It Was Christmas Eve

It was Christmas Eve. I was a little drunk.

As had become my habit on this hallowed eve, I found myself walking toward Chez Plaisir, a brothel in a lonely, shabby part of town. Those who know it, know that this particular brothel is not necessarily the classiest, allowing, as it does, walk-ins—a fact prominently displayed on the sign at its entrance which reads, No Appointment Necessary—but is nonetheless clean, if a little dingy.

Now, normally my tastes are not particular, and it didn't matter to me which of the house's robust, indefatigable ladies attended to my carnal satisfaction. But earlier in the evening I had seen a play whose lead actress had beguiled me with her beauty, with the delicate manipulation of her features and emotions—a single ray of brilliance in a murky cloud of mediocrity—and she had put me in mind for something in particular. I knew the Chez had just the girl—a nice thing, an almost pretty blonde, who, despite her years in her demanding profession, could affect a sort of fresh innocence, which quality I imagined the actress must possess, and which quality would serve to lessen the feeling of melancholy which had afflicted me when I had quit the play, and which had resisted the vivifying effects of the alcohol I had consumed.

As I entered the Chez, I was greeted by the Dame of the house, a woman made ageless—if cheap—by the generous application of makeup. We struck up a pleasant conversation in the parlour, but at length, getting down to business, as they say, I asked after the girl, whose name I had forgot, but who, through my description, was recognized by the fine lady.

She was, alas, taken at the moment, but, said the Dame, she shouldn’t be too much longer. I said that I would wait, and we continued our conversation.

The Dame had been right, and some minutes later, the girl, whose name I have forgotten again, was ready to receive me.

I entered her private chamber, lit darkly, I assume, less to provide an ambience of any romance, and more to hide the cheap quality of its decoration—crudely executed paintings of erotic scenes from antiquity. I thought I recognized, perhaps, a buxom Venus enticing some mortal or immortal lover to her bower; a grove inhabited by satyrs, who were lustily raping some unfortunate women, fallen into their clutches; a rendering of some oriental king in among his harem. My attentions however were drawn to the living female who now lay herself shyly upon the narrow bed which filled most of the space of the small room.

She was less pretty than I remembered, but the dim light helped in that regard, and she assumed that demeanour of innocence which had made me choose her tonight, and not one of her sisters.

I sat myself on the bed beside her, and engaged her in that awkward sort of conversation which generally preceded these engagements, which were actually business, and perhaps should be conducted as such, but which possessed, for me at least, a social element (the girls being, after all, persons and not automatons) that demanded at least an attempt at a polite introduction of intentions. This concluded, I proceeded to satisfy myself with her body, after which I think I dozed for a bit. She woke me, and I knew it was time to go, time for some other person to possess her body. I dressed and left, saying good bye to the Dame on my way out.

I thought about the girl again, the actress, and decided she really wasn’t so good as I had thought—only pretty—and I began to walk home.