A COMIC/SERIOUS IMMORALITY TALE FOR OUR TIMES (a fantasy if it’s your sort of scene)

The story starts in London over 18 months ago, beginning in March 2017, when Britain was – albeit unaware of the fact – heading towards a General Election. Miss Lulu is a dominatrix with a sharp mind and sharp heels, full of intellectual curiosity and sexual know-how. She meets Rory Smith, a journalist, in a hotel bar in Soho and their relationship begins over a conversation about politics, morals and the world in general. There’s a bit of bondage and a lot of badinage, some sex-related villainy and a nascent love story. It also reflects contemporary politics – Trump, May, Brexit et al. Put another way, this is the story of a strong woman with a stable of admirers. Among these is a young woman called Summer, a person in whom Lulu can see something of her former self and with whom she strikes up an unusual friendship. Love is a Battlefield is an acerbic take on the cocktail that is modern Britain. It’s zeitgeist on the rocks.

LONDON APRIL 2017
She was feeling particularly aggressive for some reason. It was simply business as usual, but sometimes the mood just got to her. She told herself that they preferred it that way. No, actually she didn’t…she really couldn’t care less whether they did or not.

She was in her ‘entertainment room’, walking hard all over a client who was dressed as if for work in the City. She was wearing high heels – very high and very sharp – with a smart navy jacket buttoned up but with nothing underneath it. Under her smart navy knee-length skirt was nothing but a pair of stockings.

She stared down at the apparently stricken, certainly trampled, man, who turned to look upwards at her face with an expression of agony and ecstasy.

“What are you doing?” she hissed venomously.

He said nothing.

“Well? You’re being bad, aren’t you? You’re lying there admiring the view.”

She stamped on his thigh, even harder than before. Some days it took quite some effort not to make the target their balls.

 

Raul thought this broad – what was she called again? Vanessa? – was becoming a pain. Agreed, watching her walk around with no bra on meant a guaranteed hard-on, and when it came to fucking he didn’t like to fuck about, so that was nice. Very nice. On the other hand, so far as she was concerned, he evidently wasn’t doing enough to advance her ‘career’. He could hardly believe he had so far managed not to break down and laugh whenever she referred to her ‘career’, like she was into rocket science as opposed to pretty much anything into her. Still, that treasure chest of hers was worth a bit of diplomacy and, being larger than model size all round, she wasn’t annoyingly bony as some girls could be.

Nevertheless, he was a bit surprised when her next pitch included a reference to Brexit.

“If the government really gets tough about enforcing immigration after it leaves the EU, how will that affect my career?” she asked when they were lying in bed afterwards.

Raul, who was of Spanish descent but a British citizen, certainly hoped it wouldn’t become too hard. Although he wasn’t overly optimistic. Having apparently been for Remain, the Prime Minister seemed now to be pursuing an exit with the fervour of a zealot. The situation might get very annoying. For example, on one occasion last year he’d texted two of his favourite Estonian girls about meeting up, sending the message to their UK phones. Only one of them had replied and that had come from an Estonian number. She hadn’t put her name to the text so he didn’t know which one it was, which pissed him off for a bit, or at least until he’d sorted out someone else. But the basic point remained: he didn’t want East European girls to find it too hard to get into Britain.

“Sorry, but which country are you from?”

Not unreasonably, she looked a little hurt. “Brazil. I’ve told you before. Many times.”

“Sorry – I’ve got so much going on. So therefore it makes no difference. You’re a Brazilian citizen and you’re already here. Your status wouldn’t change if Britain was in or out because – surprise, surprise – Brazil being in South America means that it’s not in Europe.”

Her English wasn’t perfect but it was certainly good enough to recognise sarcasm.

“You don’t have to talk to me like that, as if I’m not good enough for you.”

He certainly wasn’t going to begin another sentence with ‘sorry’.

“I don’t think that at all. But I’d have thought you understood the situation well enough to realise it would have no affect on your career.” Here he made a heroic effort not to stress the word ‘career’.

She mulled this answer over for a few seconds.

“So when will you start doing something more to help me? When will you introduce me to important businessmen?”

