The weather’s so hot at the moment that I can’t be assed to do anything. I spend all day vegging out in front of the TV, watching shows aimed at the unemployed, even though I have a real job. And when I’m not staring at the box and doing my eyes in . . . well, I sleep, I eat. I sleep some more and I eat some more. In other words, I do fuck all.
When I opened the mailbox this morning, I realized that I was making a serious mistake. The bills for the things that rule our life here brought me down to earth with a bump. True, I’ve been able to put enough away, my job pays well. But as my mother often says: “Money’s nothing! It comes and it goes.” That’s why you always have to keep your assets topped up. So, this morning, I decided to go back to work after several weeks of bumming around.
I’m seeing a “client” this evening. We arranged to meet in front of the Gare Cornavin. He said he’d come by and pick me up there at the station.
So I’m off for a little jog to get myself into shape, because in my profession, looks matter—as they do in most professions, come to think of it. Yes, looks matter. Of course they never tell you that you weren’t hired because you’re ugly, or because of your big fat belly. But success doesn’t just rely on looks. You also need a little something between the ears. And me, I haven’t got anything. In any case, not enough. Back home in Bantu country, I finished the equivalent of compulsory schooling here. Then, as a result of life’s ups and downs, I pitched up here, kind of by chance.
Then I thought long and hard about what I could do, seeing as I have no qualifications, nothing. I wanted bucks. Big bucks. And fast! No way was I going to be a tough guy and get a job as a bouncer in a club. Honestly, it’s a waste of time. No way was I going to fuck my back up doing cleaning, either. Anyway, cleaning’s a job for old women! A guy like me, two hundred and twenty pounds and six foot four . . . dusting furniture? No thank you.
I reckoned there were three options open to me:
1) Bank robber—this is Switzerland, and honestly, there’s no shortage of banks.
2) Drug dealer — they say you can make a good living, even if you only sell tiny, tiny little amounts.
3) Rent boy—apparently Nyambè has given me all the assets for that.
Of the three options, the first two seemed too risky. The day you get caught “you go to jail for the rest of your life!” as my poor little grandmother back home in the Bantu village used to say. And seeing as I don’t want to be in prison for life, the third option sounded the most sensible. Healthier. And honestly, even Nyambè won’t hold it against me.
It’s eight p.m. when I rock up super-cool at the Gare Cornavin. I’m togged out like a businessman going to a client meeting. Bow tie and dinner suit that fits me like a glove. It even looks as if it has been sewn and ironed onto me. I’m holding a medium-sized black leather bag in my left hand. In the other, a cigarette. I wait for my client. He’s a little late. Just a little. Like three or five minutes.
A Mercedes convertible with tinted windows pulls up in front of me. The window on the passenger side winds down and I cop a look at my client. An attractive man, the wrong side of fifty. Graying hair and unshaven. He’s wearing a shirt that’s as blue as the sky this summer. I get into the car and I’m impressed by his watch. Impressed. . .well, kinda. But even so! I’ve never seen a client with such an expensive-looking watch. But I curb my thoughts. You’re here to work and earn your dough. Who gives a fuck about the rest?
“Are you OK?” the guy asks.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Forever,” I reply coolly.
He carries on driving. He doesn’t speak again. In my line of business, people don’t talk much. They just do.
His place is huge. He must be a powerful guy. Like really powerful. Some Geneva big shot.
We’re all settled in the lounge. He goes over to the bar and shows me a bottle of whisky. I shake my head. He looks at me questioningly.
“I’m doing Ramadan,” I say.
“Are you a Muslim?”
Are you a Muslim?!
“Yes,” I lie, adding, “I don’t smoke and I don’t drink.”
“What a funny Muslim you are!”
“Orange juice? Water?”
“Here’s a glass of water. With this heat …”
He dips his lips in his glass of whisky, then blows out the smoke from his cigar. He stares at me. He seems to be under the spell of my good looks. I’m a pro and I have a radar for things like that. I look around me. This is the lap of luxury. But I’m not overawed. In my line of work, I’m lucky I only meet European fat cats.
I pick up the black leather bag containing all my gear.
“Where can I get changed?”
