The Doctor

The Doctor was originally a customer of Larissa. Tall, rather well build, not really handsome, with a nervous smile, he would come to town at least a couple of times a year, for congresses and other medical stuff. The first night he entered The Fish Bowl, Larissa was very quick to grab his arm and take him to the counter. He was drunk in a very short time and Larissa escorted him out, when, well after one o'clock, he returned to his room.
The day after, Larissa called that she wouldn't come to the bar. She wouldn't specify a reason, but she was damn angry. Our boss asked about her, he was a bit worried, but she wouldn't give details. She said she would be back in a couple of days and stopped the call. It sounded all a bit odd.
When Larissa finally came back to the bar, she wouldn't mention the incident at all, but when I asked about the guy with whom she had gone the last night she had been at work, she started getting nervous, she said he was a jerk and refused to say anything more.
So I was not surprised when some months later the Doctor (I learned later that he was a doctor) appeared again in the bar and Larissa, literally, fled the room! I was so curious... Larissa is really a tough lady, what was the matter? so I started chatting with the guy, who sounded decent, even a bit shy. He had an odd sense of humour, I couldn't follow his puns sometimes, because he seemed very concentrated on his job and maybe only another doctor could understand his jokes. He drank seriously, so I liked him a lot. He started getting very close, but still his touch was nice, although getting very intimate, so I decided to take him to his room. I whispered in his ear, just to set the conditions right: he looked at me very pleased indeed and we went together to his room.
It was a good night. He was drunk, but not so drunk to forget where to place his hands, his lips and other pieces of his anatomy. He loved to kiss, which I also like a lot, and his mouth was all over me. A good night of passionate sex. From time to time I wondered what problem Larissa might have had with the guy - a virile, quite stright, strong, full of stamina kind of guy. I had fun - and it was a long night of fun. The morning after, he was up before me, he had his lectures to follow, he said, while leaving the room - and left a generous, very generous tip on the sidetable. I remained in bed for a while, I was tired, I had to admit. But when I finally went to the bathroom to take a good shower, I almost screamed! my body was dotted of kiss marks, so dark and so many! on my neck, on my arms, on my belly and my legs! they looked horrible! I suddenly understood... and what about the bite marks on my shoulders? and two enormous spots... well, they were so BLUE!
I didn't really want to disappear like Larissa, but I was completely dressed, up to the neck, the whole following week. I avoided sex (well, at least sex with a light on) for a while - I could do business anyway, but it was not fun, without the occasional night.
Nevertheless, the Doctor continued to look for me every time he would come to town - and his tips became outrageously higher, when he realised that I didn't avoid him altogether, as Larissa did. When, I still don't like bite marks, but he is not that bad after all... and maybe I am a bit kinky myself, enough to tolerate a bit of innocent kinkiness...

What is this all about?

Ok, I needed to clear my mind. This guy was giving on my nerves:  he came in, made my blood boil and then disappear. Do we want to play the teasing game? Well, I cannot be beaten at that, it is what I do for a living. So if Curtis was trying to confuse me, well, I was not ready to let him go much further. So I made my own plan, when he would appear the next night, I would have led the dance as I wanted. I was allowed to use one of the hotel suites, jacuzzi and soft carpets and enormous bed included:  so if he was not staying at the hotel, I could take him upstairs and teach him a lesson about teasing – or maybe not, but I would reduce him to the role of paying guest. He was usually generous, I had no doubt he could keep up the standard.

So I chose one of my killer dresses and I spent the evening avoiding to get hooked by any other customer. I kept looking nervously at the door, sitting uncomfortably on my stool. I got rid of at least four very interesting guys, very thirsty and obviously impressed by the amount of nude skin left visible by my little red dress. Oscar could not believe his eyes, usually I am very thorough in emptying somebody’s pockets, especially when they seem so eager to do so. But I was waiting for Curtis, I couldn’t be distracted.

Curtis didn’t appear. Not that night, not the following. By the end of the week, I convinced myself that he was gone for good. And the Doctor, via the reception clerk, let me know that he was in town again...

