The Client

Finally it would be time for her arse. I would pull out of her cunt and position my cock at her sphincter. She would ask me to enter her slowly and then gently I would push. Slowly my cock would slip into her arse. I would stay motionless when it was all the way in her and then when she said she was ready I would fuck her arse hard and deep, until I spunked, deep in her arsehole.

She once asked me to marry her. That would have been the means of her escape from that place. She was joking, but there was seriousness in it too. It was too late, though. I was already engaged. In another version of my life, would I? Would I marry her or one of her kind? Yes, I would.

Guler, you are a lady and I thank you.

There was Hazal, whose name means ‘take pleasure' (haz-pleasure, al-take) and she was and I did. Long dyed blonde hair, dark skinned and tall, thirty, with sinewy limbs, shapely and slightly sagging tits and a large stomach. She would French kiss me fiercely and wank me hard and then suck me off until I almost came. Then she would make me wait and then tell me to fuck her. I would screw her in her pussy and then she would turn over and I would fuck her arse. She was so tight up there and her anus squeezed my cock until I thought her arsehole would crush it. As my cock fucked in and out of her arse, she would call me her beloved and tell me how much she loved me and in the moment she was enough to make me believe her.

There was another lady called Ozlem, who was in her mid forties and looked tired and worn, but was still attractive and glamorous and lovely to chat with, before and after. She gave me a nice cock sucking without a condom and an equally nice fuck with one, in her stretched and flaccid cunt. I ate her out after I had fucked her. She was surprised, but she liked me for doing it. Afterwards she showed me a photograph of her daughter, a dark beauty of nineteen, though already with signs of darker knowledge, in the tattoos on her arms and the blank and hard look in her eyes. I wonder if she knew what her mother did for a living. I was tempted to ask if I could meet her and I even wonder if that was why she had shown me the photograph. The story of how we met would have been a novel one: my mother is a prostitute and he was her client.

There was Serap, who looked like a hybrid of the middle aged wife who lives next door to you and the tramp of a streetwalker you were tempted by as you passed her one evening. She said she was thirty nine, but she won't see forty five again. She was sweet and friendly and she sucked cock very well and I enjoyed looking down at her admiring the faded glamour and beauty of her fleshy body.

There was Yasemin, who was thirty or so, with enormous hanging tits, which she was proud often to tell me were natural; and a soft rolling stomach. She was dark haired and dark eyed and dark skinned and she was the perfect oriental fantasy woman. Sometimes she wore a headscarf and she did not even take it off when she was sucking my cock and I was fucking her and sucking her great dark nipples. It added something of the thrill of the forbidden to the pleasure of having her.

Sedef was a young woman in her middle or late twenties who enticed me one evening when I was wandering around the place from window to window and finding myself unable to choose. She was very dark skinned and had dark, dark brown hair. I had been looking at her and wandered off and come back, and although she could not have known it, she was on the list of three who had caught my eye and sparked my desire on that balmy summer evening as I walked around. What she did know was that the desire for her was there, in my lingering at her window and in my look. She came outside and called to me and I went. She was lively and danced her way behind me to her room and continued to dance and bump herself against me as we took care of the business. Then it was time for the action and she stripped off and slowly her voluptuous young body was revealed to me as I lay on the bed waiting for her. She knelt between my legs and sucked me off, and she did it superbly, and every now and then she would pause and ask me if she was good, all along knowing the answer to her own question.

I saw her once more, and again on an evening when I could not decide. She was in a different mood and more reticent. I asked her about her work and she answered my question with a question of her own:

‘Who could enjoy this work?'

Later, as she sucked me off, the call to prayer sounded from a nearby mosque. The sacred and the profane are never far from one another. She stopped sucking me and we sat in silence and listened to the melancholy sound, and she did not resume until it was over. It seemed to me a revelation of who she really was, and showed how a little piece of a former self of hers survived in her and gave her the strength to keep going. Then we fucked, but she gave me no arse, but then she was a religious woman.

