I’ve been doing this job for years, it’s easy, and I like sex. I get paid a lot, and I’m good at what I do. I have many clients, and they like my company, my body, my erotic look, and my skills. They are divided into good and bad.
The good ones shower me with gifts. They are the steady ones. They choose me in their loneliness. I offer what they lack, a few moments of tenderness and fleeting love, while I also have a pleasant time with them. Others are only interested in the contact, the carnal passion I give, and like thieves in the night, they leave as soon as they steal what they were looking for.
I don’t lust after them. I don’t love them. The feelings are gone. It’s a simple transaction between a man and a woman. I seek their desires, discover their vices and fulfill them, and give pleasure until the next one.
There are always different stories and always different people. So many nights, so many passions, so much pain you hide in dirty beds. I absorb them and erase them for a while until the next appointment.
I have a date tonight. The man who asked to see me wants the girlfriend experience all night. So I’m waiting for kisses, caresses, and kind words. Maybe red roses, with some champagne and lots of good sex.
I arrive at his secluded tower, a suite on the top floor of the hotel. He opens the door. I don’t know him. Erotic, attractive gentleman, looking lustfully at me, lusting after me. He wants me in the red sheets, naked before twelve.
He subtly kisses my neck and continues with pressure. He demands that I take off my clothes and looks at me with passion and rage. He calls me a whore, that I deserve to be one. He kisses me. He bites me. He enters me.
I meet strange people with repressed feelings. They pay a one-night whore and get away with it.
He fucks me hard, fast. So hard. His arms have trapped me, and his eyes are fixed on me angrily.
<<You look like her.>> he responds coldly.
The first hit. Before I got over the surprise, the second came. Third, the fourth strike. He continues. I scream, and he shuts me up. I’m trying to escape. I’m scared. He stopped, he left me, he cries.
Hurt. I loathe him. I hate him. This shouldn’t have happened. The night shouldn’t have turned out like this. I’m not a beat-up whore. I’ve been through a lot. I meet disgusting people. I fall prey to them, and they pay for the feelings I have killed. I accept harsh words, meaningless sex, and humiliation. No more knocks.
I grab it from the nightstand. It sparkles in my tight palm. I can’t bear to see him cry. I should have been crying. He looks at me regretfully. I climb on top of him.
The first hit. Before he got over the surprise, the second came. Third, the fourth strike. I go on, I scream, I cry. The sharp silver paper cutter falls from my trembling hands, and the red silk sheets are filled with blood.
Created by Diana Chemeris
Story in Greek: