Chapter 2

If it comes down to a choice between being unloved and being vulnerable and sensitive and emotional, then you can just keep your love.

-Choke

The first couple of days went by easily. I needed energy and everybody was eager to cooperate. Then I met a man. He told me he had trouble with his children. He hadn't seen them in fifteen years and it didn't seem like he was going to see them anytime sooner. He said he deserved it, that he had never been a father. For moment, right before we started, I hesitated. There was a little voice in my mind telling me that I shouldn't go through with it. But I was hungry, I needed it. I told myself that I was helping him end his miserable life. So I took him to bed and ended it, enjoying every moment. When we were done, I felt different. I wasn't hungry, but I was empty. I was feeling guilty. Why? I had only known this man for a few minutes and he wasn't even a good man, not according to what he said. But still, it was an odd feeling and it didn't leave me. I called another client, thinking that maybe that would make me feel better. It didn't. I went through with it, but at the end I felt the same.

I went out, looked around. As usual, sex was in everybody's mind. You could see it in their eyes; there was no room in their mind for anything else. But far on the corner, sitting in the sofa, there was a young man. He didn't look hungry for sex like the rest of the clients. There was some desire from him, yes, but it looked different somehow. I looked into Lori's memories. She had seen this man before. He had never been her client. She didn't know anyone who said that he was her client. A couple of women had offered a courtesy service if he didn't have money and he had refused. And Lori had never talked to him, but the memories of him, sitting in that same spot, where very vivid. She had a special place in her mind for this stranger.

I sat next to him. He just turned his eyes to me for a second—some kind of polite gesture, I assume.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello," he said without much interest.

"You come here often, don't you?"

"A bit, yes."

"Are you disappointed with us? We don't offer what you want? Because some of the girls know a place for tastes like—"

"No, it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm not sure."

He was wearing a suit and it looked expensive. He didn't lack money, that was for sure.

"Well, you want sex or not? I think that's a very simple question."

He smiled.

"It is. It's not that. I always come here with the idea that I'm going to hire… uh—"

"One of us, yes."

"Uh-huh, for your, uh, services, but when I get here… I'm not in the mood anymore. I am, but… maybe not. I'm not here looking for sex, I'm here looking for company, and that's not what you offer. You can't buy romance."

I laughed, I had to. There it was, love again, ruining a young person's life.

"You want romance so you came to a brothel? You're a good-looking young man with enough money, why don't you go look for romance out there in the world?"

"I already did that; didn't turn out alright."

"And you think it's going to get better here?"

"Listen, I don't want to sound rude, but I don't want to talk about it and I don't want anyone asking me about it. If you want me out because I don't consume, here, I'll pay for your services if you leave me alone."

He took out his wallet.

"Wait, wait, I don't need your money. What the hell do you think I am?"

"A prostitute."

"Um… yes, but that doesn't mean—"

"Here, take."

I looked at him. He had a look that said "get out of my face", except he didn't look angry. He looked sad, as if it hurt to have me next to him. And then an idea occurred to me. It was stupid, but I was so intrigued by this man. He could have what everybody wanted and still didn't want it.

"No, I have a better idea. Why don't you use that money to take me out sometime? Would you like that?"

He looked surprised.

"Like a date?"

"I don't know; call it what you want. You want company, don't you? I'll do my best, then."

He took his time.

"I guess things can't get worse."

"Good. Here's my number," I wrote it in a piece of paper. "Phone me and we'll arrange the details."

"Um, ok. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Now get out of here, you don't even want to be here."

He got up. "Thanks," he repeated.

"Wait," I said. "I don't even know your name."

"I'm Waldo."

"Nice to meet you, Waldo," I came closer to him. "I'm Lori," I whispered in his ear.

He nodded and finally I saw a smile on his face.

We met at a restaurant for lunch. We sat outside. The food that humans eat wasn't as good as the one I'm used to, but it wasn't a problem.

"So, what happened to you?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why do you have money and why do you take it to our brothel but never spend it?