Raul really was not sure for how much longer he’d be able to keep up the pretence. Obviously, he had no intention of introducing her to the sort of people she had imagined he would be doing. He supposed her game plan involved an eventual introduction to some stupendously wealthy and ideally aged sugar daddy who would keep her in a life of luxury for at least a year or two, at which point there would be some preposterous payoff enabling her to return home, meet a guy and start a family with some money in the bank. Her side of the bargain would be to look good beside Mr Rich – there were one or two woman Raul hired, with no sex involved, for this specific purpose himself – and provide the occasional hand-job on request.

From Raul’s perspective, this wasn’t going to happen, or if it did it would be no thanks to him. He wasn’t paying her for sex but others were – none of whom fitted into Vanessa’s dream scenario. She was a good hooker as well as a good looker and his slice of the financial action was pretty handsome. Of course, she didn’t know about that bit but the simple fact was that her going freelance made no sense at all.

“Just give me a bit more time,” he said. “Things have been busier than usual lately but I’m sure we can have something arranged by the end of the month, or next month at the latest.”

She hesitated before responding.

“I mean, it’s not like you want me for yourself, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you did you wouldn’t be happy about me seeing other men, would you?”

“It would be very unreasonable of me to insist on you being monogamous when, as you know, I am married. And I understand that you need the money.”

“Yes, but I’m still right, aren’t I? You don’t want to be with me all the time?”

The words ‘cold day in hell’ came to mind but instead he said: “I’m not leaving my wife. But I’ve never said I would be doing, so you already knew that.”

Only half-satisfied with his answer, she asked: “So, for you, is this, is what we do, just meaningless sex?”

He considered this for a few seconds but then said this anyway.

“Meaningless sex? That’s a stupid phrase. It always means something to someone, even if it’s that I think you’re a piece of crap but you’re still a good fuck.”

“What?” she said loudly, enraged. “So now you think I’m a piece of crap?”

“No,” he lied. “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to add or that it might mean that I love you very deeply. I just meant that it’s never meaningless.”

Only half-mollified, she said: “But you don’t love me very deeply. And if you don’t think I’m a piece of crap, where do I fit in between?”

‘Now Raul’, he thought, ‘give her at least a week or two longer.’ Time to calm this down for today.

He reached across and stroked her cheek.

“Definitely much nearer the love end,” he said gently.

She didn’t look very reassured.

“You’re only saying that because you want to fuck me again.”

She actually could be pretty perceptive at times.

Resisting the urge to say something along the lines of “anything else you’d like to get off that huge chest of yours?,” he opted for something more diplomatic, albeit less sincere.

“I do want to do that, it’s true, but what I just said is true also.”

She still didn’t look very reassured but they did it anyway. Of course.

 

May and Trump. Trump and May. What a double act! Yesterday the Prime Minister had done what she said she most definitely would not be doing and called a General Election. Meanwhile, the “armada” that Trump had apparently ordered to sail just off the North Korean coast in order to terrify the prats in Pyongyang was in fact 3,500 miles away and heading in the opposite direction. These people were priceless.

The Guardian pointed out that being a vicar’s daughter, which May mentioned at every available opportunity and often even if she had to make a severe linguistic detour to get there, meant that in her mind she was obviously blessed with a divine wisdom which allowed her rightly to conclude that the interests of her party were more important than those of the country. How Jeremy Corbyn had reached the same conclusion by agreeing to back the declaration of an election was beyond most people’s comprehension. The Daily Mail, meanwhile, summoning up the spirit of its previous ‘Enemies of the People’ headline about the judges, went for a cover photo of May looking slightly mad and the chilling headline ‘Crush the Saboteurs’. More like North Korea than North London. With a laugh, Lulu read Rory’s column.

Poor Kim Kardashian. She is no longer the most notorious Kim on the planet. Weapons of mass distraction can’t compete with weapons of mass destruction when it comes to the big news. Kim Jong-un has taken this high-stakes celebrity game to another level. In fact, into the stratosphere. Unlike him, KK has not been the subject of an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council (having said that, if Geri Halliwell can be a UN ambassador, a Kardashian debate in the chamber surely cannot be out of the question?) so she really does need to up her game if she wants to compete with a deranged dictator.

