Susan's 21st Birthday

"Sir, a word with you, please."

I hold my step. Who talked to me? Those people gutting fish all look the same: blue plastic coats, hairnets, boots, face masks -- identical robots.

"Here sir, Susan."

"Ah. Yes Susan, what do you want?"

"Not now sir, too busy." We run the conveyor belt so fast that the six workers can just keep up. If one of them is slacking for a second, the others have to put in an extra effort.

"What time are you done? Please come to the office after hours."

"Half past five, sir."

"Then I'll see you at half past five."

"Are you planning a date, the two of you?" says the woman next to Susan, in the rich accent of the region. She surveys me from head to foot. "You don't want her, you should take me. A mature woman with experience. That's what you need, pretty boy." While teasing, her hands stay busy filleting.

I laugh faintly, but Susan can stand up for herself. "You keep it out of it, Aunt Winnie." Yes, of course, Aunt Winnie. A proper fishwife, in the best sense of the word: foul-mouthed, but with a big heart.

- - -

When Susan has a request, it means work for me. She is, without knowing the word, a self-appointed shop steward who is not afraid to speak her mind when she considers something is wrong. She started working with us directly out of school and now, four or five years later, she is a veteran. I must add that she has twice saved us from a major disruption, as well as preventing a strike once. If Susan wants a word with me, she is welcome.

- - -

She knocks on the door at a quarter to six.

"Come in. Sit down."

She is timid, not her usual assured self. She fumbles, obviously nervous, with a handkerchief.

"What can I do for you?"

She hesitates, takes a gulp of air. Softly: "I wanted to ask if you can do me a favor."

What a pity. So it is going to be a request for higher wages, or promotion. I'll have to fob her off with my little standard speech: that we should adhere to trade union wages, that if I advance one employee I will have them all at my back in a few months, that the current circumstances in our line of business do not allow me to...

She feels my disappointment. "No, something very personal." She still hesitates. Then she takes a deep breath and starts over: "Wednesday is my birthday. My twenty-first birthday..." With a wave of her hand she stops my obligatory remark, "... and I am still a virgin."

Now she has my full attention. It is obvious that she has rehearsed her story. Looking down at the hands plucking on her kerchief, her cheeks getting redder and redder, she continues: "I am not beautiful, I know. But I kept hoping for the Prince on the White Horse. A mixture of George Clooney and George Foreman, something like that. But now that I am getting twenty-one... that man does not show up any more. Or, if he appears at all, he will not even once look at me. Everybody tells me that by now I should be having a husband. All the girls from my High School class are already married, you know. So, I am past due. My parents want me to choose between a fisherman's mate, who is ugly, or a grocer, who is fat."

I feel her pain. She is the daughter of a fisherman with his own ship. Marrying a mate, ugly or not, is a big step down the social ladder. And if the grocer is the one that I think it is, well... I would not want to marry him, however desperate I might be.

She raises her head a second, looks me in the eye. "Mind you, I don't complain. If this is the Lord's will, so be it. I had only hoped that I would loose my virginity to a handsome, experienced man. Just once in my lifetime...."

She stops talking, looks down at that handkerchief. I look surreptitiously at her. Indeed, she is not beautiful, not even pretty. Big-boned, chubby (or, frankly, just fat), wispy half long brown hairs, big nose, cheap clothes. I cannot discern her figure, the way she sits bent over, but she never attracted my attention before. I must confess that I tend to look at that, in my female staff.

We both remain silent for a while. I think I know what direction she is heading for, but I want to hear it from her own mouth. "And so?"

She heaves a sigh. "I hoped that you would... that you could...." Clearly, her script fails her.

"Do you want me to find a husband for you?"

She shakes her head, still looking down. I feel sorry for her, but I definitely do not want to be accused, later, of taking the initiative.

Her cheeks are now scarlet. She whispers: "Would you please... deflower me?" Once the word has been said she is able to return to her script. "It's part Aunt Winnie's doing, you know. She calls you a pretty boy. And that made me look. You are, indeed, handsome, and a man of the world. You've been married and you are now divorced." She marshals her thoughts. "You are the kind of man that could give me... pleasure. Not wham bang, thank you ma'am, like a boar with a pig... you have style."

Now she looks directly at me. Not so much like a beggar, more like a negotiator. "Just this once, and then I will never bother you again."