"Ah, well, where do I start? My dad was music composer and he made a lot of money with that. I live off the royalties. Both of my parents died in a plane accident when I was fourteen years old." He looked at me as if expecting some reaction. I didn't show any, so he continued. "I was sad and all that. It was really hard for me. I needed someone to talk to, someone to help me get through it, but I didn't have anyone. I had 'friends', but when my parents died I found out they just liked being with me for my money. They tried to show comprehension, but I could see they didn't care. They looked tired of having to hear me talk about my parents. I stopped seeing them—I stopped seeing everybody, actually. My only friends were our house employees, and since it was only me they had to take care of, I let go most of them."

"What about women?" I asked. "Do you not ask for sex at the brothel because you're scared? I mean, we've had a lot of first timers—"

"No, no, I have been… with someone."

"Oh, have you?"

"Yes. She was the daughter of one of my father's friends. She was the only woman I really knew. She was interested, I was alone, so we tried having a relationship. We did things together, and it helped me to not feel alone at times, but it wasn't working. When I heard about sex, about all the wonderful things everybody talks about, I thought that if I tried it I could be… cured or something, I wouldn't feel so miserable because I could see a brighter side of life. So I had my first time with her, and… it was good."

"And not what you expected."

"No, not at all. I thought that it was normal to feel that way, because it was my first time and I was inexperienced. I thought next time would be better. But next time felt the same. And the next, and the next. I didn't really enjoy her company, we weren't having fun. I don't think you could call what we had intimacy, so I said goodbye to her. And that was it. I've felt sad and alone ever since. A few months back I thought that maybe I should lower my expectations on sex and just enjoy having someone to share a bed with, even if it was only for a few moments. That's why I began to go to the brothel, but every time I get there I remember what I had before and how I didn't like it. That's why you never see me in the mood for it."

"Why don't you just look for a girl? You know, not the kind who sells you an experience in a brothel."

"I've tried. I just can't find her."

I scoffed.

"What do you mean you can't find her? Look around you. There are girls everywhere!"

"I know, I know. But I don't want just a girl. I want someone real. I want someone… who I can love and who can love me."

I laughed.

"Oh, right, you want romance. Is it that important?"

"Well, yes," he said as if it were something obvious. "Do you, um, I don't want to insult your profession or anything but, er, do you want to find someone to love?"

"Don't worry, I'm not insulted. No, I don't want to find someone to love. In fact, I don't believe in love."

He showed me that surprised look again.

"You don't… believe in love?"

"I don't."

"But we're talking about love, not Father Christmas or something like that."

"So? Do you have any proof that there is such thing as love?"

"Ask anybody, they'll tell you how real love is."

"That doesn't mean anything. I could tell you we are in Mars, would that mean that we are in Mars?"

"No, but—ok, that doesn't prove anything. How about the scientific evidence?"

"What scientific evidence?"

"Certain parts of your brain light up when you're in love."

"I can kick you in the gonads and make a part of your brain light up. Would you feel love then?"

"No, that's not what—there's also a chemical reaction going on in your body. Your body physically reacts—and I don't mean what happens in men's trousers—when you're in love. Something changes."

"Drugs can also produce chemical reactions. I see it happen every night with the girls. Drugs make them very lively, even more than sex. You know, one of them talked about a story she had heard about a scientist who created a love potion. If you think about it, it's not as ridiculous as it sounds. If love is only a chemical reaction then you can recreate it with a drug, you just have to get that specific reaction and then you can sell it as a love potion. And now that you mention scientific evidence, there is evidence that when people feel they're 'falling in love' they're actually going through a temporary stage of madness. And of course you're mad; somebody else becomes more important than yourself! That's madness right there, that's being high, and you can get the same effect with drugs."

He let out a heavy sigh.

"Alright, let's drop the scientific side of it. I'll tell you something else. My mum and dad met at Leeds, where they went to high school. They dated for three years. My dad wanted to marry my mum right after high school, but then he found out he had been accepted at Berkeley, in California. He never thought he would get in; he knew about music and all, just never thought that he knew enough. Now, Mum's parents never really liked Dad. They wanted her to marry some bloke named Carlton, and Carlton wanted to marry Mum, too. Mum didn't want to, but she had a tendency to succumb to pressure from her father. Dad knew that if he left to California for a long time she might not find Mum single. Also, he knew he couldn't ask her to come with him. He didn't have any income, she would need a visa and probably she would need to put her life on hold just to wait for him. So, he decided to say no to Berkeley and stay and marry mum, and they had a happy marriage until the day they died. If that's not love, then I don't know what love is."

