NOTE TO READERS: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, MOSTLY.
“The nights refuse to turn into day, and the mornings don’t ever go away.”
What doesn’t kill you will at least skewer every future attempt at intimacy. Never forget, the things that bring the happiest moments will also impose the darkest days. Never forget, I said! The ultimate loss will eventually drive even the strongest to the madhouse. It seems obvious, right? But not for such a tender soul as I. Dear reader, don’t you dare roll those baby blues at my confessions! I’ve always been on the naïve side. I think that’s what’s helped keep me mildly fresh-faced. But the clock on the wall does indeed make corpses of us all.
“When did you first discover that life is nothing more than a practical joke being endlessly laughed at by a silent creator?” Mortimer gives me his eyes. Not the come-to-bed eyes for a cuddle—the ones I would prefer, given my current loneliness—the other ones. Those that say, “Give me a break, you intolerable fool.”
“Look, I don’t wish to throw insults at any artist unless they truly deserve it. But even you must admit, that Christoph Waltz guy belongs on German daytime TV, nothing more. What can the world see that I do not?!” Mortimer, again with the eyes, took one look at me and placed his head firmly on the ground. That’s the great thing about dogs. Amongst a million other things, their inability to reply and tell you how much of a buffoon you may be never occurs. But those eyes will haunt me forever.
Little Mortimer had the beauty of an esteemed fox. He’s the best-looking Corgi on earth, I often thought, as if dear old Queen Elizabeth herself had plucked him from her Royal womb and sent this God-like gift straight to a poor prole like me. Mortimer’s regal stare unsettled me and everyone who came into contact with him. He truly knew he was better than all of us, and no doubt wondered how he had ended up with me, of all people. In my mind, I was sure he loved me. But let’s face it: his wagging tail and morning licks, snuggles, and affection soon turned into indifference when he had what he wanted. All men are alike, I pondered, almost ready to text my mother, but that was indeed too little too late. I then realised that Mortimer was an orphan, like all dogs. What a truly horrid thought. No wonder he shared my depression, and his was my own, in many ways.
“Dear God, did this kind of thing happen to you?”
As a younger man, I had always been squeamish about prostitution. That is to say, I found the idea of outright paying for it slightly troublesome, niche, taboo, even. Don’t get me wrong. It had nothing to do with feminism or female exploitation. When it came to coming, I couldn’t give a flying fuck who took it, excuse the phrase. It was more down to my inherent need to feel wanted by a lover, embraced without falseness or making sex into a dull monetary transaction. I’ve always been needy, self-obsessed, proud, vain, or whatever you want to call it, and these have always been my greatest flaws. Fake orgasms make me ill, but at least I haven’t had too many. Usually, it’s my own when I’m too drunk to finish. However, as one gets older, with many failed loves under one’s belt, an interest in such things begins to emerge. I was still relatively handsome, young-ish, and could easily snare any semi-moderate girl I could find. No, the need to visit a pro was more than that. The mystic of the experience was greater than anything I could think of.
Prior, I often thought of myself as a Woody Allen character in such a situation. The one where he goes to meet a hooker and pays her just to talk for an hour, preferably a black girl (What is it about older Jews and the black girls?), about her life and troubles and whatever. In truth, I feared that situation, even with its comedic implications. It was in Prague, my favourite city on earth. They, as in the workers, were everywhere. The one I picked up was in a bar. I had barely sat down and ordered a beer before the eye contact began. Now, look. I do fancy myself slightly, as I said, I’m not utterly without pretty boy charm, even at my age and weight, but when certain women of such standards make instant eye contact, you can be sure as Cancer that she’s not doing it without a business intention. It didn’t matter to me, at that point at least.
We made our way to her apartment (or probably her full-time non-paid lovers), Orla and I. Was that her real name? Who cares? It was a great name, sexy, as was she, obviously. I recall mentioning I liked her faux Irish title whilst thinking her Eastern European shit hole country of origin would be bombed soon enough, God willing. “If you haven’t got it together by now, kid, you’re in serious trouble”. Did I say that out loud, or just think it?
“Room is 100, my pussy is 200.” Orla proclaimed, like some speech given by an inept leader of a country that doesn’t even matter. A hundred for what? I pondered. “Have you ever felt so low you find it difficult to even speak, even to pull the covers, never mind get out of bed?” I asked. “Jay, if you want an analyst, find one, it will cost slightly less” Orla responded, coldly as every bitch I had encountered in the guise of love. She had a point. Fair enough. It was then I got undressed, had a quick shower then had the most morbid fuck of my sorrowful life. Even the guise of true love with a frumpy nobody must be better than this, as opposed to a hot whore who unashamedly wants your wallet. When I fucked her from behind, I saw strange red stripes on her back, mild bruises. Even afterwards, I was too shy to enquire further as to their origin. She must have been and seen some proper cowboys, real pieces of work, I thought, trying to maintain an erection. Even at climax, it made me melancholic. Has Van Gogh taken over my soul?
“What doesn’t kill you will at least skewer every future attempt at intimacy,” I said. Orla smiled willfully and was silent, obviously understanding my inexperience with such a moment in time. “You haven’t done this before, have you, my timid little buffoon?” I could read some of her thoughts by now. The strong, silent type has never been a trait I like in women.
I then had the deep impulse to interview my dear Orla, to get into her mind, her ambitions, her experience of working in the business of sex, and who the hell had been rough with her. It could make a great article, full of interest from the most bored of the benign. But that would have meant falling back into the cliche of the customer eventually falling in love with his business partner, and we do not want that. No, Orla and I shook hands (which I found comical), and I left right after, into the night, which would offer nothing more than despondency and probably a trip to a Czech bar to talk about my shortcomings with some stranger. At least that would offer some meaning.
Even as I ponder these moments, these disgraces in life, I think only of the Corgi. His stare, his unbearable eyes, and occasional moments of showing love are more than any such Eastern European cunt could offer. Or any other for that matter. Dogs give life actual meaning. Alas, onwards to the next one.
“Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.”
Words by Henry Jackson.
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