Chapter 01 (Mr. Zolnick)

Chapter Zero (Read this first)

This is a novel about prostitution. Or rather, it's half a novel. I started writing it in 2007 and finished what is written by 2009. I have no idea how it's supposed to end. Since it's been nearly 15 years since I made any progress on it, I now officially give up. It's a permanently unfinished novel.

It has a great setting, wonderful characters, engaging chapters, an important theme--it's got everything a good novel should have. Except for a plot.

It looks at prostitution from many different angles. The points of view of the whore, the client, the scholar, the hotel management, the hotel employees, the do-gooders, the politicians--even the theologians--they're all represented here. Prostitution is inherently about sex, and therefore this book reeks sex from beginning to end. It's explicit in some chapters, and barely implied in a few others.

What is it that makes a prostitute sexy? I think first on the list is exhibitionism. Hookers let it all hang out--with the way they dress and by the way they act. A successful hooker can't be shy. If I were to put the whole novel into one Literotica category, Exhibitionist/Voyeur is the one I'd choose.

Then prostitutes have sex. That often is rather mechanical--not always. Her first time as a whore has a frisson that is irresistible. You'll find examples here.

There's a bit of romance thrown in for spice.

You can almost read the chapters independently, though you do need to know who the characters are and how they got into that situation to make full sense out of it.

Please enjoy as much or as little as you like. And if you read more than a chapter or two, I would appreciate your feedback.

Legalese

All persons in this novel are over 18 years old.

The "Anti-Prostitution League" (APL) is a pseudonym for an actually existing group. In deference to Literotica's rule to not advertise anything, I have changed their name.

Karen Koshreau is a fictional character. Her scholarship, her book and her publications are all fictional.

This story is set in the year 2008. At that time the exchange rates were approximately 25 Dalasi = $1, and € 1 = $1.30. Also, the story assumes that cell phones were not yet widely available in The Gambia.

I have never been to The Gambia. I've read the encyclopedia articles and the travel guides, and I've looked at a lot of maps. I'm pretty sure I have the geography totally accurate, but much of the rest is just made up. It's a fictional Gambia.

I've spent a lot of time in Germany, but I've never been to Stuttgart. It's easier to write about places when you've never been there. Reality is just such a bummer.

Table of Contents

Part I

Chapter 1 (Mr. Zolnick)

Chapter 2 (Karen)

Chapter 3 (Abdul)

Chapter 4 (Joerg)

Chapter 5 (Mr. Grimsl)

Chapter 6 (Sabina)

Chapter 7 (Abdul)

Chapter 8 (Afaf)

Chapter 9 (Sabina)

Chapter 10 (Joerg)

Chapter 11 (Erich)

Chapter 13 (Sabina)

Chapter 12 (Karen)

Part II

Chapter 13 (Joerg)

Chapter 14 (Mr. Grimsl)

Chapter 15 (Karen)

Chapter 16 (Aksel Soderson)

Chapter 16 (Mr. Grimsl)

Chapter 17 (Erich)

Chapter 18 (Abdul)

Chapter 19 (Erich)

Chapter 1 (Mr. Zolnick)

"The president says he wants to outlaw prostitution."

Michael Zolnick had zoned out. He wondered why the Swedish lady was in his office hectoring him.

"I said the president wants to outlaw prostitution," Mrs. Svenson repeated.

"I'm running a hotel, not a brothel," Zolnick replied, now forced to pay attention. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to organize your hotel in a way that minimizes the risk of sexual slavery."

"Who do you represent, again?" Zolnick asked, implicitly admitting that he hadn't listened the first time.

"I'm from a Non-Governmental Organization--'Coalition Against Sexual Slavery.' We've been successful in Sweden--there prostitution is illegal. Unfortunately, we believe that much of the problem has been exported. Research suggests that Swedish men simply travel to the third world to abuse enslaved prostitutes. That's why we are visiting beach resorts around the world. I've been assigned to cover West Africa, and I'm spending a week in The Gambia. We have reason to believe that sex slavery is rampant here. You run the most prestigious hotel in the country--that's why I'm visiting you first."

"So you've already spoken with President Jamma?"

"Yes. I spoke with him yesterday. We want a law in this country that criminalizes patronizing prostituted sex slaves. Men who visit prostitutes will face jail time in The Gambia as sex offenders. That is the kind of law we have in Sweden and what we want here."