"Well, thank you for the compliments, but no. I just cannot do that. I am your boss, it is against the law." How do I explain to a girl that guts fish for a living that doing a thing like that would be morally unjust? Abuse of power, abuse of my position. My ex-wife, my sisters, my associates would gut ME, and with pleasure, if they heard about me doing a thing like that.

"Nobody needs to know about it. We could do it here in the office..." she looks doubtfully at the door with the big window in it "... maybe after hours..."

She is immediately belied. It is almost six now and, just like any evening, the foreman of the afternoon shift comes to report. He steps into the office without knocking, looks curiously at Susan, who is in his team this week, but he says nothing. In a company with just 26 employees anyone is invited into the manager's office now and then.

"Everything is clean, sir, the truck departed well on time." He pauses a second and then continues in another tone of voice: "The conveyor belt derailed twice this afternoon. We did get it running again, but I am afraid that somebody should come over and look at it. Every time it derails it takes us at least a quarter of an hour to get it back on track again. Fortunately it was a quiet afternoon."

I heave a deep sigh. "Yet another loss."

He shrugs. "Yes, it is an old machine. The best thing you could do, in my opinion, is have the belt integrally replaced."

Yeah, sure. It is not his money. A job like that takes at least forty thousand -- two months of profit. "Well, I will look into it. Thanks for the warning, anyway. Anything else?" He shakes his head. "Then I wish you a pleasant evening."

"Thank you sir, you too." Then, not much interested: "You as well, Susan."

"Bye Joe, have a good night."

He looks at her for a second, shrugs again, turns and walks out of the office.

Silently we watch him depart. Once he is out of earshot Susan says, businesslike: "Not twice, but three times."

"Say again?"

"If it just derails from the sprockets, we can fix it ourselves in a jiffy. Only if we have to call in the technicians...."

I should not discuss this with her, but she states it so matter of fact that I request: "And what do you think causes it?"

Most of my employees would get shy when I ask them to commit themselves. Not Susan, though: "I think just those four sprockets. The electric drive is still functioning well enough. The belt is not worn down. If you have the sprockets replaced the belt will run smoothly for at least another two years."

"You seem rather positive."

"I asked my brother to have a look at it. He is an engineer."

"And can he repair it?"

Now it is her time to shrug. "He thinks he can."

I make a note. "But that was not what we were discussing."

She blushes, cringes, looks at her hands, starts fumbling with her kerchief again.

A few seconds of silence.

"Susan, I owe you. Any time you come up here you make yourself useful. If it is true that we only have to replace those sprockets, it saves the company a lot of money."

She remains silent, and I have a few seconds to think. I was divorced six months ago, and I did not touch a woman ever since. I've started rowing to get a distraction, but that does not help much. I am up to my chin in testosterone and my balls are blue down to my feet. And here is a girl who offers herself willingly. Is it a trap? Will she run that very evening to the police, stating I raped her? Is she a gold digger? Will she force me to marry her, after that one night?

Her train of thought must have been the same. She shuffles unhappily in her chair and whispers: "Just one night, with a handsome man like you...."

"Thanks again. And what if you get pregnant?"

"I thought of that. I already secured a morning-after pill." Practical as always.

"You really want this yourself?" Is it possible that she has been sent by someone, wittingly or unwittingly? "Did you speak to anyone about this request?"

She looks wide-eyed at me. "No, of course not." Her tone communicates that I must be stark raving mad to even ask.

My balls take over. They take a deep breath and say: "Well then, yes please."

She cannot believe her own ears. "Really?"

"Really. But let's make a bit of a party out of it. Not here in the office, where people drop in at all times anyway. We should do this in style."

The look she throws at me takes away much of my doubts. Like a child looking at Father Christmas: a mixture of gratefulness, joy and a touch of fear.

"Are you frightened?"

"No sir, not with you.... But you have to remain quiet about it, please. If they ever found out in the village I would be branded as a slut forever. In that case I can forget about even a second rate husband."

"The same applies to me. You could blackmail me, you could force me to..."

She does not let me finish my sentence. "Oh no sir, definitely not. Honestly, I would not think about such a thing. But please, could you promise that to me, too? For a man these things have less consequences than for us, women."