The last customer of the night

The night had been long. A lot of people, a lot of faces, a lot of meaningless talk. I was exhausted, not even the thought of all the money I had made would cheer me up. I was really ready to go to bed: all my colleagues had found someone to spend the night with and had disappeared, Oscar was switching the lights off, no more drinks to prepare.
Curtis walked in just when I was going to jump off my stool - I didn't see him coming: I felt his presence just behind me. I could smell his perfume - no, no perfume, he must have had a nice bath. He was so close, I could feel the heat of his body through his shirt. I barely turned my head to look at him - he hadn't said a word, he had just sneaked into the bar, maybe he wanted to surprise me? he was wearing again a suit. "Nice tie", I said. He didn't answer, but he pressed closer to my back. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, then he touched my hands. Slowly he slided the tips of his fingers on my arms, up, to the elbows, to the shoulders. Then I felt his lips on my neck, he was very delicate, although I could feel his breath getting warmer, while he kissed my shoulders, my ears... I turned to face him: his eyes were mere slits and he looked at me in a way I had not seen before. Now I wanted to understand - we were alone in the bar, I started undoing the knot of his tie... I loved the hiss of the silk, I loved the change in his face when I started unbuttoning his shirt. But then he took my hands, and stopped me. He stepped back, looked at me as if he saw me for the first time, had an awkward smile and left.
I could not leave the bar for some minutes - I felt... perplexed. I was sure I was blushing.

What's in a name?

Terribly busy night at the bar. Larissa was taking care of a whole bunch of Japanese businessmen, all seated around her, playing silly games. Of course Larissa cannot speak a word of Japanese, but she managed to keep the attention high. The group was pretty loud, the drinks were really adding up. Kim was off somewhere, Adam was having a chat with a guy who was very engrossed in telling something extremely emotional. I could see his face twisting and grimacing, while Adam listened intently. Wow, how good looking he is! and he wears impeccably... sometimes I have fantasies about him, but I know I don’t have a chance.

Oscar the bartender was huffing and puffing, he was running from one end to the other of the counter, preparing margaritas, mojitos, cosmopolitans... and I? I was sitting by myself. I had avoided eye contact with a dark haired guy who knew to resemble a bit to Antonio Banderas and was posing as a movie star. I didn’t feel in the mood, although I know exactly how to handle the narcissistic types. I wanted a bit of quiet, so I sat sipping an ice tea – it had to look as whisky, it’s not good for my image to show that I drink very little on duty... so I didn’t notice that the Stranger had come. It was a bit early for him to appear – he was wearing a suit and a tie, wow, I must admit he looked rather attractive (I am partial to men in formal suits...). He greeted me, paid the usual compliments, sat on a stool and expected me to start the usual routine: smile, ask about his day, look into his eyes, ask  him to buy a cocktail or two. We joked about the noisy Japanese and I felt a pang of jealousy when he made an observation about the tiny dress that Larissa was wearing.

"She looks really sexy", he said. Was he going to change preference in his next visits to The Fish Bowl? I shook myself: Hello? Who said he’s going to keep coming, anyway? So, just to distract him, I asked him how he wished to be called. He looked at me in amazement: "Wished to be called?"

'Yes," I explained, "some customers don’t like to use real names, but we have to find something better than Stranger, haven’t we?" He paused for a second – and this made clear that he was not going to tell me his real name: it was only fair. "My name is Curtis", he said, and giggled. I didn’t understand his private joke, but there must have been one I could not grasp, at least for the time being. "Ok, Curtis, and you don’t want to know my own name? " 

"I was expecting you to tell me, I didn’t want to ask", he answered.

I replied: "I wouldn’t have told you, in truth. Some customers of mine want to call me with a name of their choice, would you wish to do the same?" I didn’t mention the jerks who at the top of their drunkenness want to call me Mom or Auntie Martha while touching my bottom.

"No, no special name... how do you want me to call you, then?"

"Miri, my name is Miri."

"A nice name."

We both were silent for a while, drinking true and false whisky on the rocks. It seemed we were both aware that our “relationship” had moved forward, in some bizarre way.

Lingering thoughts

I kept thinking of the Stranger. I remembered his touch, and the way he looked at me, just before leaving, I replayed our conversations in my mind, I found myself wondering about him. First of all, he had to have a name. I started greeting  him with “Hello, Stranger!”, as if we were two characters of an old Western. He would answer smiling, or with “Hello, Stool girl!”. At least this would set our relationship in the correct perspective: I was meant to wait for him at the bar, perked on my stool, ready to listen to his stories, about his working day – and he would always be a stranger, not too many explanations about the why and  the how such a decent, respectable professional (this is the way I saw him) would come almost every night to The Fish Bowl and spend the evening flirting with a girl like me. How long would this thing last?

And now he touched my wrist and I found myself thinking of the sensation it gave me. I had no trouble in removing whole nights of drunken sex from my mind: I could forget the guys who genuinely wished  to demonstrate me they were the best shag of my life and those that simply felt too lucky to be able to spend a night with me, even if they knew they were expected to pay something for it.

