Porno (30 page)

We have dinner in a restaurant which is rated the current place to go. I have a seafood platter to start, which includes squid, crab, lobster and prawn and is garnished by an imaginative herby lemon sauce. The main course is a nouvelle-cuisine-style roast lamb with spinach and assorted vegetables and for the dessert I enjoy a caramelised orange with rich ice-cream topping. This is washed down with a bottle of Dom Perignon, a fruity, but quite heavy Chardonnay, and two large brandies. Excusing myself, I vomit everything up in the toilets and then brush my teeth, swallow some Milk of Magnesia and gargle with Listerine. The food was excellent, but I never digest anything after seven. Then Severiano calls a taxi and we head back to the hotel.

I’m a bit nervous and rather tipsy with the drink when we get to the room, so I switch on the television where a news programme or documentary shows clichéd scenes of famine in Africa. Severiano takes the complimentary wine from the ice bucket and pours two glasses. He slides off his shoes and eases himself onto the bed, resting on the puffed-up pillows, and grins at me, the smile pitched halfway between endearing little boy and sleazy old pervert. In it, you can see what he’s been, and what he will shortly become. — Seet beside me, Neekey, he says patting the space next to him.

For a split second I’m almost tempted to obey, but I click into business mode. — I’ll give you a massage and some hand relief. That’s as much as I do.

He looks at me sadly, his big Latin eyes almost seem to be welling with tears. — If thees ees how eet ees to be . . . he says and then starts to unzip. His cock bounces out like an enthusiastic puppy. And what happens to enthusiastic pups?

Well, I get started stroking alright, but then that old problem presents itself: I’m simply not very good at handjobs. I’m eating him with my eyes, loving my power over him. His burning eyes contrast with the ice in Simon’s, the ice, as they say in that advert, that I’d love to melt, but I feel my wrist going tired with the repetition and it’s just not stimulating enough for me. No, it fucking bores me. This transmits and he’s looking frustrated, upset and even irritated. However, I like the way that fruit pops up through the implausibly long foreskin and decide that I want to feast on it. I look at him and lick my lips and tell him: — I don’t normally do this, but . . .

This Basque man is delighted at the bonus on offer. — Oh, Neekey . . . Neekey, babee . . .

I quickly negotiate a very good price, capitalising on my high-bargaining power right now, and I take him in my mouth, making sure that I generate enough saliva first, to act as a barrier against any acridness. He does have a big foreskin so the chances of his cock tasting foul on the first few licks are high. However, on my initial contact he has a fresh, sharp taste, which makes me think of Spanish onions, but that could just be the ethnocentric association. I might be clumsy at handjobs but I know how to give a blow job alright: even as a child I was always an oral, suck-it-and-see type.

I can tell when he’s about to blow, so I pull his reluctant prick from me and he’s moaning and begs and pleads but I’m not taking his cum. He’s deranged now and my body freezes in a spasm of fear as he gets a grip on me and I’m coldly thinking for a couple of seconds that I’m going to be raped and trying to work out what defensive violence I could employ. Then I realise that all he’s doing is rubbing up against me like a dog, his hot breath in my ear muttering something frenzied in Spanish as he shoots his load against my dress.

It wasn’t rape, but it wasn’t consensual either, and it felt demeaning. I push him away in anger and he’s crumbled back onto the bed, full of regret now, apologising profusely. — Oh, Neekey, I am so sorree . . . please forgive me . . . and he’s rolling over to his jacket to produce the notes in order to make sure I do exactly that, while I’m heading through to the mirror-walled bathroom, and I’m finding a towel, wetting it and removing his discharge.

Afterwards he’s quite charming, still full of apologies, and I calm down and we finish the wine. I’m getting a bit drunk and he asks me if he can take some Polaroids of me in my bra and knickers. I give him the poor-student routine and he produces more cash. I take off the dress and dry the wet patch with the built-in hairdryer, while he gets the camera ready.

He gets me to pose, and I’m glad I’ve got on the wonderbra, as he takes a couple of snaps. I notice that I look quite cruel and disapproving in the first one, so I try a cheesy smile for the second. I worry about my bony knees in the pictures, and I’m sure I’m getting the start of a pot belly. Warming to his enthusiasm and my own going-to-seed paranoia, I put on a show, demonstrating some supple gymnastics. Big mistake, because Severiano is getting amorous again, and he leaps off the bed and tries to kiss me. I’m worried now, conscious of being semi-naked and thus more vulnerable. Backing away, I raise a palm, which, accompanied by a glacial stare, seems to cool his ardour. — Forgeeve me, Neekey, he pleads, — I am a peeg . . .

