Read Online The Hunger by Lincoln Townley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lincoln Townley
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like you’ve seen a ghost.
—I have.
—Where have you been?
—You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
—Nothing would surprise me about you, Lincoln. Nothing.
In an hour, I’m at The Club for a photo shoot. It’s with twelve strippers for the 2010 calendar. I sit in one of the booths and watch the Wraps come in, one month at a time, one
shaved pussy after another. I stare at them like I would a row of needy mannequins in a shop window. They disgust me. I disgust myself. I think of Fay. I wonder when her daughter will visit her
again and what happened to her husband. If he’s dead, was it cancer or a stroke or some senseless accident? Perhaps he just left her after decades of marriage, his last stand against his own
inevitable decay. There seems so much sadness in the world, and I so want her to be safe and well it hurts. I whisper quietly into my coffee:
—Thank you, Fay, thank you, Fay, thank you, Fay.
I look up and Esurio is standing in front of me shaking his head.
—It’s time to go now, Lincoln, time to go. I have something special lined up for you tonight.
I put the coffee down and leave the booth. I can still hear the camera clicking and the clunk of stilettos on the dance floor as Esurio opens the door for me and I walk into another day. By the
time I’m on Wardour Street, Fay is a distant memory.
Midnight
I’m in a large warehouse in Soho and the cameras are rolling. There are about twenty beds dotted around the floor, a camera focused on each one of them. There’s a
naked Wrap on each bed with a sex toy in one hand and a phone in the other. Sometimes there are two or even three Wraps on one bed playing with each other. On the back wall are rows of neon
numbers.
—What do those numbers mean?
Kevin, who runs the operation, replies:
—That’s the number of callers listening.
This is the world of late-night sex chat for television. All the girls are being broadcast live on satellite and cable.
—Listening?
—Yep. That’s how I make my money. For every caller talking to the girls, there’s shitloads of dickheads just listening.
I look at the neon numbers. 17. 33. 42. 19. 57. I’m too fucked to count properly but by rounding up to the nearest ten I make it 420 listeners. Kevin passes me a pair of headphones.
—Here. This is what’s happening on Bed Three. It’s Danni, one of my top girls. One caller and you can see she’s got more than seventy listeners right now.
I glance at Bed Three. I need to fuck Danni. Now. I put the headphones on. A man with a quiet, drawling voice, is talking:
—I like Tesco’s best. The blue and white bags. The vegetables on the shelves. Especially the cucumbers.
—Ooh, darling, what do you like best about the cucumbers?
—They’re long and they’re Tesco cucumbers.
—Ooh, yes, and what would you do with a cucumber?
—Not a cucumber. A Tesco cucumber.
Danni may be the top girl but she’s struggling with this one. Then she gets it:
—I bet you’ve touched a Tesco cucumber when you’re in the supermarket and thought what you’d like to do with it, haven’t you?
—Yes I have.
—And what’s so special about Tesco cucumbers?
—It’s putting it in the bag. I like sliding it in then dropping it so the bag makes a noise.
—Have you got a Tesco bag with you now, darling?
—Yes I have.
—Is there a cucumber in it?
—Yes, and I’m touching it now.
—Let me hear you move it in the bag.
A rustling sound shoots through my head. I am pissing myself laughing. I look up at the numbers. Listeners are now in three figures.
—I’m moving it around.
—Can you stroke it for me, baby?
—I’m stroking it now.
—Ooh, I bet that feels good, doesn’t it. Stroke it harder for me, baby.
—I am, I am. Oh, oh, oh . . .
The line goes dead. Another happy customer. I have tears in my eyes and Kevin is cracking up next to me. When he sorts himself out, he points to the neon numbers:
—And that’s how I make the money. One
—I have.
—Where have you been?
—You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
—Nothing would surprise me about you, Lincoln. Nothing.
In an hour, I’m at The Club for a photo shoot. It’s with twelve strippers for the 2010 calendar. I sit in one of the booths and watch the Wraps come in, one month at a time, one
shaved pussy after another. I stare at them like I would a row of needy mannequins in a shop window. They disgust me. I disgust myself. I think of Fay. I wonder when her daughter will visit her
again and what happened to her husband. If he’s dead, was it cancer or a stroke or some senseless accident? Perhaps he just left her after decades of marriage, his last stand against his own
inevitable decay. There seems so much sadness in the world, and I so want her to be safe and well it hurts. I whisper quietly into my coffee:
—Thank you, Fay, thank you, Fay, thank you, Fay.
I look up and Esurio is standing in front of me shaking his head.
—It’s time to go now, Lincoln, time to go. I have something special lined up for you tonight.
I put the coffee down and leave the booth. I can still hear the camera clicking and the clunk of stilettos on the dance floor as Esurio opens the door for me and I walk into another day. By the
time I’m on Wardour Street, Fay is a distant memory.
Midnight
I’m in a large warehouse in Soho and the cameras are rolling. There are about twenty beds dotted around the floor, a camera focused on each one of them. There’s a
naked Wrap on each bed with a sex toy in one hand and a phone in the other. Sometimes there are two or even three Wraps on one bed playing with each other. On the back wall are rows of neon
numbers.
—What do those numbers mean?
Kevin, who runs the operation, replies:
—That’s the number of callers listening.
This is the world of late-night sex chat for television. All the girls are being broadcast live on satellite and cable.
—Listening?
—Yep. That’s how I make my money. For every caller talking to the girls, there’s shitloads of dickheads just listening.
I look at the neon numbers. 17. 33. 42. 19. 57. I’m too fucked to count properly but by rounding up to the nearest ten I make it 420 listeners. Kevin passes me a pair of headphones.
—Here. This is what’s happening on Bed Three. It’s Danni, one of my top girls. One caller and you can see she’s got more than seventy listeners right now.
I glance at Bed Three. I need to fuck Danni. Now. I put the headphones on. A man with a quiet, drawling voice, is talking:
—I like Tesco’s best. The blue and white bags. The vegetables on the shelves. Especially the cucumbers.
—Ooh, darling, what do you like best about the cucumbers?
—They’re long and they’re Tesco cucumbers.
—Ooh, yes, and what would you do with a cucumber?
—Not a cucumber. A Tesco cucumber.
Danni may be the top girl but she’s struggling with this one. Then she gets it:
—I bet you’ve touched a Tesco cucumber when you’re in the supermarket and thought what you’d like to do with it, haven’t you?
—Yes I have.
—And what’s so special about Tesco cucumbers?
—It’s putting it in the bag. I like sliding it in then dropping it so the bag makes a noise.
—Have you got a Tesco bag with you now, darling?
—Yes I have.
—Is there a cucumber in it?
—Yes, and I’m touching it now.
—Let me hear you move it in the bag.
A rustling sound shoots through my head. I am pissing myself laughing. I look up at the numbers. Listeners are now in three figures.
—I’m moving it around.
—Can you stroke it for me, baby?
—I’m stroking it now.
—Ooh, I bet that feels good, doesn’t it. Stroke it harder for me, baby.
—I am, I am. Oh, oh, oh . . .
The line goes dead. Another happy customer. I have tears in my eyes and Kevin is cracking up next to me. When he sorts himself out, he points to the neon numbers:
—And that’s how I make the money. One
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