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Stiletto
Karin Eloff
For Wanya
You are my belief, hope and love.
K.E.
Foreplay
“In Afrikaans the female labia are called skaamlippe – ‘ lips of shame’. Why do people call them ‘lips of shame’? I’m not ashamed of them – there’s nothing to be ashamed about,” is Karin’s opening salvo.
Carel has never thought about the body part in question in quite this way. “Do you expect an answer?” he replies wilfully.
“Not really,” she sighs.
Carel is very aware that Karin is studying his expressions and body language carefully. Of course she is. This is a necessary, probing conversation; to tell the truth, both of them are still weighing each other up – deciding if they can work together. If they want to. Penning the real story of the personal journey of a woman who worked in the underbelly of the sex industry demands mutual trust and honesty as well as an objective, cold Third Eye. Especially if parts of that tale read like a thriller.
“Your question about ‘shame lips’: It’s probably inheritance,” Carel says. “Our ancestors were a seriously pious, God-fearing bunch – and that spilled over into their way of talking and thinking.”
“They probably fucked through a hole in the sheet,” she remarks.
Carel laughs. “Were you always this outspoken?”
“I call a spade a spade,” she says. “In the twilight zone of strip clubs and brothels, men are very different; well-considered language doesn’t exist – as you can imagine. And I’m talking about Afrikaner men. Most of my clients were Afrikaans – regular, everyday boerseuns. One wonders what their mothers and fathers would have said. Or their wives …”
Carel looks at Karin. She has an open face and fine features. Her hair hangs in dark, crimson strands. She smiles easily and has an infectious laugh; she speaks in a lovely, chatty tone. Her bottle-green eyes are large and full of life. She gesticulates wildly with her hands when she speaks.
“What’s your natural hair colour?” he asks.
“Blonde. But I never wanted to be a platinum blonde.”
A blonde like those in the jokes is one thing she certainly isn’t, Carel thinks. He wonders how and why Karin ended up in the sex industry. Stripping and prostitution hardly require the intelligence or skills of an honours degree in psychology. The industry implies a terrifying shadow existence filled with drug abuse and violence; it is certainly not on the general list of recommended career choices. What was a nice, well-educated Afrikaans girl looking for there? And what path was she on when she became Zoë the stripper – and an erotic masseuse in the Stroke Palace, winner of the Miss Hustler title, editor of Loslyf, journalist and mother of a daughter?
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.
“I don’t mean anything by it,” he reassures her. She has lovely manicured hands. Practical fingernails. And a blue-black tattoo on the back of her left hand.
He points at it. “Does it mean anything?” he asks.
She laughs. “I had it done in Pietermaritzburg when I was stripping at a club there. The guy said it’s a Maori symbol of immortality. Whatever. For all I know it means my father is a plumber or something – but to me it’s still very cool.”
“Do you have any other tattoos?”
She turns around in her chair. “Several,” she replies over her shoulder. “Look.”
“What’s written on your back?”
“Faith, Hope and Love,” she says and moves so he can see a section of Faith. “Hope is below it and Love over my kidneys. I’ll show you sometime if you want.”
“Never mind, I believe you,” he chuckles.
Faith, Hope and Love – the words tattooed on her body are in a large gothic font, as in Gutenberg’s Bible.
“Why did you have specifically those words tattooed on your back? What made you choose them?” Carel asks.
“My understanding of growing up. Everything that has brought me to where I am now,” Karin answers. “Faith, hope and love is my destiny – it’s my story.”
“Then I think it’s time that you told it. And start at the very beginning.”
“So, will you help me expose everything?”
“Yes,” he says. “Right down to the bone.”
She stares out the window for a moment.
“That’s fine,” she says. “So, what now – how do want to do this?”
“Conversations. E-mail. Give me everything you have up to this point. You should speak as you speak; write as you write – I can’t do it for you. I wouldn’t want to. You must tell it in your own words.
She hesitates. “Can I change people’s names?” she asks, suddenly worried. “I’ll have to.”
He thinks of all the gossip about famous actors, sportsmen, pop stars and businessmen who use the services of strippers, masseuses, lap dancers and whores.
“Why do want to change their names? To protect the guilty?” he asks.
She shrugs. “Guilty or not guilty – who’s to say? I’m also guilty and not guilty. I believe in honesty and will be brutally honest about myself, but I grant some of the people involved their privacy …”
“As you wish. Names? One’s as good as another. I know sex is a difficult subject, and where you come from, the landscape is probably pretty bleak at times.”
“Yes,” she concurs, “but you’d be surprised – you find unexpected compassion in bars, clubs and brothels. Sex can be beautiful. Even when you least expect it. People don’t want to talk openly about sex and don’t accept it as an integral part of their being. It is misinterpreted – and that’s what makes it dirty and ugly. It’s as if it’s a sickness. Why do people always complicate things?”
“That’s a good question,” Carel chuckles.
“So, are you ready for the journey?” she asks. “It’s quite a roller-coaster ride …”
1
WHAT’S A NICE GIRL LIKE YOU …?
1. Kiss me …
“Kiss me,” he murmurs and lifts my head with both hands from his lower body. He speaks English with an accent because he’s Spanish. He is a dancer who reminds me of a Bengal tiger. A handsome man with short-cropped, red-brown hair and deep, dark eyes. The details of his life are not important – only that his face shows the lines of someone who has lived life to the full and has taken the gravel road. Just like me.
His name is Abelardo.
It’s