It’s not a question of does her bum look big in whatever it is, to which assuredly the answer is going to be ‘yes’. It’s all about the size of his rocket and how large might be his bomb on it. Kardashian may put passion into fashion but KJU puts missiles into space – on a regular basis. The West (by which I mean countries like the UK and the US, not KK’s hubby Kanye) is getting increasingly agitated, with President Trump saying that “if China is not going to solve North Korea, we will.” Boom! Faced with such a risk of being out-shone, what’s a girl to do? That’s right – go nuclear herself. Her retaliation to the fall-out from the launches was almost to fall out of her dress during a television interview.

Odd as it may seem, our two Kims do have things in common besides their names. For example, they both have a penchant for the word ‘North’. For one it’s part of the name of the country they run; for other it’s the name of her daughter. They both feature in a reality show. KJU’s is a very scary one, which routinely involves him having people executed; KK has a programme on the E! channel called Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

And there you have it in a nutshell – Kim’s Korea and Kim’s career. It’s insanity versus inanity.

Ultimately, are the Kims similar or different? I guess it comes to down to the fact that one chooses to behave like a world-class ass while…well, I’ll leave it to you to choose your own end.

 

Feeling rather guilty at how things had worked out at their last meeting – which had also been their first – Lulu had arranged to meet Summer for coffee at the café in St James’s Park, for which the latter seemed to be unduly grateful.

“I know it turned out badly that day with that jerk but I’m glad I got to meet you,” said Summer. “It’s good to have someone I feel I can talk to about what I do who isn’t disapproving but has also managed to get out of it.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of being a role model,” said Lulu, quite firmly. “But are you looking to get out of it?”

“Not desperately but eventually, definitely.”

“Do you hate it?”

“You know, it isn’t the working I hate. What I hate is the scum around it: the useless website guys, the spivvy card handlers, the cheesy photographers – all of that. The website people who rip you off and don’t care. They take your money and then don’t do the site as you want it. They’re never any help. A few months ago the idiot who was doing mine somehow got a virus on to the site, which crashed it. Great for business! And he acted like it was my fault. Any stationery you want done, the printers are nearly always sleazy and the guys you pay to distribute the stuff don’t bother to do it properly and when you complain they get all mouthy. They’re usually on drugs anyway. At least I’ve now got a decent photographer – a woman, as you might guess. The last guy who came to take photos was a total slime. I was wearing a classy-looking dress and the first thing he said was: “Are you going to get your tits out then?” I told him I was showing nothing.”

“But you’ve managed to keep a cluster of good regular customers?”

“A cluster-fuck of regulars, you mean?”

They both laughed.

“I do have that, yes, but it’s not ideal. If it was, I’d only see regulars rather than taking new punters. One I saw last week was disgusting. He seemed a bit dodgy but not totally awful at first. He was from somewhere in Eastern Europe, judging by his accent. But when he’d finished he made a point of telling me that every Saturday night he and his pals would cruise the clubs and find a girl outside one who was so drunk that she could barely stand. They’d put her in the car, feed her a tab and take turns with her. He said: ‘That’s why we love British women.’ He then said he’d like to book me again for this week. I told him to fuck off.”

“Yes, that does sound grim.”

“Very. Complete arsehole. Another thing. Did it happen a lot to you that punters would make a booking and then not show up?”

“Oh, often.”

“Why do they bother to do that? I really don’t get it.”

“It’s like that jerk who gave us the runaround in the minicab. In their minds, they’re humiliating you. They’re just twats. It makes them feel good that they have this tiny bit of control over you. The nastier variation, which I’ve also had, is that they turn up at your door, take one look at you and leave. The idea is to make you feel like a total pile of crap. They’re complete shits. One time that happened to a girl I knew and she watched him leave her place and go out to his car and whack himself off. He obviously got off on the thought of what he’d just done to her.”

“God, that’s so pathetic.”