"Oh, everybody has a different idea. And that doesn't prove anything, just that your father threw away his future just to be with a woman."

"It wasn't just a woman, it was my mum."

I shrugged.

"Still. He could have been a very good, famous musician."

"But he was. Even that turned well for him."

"He was lucky. Besides, nobody wants to be the bloke with his name on the credits of an album, they want to be the ones on the cover."

"But—"

He had nothing else. He lowered his head.

"Ok, I'm sorry," I said. "You're right, maybe your father really decided what was best for him."

"Maybe."

"Look, how about we do this again?"

"I don't know. I don't want to bother you."

"You're not bothering me. How about next week?"

He sighed.

"Alright," he replied not sounding very convinced.

It was only a couple of days later that he called. He sounded hesitant.

"Hello? Lori?"

"Yes."

"It's me, Waldo."

"I know. How you've been?"

"I have—um, well, I had a nice time the other day. After that, well, I better not say. Would you like to go out for dinner tonight?"

"Depends on the hour. I have to work, remember."

"Right, right. If you can't it's ok."

"I can. At what time should I be ready?"

"Uh, ok. It's seven good for you?"

"Yes, I'll see you at seven."

"Very well. See you tonight, Lori."

"See you, Waldo."

He picked me up at seven like he said. He took me to a restaurant on top of a hill. "I hope it's not too romantic for you," he said when I saw it. I said I had no idea how romance looked like. He just nodded.

"So, what do you do?" I asked during dinner.

"What do I do?"

"Yes. I assume that when you're alone at home feeling miserable you do something, don't you?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes," I repeated. "What do you do those times?"

"I play the violin. And the piano. Sometimes guitar."

"You do? I suppose your father taught you."

"Yes, he did. And he had a lot of musician friends come over to our house. I also had private instructors when I was little."

"Do you sing, too?"

He laughed nervously.

"No, no, I'm not good at it."

"Did your father sing?"

"A little bit, but he said he wasn't that good. He said he sounded like Bob Dylan."

"Maybe you can sound like Bob Dylan, too. Have you tried it?"

He laughed again.

"Everybody has at one point."

"So you're capable of singing, then. I want to hear."

"Oh, please, no. You'll regret it."

"I'm your date, you have to please me. Sing."

He twisted his mouth. I gave him a smile. He shook his head and smiled too.

"Alright," he said. He breathed in, looked up and began to sway as if to get a hold of a certain rhythm. "My Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea. My Bonnie lies over the ocean, oh bring back my Bonnie to me."

I gave him a little clap.

"Very good."

"Not good enough, heh."

"Good enough for what?" I asked and he looked away. He wasn't going to say it. "Oh, I see. You want to be a rockstar don't you?"

He had the look of a child who has been discovered after doing a bad thing.

"No, it's not that no—please, that's ridiculous," he said laughing nervously.

"It may sound ridiculous to you but it's the truth."

He shifted in his seat, not knowing what to say.

"Not exactly a rockstar," he admitted.

"What exactly then?"

"Just a good musician, like Paul McCartney or Eric Clapton. No, what am I saying—those two are incredibly good. Just something like them. I wanted to be a decent singer and a decent songwriter."

"Do you write songs too?" I asked, and I didn't want to laugh, but I couldn't help it.

"Can we not talk about this?"

"But your father was a professional composer! You probably can get someone that knew him and just tell him that you want to record something. And if they don't you can just pay them."

"I don't want to do that. I want to do it the real way, like have someone hear me and tell me I should share my music with the world."

"For a man who has given up on the world you seem to want a lot of things. How are they going to say that if you don't want them to hear you?"

"Because I know they won't say that. I'm not that good. If they say so they'll just say it because of my father."

I shook my head.

"You really are some troubled man, Waldo. I can't let you go through life like this."

"No?" he said confused.

"No. Our next date is going to be a musical date. I want to hear you play and sing one of your songs, one that you have written." He was about to protest. "I'm not asking. You know what? We should do it right now."

