Prostitution Divine. Short stories, movie script and essay. Михаил Армалинский
the rawhide aroma that emanated from Bill’s jacket. “Let’s go,” said Bill, and Sandy hurriedly tossed down her screwdriver.
When she stood up, Bill’s friends again howled with laughter, seeing Sandy’s hugeness in all its glory.
“Go by yourself,” Sandy heard one of the friends say to Bill, when they got to the car.
“And what about you?” asked Bill.
“We’ll wait for you here,” said the other friend. “Now, make sure you don’t lose your head,” he added, choking with laughter.
Sandy settled obediently into the worn-out car. “Whereabouts do you live?” asked Bill as they drove away from the bar. Sandy gave her address.
Bill was silent, and Sandy waited to see what would come next. But then, unable to restrain herself, she asked: “Where are we going?”
“Your place.”
“We can’t. I live with my mother,” said Sandy calmly.
“Shit, we can’t go my place either. Why dincha say so before?” said Bill in annoyance.
“You didn’t ask,” Sandy said, surprised, and timidly offered, “We could stop at a motel.”
“What, are you kidding? Maybe you’ve got the money?”
“No,” said Sandy, and regretted that she lacked those twenty dollars, for which adventure could have been had.
They approached Sandy’s house. “My mom’s asleep,” said Sandy, seeing the dark windows. Cars drove past, their headlights illuminating Bill’s tense face and Sandy’s painted lips.
“He doesn’t even try to kiss me,” she noted to herself, verifying the usual.
At that moment, Bill laid his hand on her shoulder and with the other hand unzipped the fly of his jeans. Sandy happily opened her mouth. “Better than nothing,” she thought, hungrily drinking in the smell she had begun to forget.
Finally Bill pushed away her head and zipped his fly up.
“Success,” said Bill and added, “Well, I gotta go now.”
Sandy got out of the car in silence and headed for the house. She heard Bill start the car without waiting for her to open the door; she heard a loud acceleration as he took off. As she entered the house she slipped her hand into the mail slot to check whether something had gotten stuck there from the mail she had collected earlier that day. But the slot was empty.
Once the mail brought her a catalog of classes offered at the community center. She noticed that bellydance classes were offered. Sandy thought that this would be a marvelous use for her voluminous stomach. The courses were not expensive and would begin in one month. Sandy signed up and began to dream of how her dancer’s art would give her the power to attract men. Before her eyes flashed stills from a film in which belly dancers drew delighted howls from male viewers. But the nearer the starting date for the course approached, the better Sandy realized that her reveries had left out a few details – for example, just where she would display her skill, just who would be watching, and whether her belly would not provoke disgust instead of carnal desire.
In the end, she was seized by her usual shame at exposing her body.
Therefore, Sandy resolved to spend the money she had laid aside for the course on something else, and she bought herself a red silk bathrobe. Since its folds barely covered her, Sandy cinched it with a belt, accenting the waist.
One day Sandy was sitting in her usual place at the window in wait for the postman. He materialized without warning, and as he mounted the steps to the door he stumbled and almost fell down. Thus the thought first entered Sandy’s head that the postman was a man, and not a mere device for distributing mail. He had a beard and a large bald spot, though he looked no older than forty. Some ads had arrived in the mail, and it occurred to Sandy that the only people who gave her a thought were those who wanted to sell her something. There was also an announcement from a girlfriend saying that she was pregnant again. Sandy imagined her swollen belly and immediately recalled the postman’s bald spot.
“What if I started talking with him?” Sandy began to fantasize. “No, I can’t – he just drops the letters in the slot and walks away fast. I wonder is he married or not? What if I asked him to come in? But no, he wouldn’t-he’s probably in a hurry to deliver all the letters, and get back as fast as he can to his wife and kids.” Sandy had not made out the facial features under his thick beard, and she tried to guess whether or not he was circumcised.
The next day she awaited the mail delivery with still greater excitement. Just before his expected arrival, Sandy painted her eyes and lips, went out into the yard, and sat down with an open book.
The postman drove up in his jeep and started fiddling around, sorting the mail. Finally he got out of his truck with a heavy sack and, without looking at Sandy, began to approach her door.
“Good afternoon! ” she called to him.
“Afternoon,” he muttered, and strode on to the house next door. Sandy had the feeling that she had gone out for a date but that no one had shown up. Suddenly a plan arose in her mind, as if she had been preparing it for a long time, keeping it hidden from herself until it was complete and ready for embodiment in life.
The next morning, Sandy went to the post office and sent herself a registered letter, consisting of a blank sheet of paper. She was told that the letter might be delivered the same day. On arriving home, Sandy made herself a generous early lunch; then she went into the bathroom and started putting herself in order, aware that makeup brightened her face. Afterwards she remembered that she had not brushed her teeth. She tried not to smudge her makeup, but nonetheless had to repaint her lips. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw not her face, but only her burning eyes. Then Sandy covered her nails with bright polish and, with difficulty, gave herself a pedicure – her stomach was a great hindrance. Then she got up, angry with herself for not doing the pedicure first, and at the same time telling herself that she probably wouldn’t need it anyway. Finally, she put her new red bathrobe over her nude body, and tied the belt firmly. She left the folds of the robe half open so her enormous cleavage would be clearly visible. Sandy sat down by the window and almost reached for the potato chips, but found in herself the strength to refrain, so as not to smudge her lipstick. Then yet another idea gleamed in her head, and again Sandy wondered where she could have got it – she began to play with her nipples, which stirred right away and became clearly outlined against the silk of the robe.
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