“Mind you, I was once paid by two guys to go to their hotel room, where they were dressed in women’s clothes, and watch them stick needles into each other’s nipples.”

“Ugh!”

“Yes, I think I might prefer being stood up rather than go through that again.”

They each sipped their coffees.

“Don’t you think men are so funny about condoms?” asked Summer.

Lulu grinned. “In what way?”

“Well, for a start how the manufacturers brand a certain size as ‘trim’ rather than ‘small’. But I guess men would never buy them if that was what they were called?”

Lulu laughed. “You’re right there. I can’t think of a worse marketing strategy for anything than trying to encourage men to buy condoms with the word ‘small’ on the packet.” She paused and chuckled. “Well, perhaps unless it said ‘tiny’ instead.”

Summer laughed. “Yes, for sure. I don’t know why they don’t just stamp ‘King Size’ on them all. I had one client who asked what size I was about to put on him; he had to make the point that he was extra large.”

“Was he?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m not surprised. They do like to lie about that. They say that’s why women are no good at measurements; they’ve been told their whole lives that what’s five inches is in fact ten.”

Summer laughed uproariously.

Lulu continued. “A woman I knew once had that situation with a client. After he’d started getting arsey about it, she told him she’d get a plastic bag if that would make him happier.”

“Haha. What happened?”

“I think he left, though not until after he’d taken his money back.”

They drank some more coffee.

“The thing is, though,” said Summer, “I couldn’t make anything like the money I do by doing something else. And it’s not all bad. I know people say you never really see a happy hooker, but why should we look happy all the time? No one ever says that about being a dustman, or a policeman, or a nurse. Is it cos of…what’s it called when words begin with the same letter?”

“Alliteration.”

“Yes, that. Nobody ever goes on about never seeing a…I don’t know, a delighted dustman or a pleased policeman.”

Lulu laughed. “You’re right about that.”

“Some days are better than others, some days are worse. It’s the same as with every job. I mean, a lot of women have sex just for the sake of sex, nothing to do with love. Some do it to help keep them safe from a violent partner. I do it for money. So who’s the stupid one here?”

“Hey, you don’t have to preach to me. I get what you’re saying.”

At a nearby table, a man was reading a tabloid with a headline ‘Love Rat Soccer Star Strays Again’. Summer gazed back at Lulu.

“I don’t know why they make headlines out of those stories. I mean, it happens all the time. They never can keep it in their trousers, can they?”

Lulu agreed. “It does happen all the time. ‘Famous man fucks woman who’s not his wife’. Big deal. What a shocker. Of course famous or rich men fuck around. Because they can.” She grinned. “A guy once asked me: ‘What’s the main difference between being a man and being a woman?’ He meant apart from the obvious. I asked him what. He told me that if a man goes into a bar looking to meet a woman for sex, he has a chance. If a woman does that, goes looking for a man, she’s a cert. OK, so if she weighs 20 stone and looks like the backside of a buffalo, maybe not, but I get his point. If a guy is rich or famous…well, he’s put himself into the woman category. Until, of course, his brain gets the better of his dick and he starts sending salacious text messages which then get his story into the papers.”

“It’s pretty low of the women to do that, though, isn’t it?”

“It is, I suppose. But it’s also inevitable. It’s a bit like prostitution. The famous guy pays for having sex, not with money but with his subsequent public shame and humiliation and possibly the break-up of his existing relationship. Money-wise, someone else is paying for the sex – usually a tabloid newspaper, at a later date, the amount and timing to be decided. Those young women who queue up to go to bed with famous sports stars, film stars, whatever – it’s not usually in the remote hope that they will be ‘the one’, the woman he’s going go spend the rest of his life with, or at least the rest of it until the next shag comes along. No, those girls are getting what they want – sex on their terms, with kudos instead of cash. But if the man is stupid enough to present her with an opportunity to make some money out of the occasion as well, no one should be surprised if she takes that opportunity. Neither of them was ever in it for a relationship.”

THE NEXT UPDATE WILL BE PUBLISHED ON JANUARY 1

This book is available on kindle from Amazon.