"And Jamma said he'd go along with that?" Zolnick was incredulous.

"Yes, he did. Mind you, I didn't get a firm commitment from him, but he was definitely interested. He admitted that commercial sex is a serious problem in The Gambia today. It offends Muslim morals."

"I have no doubt that prostitution is common in The Gambia. I have worked hard to keep it out of my hotel. After all, nearly 70% of my customers are women, and they don't want to see prostitutes around. Hookers are bad for my business. I don't think this is the hotel you need to be visiting."

"Oh yes it is," continued Mrs. Svenson. "You own the elite property in the country. Research shows that rich men are more likely to abuse sex slaves than poor men. Also, many of your customers are Swedish, which means that I need to talk to you first. So you need to work with me."

"Well--I guess I've got to correct you on one thing. I don't 'own' The Kololi Grand Hotel and Beach Resort, though I do have an equity stake. The majority stake is owned by The Grand Hotel, Ltd., an international hotel chain based in London. I am the general manager and CEO of this hotel, and I've been here a bit over a year now. Believe you me, I have worked hard to keep whores off this property. They're bad for business."

He paused. "Just what do you want me to do, and why should I work with you?"

"If you don't work with us," Mrs. Svenson threatened, "then we'll blacklist you in our ads in Sweden, Denmark and Norway. You will get lots of bad publicity. The Swedish government is committed to fighting sex slavery around the world--they are funding an aggressive ad campaign. You do not want to stand in our way."

Zolnick thought equating prostitution with sexual slavery did not reflect reality. But Mrs. Svenson owned the truth. No point in arguing. "So what do you want me to do?" he asked again.

"Right now all I need is information. I'd like to ask some questions, and then I'd like a tour of the property. I'd especially like to meet some of your employees. At a later date I will want to interview them privately."

"No problem. I've got nothing to hide." Zolnick thought cooperation was probably the fastest way to get this irritating woman out of his office.

Mrs. Svenson pulled out her notebook. "Tell me a little about yourself."

"Ha." She's trying to soften me up, he thought. Still, this was a question he could answer. "I grew up in Brooklyn--my dad was Jewish, my mother Russian. I went to New York Public Schools. I majored in hospitality management at Cornell. I took a minor in French. After that, I got a job with Ramada Inns, and held many positions around the country. I wanted to work in a French-speaking country, but I wasn't able to get a job in France or Quebec. Then this opportunity came along. It's a major step up in my career. It's not French, but Senegal is right next door, and they speak a beautiful French. I make frequent trips to Dakar to practice my language skills."

The lady scribbled in her notebook. "Describe your hotel."

Yet another straightforward question. "We are the finest hotel in The Gambia. We're located in Kololi, which has some of the best beaches in the world. As you've seen, our hotel is in the middle of the very best beach." He would like to have gestured out the window, but his office was a dungeon with only a slit for a window, and that looked out toward the road. The nice views were reserved for paying customers.

"Our customers are predominantly European--German, British and Scandinavian mostly. They come for a week's holiday. They don't want to be hassled, and they don't want too close an encounter with The Gambia. Some of them never leave the property during their entire stay! That's a pity, because the Serrakunda Market is a fabulous place to visit. They certainly are not interested in hookers--it is my duty to keep them off the premises."

Silence ensued as Mrs. Svenson wrote it down. Michael thought perhaps she transcribed his words verbatim.

"So how do you reassure your guests that they will not be mistaken for prostitutes?"

Zolnick was struck dumb. This seemed like a truly stupid question--or perhaps a trap. He didn't know how to answer.

Mrs. Svenson felt the need to explain herself. "We have frequent reports of European women being sold as sex slaves. They are taken in Africa, and then sold back to Europe."

Was she a real crank? But apparently this crank had money from the Swedish government, so he tried to answer her silly question as seriously as he could. "Most of my customers are fifty or sixty years old. There is no danger of them being mistaken for prostitutes."

It seemed unlikely, but to Michael it sounded as if she secretly wanted to be mistaken for a whore. For the first time he looked at her closely--post-menopausal, tall, overweight, and not that handsome to begin with. She looked very matronly. Prostitutes look matronly after they have actually had several children, which Michael seemed to think maybe Mrs. Svenson had not (of course he didn't know). Perhaps envy motivated her crusade as much as anything?

The lady wrote notes at great length, more out of embarrassment it seemed than to actually record information.

"Please give me a tour of the hotel."