Naza was the image of glamorous low rent whoredom. She was around thirty and she had peroxide blonde hair, cropped short. For clothes, she always wore a pair of jeans with the zip undone, and a white bra and white thong. She adorned her wrists with cheap bracelets and her fingers with cheap rings. She had beautiful dark eyes full of promise. She was intelligent and interesting to talk to and I saw her twice. And there was something of the kind and efficient nurse about her, which put me off a little. I would have seen her more often, except that she always put the condom on me before performing the blow job. She said it was the sake of health, and of course she was right. Her fucking was exquisite, though, and she had a lovely technique of rubbing my cock head all over her cunt lips before pulling me into her.

Finally, two women who were both called Gozde, or that is the name they both used professionally; a stage name, if you will. The first was twenty three, she said, and she looked it; but she did not look young and she did not seem young. She had an ‘E' scrawled on her upper left arm, which she told me was the first letter of the name of her child. She was good looking in a peroxide blonde and shapely, and coarse and vulgar sort of way. It is difficult to imagine her doing anything in life other that what she did; which was to have cheap sex with men she does not know. She had a foul mouth and every other word was an obscenity and she looked every inch the whore that she is. It thrilled me to hear her use such foul language and to flaunt her whoredom. She was the most glamorous piece of trash I have ever seen.

That foul mouth, however, could create the finest sensations in my cock The business dealt with, she squeezed my cock tightly between her fingers through my trousers and told me to undress, and as I stood taking off my clothes, she sat in a chair in front of me and as soon as my cock was free from trousers and boxer shorts, it was in her hand and a second later in her mouth. She sucked it hard and sighed loudly as she sucked it in and out between her lips. Her head bobbed up and down fast until she stopped and beckoned me to the bed. I fucked her in many positions, before coming in her from behind. All the time that my cock was gong at her cunt, I had been poking my finger into her arsehole. She would not let me fuck her arse, though. Even an utter skank like her has some standards, it seemed.

Some time later, I was at the genelev again and looking in the window of the commission where she worked. She was standing there and she did not recognize me. Usually, the women do recognize clients they have provided for before. It as the first time that I had not been recognized by a woman I had had. Then there was some commotion nearby. Another customer had got into an argument with one of the men who sit and take the money you pay to visit the house. They were pushing each other and shouting, and Gozde came outside to see what was happening. She had the look in her eye that suggested that she likes to see a fight. She stood right next to me and still he did not know who I was, or that she had received me once. It was an odd thing to have been so close to a woman before, and for her now not to feel me next to her as I felt her. It was one of those moments in which truth is disclosed. I had no feelings for her, other than the memory of twenty minutes of polite negotiation over money, small talk and cocksucking and fucking, and which she had performed well, so that I remembered her fondly for that. She had no memory of me at all, and neither had her body. We had had sex; I had felt intimacy in the closeness of her body, but she had felt nothing in the closeness of mine.

The other Gozde was very different. She was the opposite of the first one. She is the most beautiful woman that I have ever had sex with. She did not look like a whore, though that is not to say that a whore who looks like a whore cannot be beautiful; many are. She told me that she was Kurdish and came from the east of Turkey. She was thirty and said that she had never been married. She had had a boyfriend; a pimp. She said the word with contempt. She also told me that she had had a client in the past, who as an engineer, and who brought her presents. He was not her boyfriend, even if she thought of him that way, but a client who treated her with care and respect. And that's as good as it gets. She did not tell me much more than that. The women are often secretive and evasive about their real identities. It's their bodies that are for sale or rent; not themselves. And knowing only a little, you invent the rest.

She was tall and slim and sultry looking and had short dark brown hair and black eyes and the palest white skin. I saw her three or four times and we became friendly with each other. She told me that she liked to read and asked me to get her a book. I bought her a novel and she said that she read it and liked it. Then she disappeared. She must have been moved to another genelev in another city. Maybe she got lucky, and another customer married her and rescued her. It happens sometimes, but it's unlikely.

She was sad and sullen at times, and she could never hide it well. She knew that she could have done more and been more, but it was probably too late. She was lost. How she got there, I don't know. I don't know how any of the prostitutes I have had sex with got where they were, although Mandy told me that she had started doing it out of necessity a year before I met her, and that now she found it interesting. She said she was exploring herself, and her clients. She had been an art teacher, she claimed. It did not sound entirely plausible, but you can never know for sure. She did not seem unhappy, though.