“Over there, there’s a bedroom to your left.”
“What about the bathroom?”
“There’s a bathroom in there.”
I stride toward the bedroom where I’m about to swap my dinner jacket for a black vinyl jumpsuit. For this client, I went to the trouble of slipping on a pair of mini-shorts, to wow him with my powerful thighs, worthy of a real Bantu.
When I come out of the bedroom, the sound of my boots makes the gentleman jump. “Wheeew!” he gives a low whistle.
I spread out my kit on the coffee table: three types of plaited leather whip, two straps, dildos, a rope, handcuffs, a gag ball, and a gag with bit and bridle. Within minutes I take my client to a whole other universe. I switch off the lights. I light red and black candles. I remove his clothes. I handcuff his hands behind his back. I bind his ankles tight together with my rope. I gag him with the bit and put him on the leash.
Now he’s kneeling in front of me, his face as red as a beetroot. Slowly, I unzip my vinyl shorts and display the gift Nyambè has given me that is most intimidating: my cock. The guy’s eyes widen. I laugh. I laugh softly. Then suddenly I roar with laughter like the bad guys in cartoons. I let my hand hover over the table, pretending to hesitate over which whip to use. Then hup, no more time-wasting. I pick the toughest whip. I go and stand behind my client. I strike the floor with my whip, he shudders. He seems scared. Ooh, the bad boy! I laugh louder. I stamp on his back with my boots and force him down further toward the floor. He complies. That’s what he pays me for: to obey me. Right! Now let the fun begin. No more time to lose. “Time is money,” my heart tells me.
I thrash his back hard with my whip. Ouch! This must be doing him good. He tries to yell, but he can’t, he’s gagged. I pull on the bridle and raise his head slightly. No, not like that. I stamp on him a bit more. There! Like that. Good position. Excellent position, even. That way he’ll feel the sting of my whip on his white skin better. And thwack! A good thwack-thwack of the whip! His flesh turns red. The blood rises to the surface. I love that. I laugh. Another thwack, and deep inside me my spirit starts talking. And thwack! That’s for my ancestors, slaves for hundreds of years. And thwack! Harder! That’s for my grandparents in the Bantu forests, oppressed by colonization. And thwack! Yes! That’s for all your multinationals that come and raid Bantu country. And thwack! Harder! Thwack! Let’s say that it’s for the debt we’ll never be able to pay. I bring the avenging whip down on him over and over again. My client torpedoes. The pain does him good. While my revenge comes down all the harder. Yeah, my revenge is rooted in my guts. And thwack! Another more powerful crack of the whip. That’s for the borders you close to stop us from coming here, to your country, the white people’s country.
My client rolls over. He lies on his back. That means he’s beginning to feel the pain. Too much pain. He can’t stand the pain any more. But no, boy. No! I’m master here. I’m the one who tells you what to do, get it? That’s what you pay me for. So let me get on with my job. I jerk the leash violently. I put him back in his place. I have a final crack of the whip to deal him. And thwack! That last crack really is very powerful. This one’s . . . Let’s say it’s for all the racism we suffer in your country. Oh, I’m really getting off on this! It gives me a hard-on. Now I’m going to gently remove the gag, giving him a couple of hard slaps. I’m going to fuck his ass and he can scream all he wants. Too bad if his classy Geneva neighbors call the cops. I don’t give a fuck. I’m just doing my job.
He yowled like a dying animal for half an hour. I spat on him a number of times. He licked my sweat. With my big, hard hands, I flogged him. He loved that. So did I, of course.
After a very long session, I took a nice relaxing shower. I put my dinner suit back on as elegantly as I could. When I came out of the shower, I found him lying there, exhausted. I smiled at him. “You are a god,” he said. “Thank you,” I mumbled. He held out an envelope. “Here, this is for you.” I looked inside. Fifteen one thousand Swiss franc notes. What a nice surprise! He’s given me a five thousand bonus. I’ll be able to send more to my family back home in Bantu country. I’m over the moon.
I gave him my business card again, like any real professional, in the event that. . .
“See you soon,” I said, heading for the door.
“Yes. There’s a taxi waiting for you outside.”