Scotch by night

The business trip took him to Budapest. Ten years had passed since Harald was last there, traveling on an Interrail ticket through Europe the summer after the fall of the Berlin Wall. On that occasion the availability of cultural experiences at ridiculously low cost had made a big impression on Harald. He had watched the Magic Flute for tuppence, bought records, and attended a cembalo-concerto of the head-ache inducing kind. The city was black with soot and dirt, the shops sad and devoid of colour. He hardly noticed the people. The large palace-cum-fortress presiding over the city made a big impression with its huge oil paintings of epic battles against the Turks, its statues and superbly restored majestic rooms. Harald could sense the echoes of a past, a magnificent past full of drama and grandeur and a history he would have liked to grasp. He never got as far as grasping it, and now he was here again, walking along the counters of perfume and tax free goods on his way to passport control and luggage collection.

In the dry August heat Budapest appeared as two distinct cities. An old one in danger of being swallowed by the past and a new one rising under its own power, without taking account of the old one. The old city had holed streets and holed roofs and missing window panes. The inhabitants of this old city moved like shadows through a landscape of the past. The new city lived side by side, no, on top of, the old one, like a screen that was erected in front of it, upon which was projected a film showing redecorated, sterile concrete office blocks, where modern, western cars raced over the holed tarmac, where beautiful, well-dressed people strode along with straight backs and their gaze fixed on the future. People exuding consumerism, Italian style, self-conscious sensuality.

The first and only evening in Budapest was indeed suffused with sensuality. Dinner was spent in company of the business connection. He had a degree in Japanese and after an interlude providing prostitutes to Japanese businessmen visiting the city – pimping, that is – he had risen to become a go-between for western businesses seeking to open local offices. Harald felt a twinge of distaste for this world-weary man in his mid 30-ies whose cynicism was as palpable as his ego and his intelligence.

Later Harald stood at the bar of his hotel with a glass of whisky in his hand. The water of life, or simply “water”. Uisce. This tidbit was of little use to Harald this evening, as he looked around the soulless surroundings. So. Meeting the Hungarian, luch at an Oriental diner, very nice! – dinner by the river. The Donau; traditional food, meat and knödeln, wine. And hot ladies everywhere. “Professionals”, was the Hungarian’s dry remark as Harald’s gaze wandered, got stuck, wandered further. That was it, of course! No normal population distribution could account for this gathering of gorgeous women. Here the distribution was skewed by some attractor, and that attractor was moneyed clients at the best riverside restaurants.

Also in the bar at the hotel were two women in their 30-ies with very short skirts and heavy-ish makeup. They absent-mindedly sipped from cups of what might be coffee, possibly to stay awake in these surroundings that provided so little by way of stimulation. After at while it dawned on Harald that they were at work. Professionals, if that was the correct term. Harald regarded them with what he hoped was an unobtrusive manner. He failed, but was unaware of this. The bartender, however, had noticed, and sidled up to Harald.

“50 Euros”, he said, while looking at the women. “What is your room number”.

Harald reacted with shock and horror and … annoyance. It was one thing to be sitting here wondering what it might cost and what it might be like to have sex with a woman for money. Quite another to get the price slammed in your face like this, with the explicit assumption that he was the kind of person to buy sexual services. But 50 Euros – quite cheap, really.

Harald liked the dark-haired. The blonde was Estern-European peroxide blonde. That was too evident, too garish. The dark-haired one seemed to have her own colour of hair. He thought no further along that line. Her body seemed shapely enough. Not thin, not heavy-set. A clear outline of her breasts under a pale blue shirt, nice calves. Why shuldn’t he… he tried to push the thought away but it seemed to have got stuck somewhere. Harald was tired, almost drowsy. The women both looked directly at him.

Harald got up and turned towards the bartender, who spoke English. A decision had been made. “OK, it’s 437, the dark one”.