Gozde's story is probably a sad one and one in which she has not been able to be the heroine of her own life. Most of their stories are sad ones, I imagine, and the reality probably even more unpleasant that the imagined story I could make up for her, and all of the others.

I would fuck her from behind and she would rest her elbows on the bed and cup her head in her hands and look blank. There was a large mirror on the wall and I could see her face, if I looked, staring into the mirror and looking empty and wishing perhaps, that she could be somewhere on the other side of that mirror.

Ipek is the one I remember most fondly from there most of all though, and she was the opposite of Gozde. I miss her shining eyes and her mischievous smile, and her pale and roughly beautiful body with its tattoos and its glow of the sordid and the irresistible. I miss her deep, guttural voice and her lower class eastern Turkish accent; her dirty laugh and her boisterous and joking manner and the way she asked if I loved her and if I had missed her, whenever I went to visit her. She did not love me of course, but she liked me and I had fun with her, and liked and admired her as a person and a friend, as much as I desired her as a woman. Sometimes, it felt to me that it was not just fucking, and that I was making love to her, and even if she did not experience it in the same way as me, it is enough that she allowed me to go on feeling what I felt to keep my illusions intact, even as I knew that they were illusions.

More recently, in Istanbul, I met a very large and beautiful woman of forty-eight, with long dyed blonde hair, lovely intense eyes and a warm and benevolent smile. She said her name was Cigdem. Her tits were not huge, but big and soft and shapely and sagging, and her stomach hung heavily down and looked like a pile of tyres unevenly stacked. I rubbed and caressed it as she sucked my cock. I complimented her on her stomach and she laughed and said she had gained a lot of weight. I told her I liked it and that she was beautiful; and to me she was, and she was pleased. Her cock sucking was punctuated by pauses in which she looked up into my eyes and pursed her lips and sighed deeply. It was theatre, but marvellous theatre.

She was fantastic in bed. She sucked my cock with consummate skill and sat on my face and her great bulk weighed down on me as my tongue explored her vagina and her anus. Then she got on all fours on the bed and slide a finger into her arsehole and asked me to do her the favour of sticking my cock up there and fucking her, up her arse. I did, and it was only the second time in my life that I had penetrated a woman's arse before having her cunt. I fucked her arse from behind for a delicious while, and then asked her to turn over. She did and I guided my cock into her lovely soft, warm pussy until it could go in no further and I paused to savour the sensations of her cunt holding my cock. Then I began to fuck her. I kept that going as long as I could, but being careful not to come, for I wanted to finish in her arsehole. I pulled out of her cunt and she put a pillow under herself to lift her arse towards me. My cock slid easily into her arse and her hands reached down and she opened her cunt for me to admire as my cock fucked her arsehole until I came.

Afterwards we chatted and drank tea and told each other a little about ourselves. I was not entirely honest. She asked me if I was married and I told her that I am not. I always take off my wedding ring when I go to a whore. It is a little ritual and has a symbolism to it. These things must be kept apart.

She told me that she had been a prostitute for many years, but had given it up three years before, but then got into debt and had to return to it. She said that she had come from a good, professional family, and had married and had three children, now grown up. Two of them were married and one was going to the bad. She had ‘fallen', she said, but she did not elaborate on that. Adultery, perhaps; but her choice of word, ‘fallen' suggested that whatever had happened, it had been her own doing. It suggests that, but it is not certain. Nothing is certain in the exchange between a whore and her client. It is a world of lies and half truths and ambiguities. Cigdem's story may be fiction, or it may be fact, or most likely a mixture of both. What she did tell me though, is that ‘Cigdem' is only the name she uses when she is working, and that her real name is Yurdamur.

She told me that many of her customers were young men of eighteen or nineteen, and for them she was more of a woman, she said, than her younger peers. To them, she would be their mother, as they wish she had been. A young man first venturing into the realms of sex and whores would be in good hands with Cigdem: a majestic performer and a woman of intelligence and compassion. There is much to be learned, of life and love, and passing joy, and sadness, from a woman like her.