But this guy, this Stranger, with his pink jumper and silk scarf around his thick neck, with big strong hands and high pitched voice, with gray hair, not too tall, stocky... he touched my wrist and I kept recalling him, every single detail, every word he said. What was happening to me?

Back to The Fish Bowl

After some years of experience, I had learned what NOT to expect from the Banker. Nevertheless, my ego always suffered a bit. So when I was back at The Fish Bowl, I was hungry like the wolf. Hungry for attention, and for some vigorous demonstration of appreciation, if you understand what I mean. My colleagues at the bar didn’t ask many questions, but they could easily see how nervous I was. They also noticed my new diamond earrings and understood that my “vacation” in Switzerland had been crowned by success.

To ease my restlessness, I played hard with my customers that night. Some of them seemed decent enough to deserve a special service in one of the hotel rooms, but I preferred to keep flirting with more than one, just to refuel my self-esteem. It  helped marvellously: someone  got a bit too bold, tried to slide a hand between my thighs, or got too close for comfort to my breasts. But they also ordered too many drinks to become a real nuisance. I enjoyed the sense of power, they would have followed me immediately, if only I wished them to do so...

Then, the Stranger arrived. He looked a bit lost, he scanned the room as if he was looking for someone.  He saw me, and saw the fat guy who was trying to convince me to test his unspeakable manhood. The Stranger sat at the opposite end of the counter,  ordered a drink and didn’t look in my direction for a while. He seemed absorbed into his tumbler, he sipped slowly, he played with the ice, and kept his eyes low.

The fat guy was too drunk to be funny anymore. I whispered in his ear, suggesting that we could go upstairs to his room – why don’t you go first? I follow you in a while. He sprang from his stool and strode out of the bar, talking nonsense to himself. I knew the type, he would be asleep the second  he touched the bed. Pathetic idiot.

So I walked to the Stranger, and sat next to him. At first, he didn’t even look at me. But I was sure he knew I came to talk with him – my perfume was strong enough to make him aware of me. In fact, he slowly turned and smiled. A nervous smile, as if he was not sure I had recognised him. A week can be an awfully long time for a stool girl. We started chatting easily, as if my absence in the previous week had not mattered. He didn’t ask questions, made some nice remarks about my dress, as he usually did. We spoke about politics, about books, about films and actors, that night. Seriously, but we laughed a lot too. We seemed to share the same sense of humour. We drank a little, I also did, although I resent too much alcohol – that’s the irony of my job. We were pleasantly tipsy and enjoyed immensely our conversation. Time passed by and the Stranger said he had to go to sleep. He looked in my eyes for a long moment – I tried to understand what he really wished to do. Then, for the first time, he touched me. He put his hand on my wrist – he caressed it for just a second. He stood, said good night and left.

The Banker

I found the Stranger amusing.  Apparently his engagements still kept him in town, so he came almost every night. Sometimes very late, just before closure. Popped in, for a quick drink and said goodnight. Then I received the usual call from my Banker, and I had to leave.

I met the Banker some years ago. What an interesting guy, I thought. He was in the middle of a bunch of friends, or colleagues, and he was clearly the Alpha male of the group. He was telling stories, with his deep, serious voice, but while he was entertaining his friends, he started looking at me. He was clearly a guest of the hotel, there was a huge convention going on – lucky time for me, lots of drinks to pour, lots of gentlemen to spend time with. He left with the group, but very late he was back again, alone, and he came straight to me. He didn’t say much, just looked at me, not even smiling – he was checking me out, as he would have done with a horse, or an exhibition dog. I looked back, what did he want from me? He was in his mid-sixties, very elegant and refined – tailor made shirts, expensive cufflinks, manicured. I liked the businesslike way he looked at me, because I could see he liked what he saw. Finally he spoke – no sweet words, not even a “good night”, he went straight to the point: he wanted to hire me, for a week. He would take me to Sankt Moritz as his secretary. I thought he was completely crazy: I stared, in disbelief, but he went on, explaining me what I was supposed to do. He would take care of my wardrobe, of my lodgings, my meals, even my jewels.  I had to pretend, of course, to be his secretary, but I had to play the part as he wished. He asked for my phone number, and of course I gave it to him, but he didn’t wait for an answer: he was sure I would have accepted. He left, without even turning back. What a psycho, I thought.

