She Sells Sanctuary By Scott Baxter I'm in love with a German film star. I once saw in a movie. Playing the part of a real troublemaker. But I didn't care. It really moved me, it really moved me. [I'm in love with a German film star, The Passions, 1981. Lyrics by B. Gogan] Her pictures hang next to my vanity mirror. In one she perches trying not to pose, clothed in black, elegantly clutching a cigarette holder. The smoke rises in curls and ripples, continually combusting and never ending. From the corner of my eye I sometimes see her blink and I know she watches me, observes the events that unfold before her. But her face never changes. Some evenings when I come home I leave the lights off. Through the window sodium lamps on the street fill the room with a warm, comforting mustard glow. There is still enough light to see by, to undress and root though the wardrobe and find what I need. Once, I decided to sit at my dressing table under the amber glow and apply my makeup. I chose from a seemingly muted palate of ochre and umber colours and applied liquids, pastes and powders by intuition. I remembered old silent films where blocks of makeup were applied to actors’ faces to emphasise jaw line and eye socket, cheekbone and nose. Contrast and prominence rather than conventional blending and toning. Later that evening, when a regular visitor called I told him to leave the lights off and join me on the bed. I was still in the makeup chosen by lamplight but he said nothing. Never noticed. Just carelessly tossed off his jacket, boots and trousers before landing on the bed with a thud and a sigh.
“Get on with it then”, is all he said before crossing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. Later, as he dressed to leave he switched on the main light to look for one of his boots that had tumbled under the bed. As he rose he caught sight of my face. “What the…” was all I heard before feeling the full force of the boot. Naked, I ran to the bathroom, nose bleeding, eyes smarting, face pounding in pain. “You trying to make a fool of me? I don’t pay to fuck a clown” he screamed, sounding more hurt that I did. “There are camps for people like you! One phone call and you’re gone. No one gives a damn”. Then, I thought, a door slammed. A clown was right. Red nose, black eyes, blue cheeks, green lips. I couldn’t tell what was makeup, what was bruising, what was blood. I removed my wig and tossed it in the bath and I washed my face. I delicately pressed around my nose and mouth checking for breaks. My lip took the brunt of the blow and was bleeding and swelling. I wondered how I would manage to shave in the morning, worrying I’d reopen the wound. I pulled a robe from the back of the door and ventured back to the bedroom. “You took your time”. His voice startled me and I tried to hold back my shock. I thought he’d left but he wanted to check I was alright. “I’m fine. It’ll be fine”. I promised him hiding my face. I winced as he asked to see and prodded my cheek and lip. “Just don’t do that again”, he warned me, “with the makeup. You’re supposed to be…” but he didn’t finish, just held my head with one hand and stroked my cheek with his thumb. “I wasn’t thinking” I apologised. “I thought it would look better in the light”.
“Shhhh” he whispered. “We’ll say no more about it, I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not like those guys you hear about. You know me”. I remember wondering how men like this slip through validation. I felt his other hand move across my leg and under my robe to take hold my arse as he attempted to kiss me. I winced, but he didn’t stop. The pain across my face kept any emotion buried and I felt detached from my mouth. He pulled me tighter and I felt his cock start to swell and arch against mine, his anger repurposed as sex. Moving me to the bed, he pushed me down and laid on top of me. Under a cage, his legs and arms curved across my body. He now forced his tongue further into my mouth while fingers groped between my legs, feeling around, attempting to open me. “Over” he eventually whispered. I complied, rolled over and buried my face in the bed sheets accepting the pain that came with it. I heard the tingle of his belt buckle loosening and the sharp scrape of his zip. I tell myself that in the confusion of the evening he forgot to leave money; he wasn’t trying to hurt me further. I should be getting on; this new guy’s already messaged to say he’s going to be early. He’ll be nervous. What did we agree on? I rummage through tubes of foundation and jars of coloured powder. He said he has a surprise for me. I hate surprises. It’s never what I want or like. We’re trained to accept graciously the most meaningless gifts and we are told to be grateful for them. It’s usually flowers, like they’re the first to discover florists and want to share it with you. But a gift of flowers is a violent act, they are a reminder of death. Despite the fresh scented start, they will soon wither and die. Still, like my makeup, flowers can be changed, and I don’t make a fuss. I don’t show my disappointment.
Nearly done. Not as much time as I’d have liked but he won’t know the difference. I finish my lips and there is a knock at the door. I fix my wig. Showtime. “Flowers! How lovely”. He stands in the doorway bouquet in one hand, phone in the other, validation information glowing from the screen. “Let me get a vase for them. Aren’t they just beautiful?” Etcetera, etcetera. I go through the motions, say the right things, cock my head, smile approvingly, and listen intently. I feel like a thoroughly modern geisha. I pour us a drink: watered down gin for him and fizzy apple juice masquerading as champagne for me. We clink glasses and stare at each other. I see resignation in his eyes. Younger than in the photo he sent. I’m sure I can’t be his first, he would have said. They always do as if I’ll offer them a discount. “So…”, I attempt, shaking my head and leaning in closer, hoping he’ll fill the gap with either his life story or what he wants to do. Sheepishly he asks to take his jacket off. “Of course, take the whole lot off if you want”, I try and joke, through a rictus grin that I know must be showing. He musters some courage at last and asks to take his shirt off too. His shoulders need a massage and although we didn’t discuss it, he’s had a long day. It’ll help him relax while we drink and chat. “Whatever you want”, I say as I take hold of his chin realising how patronising I am being. “Just remember the meter is running”. He insists it’s ok but doesn’t want to talk about money right now. So, in silence, I unbutton his shirt, take him over to the bed and sit him down. Kneeling behind him on the bed I massage his neck and shoulders regretting having recently applied new nails. My attempt is feeble and I try not to scratch him. He sighs and begins to talk. But I don’t listen. I suppose I’m paid to listen but I can’t emotionally invest. I have no interest. My mind drifts until I realise he is asking me something, using the name I gave him.
“Sorry, hun?” I ask, “I was concentrating on your shoulders”. He asks if we can spoon? He just wants to spoon if that’s ok. I lie down facing him and beckon him to join me. “No”, he tells me absently, “over”. I roll over and face the other way and let him snuggle in behind. He wraps his arms around me and hooks a leg over both of mine. Drawing me tighter he buries his head into the back of my neck. As we lie there, I look again at the photographs arranged around my mirror and listen to the radio playing… Now I sit with different faces. In rented rooms and foreign places. All the people I was kissing. Some are here and some are missing. [Being Boring, The Pet Shop Boys, 1990. Lyrics by N. Tennant and C. Lowe]