I get back into the dress, put the money in my handbag and say a cool, sweet goodbye, leaving him in the room.

I go down the hall to the lifts, experiencing a crazy blend of debasement and elation, both emotions seeming to vie for supremacy. I consciously force myself to think of the money, and the ease of the work, which makes me feel better.

The lift arrrives and inside is a young porter with bad skin and a trolley full of luggage. He nods curtly, and I squeeze in, noting the rash that spreads along his jawline. It’s not acne though, as it’s only on one side of his face. I realise it’s like he’s been in a fight, or drunkenly scraped his face against the wall or the pavement. As we descend he looks at me with a guilty smile and I give him what I imagine to be a similar one back. The doors of the lift click open and I’m out, head still racing, confused. I just want to be out of the hotel, extricated from the scene of the crime.

So I’m heading out across the lobby and I can make out, through the glass door ahead, the pavement outside glistening with the street lights and the rain. Then it opens suddenly and a horrible recognition jolts me as in discomfort I see who’s coming into the hotel. It’s my fucking tutor, McClymont, and he’s walking right towards me, his face moulding into a grin in recognition.

Oh my God.

That face crumples up like a crushed newspaper and a look of sleazy contempt fills his eyes. — Miss Fuller-Smith . . . that voice, harsh yet soft, rasps into my consciousness.

Oh my God. I feel my heartbeat rising and the sound of my soles clicking on the floor seems deafening. An overwhelming sense takes over; it’s like every eye in the hotel foyer is on McClymont and me, like we’re being framed at the centre of a picture. — Hello, I . . . I try to start, but he’s giving me a strange look, like he knows all the secrets of my soul. He looks me up and down and there’s a steely glint in the eye of this most decidedly lecherous lecturer. — Join me for a drink, he nods over to the bar, more by way of a command than a request.

I just don’t know what to say here. — I can’t . . . I ehm . . .

McClymont shakes his head slowly. — I’d be very disappointed if you didn’t, Nicola, he says rolling his eyes, and I get the message. Of course, I’ve handed in my last piece of work, but something still compels me to obey. My attendance record has been poor and he could still fail me on that. If I don’t stick it, my dad will cut off my allowance and that’ll be me. I make the humiliating U-turn and start to regain my composure and follow him over to the bar, the barman looking coldly at me as McClymont asks what I want to drink.

So I’m sitting at the bar with this dirty old git, and before I can establish the upper hand in asking him what he’s doing here, he asks me the same question first. — I was waiting on my boyfriend, I tell him, raising a glass of malt whisky to my lips. This is Simon’s doing, and McClymont obviously approves of the choice of drink. — But he called me on my mobile to say that he’d been delayed.

— Oh, how sad, McClymont says.

— What about yourself? Is this a haunt of yours? I ask.

McClymont goes a bit stiff, he obviously feels that I’m either his student, or a woman, or younger than him, or all three, and therefore he should be the one asking the questions. — I was at a Caledonian Society meeting, he says pompously, — and on my way home I got caught in a shower and decided to stop here for a drink. — Do you live near here? he asks.

— No, up Tollcross, I . . . eh . . . I shudder as out of the corner of my eye I see Severiano the Basque man coming down into the bar, with another guy in a suit. I turn away, but the guy in the suit, not the Basque, comes straight over to us. — Angus! he shouts, and McClymont turns round and grins in recognition. Then he notices me and raises his eyebrows. — And who is this lovely young lady?

— This is Miss Nicola Fuller-Smith, Rory, a student at the university. Nicola, this is Rory McMaster, MSP.

I shake hands with this mid-forties rugby-bore type.

— Why not come and join us? he says, pointing over at the Basque, who looks across at me with a twisted grimace.