The day after, around lunchtime (I was just up), a lady called me. She said she was the personal assistant of Mr. So-and-so and had the task to organise my trip to Switzerland. I was flabbergasted; the guy was not nuts after all! In the afternoon I received a whole set of new clothes – designer stuff, perfect size! Cocktail dresses, office two-pieces (although the skirts were a bit on the short side), night gowns and negliges, shoes (and the heels were a bit on the high side), stockings, but no underwear.  In an envelope I found business class tickets, abundant cash and a long list of instructions. Two days later, I said goodbye to The Fish Bowl and left for this weird adventure.

The Banker had had a very successful love life. Many mistresses, many fiancees, but he had never married – in truth, no woman seemed good enough for him. He was rich – his family already was – he could buy all the company he wished. He was so sure of his charm, that he let the time pass, and now, in his late sixties, he didn’t really want to get married anymore. But, no, he didn’t want to give up the envy of his peers. So he wanted to have company, whenever he had a gathering, such as the convention in Sankt Moritz. The play was elaborate: I had to pose as his secretary, but it had to be clear that I was not: so I had to be flirty, dressed in businesslike fashion, but I had to parade myself in front of his colleagues: short skirts, no underwear, and I had to be very close to him, much closer than a personal assistant would be. Everyone had to think that I was his mistress.

The first day ran very smoothly. Of course, I became the talk of the convention. I could feel the stares of the other participants, while the Banker pretended not to notice the way I brushed myself against him, while passing him papers to read or to sign. I saw the way the other guys peeked into my cleavage or looked at my bottom as I walked along the corridors of the conference centre. I loved all this, and I was grateful  for the game the Banker allowed me to play.

On the third night, when we retired to our suite, I thought the time to show my gratitude had come. We entered the large living room, but instead of going straight to my room, I lingered, waiting for him to do the first move. In three days, he had not touched me once, not even to shake my hand. He noticed I was waiting, he stopped, he came closer, he looked at me with a mischievous grin... and then turned his back on me and went to his room. That night I could not sleep.

The play lasted till the end of the week and the conclusion of the convention. I became more outrageously dressed every day – every night, during dinner, I acted more flirtatious than ever. The jaws of our table mates dropped lower and lower, since more portions of my skin were exposed. But the Banker did not show any sign of noticing me. He was pleased by the hungry looks that his colleagues addressed to my body, but every night the same scene repeated itself: I waited for him to touch me, to rip my clothes off me, but instead he grinned at my growing lust, and went to bed.

We flew back business class:  at the airport he had his driver and his secretary to pick him up, I hailed a taxi. The  secretary, just before entering in the black car, where he was already sitting, explained to me that all the clothes were part of my compensation and that the following day I would receive a check. She added, with her dry, unfriendly voice, that Mr. So-and-so had been satisfied by my performance and that probably he would employ me again. He didn’t even say goodbye to me. The secretary got in the car and they left.

Since that first time, the Banker hired me every year, for a week – the same script, the same generous compensation, the same frustration. Just when the Stranger had started to become an habitue’, I received the phone call and prepared to go.

Salesman

The Stranger came several nights, after the first. He sat at the bar, but he looked immediately for me. He smiled – and his eyes started smiling, too. He was always kind and soon I discovered he could be also funny. He didn’t like drinking too much, but he ordered on purpose, to stay longer and to make me happy. He asked me questions, about my life at the bar, but he never showed a morbid curiosity about what I did with other customers. He said very nice things to me. He sounded sincere, he never overdid it.

I also wanted to know about him, but he never offered much information. I asked him about his job: he said “he sold stuff”. But I think he was lying – he didn’t seem a salesman, he didn’t speak like one.

I don't know why he came so often. I guess he had some assignment in town and The Fish Bowl offered him the chance to decompress after a long day at work. At first he didn't stay very long, he seemed always very tired and wanted to go to bed rather early. He was not staying at the hotel, I was sure of it, but he never really told me where he spent the rest of the night, where he went to sleep.

His conversation started to change. At the beginning, he spoke about very generic things: the weather, sport, the drinks of the bar. Then he started making comments about me - my makeup or my dresses. He seemed interested in showing me that he noticed ME, that he cared about the way I looked. Yes, after some visits he was not simply being corteous, he was... flirting!

One quiet night

A quiet night at The Fish Bowl could be really boring. Maybe one or two customers enter, but without a real wish to seek fun or company. They gulp down their shots, or they sip their beers, exchange just a few words and leave. I could see them as a challenge, but sometimes I am not really in the mood. I smile, I cross and uncross my legs sitting on my stool, maybe I look at the guys with a certain intensity, but I don’t really put much effort in engaging them in conversation – or in further drinking. Those are the nights in which I could get a bit depressed, by the lack of attention, or I could have a genuine conversation with a perfect stranger.

