I suppose this is what those courtesans of long ago felt like: pale women with Rubenesque curves, wrapped enticingly in white sheets with their hair like dark smoke curling around their faces. In my mind, they were a study in contrasts, in opulence balanced by a quiet desperation. These women were those numbering among the wise - they read the human body, the human mind, with the skillfulness of a blind piano player's fingers moving across the keys. Men were the instruments they played upon, drawing concertos and adagios, moving from allegro to andante with the flick of a wrist. They could read the music in the eyes, from the moment the doors were closed and the curtains drawn, perfume wrapping around them like the strains of the heavenly chorus.
But all I had was this white blanket, still stiff with bleach and industrial soap, wrapped around me, while he was on his back, his fingers gently playing with the tips of my hair while he waxed poetic about life and its inconsistencies. His dick was the same length as my pinky finger, hidden underneath a sparse sprinkling of hair, and he was never able to lift it past half-mast. I was already feeling the tendrils of disappointment travel from my belly to my mind; there is nothing less satisfying than a man whose morals chose to assault him, a sudden blast of trumpets that broke the haze of lust that was already beginning to wrap around us. This is the problem with men - no, boys - who think they're ready to cheat on their girlfriends and then fail the moment you're both naked and in bed in some nameless cheap motel. I mean, if you're going to do it, then do it, for fuck's sake.
So now my attempts to be coy were all for nothing - he was simply going through his moral dilemma as if I wasn't even there. Wasted desire started to seep from my body, and I felt limp and tired. His arm was thrown casually over my stomach, fingers playing a random tune across my skin, and I just wanted to tell him, "Stop! All I want is the sex, and you're waxing philosophical here!" Banging my head against the wall would have perhaps made a more productive sound than his babble; words are not my trade, and words are not needed for tonight. Stop forcing me these words, I wanted to say. Let me write you songs with my body instead.
I wondered what a courtesan would say in moments like these. I wish I was trained in these arts of pleasure: how to skillfully make a man forget his own name in the space of a few minutes, to have a boudoir with flowers and lace and deep red wine, like what they have in the movies, to have a flair for conversation and wit. So far, the conversation was one-sided and going around in circles, and there wasn't even water to assuage my thirst - not unless I wanted to cough up the fifty peso price tag on the bottle by the window. Instead, I tried sinking into the strains of music inside my head: the beginning of a movement, perhaps a piano solo, capturing a moment of transcendental grace.
My eyes half-closed, I rearranged my body, wrapping the sheets around my breasts, making sure enough flesh was peeking out of the edge to give a tantalizing glimpse without appearing too immodest. I sweep my curls to one side of my face, knowing that it would frame my eyes dramatically. I lick my lips slowly. Surely, surely he would get the hint right now and stop talking about that damnable girl -
A snore interrupted my internal musings. I peer down at him. He was already asleep.