled upon the blade in this position, the client proceeded to grab the whore by her left arm. Once so, the body of the whore was pulled with an astonishing force, almost catapulting her body through the air across the alleyway. With a sickeningly wet thud, her damaged and bleeding body struck the wall opposite my window with tremendous force. The nauseating sound of flesh meeting brick seemed to echo down the alleyway. Following the initial strike of her lower body, her head followed suit by slamming up against the graffiti covered bricks, the impact sending a spray of blood across the wall. The impact to her head caused her long, dark hair to dance wildly upon her head. Her dark locks were in fact those of a well-made wig. Once the tense muscles in her body began to relax, her body proceeded to slide down the wall a little, but somehow managed to remain in a strange near-standing position, her legs performing a somewhat bizarre splitting act. With the prey now unable to escape, the hunter made his final attack. Rushing forwards, with the knife out-stretched in front of him, the client plunged the instrument of destruction straight into the centre of her chest, deep inside her tender flesh. Mouth wide open in a silent scream, her eyes looked as though they were ready to explode with the agonising pain that was trapped inside. Like a volcano erupting, a huge mass of blood came gushing out of her open mouth, the thick red substance cascading down her chin. Still holding the blade of the knife inside the whoreâ€™s chest, the figure before her reached up with their other hand and gripped her body by her left shoulder. Then, with a demonic force, the figure pushed the whoreâ€™s body downwards whilst still holding the knife in place inside of her. A horrible ripping sound of her flesh tearing apart filled the alleyway and unnervingly, reverberated around the entire inside of my skull. Blood spewed, sprayed, flicked and flowed from the long slit created down the middle of the whoreâ€™s chest, the angle of the blade moving through her organs, the blade finally escaping through the right side of her neck.
Closing my eyes tightly for the first time since gazing out of the window, with tears still falling down my face, my body jerked uncontrollably, although at the same time my body felt deeply suppressed, somehow unable to express my sheer level of terror and anguish. Even with eyes tightly closed, I thought I could still see the pink light from outside, blotting like diseased spots, on the inside of my eyelids. Desperately wishing that the past few seconds had all been a bad dream, I eventually opened my eyes. The darkly dressed figure was still standing in the middle alleyway, still holding the tarnished knife by their side, dripping heavily with sticky blood. For the final time the client looked down at his victim, examining her torn body that lay slumped up against the wall. Placing the knife carefully in one of the jacket pockets, the client turned and began to walk down the alleyway. In ten brisk steps the figure disappeared out of sight, turning around the corner to the front of The Pink Room. My focus went back to the body that lay upon the ground, amongst a few of the garbage bags. Her wig was hanging over her right shoulder, her real, tight Afro-Caribbean hair now on full display. Her eyes were still open, eternally stricken with fear. Her painted lips now appeared enhanced by the blood that covered them, providing a natural deep gloss. I stared at her wide-open mouth... ...at her gaping, open neckâ€Ś ...at her slit open chest and neckâ€Ś ...at her separated, wide open legsâ€Ś Completely exposed. Dead. Continuing to stare down at this transformed woman, no longer looking like a clown with her funny looking hair, make-up and clothes, she no longer looked fit to entertain. She had now been reduced to nothing. Whilst gazing out in a kind of trance, flecks of water began to appear upon the other side of the glass in front of me. The flecks of water soon turned into long slithering streaks as heavy rain suddenly filled the alleyway. The sound of the fast moving droplets pattered
down hard upon the glass before me, smacking the concrete floor. The plop, plop, plopping sound of puddles forming in the dips in the concrete, within the whore’s open neck, her stomach, mouth and even her eyes, made me feel weak within. For the rest of that night, I simply sat in my bed, staring out of my window, gazing down into the dark alleyway... ...at the dead woman.... …the murdered whore… ...listening to the heavy patter of the rain falling outside... ...staring at all the blood that mixed with the rain... ...hearing someone’s screams (my own) over and over inside my head… ...transfixed, staring at the torn, naked flesh... … watching the beads of rain streaking down the glass in front of me, remembering the blood running down the blade of the knife… ... staring at all the blood that had been spilt… ….watching the rain…. ~
Published on Jan 26, 2010