I would not be too sure about that in the city, but in our small fishing community she is undoubtedly right. I extend my hand. "I promise."

She shakes it firmly and without hesitation. "Promised, then." Resolutely she continues: "My birthday is next Wednesday. I took the day off. Do you want to...? Shall we then...?"

"I will take you out for dinner first, and then we'll make a happy night of it."

"Oh no sir. I still live at home. I cannot stay out all night. Could we do it during the day?"

I pull my agenda towards me. "I am supposed to be at the bank in town at nine in the morning. After that...," I think a few seconds. "Shall we agree to meet at eleven at the bus station in town? Would that suit you? Then I'll take you out for lunch first."

"I don't have much money..."

"Don't worry. I am not that much of a cad that I would make you pay, on top if it all."

"I could pay half...?"

"No."

Once again that look that makes it all worthwhile.

- - -

She alights from the bus as the last passenger. Coincidence or on purpose? I am glad that she shows some discretion: just from that single bus came two passengers who might know me -- and her.

I scan her quickly as she walks towards me: black, mock-leather coat with sequins, brown skirt, over the knees, black stockings, sensible shoes with a slight heel. A bit too heavily made up: a factory girl on her day out. One of those large brown handbags that are currently in fashion, with a French lily print. Louis Vuitton, really? No, a cheap counterfeit. And me, what does she see? I wear my banking suit, tailor-made, with a spotless white shirt underneath. Yes I am, to use Aunt Winnie's words, a pretty boy. That is why I row four days a week, very early in the morning, all around the fishing harbor.

I walk towards my car, some ten meters ahead of her. I scan the surroundings and open the door for her. She too looks around, then quickly dives into the car.

"Hello sir."

"Hello Susan. Happy birthday! I hope you will have a wonderful day."

She says nothing, sits slumped in her chair. I start the car and continue: "I have booked a room for us in...," and name a town some thirty kilometers down the road. "I am quite sure that nobody there will recognize us." I have lived for some years now in our fishing village and I noticed that the locals are not exactly globetrotters, at least not on land.

She nods almost imperceptibly. During the trip I try a few times to start a conversation, but I need my attention for the traffic and she is, apparently, too tense. Well, maybe later.

- - -

The lunch turns out to be a disaster. She does not eat and she does not talk. Any attempt at conversation ends very quickly in "yes sir" and "no sir"; any attempt to make her choose some tasty bit ends in "I am not hungry, thank you." Oh dear, if these are the omens for the afternoon, we will have a joyous meeting.

"Shall we go upstairs then?"

"Yes sir."

Silently we stand in the elevator, silently I unlock the room. I have chosen one of your anonymous business hotels, but I booked us a luxury suite. Well, to be honest, that was the only room I could reserve before noon. I open the door invitingly. She stands in the corridor, stares wide-eyed at the king size bed.

"Oh well," she sighs.

"Are you afraid? Maybe you do not want to pursue this, after all?" Under no circumstances do I want to be accused later of putting any pressure her.

She remains silent for a few seconds. A few ages. "Yes, I am afraid. But I want to go on with it, too. That is, if you still feel like it?"

I try a lame joke: "And here I am, trying to look as much as I can as that cross between Brad Pitt and the baseball player of your dreams."

She does not understand me at first, then she smiles weakly: "George Clooney and George Foreman. Not a baseball player but a boxer." She looks me up and down. "But I am glad enough I have you."

"Ah, yes. Suave and savage, I see." But the joke falls obviously flat.

Once again she hesitates. "Shall we then, sir?" She is very, very transparent at that moment. You can almost /see/ her thinking: "Let's get this over with."

I still try to put her at ease. "May I suggest that we use first names in this room?" Yet another blank stare. "My name is George."

Once again that weak smile. "I knew that. That is, frankly, part of your attraction. My name is Susan. But of course you know that as well."

"Susan, where do we go from here? Please try to relax a bit, or it will come to nothing."

Now it is her time to try a pun: "Nothing? I will loose my virginity. That's not nothing. It is exactly what I came here for."

I enter the room, put my briefcase on the bed. "I have a present for you." I turn around with the little box in my hand. "Happy birthday." She still stands in the doorpost. I lure her into the room like one attracts a dog with a slice of sausage.

