The Spell

 There was ‘something about her’, you can ask anyone. A youthful Shirley Manson lookalike, she was quietly mysterious and captivating.

Working with her was hard sometimes - I’d lose clients to her who were bewitched by her unique but striking features, and her encompassing darkness. I resented it but equally understood it. I loved her. It was so hard not to fall under her spell. It certainly wasn’t the things she said - they were few and far between. But you felt her enter a room, and suck out the air as she left. There really was just, ‘something about her’.

Did I mention she could fuck? I mean, she really knew how to fuck. Confused in my sexuality before, but confirmed bi/pansexual ever since, the highlights of my career were the doubles I spent with her. I remember in intricate detail the way she smelt when sweat met her cheap and sweet perfume, the way her eyes lit up after the first bottle of wine, and dimmed again after the second. I remember the first time she squirted, the whimpers when she came, and the funny looks we exchanged when we just weren’t that into him. We had our own language in that bedroom, she barely spoke a word but I could translate her expressions in a heartbeat.

We fucked on an almost daily basis in those days - we were a popular team. The svelte brunettes - me, the worldly serious one, and her - the captivating, mysterious star of the two. I would eat nearly as much pussy in those days as dick, almost always champagne flavoured, and for someone who can usually compartmentalise like a pro - I tripped and fell head first in love with that girl. Which is funny, given that even after years, I barely knew her.

We shared an apartment, we shared orgasms, more than a few bottles of champagne, clients, cash and a love of animals. We were as close as I felt she was capable, and yet it was her spell I loved, for I couldn’t tell you a thing about who she was or where she came from. She imprisoned clients with her allure too. She had many clients, many who were certainly in love with her, some of which were obsessed. I found myself as her protector more than a couple of times, the police gave no fucks, and I often felt helpless to see her being worn down by stalker after stalker. She consumed more wine with time, her smile faded - hungover and wary, and her orgasms grew quieter and trimmed with sadness.

One day, I came into our incall, had a busy day, and she never appeared. Days came and went - she was gone. I worried. One of her stalkers had been escalating in his behaviours - I’d had to get physical with him as he tried to force his way into our place - had he done something? No-one knew where she was, why would they? She’d kept enough mystery about her that no-one really knew much about her outside of the bedroom. She vanished from my life with as much force as she’d entered.

I finished up the lease on that place alone, which hurt my pocket, but it wasn’t my wallet that needed the most nursing. My heart was broken. I knew it made no sense to love an apparition, and yet that’s exactly what I’d done. She broke many a heart the day she disappeared, and disappear she did. I thought of her often, with a deep ache, and finally came to terms with my sexuality, though it'd be some time before I felt safe sharing it.

Years later, she reappears on the scene, a ghost in the sunlight, as if nothing has happened, and I hear nothing. We fuck with degrees of separation, knowing we are riding the same dicks, the same highs, yet unable to touch her. My pride stops me reaching out, and a sense of self-protection keeps me at bay. I leave - it’s my turn to disappear. I try to look behind me, hoping for a last glimpse - a momentary glimmer of hope, but there's none. She’s just a part of my imagination now, but there’s still fucking something about her.

PETRA FOX

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