Slut

The children were always difficult and fractious on Tuesday mornings. Perhaps, Julie wondered, it was just that Tuesday put her in a frame of mind that exacerbated their childish misdemeanours. Either way, her best friend Miranda, who picked them up every Tuesday to take them to school, along with her own three children, was due in ten minutes. The children had not finished breakfast, were arguing about clothes in their bedrooms, could not find things they needed for school and – was it worth it for this one day a week, Julie asked of herself, as she did every Tuesday?

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. The children ran to the door, not quite dressed, pieces of toast in their hands. None of them were willing to leave the house until they had kissed their mum. One reminded her that it was Dad's birthday today and before he came home tonight they were all to lend a hand in making him a birthday cake.

The door finally closed. A short pause and Miranda's car was heard leaving. Julie sat down, closed her eyes and tried to pull herself together in preparation for Tuesday. There was time for one final cup of coffee.

As Julie's car pulled away from the drive forty minutes later, she observed, always more acutely on Tuesdays, the daily picture of the affluent, city suburb. Young mothers, having spent the morning hurrying to get husbands off to work and children to school, were now walking back home in a more leisurely fashion, with younger children not old enough to go to school and stopping off to chat to other women. Some had arrived home earlier and were already outside hosing their gardens before it became too hot. Cleaning ladies were arriving; gardeners also. Julie waved and smiled frequently in the short journey to the end of the road.

Fifteen minutes later she crossed the bridge over the river and the environment changed. Now there were endless narrow streets with small, shabby shop fronts. As her journey almost ended she came to one of those areas, common to many major cities, that were in transition from long term dereliction to modern renovation: smart, artistically thought out house fronts mingling with empty, boarded up neglect. Outside one of the former she stopped. Parking here was still a risk but there was no alternative.

She rang the doorbell and he answered very quickly. No glances were exchanged but he was expecting her. She walked inside; neither spoke. He led her into the main room and they stood facing each other and exchanged a terse, routine, "Hi."

He asked her, "OK?" Which really meant, 'Are you OK for this today?'

She nodded a couple of times before saying, "Yes, I'm OK."

He took that to mean only a qualified 'OK' but for what reason he would not know and would not ask. She went into her bag and produced an envelope, which she gave to him. Again, another terse nod from him that indicated a formal 'thank you' but no more. She turned around and left the room. He put the envelope on the windowsill and gazed rather absent-mindedly out of the window.

When the door opened another woman entered only it was the same woman who walked out a few minutes earlier. Her make up was too thick, her lips painted a garish red; she was wearing a cheap, semi-transparent blouse buttoned only at the centre of her cleavage and tied in a knot beneath her breasts; no bra. Her skirt was yellow and obscenely short. Even without sitting down her legs were exposed between the tops of her stockings and her skirt. The stockings had a hole on the thigh of her left leg and on the calf of the right. She sat down on one of the few chairs in the room and crossed her legs, her skirt riding up her legs so that it now resembled a pair of pants. She lit a cigarette, took two long drags at it and flicked the redundant ash onto the floor.

He remained at the window but now looking at her, hands in pockets, assuming an attitude of indifference.

"Well, Loverboy," she began acerbically "what you been up to since I last had the pleasure?"

"Nothing much. How about you?"

"Usual stuff, you know."

She lay back in the chair with her legs outstretched on a small table and offered an uninterrupted view of her crotch. She now adopted the tone of a taunting inquisitor.

"How about the lovely Lois then, seen anything of her?"

"Yes."

"Good," she replied, warming to her task, "and how are things going with the lovely Lois then, Loverboy?"

"Fine."

"Fine! That's good!" She removed her legs from the table and leant forward, speaking now more quietly to suggest this was a more serious question.

"So, how many times have you fucked her since last Tuesday?"

He turned away from her and walked to the other side of the room. A huge smile erupted across her face.

"Come on, Loverboy, don't be shy, you must remember."

With exaggerated mock concern she said, "Hey, don't tell me you've only fucked her once!"

He turned to look at her but did not reply. She stood up.

"Oh God, don't tell me not at all!"

They silently stared at each other until he relented.

"A few."