"Thank you, sir... Thank you, George." She unwraps the box. "Oh, beautiful!" A thin golden necklace, with a real pearl as the pendant. She walks over to the mirror, tries it on. And then she bursts into tears. Not really the reaction I had hoped for. "It is my birthday and nobody noticed. My father is out at sea, my mother is taking care of an elderly aunt who is ill, my brother has just forgotten.... Only a postcard from my cousin." She hunts for her handkerchief in that silly over sized handbag. "Sorry," she sniffs. "I am really happy with this, but my day started so terribly...."

What am I doing here? Well, there is only one thing I /can/ do at this point. I throw my arms around her, kiss her on both cheeks and say: "There, and there. From now on your birthday will be better and better, darling. The best day in your life."

She laughs at me, while the tears still roll down her cheek. "No silly, the day that you marry is supposed to be the best day in your life."

"Oh yes, sorry, I forgot." I refrain from mentioning that most people in our village feel that that would be the same day as the day a girl is deflowered.

Still sniffing, she looks coyly at me. "Did you say just now... darling?"

"Eehrm... yes, I used that word, I guess."

Yet another of those looks that would make a troll melt. "That is so sweet of you. And your present too." She takes the necklace off, scrutinizes it. "Very, very beautiful, thank you ever so much." And presently she kisses /me/ on both cheeks, timidly, observing my reaction. "No, keep your hands to yourself. I have to wash my face first. I must look horrible, after all those tears."

I walk into the bathroom with her, grab a towel from the rack. "If you bleed later, we don't have to let the entire hotel staff know."

She blushes. "Out. I have to pee."

I carefully refrain from adolescent jokes, go back into the room. The bathroom door is locked behind me. I hide the towel under a pillow. Should I take out the condoms yet? Time enough for that, later. I drop into a chair, wait for Susan.

When she returns from the bathroom she wears the necklace again. She misinterprets my look, stops, makes a turn and asks, half coy, half worried: "Well, how do I look? Not too bad, I hope?"

Now I'm on familiar ground. "Not too bad? Much, much better than I expected. You are beautiful!" And, indeed, she is not ugly at all. She has obviously been to the hairdresser. Pity about that big nose, with a normal nose she really would have been pretty. I can still only guess at her figure, under that long brown skirt and that woolen sweater.

She blushes again, but I said it so sincerely that she takes the compliment for what it's worth. "So you still want to..." Explicit words are not her strongest point.

"More than ever. But what do you actually know? Has anyone told you about the birds and the bees?" A blank look. "Has anyone told you about how things are in bed, between a man and a woman?"

"Oh yes, I'm not that green anymore. I did kiss some guys. I have seen porn movies. And plenty of men have tried to grope me."

Now it's my time for a blank stare.

"Being a single girl, in a factory.... Those guys pinch me everywhere they can. I had to give Joe a knee in the groin recently, because he tried to grab my... under my skirt."

Well, well, well, our good foreman, church elder, married, and father of four children. But I remain silent.

"Aunt Winnie takes pleasure in teasing me. She always talks dirty. But also... ehhh... instructive." She mimics her colleague's rich local accent: "Did you finger yourself last night? Have you ever used a dildo? You secretly have a boyfriend, don't you? A black boy, methinks, with a really huge cock." She watches out of the corner of her eye how I react to the dirty word.

Well, she started it, now it is my turn: "And have you ever fingered? Have you ever climaxed?"

She gets a head like a buoy. "No of course not." She hesitates, looks at me openly defiant: "Well, yes, actually I did."

"Do you like it?"

Strangely enough, she seems to be gaining confidence. "Yes, it is... when I fantasize. And yes, I can come too. Just by stroking my sensitive spot." Is it unconsciously that she slides her hand over her skirt? Or is it a seduction trick?

"And do you ever stick a finger in yourself?" I know, I'm a dirty voyeur. Her confusion and her half-concealed shame, half-concealed bravado excite me.

"Yes. And also candles, and pens. Never very deep. I've always been told to make sure I remain a virgin." She giggles. "Until two weeks ago, when I saw you in that dark blue suit. And Aunt Winnie, who keeps calling you pretty boy. I mustered up courage for a week to... before I dared to ask. And when I..." she hesitates again for a moment and then continues softly, without looking at me "... satisfy myself, then I think of you. Of George, any of the three."