So one quiet night a Stranger walked in. He didn’t look really remarkable: gray, short hair, even too gray for his age, a bit overweight. Thin lips, but he smiled corteously. His eyes didn’t smile accordingly, they were dark, shifty and a bit almond shaped. He looked a serious, decent fellow, possibly a businessman. He ordered his first drink and sat just beside me. I didn’t make a particular effort to attract his attention, I already noticed he was looking at my legs. I ignored him, waiting for him to start a conversation. And indeed he greeted me, he paid some nice compliments, in a very gentlemanly way. Yes, he was a gentleman, educated and kind. He treated me with respect, although it was pretty evident to him that I was working... he didn’t stay long, he said he was tired. He wished me goodnight and left.

What is strange, after all?

Some of my customers are certainly pretty original. The Banker who uses to hire me to play his secretary, for example. Or the Doctor, who has the despicable habit of leaving marks all over my body. I see them once in a while, the Banker once a year, when he takes me to Switzerland for a week, the Doctor whenever he's in town - no more than couple of times a year, luckily. Both of them are generous - and in a sense faithful to me. They appreciate my services, I play exactly the part they want me to. But there is no real relationship with them. They see me as a blank slate, or a piece of clay: I become whatever they want me to be. But many occasional customers of The Fish Bowl come just for me, the real me. I like to see them flirting, sometimes in a very awkward manner, sometimes with the consumed flair of the serial unfaithful husband. Some of them seem genuinely intrigued by me - I know it's not my brain that interests them, but I have nothing against the fact they appreciate my legs or my cleavage. If they are really nice, after they have ordered a suitable number of drinks, I can convince them to end the night in the hotel room I always have available. It is work, but I do not find it unpleasant.
From time to time, someone falls in love. Big problem, for them, I mean. First of all, they never admit it even to themselves. It's not smart to fall in love with a stool girl. But then they start spending a BIG amount of money every night. Finally, they want to redeem me. BIG mistake. I try to convince them it's not a good idea, I mean, after I made enough money out of them. Sometimes I have to take a short holiday, go somewhere to suntan, and leave the bar to Larissa, Kim and Adam. I never fall in love, I pity them when I see them in that state. But I am not such a bad bitch, I would never hurt them telling them that I NEVER would consider them as partners. Most of the times, they understand - and the bar loses a customer. Sometimes they need more convincing, but it's the job of the manager, he will never let me face a delusional guy all by myself. I am thankful for that.
But then some Stranger walks in the bar one night, and things are never the same again.

Easy girls, too, may have a heart...

I work in a bar. It's called "The Fish Bowl". Not a bad place to work, if you do what I do. Customers are normally decent guys, businessmen, professionals, people with a job and some money to spend, for drinks and company. The waitresses take care of the drinks, but my job is to provide the company.
I sit on my stool at the bar and chat. These people want to talk, sometimes they are happy for the results of their day, sometimes they miss their wives and children, sometimes they just want to get drunk and maybe play rough. All these cases, they are my job.
I make the customers order and drink, I get paid by The Fish Bowl's owner, a decent wage, then I get a percentage on the drinks I sell. Since The Fish Bowl is the bar of a big hotel, the bill can go up considerably. And since it's the bar of a hotel, I can also go up to the rooms, if I wish. No one will care about that, but of course it improves the business.
I have customers that come again and again. They look for me, when they enter the bar. I wait for them, in my best little dress, I cross my legs on my stool and make them see my very high heels. Some of them also ask me out or offer me some special assignment. I negotiate by myself, I am smart in that. I meet a lot of interesting people, like this. Also weird people sometimes.
I like my job. I like the attention. I like the way the customers look sideways at my legs or start a conversation, pretending not to know that I am paid to do so. Most of the times they play the decent guys far from home, I play the single girl sitting on the stool. You may say I am a whore. Yes, a bit, but not always.
In The Fish Bowl I am not alone. I am the redhead, Larissa is the blonde, Kim the Oriental brunette. Adam also works here: he's so handsome, I am sure some nights he gets more drinks sold than the three of us. We are a sort of family, we say. But it's not really true, we are not going to do this job forever.
I want my own bar. One day I will have enough money to buy a place like The Fish Bowl, in some nice area of the city. Or maybe, a cafè, selling coffees and cappuccinos to mothers who meet their friends after church. Maybe I will not be single anymore then, but...