She smiled, knowing that she had made him uncomfortable and that was good enough. Before finally relenting she walked closer to him, as close as if she were going to kiss him and whispered, "I bet she's a truly fantastic fuck, bet she can't get enough of it. Better be careful, Loverboy, make sure she gets it good and often, otherwise she'll find someone else to open her legs for."

Again he turned away without speaking.

She smiled, satisfied - for now.

She finished her cigarette and immediately lit another. At the door he stopped and turned round, suddenly asking, "Would you like a coffee?"

She dropped her arms down by her side and gazed open mouthed at him. Incredulity blazed across her face.

"Do I what?" she shouted.

He repeated his question but this time quietly, like a chastened child. This time she shouted at him so loudly he winced.

"Don't you dare start being fucking kind to me, you wanker!"

She walked over to him and thrust her angry face into his so closely he could see the small pockmarks on her cheap make up.

Quietly but menacingly, she repeated, "Don't you dare!"

A threatening pause then she continued.

"Tell me who I am. Tell me my name. Go on, tell me."

He knew the answer but the word did not come easily.

"Slut," he replied.

"That's right. And do you know why I'm called Slut? It's because I am a Slut, aren't I?"

Chastened further, he nodded.

"And there's only one thing Sluts understand, isn't there? Only one thing they're good for and you know what is that don't you?"

He did not move.

"Well, I'll tell you because just now I thought you offered me a cup of coffee and if I'm right then I think maybe you need a small reminder about the only thing Sluts are good for, the only reason why there are Sluts in the world at all. That reason is to fuck them, not to be kind to them, not to offer them cups of coffee but to fuck them, that's all there is to it, Loverboy. And that's all I want from you. And, unless you're a little hazy about what I mean by 'fuck' it has to be hard and quick. None of that 'oh so sensitive stuff – oh darling you're so beautiful, oh darling you're so sexy' crap'. I can get that any night of the week whenever I want it. You just make sure it's real hard and real quick. You don't even have to look at me when you're doing it. Nor make polite talk afterwards."

He listened to this without responding, without expression. After she had finished she continued to stare at him, anger exuding through every pore of her face.

Then something happened; the hardness began to disappear and her rigid body posture softened. She walked, with a slightly weary, slightly resigned manner to the window sill and picked up the envelope she had given him when she first arrived and returned to stand in front of him. Her voice and whole personality was different. She held the envelope in the air with an imploring gesture that said, "what do you think this is for?"

She put her hand into the envelope and produced a thick wad of bank notes. He looked down sorrowfully at it like a child might look at an expensive ornament he had just broken.

"I'm sorry," he finally offered and moved away from her.

There was a long silence.

"It's not working, is it?" She said.

"It's my fault," he replied from the semi-darkness of the other side of the room, "I'm sorry. We can make it work. I can make it work."

"Is the money a problem? Isn't it enough?"

"Christ, yes! It's more than enough."

"Do you know how long it took me to find someone?"

"I can imagine."

Long pause.

"Can we try again?" He asked.

She waited for quite a while before answering, wondering, now, whether anything could be retrieved.

Finally she answered, "OK. I'll need to go out of the room for five minutes – give us both chance to reorientate ourselves."

She left quickly. When she had gone he clasped his hands to his head, closed his eyes tightly and tried to summon up the mental strength to continue. But he had deceived her – it could not work. With someone else, yes. But not with her.

Five minutes later she came back into the room with the erstwhile resentment and animosity back in her face. She took another cigarette from the packet she had left on the table, put it in her mouth and picked up the lighter. Before the flame could reach the tip of the cigarette he walked over to her and seized her wrist aggressively, swiped the cigarette from her and crushed it in an ash tray.

"You ask in future before you light up in my house."

He let go of her wrist but in a fraction of a second raised the same hand and slapped her hard across the face. She yelled loudly, genuinely surprised at the suddenness of it and how much it stung.

He looked at her in disgust and said slowly, "Slut."

She felt better now than at any time since she walked in.

She put on a sad, whimpering voice.

"You hurt me."

"Sluts don't hurt."

"OK, if I'm a Slut, when are you going to fuck me? Eh? When?"

It was in the balance now. She sensed it. Could he go through with this? She glanced at the clock; there was only an hour before Billy, her youngest, finished school.

