Cigarettes and Lipstick

Ciagarettes and Lipstick

There is only one thing I need before I start my shift at Verona's—a cigarette. After that, I quickly swipe crimson wax against my lips, remove my sheer black robe (if you can even call it that) and enter the smoke infested darkness of my employment. If only behind the fog, between all the wasted lives, is one that matters; regardless, when I start my scavenging through the World War Two era bar, I hope not to find him again.

He is my most frequent client, Romeo. He's a Bay Street stock broker-type, doting husband and dirt-faced liar who knows where he was going the instant he lays his eyes or should we say hands under the clothing most would call lingerie. All I want to do is return to my safe room, but I must go into work for my father; sadly, as I skankily waltz my way through the tables to find a taker, an arm grips my wrist like some prized possession and practically drags me onto his lap. Just as I feared he would.

From my position, I look Romeo dead in his stone-cold grey eyes. I've always know that Romeo is a looker, what with his styled hair, fitted navy suit, real leather Oxfords and his sly, knowing smile; unsurprisingly, he knows what he's got and he's used it to get where he is. That smile leans in so only he and I can hear, whispering, "We should get out of here."

Silently, I take on my role, smile to his companions, and follow Romeo out to his favourite place—Verona's guest room, 69, his usual spot. As his hands cling to the door handles and the hinges creak, I see the old, sullen bed crammed against the cheap lamp. Just as I remembered, classic Romeo. As he always says, cheap sluts deserve cheap things. Once I turn to Romeo, I know this had to start.

I pray to whatever's up there that I won't break these stilettos as Romeo pushes me onto my knees where I belong. I see him pull down his zipper and I begin sucking once I feel the hated weight against my tongue, his claws in my hair. He pulls me back and forth and back and forth, rhythmically hitting the back of my throat as my broken gag-reflex reaches. There's nothing much to do now, just waiting until his semen comes to mark the end of this torture and we both can go on with our lives.

Suddenly, Romeo pulls out and hulls me onto my feet clumsily. He's never done that before; next, he pushed my knees onto the bead, head onto the sheets, forcing me to present, unceremoniously pulling down my covering and thrusts in without another word. I gasp and sob and beg for him to stop, to let me adjust, anything to stop the pains coming from my most precious place. We've-I've never done this before. It was nothing like the movies. Instead of sweet and gentle, I got rough and selfish. Instead of sweet nothings and beautiful and I love you, I get you want this and you slut and bitch has been saving herself for me. Instead of enjoying it, I wished I could go back home, write in diaries like fourteen year olds are supposed to do, picking lavender petals while I wonder if the boy next door likes me back. Instead I'm here waiting for the rattling of the bed to stop.

After what feels like an era, the rattling stops, Romeo pulls out and dumps an hour's worth of cash beside the sloppy mess that used to be my lavender flower. He could have said anything or nothing, but he chose to say, "Thanks Juliet. See you next time," and exits.

For the first few minutes, I can't bother to do anything. When I finally move, I pull myself up, pick up my salary, and head off to my safe space to prepare for my next shift. I silently pray next one won't want any more than Romeo. I pull on my sheer robe, pull out my cigarettes and lipstick, lighting another one to help me recover from my last shift. As I puff out the opaque smoke, I hope, pray, for someone to save me from this hell even though I know that's impossible. My cigarette finishes and I swipe on my crimson wax as my robe drops when I go back into Verona's. I slowly breathe in the smoke and let my crimson shield me from more Romeos. If only that were true...