to previous page
The dress

Long time ago I spent a week in London with an elderly man. His treat, I was a poor student. I only met him a short while before, so I wondered whether he had invited me to serve as an elevated whore. But no, the friendship was more profound and besides, he could have bought many hours of love for that money. We rose late, had breakfast in the hotel or lunch in town. Afternoons we hopped in and out subways, looking at monuments, museums and people. We dined in expensive restaurants - for the first time in my life I tasted snails and frog legs - or enjoyed a buffet. Afterwards we hurried into a theater or moviehouse.

Lauren Ball was a bitch in a Coward comedy, whenever she appeared on stage there was applause. In 'Hair' too, the audience responded enthousiatically. Genet's song of praise to prison eroticism 'Un chant d'amour' was followed by a Warhol movie: a goodloooking boy found his nipples unmanly and had ironwire tacked in his chest to cut them away. I almost fainted and for minutes I kept my eyes closed.

There was a travestite show in a local pub. I sat on a high stool and had a good view on what was going on. Rapidly the celebrities strode or wobbled across the stage. They sang about love, about sailors and soldiers. The smallest one made good imitations of Dietrich and Piaf. The other two vulgarily shook their bosoms and made queer faces. Ogling and hipswinging they parodied the female sex. The show lasted for an hour. My friend had to go to the restroom, I got another pint.

The fattest travestite appeared from behind the curtain. He seated himself on the stool next to me. A golden robe brushed heavily against my body. The barman pushed a glass of whiskey towards him which was gulped down like water. The 'lady' ordered again. Those nylons have known better times, I thought. Transpiration darkened the white powder on his face, the lips were painted a dirty red. Don't stare, I thought. But it was too late. Pig-eyes pried at me from behind ridiculously large eye-lashes.

The platinum-blonde wig was itching against my face when something was mumbled in my ear. I smelled a heavy perfume. A hand pressed my knee. When I tried to push it away, my right arm was being held. I felt his chubby fingers move towards my crotch. Nervously blushing I tried to wrench myself from his grasp, but Marilyn was stronger and all but gently squeezed my boy's meat.

Find a way to get out of here, I thought. What could I do. My friend stood talking somewhere further away and didn't notice. Sharp nails fumbled at my zipper. I looked around in despair. Nobodoy was watching us. With my left hand I got hold of my glass and emptied it in my assaulter's lap. He cursed, released me and jumped up. Accompanied by a leering laughter she disappeared, unsteady on high heels, out of my life.

My friend rejoined me. In the turmoil I couldn't make myself intelligible. Outside I told him wat had happened. We were back early in our hotel room for a change. We took a shower, rubbed each other warm and dry and turned in. For a while we had a good laugh about the damp spot on Miss Monroe's belly. We were to have a gay, long night.

Olaf Korder

to next page