Unclean

If you would not step into the harlot’s house,
do not go by the harlot’s door.
- Thomas Secker.

***

The man watched the woman from across the seedy bar. A pair of dark shades covered his eyes as he looked at her; she was beautiful. The bar smelt of sweat, stale sex, booze, cigarettes; but he did not care. He wanted the angel who leant against the wall directly opposite from him. He wanted her. And he always got what he want.

She was far too pristine; an invitation to be corrupted, a single flower bud waiting to blossom, a saintly virgin longing to be wed. A shrine for her violent demons. She was perfect, in every way, but she was also tainted by beauty; dripping with sin and desire, the reincarnation of a whore. She was naïve, but it was time to extinguish the innocence that dwelled beneath her less-than-friendly exterior.

She stood perfectly still, eyes clouded with mystery, laundered filthiness oozing from her confident being. A crooked elegance present in her façade.

Inhaling the cancerous fumes from the cigarette between her fingers, she scanned the bar, eyes swimming with a challenge. She was daring a man to ask her the usual questions. He could see; he wanted her, all of her. His head swam with the motions of her, writhing, bare underneath him. He wanted her. He needed her.

Her fishnet tights clung to her thighs, exposing the plush silk of her skin underneath. She was tempting, a plastic replica of her former self. She was surrounded by machines; each one the same, each one alluring. The others were fake, robotic doppelgangers. She was real, the fuel of his fire. His lust was growing. He wanted her.

She was blessed with sadistic poise. But he was greedy, a criminal by design. Other men had already stolen her purity, robbed her of her virtue. She was now a mannequin, a voodoo doll, disguised in skimpy attire. He would be her next customer. He would make sure of it.

He wasted no time in rising from his seat and approaching her; he ignored the other men, flexing their muscles to gain her explicit attention. He was hers. Her eyeliner was running from the heat of the club, but that didn’t mean that she was any less beautiful. It gave her a frantic, enigmatic look; a look of deep misdeed.

Reaching her, he pushed her forcefully against the wall, grasping onto her hips to support himself. Her dark eyes were wide with malice and seduction; they almost made him freeze in his act. They were a haunting shade of light blue, her pupils wide with the feeble light. For seconds, all they could do was lock eyes, the club becoming a simmering mirage behind them. She was a queen, and he the treacherous liar sent for execution.

She looked down on him with sinister emotion; why was this strange man invading her space? What right did he have? But then he winked at her; the slight opening and closing of an eyelid, transforming her nerves into ice. Another man. He was just another man, waiting for her to perform sickening acts for him. He wasn’t romantic. It would be another night of animalistic fucking.

Uttering the word love from her lips was a crime. One had never heard of a fille de joie falling in love. It was pure lust. She shed her skirt for money; she sexed them in cars, behind buildings, in their beds while their wives were out. They never cared, and neither did she. She needed money. She wasn’t a child anymore.

The man slid his hand up her skirt, lingering outside the edge of her panties for a mere second before tugging on the elastic. He was eager, excited. She better not disappoint. He was the slime of the earth; a cage for everything impure. His poor wife was probably at home, worried for her husband. But he would cheat on her with a streetwalker. He would fuck her cruelly, not caring. And then he would return home and greet his wife with open arms.

She knew his type; her history was vast. She had met so many clones in her lifetime. They all wanted the same thing. A mindless shag. A quick one night stand. And she would give them their wishes. But she would choke back the tears; she was the slave in the situation, they were the master, and she aimed to please.

She was hiding behind a mask. An invisible costume that only she could see. The man who was desperately tugging on her tights could never see that far. He was brainless. He couldn’t see what he was doing to her. His bloodshot eyes were full of treason. His greasy hair was brimming with debauchery. His long, sharp fingers pained her, because they were the fingers of the devil.

She was living a life of turpitude. And no one knew.

He was wicked. She was the victim, a misguided spirit. A warlock in fancy dress.

But she pushed back the negativities. He was a paying customer, and he was getting what he wanted. Smiling seductively, she pushed away from him. Turning back to his shocked form, she raised her index finger and bent it forwards, winking in his direction. And then he lead the way to his car - a small, black Vauxhall Corsa - and she was climbing into the backseat, and he was straddling her, and all thought began to vanish from her mind.

She was a harlot. It’s what she did. She was unclean, but there was no way of washing the dirt from her soul.