The Client
Some girls, well, they make you feel good, but she made you feel special. Even in the dingy boudoir of madam T’s cathouse, she made you feel like royalty and you wanted to treat her like a queen. It was almost as if a princess was playing pauper for a day, or a nun, a whore - you had to respect her. Oh, she did her job, one of the best, and with such apparent enjoyment you almost thought she should be paying you. All an act, I know, but what a talent!
When I first met her, she had just arrived in that notorious establishment - her patron, a doctor’s son, I believe, had kicked her out for whoring around. I’d have thought a few infidelities would be a small price to pay for having such a beauty at your disposal. I can imagine her shrugging those slender shoulders, picking up her few belongings and just strolling out; sure of the fact that her wits and her beauty would sustain her.
Even at that young age, she can’t have been more than seventeen, she had that world weariness and all knowing look; the mark of depravity was already feathering her lips like the lightest dusting of frost. It’s hard to describe.
Lord, she was a skinny piece! Not like she is now with those alluring hips and magnificent breasts. She was like a boy, a beautiful little boy. And she was most popular with the clientele who like them young. She was unformed in so many ways, you see. Like a page ready to be written on, a violin ready to be played or a hymn ready to be sung.
Strange! Why did I say a hymn? I mean, she’s hardly holy, is she? Not so very long ago I heard her referred to as a devil.
