Preview “ordinary whore”—excerpt

ordinary whore
novel
Dieter Moitzi

The still black water accepts me like an old friend. It feels warm and cosy.

Afterwards, I sit on the beach, shaking with cold while the scarce wind dries my skin. How alive and peaceful that makes me feel! 

My teeth clatter so much that I don’t hear the discrete footsteps in the sand. I leap up with a start when someone drapes a bath towel over my shoulders.

Rachid, the young man I recruited some hours ago, stands behind me. He is dressed in white. 

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you. But I saw you shivering, so I thought you might need this,” he says sheepishly. He picks up the towel, which has slipped down when I jumped to my feet. He drapes it over me again and rubs my arms.

I step back to look at him, dazed. “It’s all right,” I finally say. “You did frighten me. But it’s all right now. And thank you for the towel.” I let myself fall down on the ground again.

Rachid looks at me, not knowing what to do.

“Come on,” I pat the sand beside me. “Sit down.”

“I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“Even if you stay with me, I’ll feel alone,” I murmur. Then, louder, “I don’t mind your company. Come on, sit.”

He obeys. 

We gaze into the distance above the sea where the faint morning light increases almost imperceptibly. A comfortable silence settles down between us. 

He breaks it after a moment. “You’re still cold,” he whispers. “Don’t you want to get dressed?”

“My clothes are in my room,” I whisper back, careful not to destroy the magic of the early hour.

Rachid considers this. “Do you want us to… to make love?” he asks. “It will warm you.”

Caught unawares, I stare at him. Then it dawns on me. Of course, this is what he is meant to propose. “No,” I say. “No, I don’t want to… how did you call it? Make love? No, definitely, no.” I smile. “Thank you, though.”

“You shouldn’t stay here,” Rachid murmurs. He starts to dig one hand into the sand, then lifts it. The fine grains run smoothly down between his slender, tanned fingers.

“What?” I ask. For a second, I believe this is another of the strange warnings I’ve been getting.

“You shouldn’t stay here. You’ll catch a cold,” he explains.

“Hm,” I say. “Come here.” I pull him closer. “Put your arm around me. That’ll warm me.”

He snuggles up and wraps his arm around me. I sense his body heat, his breath on my neck. The hug feels good, almost motherly.

“Sir?” Rachid asks. “I was wondering…”

“Call me Marc. What is it?”

“Oh, no. I can’t ask you that.”

“Yes, you can. Don’t be afraid.”

“But… you’re my boss.”

“Good Lord, no! Michele is your boss. Maybe you consider me a bit higher up in the food chain, but I don’t think I am. We’re colleagues, somehow. So, go ahead, shoot.”

He ponders this. Then, “I thought you were Madame Di Forzone’s… husband?”

I stifle a laugh. “Not at all! She pays me for my… uhm, services. Just like you’ll get paid, you see?”

“Really? But with your looks, you don’t need… I mean, why do you do it?”

“You need money to live. I do, too.”

“But… but you’re French. Surely there are other jobs for you in France.” Rachid shakes his head, unbelieving.

“Surely, yes. But this suits me.” 

“How did you… get involved in all this?” 

“Chance. Life. I had the choice: whore, or criminal, or politician. Which is more or less the same anyway. My father was a politician, you know, and I never wanted to become like him.”

“Okay. I see,” Rachid lies. He gazes at me, a vulnerable young guy who looks like Kate Bush’s Man with the Child in His Eyes.

“Hey,” I propose. “Let’s go for a swim, shall we?” I jump up again. The towel slides to the ground like a veil. Anything is better than to discuss my lot. Worse, Rachid has shown me the unharmed, innocent part of him. I don’t want to be touched by his vulnerable eyes, his pertinent questions. “Come on.” I help him stand up. “And get out of these!” I playfully tug at his clothes.

Rachid undresses. His delightful young body glistens in the dawn’s early light. He smirks at me. 

I slap him on his buttocks, then run.

“You’ll pay for this!” he shouts, grinning, and runs after me.

We race into the balmy waves, gloriously naked, shrieking, splattering, two playful kids, two boys unspoiled and unsullied by life, while the sun comes up behind the horizon.

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