Zolnick rose from his chair, walked around the desk and opened the office door for Mrs. Svenson. They walked past the kitchens into the main dining room. At 3pm--after lunch and before dinner--the room was mostly empty. The staff sat around a large table eating their own meals before the dinner rush. An opportunity, thought Zolnick, to introduce them to their Grand Inquisitor.

The disappointment on Mrs. Svenson's face was palpable when she realized that the serving staff were all men. They were typically older--fiftyish--hired for their good manners and common sense. As she and Zolnick approached their table, they all rose and prepared to meet the new guest.

"I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Svenson. She is here inquiring about prostitution in our hotel." This explanation made no sense to the assembled, but they trusted Mr. Zolnick to worry about it. "Let's see," he continued, pointing to individuals from left to right: "George, Joseph, Ibrahim, David, John and Mohammad." Despite all being Muslim, many had chosen Christian aliases as a courtesy to their European guests.

"We are very pleased to meet you, Madam," said Ibrahim, the head waiter who spoke for the group. "I hope you have a very pleasant stay at The Kololi Grand Hotel." He bowed deeply.

Mrs. Svenson, flustered, tried to find something suitable to say, and wound up muttering under her breath. Michael rescued her: "Please enjoy your lunch. Thank you." The men sat down.

They exited to the back of the dining room. One long corridor later they reached the housekeeping office.

"This is Elizabeth Keita," he said, pointing to an imposing woman sitting behind a desk. "She is head of our housekeeping department.

Elizabeth--tall, immaculately dressed, and of very strong character (known behind her back as 'Queen Elizabeth')--rose and smiled broadly. "I am very happy to meet you, Madam." The Mandinka accent lent the simple phrase musical charm.

"I am happy to meet you," replied Mrs. Svenson, without looking her in the eye.

Michael continued: "I know this is a busy hour for you, but could we please meet a few of the housekeeping staff?" The Queen left the room to round up some of her co-workers. She returned in a few minutes with three women in tow, all clad in brown housekeeping uniforms--dresses to mid-calf.

"Here are Najya, Safa and Zaina."

"Good afternoon, Madam." "We hope you are enjoying your stay at the Kololi Grand Hotel." "Is there a problem with your room?"

"No, there is no problem," said Mrs. Svenson. "I just want to ask if you are regularly solicited for prostitution?" She looked at them as she said this, and then must have realized how silly the question was. These ladies all looked to be 60 years old. None of them could make a living as a prostitute.

"Ha, ha," they giggled. "I wish," volunteered Safa. The ladies, whether politely or innocently, laughed off the question and took no offense. Michael, relieved, was once again very proud of his employees. Uncomfortable silence followed, which, predictably, Queen Elizabeth ended.

"My ladies need to get back to work--we have many guests checking in this afternoon. May they please be excused?" Michael nodded yes.

"We are very much aware of the prostitution problem," Zolnick said. "This is why we only hire women older than 45 to work on our housekeeping staff. I think this has mostly solved the problem. Elizabeth works hard to find the right people for the job." Mrs. Svenson looked embarrassed. Maybe she felt she'd been set up.

Next stop was reception, and here Zolnick introduced the very attractive Josephine Sissoko. Demure, dressed in a receptionist's uniform, and a head scarf that passed for hijab, she smiled as Mrs. Svenson approached the counter.

"Are you checking in, Madam?"

"No," answered Mr. Zolnick. "I'm giving her a tour of the hotel."

"Welcome to our beautiful hotel," said Josephine. "Isn't this a fabulous room?" Yes, it was. Very large, with a view toward the drive and gardens, elegantly furnished, and built in the style of a thatched hut on a very grand scale, it never failed to impress first time visitors. Mrs. Svenson appeared not to care.

Instead, finally she had a specimen who could reasonably double as a prostitute. Josephine was lovely--very black skin, delicate, African features, bright, slightly oriental eyes, and, peeking out from behind the "hijab," luxurious hair, worn as a short Afro. She smiled as though she was truly happy to see her visitors.

"Have you ever been solicited for prostitution?" Mrs. Svenson asked.

The smile faded from her face, replaced by anger.

"No."

"Has the hotel management ever asked you to provide sexual services to customers?"

Josephine looked at Michael. "Never."

"That's all for now. Thank you."

Josephine turned away without another word.

