The Best Little Whore in Cape Town… (is not an actor)

14 Mar

The empty bar in the glowing theatre lobby wakes up at 7pm. With a refreshing yawn she prepares herself to be entered by those that matter. The bar knows she is a whore, but takes solitude in the fact that she is a respected, beloved, well-taken-care-of whore. She is the first to be fucked and those who penetrate her feel comforted by her non-judgemental embraces and tender acts of mercy. She is also the last to be fucked. Her clients wash themselves clean of what they had just experienced and run back to her as she greets them with open arms. She sympathizes with their pain. The mixed look of fear and exhilaration she sees in her clients’ eyes reassures her that she will be the bottom bitch for years to come. She is the main attraction, the real introduction. She lives for opening night. For this is the night when the fat, wealthy, important clients arrive and seek her comfort. It is not the respectable, but modest, second night clients, whom she adores, but ushers through at a hurried pace, nor is it the duration of the spectacle when she is entered night after night by the simians who are paid to perform and whose antics inspire others, as well as themselves, to visit this comforting whore; either out of sheer disappointment or occasionally, a delight in watching (or being) exceptionally talented performing monkeys. This is the opening night. The grand first march of the campaign. The assassination of Arch Duke Ferdinand. The bombing of Pearl Harbour. The eloping of Paris and Helen. This is the big one, the first train to Fat City, the breaking of the levees. And Madam Whore, the savior of most, the damnation of some, is ready for it. She whispers, “Let the fucking commence.”

Her minions dolly her up. She knows she needs to be pretty for this crowd, for they will feel the need to judge her as well. She smiles knowingly. They need her. They need what she has. But she plays along. Give the client what he or she wants. Make them think they are in charge.

The first people arrive. They stagger into the lobby with a wild look and whisper angrily that they knew they were too early. They showed their hand and their eagerness augments them immediately; they will judge harshly this piece of entertainment they are about to witness. The discomfort passes as soon as they see our heroine, the whore, and partake in her services. They sip unlabeled wine, slowly calming down and coming to terms that they are just as important as the rest who will arrive soon. The joint heats up as more royalty arrive. “Oh, I’m on the list. I’ve been invited,” says a faux-modest voice that inhabits an industry type, dressed in expensive clothes that makes the wearer believe that he or she is passing as a fully-formed human being. The false back and forth continues as more guests slither in. “I think I’m on the list.” “I’ve been invited.” “I’ve been comped… I think”. The whore smiles. They’ve all been invited, they’re all on the list. And they all know it.

The Johns and Janes dive into our heroine’s on-display fruits. The first round of pleasure is on her. She gives them just enough to prop them up for the show, to keep them awake and wanting more, drooling for the next taste of her loins. For when they pay, they know (or hope) it will be sweeter than the teasing lick they received for free.

The doors to the theater open and a very insignificant person waves the theatergoers into the black chasm of the auditorium. With uncertain shuffles, the patrons enter the abyss looking around wearily as if they expect an unclean, frothing at the mouth actor to jump from the blackness and take a bite out of their decorated arses. The doors close and the whore gives the “ready-to-be-disappointed” audience a wave and blows them a kiss, knowing that they miss her already.

As time passes, the whore finds delight in the sounds coming from the auditorium. The coughs, giggles, groans, shifting seats, cell phone ringtones and, of course, the muffled dialogue of the puppets made from meat, hope, longing and (for the after taste) disappointment. Picking herself up from the comfort of emptiness, our beloved lady of the night stands ready as she anticipates the obligatory applause and the rush of warm bodies ready to release themselves into her womb.

She lets out a whisper, “Here they come.”

A veritable orgy commences. Thirsty souls drink from her breast and finger her fine oak corners. Wrapping their moist hands around her goods and gulping down her milk greedily, they now await the emergence of the director and the actors, but for that they need lubricant, and Mother Whore obliges. The director comes out first and is met with applause and an offer of the whore’s tit. He/She takes a big sip and everyone seems pleased. The actors wait their turn and their patience is awarded with a lick and a suck from our heroine, who gives a lascivious smile with a wet, dripping mouth and an eager, gaping chasm between her legs into which she invites all those who dared to leave the comfort of their lives and enter into a deal to be bored stiff.

They’re all fucking now. Left and right. Up and down. Handjobs, blowjobs, ass-fucks, snow-balls, fistings, muff-dives, brown noses, sixty-nines, toe licking and the ever present “orgasm by compliment”:

AUDIENCE MEMBER: You did a great job.

PRACTITIONER:  You were a great audience.

The Best Little Whore in Cape Town listens, and gives a bit of a groan, as everyone comes over one another. She knows her job is done. Like the best therapist in the world, she has made it possible for these people to relax by doing to her what they would like to do to each other, so that they can, in the end, do it to each other. Good job, old girl.

As her minions wipe her clean and put her to bed, the well fucked, satisfied whore closes her eyes and awaits the world of tomorrow. For, in essence, it will be the same as today. And that’s why she loves South African theater.

2 Responses to “The Best Little Whore in Cape Town… (is not an actor)”

  1. Catherine Brown March 15, 2011 at 12:16 #

    HOT!!! story? writing? author? me? doesn’t matter! Just HOT!

  2. guy de lancey March 15, 2011 at 13:09 #

    I recommend condoms as compulsory head wear at opening nights.

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