Eight Pieces on Prostitution Read Free Page A

Rose’s calls. Then she gets out her old backpack, the only thing she brought with her from her hometown when she came to Canberra.
    Carefully, she cuts out the moon and stars, and sews them, using tiny stitches, onto the dark green canvas of her rucksack. They have no lustre there, but she is pleased with the effect. She sells her car and wind-surfing gear, and pays up her rent. Then she catches a bus along the Federal highway to the best hitch-hiking spot. As she stands waiting by the road, her rucksack beside her on a patch of grass, the mother-of-pearl and silver stars wink at her, and the skinny moon curves around her belongings.

The Man Who Liked To Come With The News
    In spite of everything, it gave her a secret pride to know that she did her job well.
    Her practice was to start with a client’s legs, moving in soft figures of eight from ankle to thigh. She completed ten, maybe twelve strokes like this, both legs at once, her hands moving in time with each other. She liked particularly to press her fingers lightly on the small of the back, curve down the slope where the buttocks swelled, and brush the balls with the tips of her fingers.
    One hand helping the other, she worked on each leg separately, using the same figure of eight, taking care with the inner thigh, tucking her fingers under the part of the leg that rested against the massage table. Then, in circular movements with her thumbs, she worked up, following, as far as her ignorance of anatomy allowed, the lie of muscles and tendons. The backs of the knees were often stiff. Feeling resistance tighten under her fingers, she would take a knee between her hands and rub it, jostling and nudging the client into relaxation.
    She ran her knuckles up the spine and back, with light strokes, barely touching the skin, then worked the vertebrae apart with her thumbs, starting at the base of the spine, where Kundalini the curled snake lay resting before his journey. The large muscles of the back claimed her attention for a full five minutes, with many up-and-down knuckle and butterfly strokes. She moved the head gently into position, kneading, with one hand after another, the muscles at the top of the spine. Only then did she say to the client, ‘You can turn over now.’
    The man who liked to come with the news said, ‘I only want a six inch massage. From here to here.’
    His left hand spanned an octave, from the top of his thigh to where his hip bone made a ridge.
    She smiled to herself, because of the time she’d succeeded in wasting, and because he had not complained till now.
    He asked her to turn the radio on and then, if she wouldn’t mind, tune in to the twelve o’clock news.
    That surprised her, but she didn’t show it. It was part of her bargain with herself, not to show surprise.
    She worked quickly while he lay on his back, straining to finish before the weather report.
    He came with his eyes open and she watched them clear.
    â€˜Would you like a cup of coffee? No sorry, tea, we’re out of coffee.’
    He didn’t answer immediately. After a few moments, he sighed and said, ‘Well that was worth every penny.’
    She smiled openly then, wiping her hands on a towel.
    â€˜Do you think we could go again?’ he asked her.
    â€˜Another massage?’
    â€˜I think we could go again, don’t you? I’m not in any hurry.’
    â€˜I thought you were in your lunch hour.’
    â€˜They can wait.’
    â€˜You’d have to pay the same.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜No,’ she said, suddenly decisive. ‘Save your money for another day.’
    He sighed again. ‘After all, I think I will have some coffee.’
    â€˜Tea.’
    â€˜Tea then. That is, if you’ll join me.’
    She washed the strong, sweet stuff around her mouth and her eyes clouded over with the steam. Every movement she made in that room she had made hundreds of times before, a sequence with only the