Across the large lobby stood Mr. Abdul Aliyu, the hotel's head concierge. An imposing man, over six feet tall, he wore traditional Fula clothes, including a handsome and expensive fez.

"Good afternoon, Madam," His smile, while courteous, did nothing to dispel Abdul's native imperiousness. He thought sufficiently highly of himself that politely greeting guests did not diminish his status at all. Guests found him very helpful, but intimidating. Nobody patronized him.

"Abdul has worked at this hotel longer than anybody," said Zolnick.

"Yes. I have been here for thirty years. Of course back then it was a group of grass huts along the beach. It is only recently that the Grand Hotel bought the property. Since Mr. Zolnick has been here, the hotel has been doing very well. I know everybody in town, and I help him cut red tape."

"That is true," said Michael, laughing. "Abdul even knows the president."

"Yes Madam, I do."

"Are you aware of prostitution occurring on this property?"

"Madam, we are honorable people at this hotel. I am a good Muslim."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I find your question impertinent, Madam. But since you are accompanied by Mr. Zolnick, I will give you an answer. No."

As they spoke, a GlobusTours bus pulled into the drive. A group of Dutch and German tourists disembarked, mostly elderly women--a few with husbands in tow. Abdul, happy to diss Mrs. Svenson, pulled to attention. Josephine straightened her dress and smoothed her hair.

GlobusTours was an important customer for the hotel--Michael had worked hard to bring them in. They brought package tourists from Germany, Holland, Belgium and England. Abdul and Josephine knew what was important--he was proud to have them as employees.

He ushered Mrs. Svenson from the lobby to the bar. A barmaid served drinks to customers--an elderly couple sitting in the corner. Another stood at the bar talking to the bartender, he being a handsome man in his thirties.

"These are two of our barmaids, Janaan and Fareeda. And this is the bartender, Fahad." The crew greeted Mrs. Svenson enthusiastically. Janaan and Fareeda, both mid-twenties, wore stylish uniforms--a blouse with ruffled shoulders and short sleeves that fit tightly around the arm, and what in The Gambia passed for a mini-skirt: it ended just below the knee. They were very attractive.

"I am here to determine if prostitution is common in this hotel."

Janaan and Fareeda looked at each other, nonplussed. Fahad decided he needed to wash some dishes.

"Are you commonly solicited for prostitution?"

"No," replied Fareeda quietly, obviously embarrassed.

"You are dressed very provocatively. Has the management ordered you to solicit?"

The two girls again exchanged glances, and then looked to Mr. Zolnick for guidance.

"I am proud of my uniform," said Janaan. "Your questions are very insulting, Madam." They both turned away.

"Over here," continued Zolnick pointing to the other side of the room, "is the show stage. We host Gambian cultural shows at least three times per week. Kora music is very popular, as are Mandinka dancers."

"What is Kora music?"

"The Kora is a West African harp. It is very elaborate, and when well played it produces a complex music. The Mandinka are famous for their music, and justly so. You should come back when we have a show." Michael had warmed to his theme, proud of the music performed at his hotel. With Abdul's help he'd found excellent musicians. "I think we have a show the day after tomorrow. If you're in town you should try to come."

"I will if I can," she said without enthusiasm. Good enough, thought Michael. He really didn't want to see her again, so if she didn't come it was fine by him.

Adjacent to the bar was the small casino. There were three blackjack tables, two roulette wheels and a craps table.

"This is a small operation--mostly for entertainment. We don't really make money with this. The maximum bet is only $500. We'd love to have slot machines, but they're much too expensive to maintain--parts have to be flown in from Europe. Besides, there's nobody in the country who can properly repair them. Germans really enjoy small-time gambling, so we let them have it."

"There is one more stop on the tour--the pool." Michael led the way, walking out into the bright sunshine, greeted by a beautiful view of the beach and the ocean beyond. In the foreground was the large, freshwater pool. Unlike the rest of the hotel, this place was crowded--after all, guests had come for sun, sand and sea. More bar maids distributed drinks--they looked busy and to avoid further embarrassment, Michael decided not to introduce them. He looked at the scene as Mrs. Svenson followed him out the door. His heart sank.

A woman had picked up a "bumster." Bumsters are young men who flatter attention on older women in exchange for money--in other countries they are frequently called gigolos. A pervasive problem in West Africa, as the men are remarkably handsome, and European women are easy prey. Michael tried to keep them out of the hotel, but that then conflicted with the goal of keeping customers happy.