She took his hand, apprehensive lest he slap her again, and placed it inside her blouse on her right breast. To begin with his hand lay motionless so she manipulated it herself. Slowly she then removed it and allowed him to continue the massage himself. It was easier not to feel anything if she looked away so if there was the faintest hint of excitement on his face she would not see it. His massaging became rougher and he was now squeezing her breast so that it hurt, finally drawing away and tweaking the nipple hard enough for her to call out.

She now began to breathe heavily.

"Fuck me, fuck me now."

She took hold of the buckle of his belt and pulled him towards her. She undid the buckle but fumbled it. Finally releasing it and drawing down the zip she put her inside and found his cock. It was three-quarters hard.

"Not bad, not bad."

Quickly it grew to its full extent in her hand. She lay on the floor and opened her legs.

"Now, now, now! Fuck me, fuck me. Now, you bastard1 Come on! You can do it in seconds!"

He did not move and very slowly his lips parted slightly and he said, "I can't."

She howled in anger and frustration. He rearranged his clothes and walked over to collect the envelope and put it on the floor next to her and said, "I'm sorry."

He disappeared into the kitchen. She lay on her back, her eyes closed, slowly and silently shaking her head. She lay there for ten minutes until realising it was almost time to pick up Billy. Meanwhile he had returned and was standing in the doorway.

"Again," he said, "I'm sorry."

By now she was over it, resigned to the inevitable.

"It's OK, this will never work I know."

"It's just that...well, I like you."

"I know, I can smell it. I could smell it the first time I came here. The smell haunts me."

"I'd like to know what you mean by that."

"Do you really, it's a pretty desperate story, I can assure you?"

"Still, I'd like to know, all the same."

"I have to go."

"Briefly."

She checked the time once more, stood up, rearranged her clothes.

"All right. Why do you like me? Do you find me attractive? Think I've got nice brown eyes. Nice figure. Nice smile."

The tone was sarcastic and slightly menacing.

"All those things, yes."

"Yes, that's what they all think."

"Who?"

"Men."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"For most women, no. Indeed I know many women who crave it but for me it's death."

The blank expression on his face screamed incomprehension.

"Those things have dogged me all my life. You see, I was a beautiful child. All the adults, family and friends were agreed I was a beautiful child. Then I blossomed in adolescence and all were agreed I was becoming a lovely young woman; all the boys were soon after me and later on their dads as well. Then I met my husband, who still tells every day how beautiful I am and how much he loves me. He is the man most women would give their right arm for because he genuinely does love me – always. When we make love in bed it really is love. And do you know......"

At this point she broke off and stared at him to make sure he really wanted her to finish the sentence ..."I hate it. Hate being loved. Hate all that drooling admiration."

The question 'why' was so obvious he could not ask it.

She was now ready to go but as she would never see him again she finished with the one defining story she had never told anyone.

"On our honeymoon we were on a train somewhere in France. It was evening dusk, we were somewhere on the edge of a city, Paris, I think. The rail line ran close to a street where the whores were easily visible, plying their trade. I sat in the train, in my silk pyjamas, sipping obscenely expensive champagne and I so wanted to be one of them."

She paused briefly in order that he might take in what she was saying.

"So," she concluded, "I pay...." At which point the sentence trailed away.

There was no way he could even begin to approach what this woman was saying so he said nothing but looked at her in fascination, knowing that at any moment she would go and he would never see her again.

She looked once more at the clock and said, "I must go."

"Once again, I'm sorry," was all he could offer.

She smiled.

"Please don't be."

She walked to the door.

"Oh, don't forget you money," he called.

"No, I don't want it, it doesn't mean anything. Goodbye."

Two hours later she was in her kitchen surrounded by three over excited young children putting the finishing touches to the birthday cake. When a car was heard arriving outside squeals of excited laughter rang out around the room. Julie walked to the door to greet her husband.

As he came in he called out, "Hello, darling" and gave her a huge hug and kiss.

"Happy birthday, darling," she said.

At this point the children emerged from the kitchen, with full ceremony, holding the cake, with lighted candles and singing, "Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you...."

As the children excitedly told their father of the fun and mishaps there had been in making his cake, Julie thought of a train riding along side a road in the back streets of Paris and the whores emerging into the night.