Romantic date or cheap whore fuck?
It hadn’t taken long to organise... A little chatting, fingers busy on the keyboard, flirtations exchanged, confidences built on the chat screen before moving to the telephone. Then it happened, she hesitantly said “I’ve always wanted to be a whore.” Quite out of the blue when we were considering a meeting.
“Really,” I said. “You just want to be used, paid for raw and base sexual services.”
A moment’s silence then hesitantly “Yes I’ve always wanted that. I want it to be real. I want to be used like a cheap tart. Simply someone who is fucked, fucked hard, used without caring just to satisfy animalistic urges” all came tumbling into my ear.
“Then simples...” I said mimicking the TV meerkat “We have been working up to meeting. You want that and so do I. You want to be a whore and I fantasise about picking up a cheap, no limits prostitute, to use for extremes without caring how she feels. To take what I want. To get myself off and more than once. We have this chance now, this very weekend, before we get to know each other better, to live that fantasy, make it a reality, in comparatively safely and..” I hesitated before saying slowly and deliberately “... and so wantonly depraved and raw.”
“Don’t say anything.” I rattled out before she could reply. “I’m going to ask you some questions about your favourite drinks, work, mundane things to distract you whilst your mind races through the possibilities. When I’m done you can agree or disagree. We can still proceed with a normal date... Do you understand?”
The silence was perhaps four or five seconds but it seemed like an eternity. “Okay then... Yes.” Was her surprisingly soft and hesitant reply
I rambled on for a few minutes. Found that she liked very dry martinis, chilled Chardonnay, was fed up with work, needed more challenges, was tired of petty disputes over car parking spaces under her building and a few other trivial inconsequential minutiae of her daily life.
We knew that our thoughts were elsewhere. Our voices were somewhat monotone, low-key, clearly enunciated. We knew that we were both weighing up the risks, rewards and sheer perversity of what I suggested. Would Friday bring a simple light-hearted, flirtatious date? Slowly building up to tenderness, slow kisses, tentative touching and then, if the gods of happenstance and chemistry shone down upon us, fumbling, exploring and sex. Like millions of other first daters all over the world.
We hadn’t even exchanged photographs. We knew each other’s ages, approximate heights, general look, obviously shared a sense of humour, were skittish, openly flirtatious and both felt very comfortable with all the exchanges we had revelled in up to that moment. We knew we both craved extremes and had vibrant, active and indulgent pasts.
I drew breath and finished my anecdote about a friend and his neighbour who acted like a parking warden, living his life chastising people who parked incorrectly, not in the assigned spaces or didn’t display the residents parking permit correctly on the windscreen. Mindless words that served only to give us both time to consider what we are about to do.
I hesitated for a moment, drew an audible breath and said slowly and deliberately. “It’s decision time... Friday night will be ours regardless. It will be Henry’s bar. You know it and so do I. You have the choice. Either come as you are, the Dottie I have felt so comfortable with over these past two weeks, or embrace our fantasy and become Chloe who will sell herself, without restrictions or limitations, for half a bottle of shared champagne and a £50 note.” I paused wondering how this had all snapped into place in my mind so quickly, so precisely, so fully formed. “Just listen to what I say... Think hard; this is a step into reality not fantasy and when I finish tell me who you will be at 8:30 on Friday in Henry’s."
"It won’t be set in stone, although we both know it is unlikely either will change our minds, back down or shy away." I drew another breath, amazed at the fluency with which the idea was forming unrehearsed. “I want you to know that at any time over the next 70 odd hours you can change your mind. I’ll never refer to this conversation again and we will have a laughter filled, outrageous, warm and intimate evening. All you have to say it’s who you will be, Dottie or Chloe.”
“Text me on Friday morning with the details of something that will make you distinctive so I can pick you out from the throng. I will have a small silver aeroplane in my lapel. The back bar in Henry’s is a great place for an excellent dry martini. When I see you, I will ask if you would enjoy one with me. Look me straight in the eye, tell me you want it stirred, not shaken and diluted like that idiot bond, and I will agree. Tell you what good taste you have, then ask you the question that will steal your fate for the evening.”
“Up to that very instant, that fork in the roads, you’re free to choose the path you will follow. Both routes will be delightful, both will be exciting. One darker, twisting, demanding and deliciously perverted the other broader, easily followed, though still flirtatious and full of adventure. You choose by telling me your name for the night.”
“I will happily share an evening, night, or even the weekend with whoever you choose to be. Dottie will get my full, head on, attention, flirtation and charm. Chloe will be treated like the £50 whore she has always dreamt of being.”
“So... My frolicsome, flirtatious new friend, who do you hope to be on Friday?” The phone fell silent. Only our synchronous laboured breathing troubled the airwaves between us. Seconds ticked past, the silence, in itself, was charged with eroticism and tension.
I heard a slight clearing of the throat, a deeper sharp intake of breath and then the single word “Chloe.”
The exhalation, the relaxation, the sudden rush I felt appeared to come bouncing back at me through the ether, almost a climactic moment. I steadied myself, cleared my throat, and said. “There is nothing more to say... I look forward to Friday, 8:30, Henry’s back bar... I relish buying Chloe but would be delighted if Dottie turned up. I know I can’t lose. So I leave it to you?”
“Yes... Chloe will text you on Friday morning.” She replied, her voice slightly shriller and quicker than before. “She will have thought of something appropriate to wear by then. If nothing else the next 70 hours will be filled with speculation and anticipation... Wait for my text.”
“I will. I most certainly will” I replied, my mind racing through the possibilities. “My phone will never leave me on Friday.” My brain had frozen in the sudden realisation of the pact we had made, but not quite sealed. My thoughts were racing but my tongue was tied. I lamely added “Good night, sleep well.”
“Good night.” Was all I heard as the phone clicked over to that empty, vacant sound of a disconnected call.
What a way to start!
Regardless of who turned up, Dottie or Chloe, I knew that this was going to be the firing up of something incredibly different and truly exciting.
Maybe I’ll write down how it went another day. Truth is often stranger than fiction.
