Lola felt
ridiculous when she called it sex.
Sex means different things to different
people, one of the volunteers explained to her at orientation, several
weeks ago.
People come to this center to experience all
the different ways that two or more
people can experience love in safe, nonjudgmental environment.
Lola first heard
about the center almost a year ago, but she only recently found the courage (or
perhaps desperation) to arrive there.
The nasty remark
from the work pushed her over that edge. She tended the bar, tried to enjoy the
fast-paced job, when she overheard two guys, probably college students, discuss her.
Dare you, one said.
I can’t operate equipment that heavy, the other joked. I don’t have the license.
Lola spent every
night at that bar. She poured drinks for men who scanned the joint, on the
lookout for a friend for the night. They never noticed her, certainly wouldn’t
consider her.
Lola spent a lot
of time in front of her bathroom mirror, tried to make her body presentable,
tried to position her hair a certain way, bat her eyelids just right.
She hated the fact
that she might soon become a forty-year-old virgin, a subject so worthy of
ridicule that it served as the title of a comical movie.
She jointed the Center
for the Arts of Sex, sat through orientation, and learned that members here
expressed all manners of “love” with one another, sometimes in a private room,
sometimes right out in the lobby for everyone to see.
Lola never desired
physical abuse or humiliation. Many people at the center loved that sort of
thing, and received it with partners who honestly enjoyed the activity.
Bondage. Abuse. Slaps and moans.
She, for her first
week, attended every party that the center threw.
She watched, at
work, people hook up and go home together.
She watched, at
the center, people hook up and head for one of the private rooms.
When Marcus, a man
to whom she found no attraction, asked her if she wanted to try some bondage
with him, she shyly declined.
She regretted it,
though. Anything seemed better than loneliness amongst so many people.
When Marcus came
around again, she accepted his offer.
He tied her to a
horizontal rack and whipped her. She screamed, bit her lip, tasted blood in her
mouth. She knew she would never enjoy this sort of
thing.
She continued to
arrive, continued to let Marcus strike her. To his credit, he always asked her
if it felt okay. She always lied and said yes, because if he discontinued the
abuse, she would sit alone.
She promised
herself that she would stop. Her body ached, and she wore thick sweaters to
cover her bruises.
Customers at the
bar would hook up, and she would watch, invisible, and know that she would
return to the center once she clocked out for the night.
She closed out her
register after the last customers left the bar hand-in-hand. Lola’s coworker,
Danny, a beautiful, slim girl who shared her apartment with her boyfriend,
helped her clean up before they closed for the night.
“What’s with the
sweater?” Danny asked.
Lola nodded out
the window at the cold, Seattle rain.
Danny frowned. “A
raincoat would work better. The sweater will absorb the water, make matters
worse.”
Lola hesitated. “I
just . . . want to stay warm.”
Danny headed home
to share a hot meal with her boyfriend.
The rain
increased, tap-danced against the bar’s frosted windows, through which Lola saw
nothing, not even her reflection.
Thanks for reading.
Daughters of Darkwana received a sweet, succinct
review, which you can read here, http://www.thebookeaters.co.uk/daughters-of-darkwana-by-martin-wolt-jr/
Also,
the third book in my series, Diaries of
Darkwana, will hit Kindle just as soon as I find a new cover artist. I have
a few candidates already, thank goodness.
I
publish my blogs as follows:
Tuesdays:
A look at the politics of the entertainment world at EntertainmentMicroscope.blogspot.com.
Wednesdays:
An inside look at my novels (such as Daughters of Darkwana, which you can now find on Kindle) at Darkwana.blogspot.com
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