Upon hearing his own words a change took place in him. Harald could feel his pulse on his left temple, a sure sign of excitement in him. What had he done? An impulse or an unarticulated wish had become manifest and now it was outside his control. Without looking he walked to the lift, like a man who has triggered a mechanical detonator whose wheels and cogs have started moving, to cause the inexorable outcome. Soon the bartender would say a few words in Magyar, the woman would call the lift back down and be at his door in a matter of minutes. He could not turn back now, nor did he want to. The excitement was of an unknown type, and it was real, and it felt good, intoxicating, if he allowed himself to adjudicate. This was a first. Sex was coming, simple, dangerous, untried sex. Sex with a stranger, sex with a whore.

He was in his room, there was a knock at the door, and she was inside before he had the time to move; she closed the door and he heard the lock engage with a dry “click”, loud against their silence and the soft carpet.

Harald didn’t know what to do. New ground, unknown rules, unknown moves. This was a game only she knew. She had the power. Could she read him, see that it was his first time. Harald felt sure she could. Did it matter – if anything, it must make it easier for her? An upper hand, a different role to play, that of the mentor. If the scene turned embarassing it would all be on him.

The dark-haired woman walked over to the bed and sat down. She pulled off her tall boots and slid off her skirt, then lay down on the bed. An old ritual, Harald thought to himself. The willing submission of lying down on a soft support. Comfort required for the performance of the animal instincts. Culture meets nature, the half-undressing as a concession to modesty. He was spared from staring into her hairy bush as he walked the three steps to the bed on his side of it and undressed in a manner which matched hers, with his shirt still on. And then he was lying next to her, partly supported by his right elbow. Now what? She sat up and tugged at his underwear until it came to rest just above his knees. That would suffice, it seemed. She then grasped his half-limp sex and started to work on it in a slightly mechanical fashion, he thought, but it was pleasurable, surprisingly so. Harald let go of thinking and simply lay back to feel instead. For a moment he pondered whether to place a hand between her legs, he knew that would excite him, but decided that it would be too intrusive. After a while she stopped and pulled out a condom from somewhere, opened the wrapping, and applied it with practiced hands, much like a nurse preparing an injection. He almost giggled at the word, but managed to quell the sound, turning it into a dry cough. The dark-haired one then pulled off her knickers and lay back, parting her legs just a little as she did so.

He rolled onto her. Suddenly her face was very close, he could smell her breath, she could smell his. The details in her make-up stood out; small lumps, invisible from a distance, broke the regular lines on her eyelashes. Harald realised the bed-side lamp was very bright; with a brusque movement he leaned over and shut it off, causing her some pain as his weight shifted on her body. His erection faltered a bit. She grabbed his sex again and worked on it for a short while, then steered it, again with nurse-like determination and detachment, towards her opening. He entered her without difficulty, and suddenly the warmth of her body enclosed him, and he hardened even further. The angle of her vagina suited him, they were a good match as he started to fuck her slowly. The initial feeling of spaciousness gave way as she tightened her pelvic muscles around him. She really was a professional, he thought. He realised he was enjoying himself. The bargain, the transaction, included her assistance in giving him pleasure. He hadn’t expected that; nor did he reflect that it was a way to shorten things.

He was inside her pussy and he fucked her slowly. He rested on his elbows with his head next to hers. That way he could not see her face, but felt the warmth of her body, the softness of her breasts, the smell of her shampoo and the clinical smell of hotel linen. He had one hand partly under her left buttock to press her to him even more closely; sometimes he thought he could feel her move towards him. Was she enjoying this? It hadn’t occurred to him that she might. He raised himself to take a look at her. Her eyes were closed, and somehow this enticed him to lay a free hand on her breast, which startled her, and it seemed as she would push him away; then she relented. With a hand still cupping her breast through her clothes he kept thrusting inside her: it was building now, only the final dash to the goal-line remained. He slowed down his movements to savour and prolong the climax as the spams emptied his liquids into the condom. 

Harald returned to the world and the world returned to him. He pulled out and away sideways, with the condom dragging along her thigh in the process. During his retreat his gaze followed a line from her breasts to where her ribs became visible under the shirt, then over her belly. Even with one bedside lamp turned off, there was sufficient light to see the stretch-marks around her navel.