By Nana Péché
I would have liked to have seen you for longer.
The first thing that springs to mind is your well-covered head. Your blonde hair was cut short. Your face was determined and calm, yet you said you were nervous; I didn’t notice much of that. You’d never done anything like that before. Had sex, I asked, and laughed. Of course, my young man – mine for just two hours, during which we grew very close, yes, we had sex too, above all sex – had made love many times before.
I didn’t want to talk much; I could have listened to you for hours, but I didn’t want to chat that day. You were one of the cleverest I’ve ever had, and I would have loved to see you again.
It’s been a year since we got together, and you’re the first one I’m writing about. We snuggled up to each other very quickly, without saying much beforehand. I felt drawn to you, and you desired me immensely.
It was a beautiful spring evening, a bit too warm for the time of year. I was excited and didn’t know much about you; I still don’t know much and probably never will, but I knew enough—enough to give myself to you.
Fear of the whore
At first, you weren’t keen on the idea of meeting me at the hotel bar; you said there would probably be colleagues of yours there. Oh no, in your mind they might well have recognised me as a whore, and that probably wouldn’t have been very pleasant for you. There was no other reason, such as being married.
You wanted to go straight to the room; at any rate, that’s what we discussed in our previous email exchange. I was surprised, as people sometimes take me for the decent girl that I often am – perhaps too often. “He’s afraid you look like a whore, a whore obvious to everyone,” said Salome, after I expressed my bewilderment amidst clinking glasses and the lively chatter of a hetaera gathering.
Things turned out differently when I made my way to the pretty little hotel in Mitte. At first, we had trouble finding each other. Out of consideration, I had no intention of going to the hotel bar, which really wasn’t far from the hotel lobby.
We’d agreed to meet there and then go straight to his hotel room. Naturally – and I don’t really need to write this here, but I’m doing it anyway because this question seems to keep cropping up – I can always decide, just as with any other date, whether or not to give my time and much more. Or not.
So there I was, sitting in a very comfortable armchair just a few metres from the hotel reception, a couple of minutes ahead of schedule. I was wearing a pink dress – not a garish one – that fell just above the knee, with a sophisticated neckline; my hair was worn loose, large hoop earrings adorned my ears, and my legs were clad in smart leather boots with a tiny heel. I looked anything but slutty, whatever that might mean to each individual. And so I waited, with only a rough idea of what you might look like, though I knew what you’d be wearing and your age; the minutes ticked by and I looked around, thinking you’d surely recognise me. Time passed, and there was no sign of your charming face—which I might not have recognised anyway.
By now I’d been sitting there for a full 15 minutes; we were supposed to have met up at 10. I was slightly irritated and, unfortunately, didn’t have access to my emails at that moment, so I couldn’t contact you.
Another two minutes passed and a man – one of those present in the lobby – seemed more than a little interested in me, but didn’t approach me or speak to me; yet his gaze kept seeking me out. So I stood up and went over to him. He was also wearing a black jumper and glasses; you said I’d be able to recognise you by those clothes. I asked the gentleman if we had a date. He didn’t know anything about it, but wanted to invite me out for a meal straight away; he had a French accent, and we spoke English. I politely declined and returned to my seat. But only for a minute, because it was already a quarter past; we’d agreed to meet at half past, and the academic quarter of an hour had passed. Had I been stood up? Had something happened? No! I stood up and made my way out, and there you were sitting; it was warm, after all, and you thought that way you’d be able to see me arrive. You’d probably have been able to admire my swaying hips, the way I walk, but I’d arrived a few minutes early, so you didn’t get to see me walking towards the hotel, towards you. I felt a huge sense of relief when I stood before you, you recognised me, stood up immediately and greeted me with such joy. It dawned on you straight away that you could have gone almost anywhere with me without anyone ever mistaking me for a whore.
In my opinion, only those who look at a prostitute with a loving gaze can recognise me for what I am.
You wanted to go straight to the bar with me, but I wanted to go straight to the room with you.
You: ‘If you carry on like this, I’m going to come, so let’s stop.’
Me: ‘That’s brilliant – maybe I won’t stop, and then you might come again later?’
I was allowed to carry on, and that’s exactly what happened.