I try to protest, but McClymont’s grabbed our drinks from the bar and he’s taking them across to the table. I try to flash a tense ‘I’m sorry’ grin at the Basque, who looks harshly at me, as if he’s being set up. I sit down in as chaste a position as this dress allows. I feel more powerless and objectified here than I ever could fucking some stranger in front of a DVC lens. — This is Señor Enrico De Silva, from the Basque regional parliament in Bilbao, McMaster says. Angus McClymont and Nicola . . . ehm, Fuller-Smith, is that right?

— Yes, I smile meekly, feeling myself shrinking into the chair. Enrico; he told me that his name was Severiano. He glances at me in mournful connivance. — Thees young laydee is your partner, no? he asks McClymont, in some trepidation.

McClymont flushes a little, then lets a smile crinkle his face before laughing: — No, no, Miss Fuller-Smith is a student of mine.

— What ees eet she is studying? Enrico, or Severiano, or ‘the Basque’ asks.

I feel something rise inside me. I am fucking here, you know. I cut in. — My major is film. But I do Scottish studies as an option. It’s very interesting, you know, I smile in pain, thinking about how I had that man’s penis in my mouth only a few minutes ago.

I excuse myself and get up to go to the toilet, aware that their eyes are on my arse as I depart, that they’ll be talking about me, but I can’t help it, I need space to think. I feel helpless and I don’t know who to call on my mobile. I almost phone Colin at his home, that’s how desperate and irrational I am, but I decide on Simon. — I’m in a bit of an embarrassing jam, Simon, I’m at the Royal Stuart Hotel in the New Town. Could you please help me?

Simon seems quite cold and tetchy, and there’s silence for a while, but he eventually says: — I suppose Mo can handle things for a bit. I’ll be there presently, he coughs out and hangs up.

Presently? What the fuck does that mean? I retouch my make-up and brush my hair and go back out.

When I return to the table, the three men are sitting in lecherous complicity. They’ve been talking about me, I know that they have. McClymont, in particular, is pretty drunk. He makes a long-winded rambling statement about something, I think it’s about Scotland’s prominence within the Union, finishing up with: — . . . and that’s exactly what our English friends fail to take into account.

It’s not so much his comment but his intense waspish gaze on me that riles. — I don’t follow you. Are you making a nationalist or a Unionist point there?

— Just a general one, he says, eyes crinkling.

I reach for my glass of Scotch. — It’s funny, but I always thought that ‘North Britons’ was a term used in irony, in sarcasm, by nationalists in Scotland. I was surprised to find out that it was coined by Unionists who wanted to be accepted as part of the UK, I look across at my Basque and the MSP. — So it was an aspirational term, as no English person has or probably ever will refer to themselves as ‘South Britons’. In much the same way as ‘Rule Britannia’ was written by a Scotsman. It was a plea for an inclusion you can never have, I shake my head sadly.

— Exactly, the MSP says, — that’s why we believe . . .

I’m still looking at McClymont as I talk over the politician. — But on the other hand, it’s a bit sad that Scotland still hasn’t been able to obtain its freedom from the Union. It’s been a long time. I mean, look at what the Irish have achieved.

McClymont looks very angry and starts to say something but I catch Simon coming into the hotel foyer and wave in his direction. He’s looking smart in his casual jacket and crew-neck top, but somehow darker than before. Yes, it’s obvious that he’s been on the sunbed. — Ah, Nikki, baby . . . sorry to be late, darling, he says, bending over and kissing me. — Ready to trip the light fantastic? he asks, then he looks at the other men for the first time. His expression is like a spoilt cat that’s offered the leftovers, grudging but scalpel-sharp, and he briskly shakes hands with each of them. He’s full of commanding bombast, completely in charge of the situation. — Simon Williamson, he spits abruptly, then, softening a little, enquires, — I trust my girlfriend’s been in good hands?

The others look at the Basque and break into guilty, nervous smiles. They feel ill at ease in his presence, he’s effortlessly intimidated them. But I feel horrible, humiliated and for the first time in a long time, for the first time since that first handjob, just like a whore. Simon helps me on with my coat and I’m so glad to get out of there.

We get into the car and I realise that I’m crying, but the prostituted feeling was fleeting and it’s now gone. I know my tears are insincere because I want Simon to take me home, to take me to bed. I want him to think that he’s preying on me, when I want him, and I want him tonight. But Simon’s unimpressed with the waterworks. — What is it? he asks evenly as he eases the car up Lothian Road.

— I got myself into a situation that freaked me out a bit, I tell him.