"Ok, ok," he said quickly. "I'll sing you one of my songs, but not now. You have to give me time. I have to get ready. I have to choose one that I like and rehearse it. Please. If I do it I want to do it the best way possible."

I thought about it. It sounded reasonable.

"Alright, but no backing out, understood?"

"Understood."

We finished our meal and he left me at home.

"Thank you," he said. "I had a lovely time."

"Me too," I replied.

He took a step forward, then a step back. He step forward again and this time he kissed my cheek.

"Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye."

He left and I got ready for work. I was starving.

I had just finished with a client when I sat next to Sherry. She was lighting a cigarette.

"Sherry, what do you think of love?" I asked.

"What about it?"

"Do you believe in love?"

"Are yeh trying to sell me somethin?"

"No, I just want to know."

"Well, I luv me mum. I s'ppose I believe in luv."

"Do you love your father?"

"Fuck that basterd."

"Some people would say that you should love him too, because he is your father. That way you could solve your issues."

"Fuck em too."

"So, at some level, you don't believe in love."

"Is this some philosophic shite?"

I sighed. Carrie was close by.

"How about you, Carrie? Do you believe in love?"

She let out a big laugh.

"Do I look like I believe in love?" she asked.

"Yeh don't luv anyone?" Sherry asked.

"I love good clients. Bloody hell, I fall in love like five times every night!" Carrie said and laughed.

"Five?" said another girl. "You ain't that good, Carrie."

"Shut up, you cunt," Carrie snapped.

"Yeh don't even luv yer son?" Sherry asked.

"Well, I guess I do love him," she admitted.

I had to laugh.

"You are so weak," I told them. "You just mention family and you lot become all mellow. I don't believe in love. I don't believe in love of any kind."

"Really?" Carrie asked. "Or you're just trying to sound cool and mysterious by being a stone cold bitch?"

"I mean it. How do you even know you love someone? How can you be sure that what you're feeling is love?"

"Cause… yer close to em," Sherry suggested.

"How close is close enough to be loved?"

"When they mean something in your life," Carrie replied.

"There's a man out there and he is the father of your child," I told her. "Do you love him?"

"Fuck that bastard," she answered.

"You see? If you try to think about why you love someone you're just going to come up with an answer someone suggested to you."

"Nah, cause yeh feel it even if nobody says so," Sherry said. "Yeh get that need to get a physical… connection with em."

"Sherry," I said, "we have physical connections every night. No, wait, I have a better way to say it: we 'make love' every night. Have you begun to feel love for your clients? Is it love what you feel when they say 'come on dirty whore, gimme what I want cause that's what I paid for, you slut' and they touch you when their filthy hands right before taking them back to their wives?"

"Lori," Sherry said with a disturbed look.

"I love what they give me after," Carrie shared. "I also love big tips. I have a client, girls; I'll leave you to your philosophical debates."

"Anyway," I continued, "I don't believe in love."

"You liar!" said someone else with a scandalous laugh. Maggie, she was called.

"Why?" I asked.

"Don't pretend you don't know, Ms. I-want-more-than-just-a-shag."

"I don't understand."

"That young lad in the suit. You couldn't use your motherly charms—which I'm glad because, honestly, it just creeps me out—with him. I told him that if you fancied him you should encourage him to hire you. Remember what you said?"

"Because I want more than just a shag?"

"Blimey, Lori, yeh said that!?" Sherry asked apparently finding it comical, too. "He's a client, Lori!"

"I'm… sorry?"

"Clients are off limits, yeh naughty girl," Sherry teased.

"Did I say I loved him, Maggie?" I asked.

"Well, no," she answered, "but you didn't rule out that possibility."

I got into Lori's thoughts. She indeed had a thing for Waldo, and she didn't even know him. But it made sense—that's why her memories about him were so vivid and that's why I immediately felt that he was someone that Lori knew.

"Is that why he stopped comin?" Sherry continued. I didn't answer. "Bloody hell, Lori has a boyfriend!"

"Ooooh," Sherry and Maggie wailed.

I laughed.

"Maybe I do," I told them. "I don't care. I can have a boyfriend and make endless love to him without loving him. You know how I know that? Because I've done it before."

They didn't know how to react. I got up and called for my next client.