Scandalous by Laura D Read Free Book Online

'young
girl', 'intimacy', 'meet up', 'seeking'. I'm seeking too:
money, and quickly. The men here – stupidly categorised
under the dubious alibi of 'massage' – are on average
well into their fifties. Older than my own father. Daddy,
if you only knew . . . The main difference is they've got
cash, lots of it, and they seem prepared to spend it to feed
a fantasy that I'm potentially in a position to satisfy. The
rates, if they're mentioned at all, are in hundreds of euros
per hour. Can that be right? All these figures soon
aggravate my longing to have some money of my own. I
can already see myself with all that loot in my battered
purse – it would be spilling out in every direction! They
also talk about several hours spent together. What does
one afternoon matter in a lifetime! I would have thought
that, if you really need the money, it wouldn't mean a
lot. Perhaps this is my solution, the one I've been looking
for. A bit of comfort, and soon.
    Still, I've made do without comfort until now, and
quite well actually. My parents' council flat until I was
eighteen, the cheapest simplest clothes, roll-up cigarettes
– that was plenty for me. Until now. Of course I was
envious sometimes, like everyone else, but I'd never
really been materialistic . . . Perhaps I couldn't afford to
be. Never two coins to rub together, always dodging
fares on public transport, a tolerable life. Occasionally
awkward, often embarrassing when a bill came along,
but you muddle through. I try to tell myself these
'massages' would mean I could easily afford to have
choices. I don't realise that the exact opposite is happening:
I'll never have a choice again.
    There in the darkness – so often at the root of
irrational actions – I become sharply alert until my senses
seem to be boiling. First, my eyesight, so painful and
constantly there: the sight of bills pilling up unopened,
abandoned on the humble piece of furniture in the living
room that I use as a bookcase; the sight of money offered
by my few friends to pay for my coffee at the local bistro
for the umpteenth time. A hypothesis begins to emerge,
and one that may have been lying dormant all these
years: with some cash I'd not only be able to study the
whole time, but I'd actually like myself a bit more.
    My mind's racing. My whole body's clamouring for all
these possibilities, I can almost feel them with the tips of
my fingers. All I have to do is click on the mouse, that's
all, just a tiny bit of pressure. My hand refuses to be
controlled, it's motivated by this dark longing – so taboo
and, paradoxically, so dazzlingly exciting. My arms, my
head, the whole of me knows that there, at the end of my
arm, is an answer, however controversial it may be, a
way to sort everything out, at least for now. Every part
of me gangs up against the feeble voice of reason in my
head, they just want to get it over with. Who cares about
afterwards, we'll see about that later.
    I've suddenly been gripped by a sort of frenzy, it's
already too late. All I need do is look back at those
messages and I'm completely in their hands. Don't think,
Laura, just type out these fucking messages and you'll get
out of all the shit you're in – it's the only way out and
you know it . I mustn't back away out of fear. I've been
offered a chance, I need to jump at it. My go-getting
attitude can no longer see the difference between good
and bad, it wants a way out more than anything,
whatever the cost. From that moment on a sort of
schizophrenia takes over. I've become two different
people since seeing the ads: there's the Laura who's
perfectly aware she's playing with fire and the Laura
desperate for money. A ridiculous sense of defiance
comes into the mix: I can do this, I'll prove it to myself.
So I type, I type away on my keyboard as if each letter
pressed could eradicate the gaping hole inside me getting
bigger every day. I believed I was in control of my
faculties as I set out on the wrong path, now I feel
invincible just at