I'm For Hire by Marie Therese and Jean-Paul Sartre by Marie Therese and Jean-Paul Sartre - Read Online

Book Preview

I'm For Hire - Marie Therese

You've reached the end of this preview. Sign up to read more!
Page 1 of 1

Table of Contents

I'm For Hire

Marie Therese

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT


I'm For Hire

Marie Therese

This page copyright © 2003 Olympia Press.

I'm For Hire

The Memoirs Of A Prostitute

CHAPTER ONE

I'm French. When I was sixteen I married a man thirteen years older than I was. I did it just to get away from my folks. My husband's one idea was to strap me down with kids. They'll keep you put. I don't want you running around on the loose, was the way he felt about it. He also felt I shouldn't use make-up. We never went out together. And there was that whizz of a mother of his. She was on my neck all the time; she came to the house every day; whenever there was a battle, she took the side of that bastard son of hers. My first kid was a boy, Jimmy. Then Peter came along fourteen months later. Jimmy died when he was three. I went a little to pieces, I guess. There was a neighbor who was nice to me. She liked good times and used to tell me every now and then that I ought to go out and have a little fun. What the hell sort of life are you leading with that jerk? she used to say. Doesn't he ever break down and laugh? Once she invited me along with a guy who had a car. We headed out into the country. There were some woods, we stopped, and he wanted to make love to me. I began to cry. Maybe I was a sap, but I didn't want to do that to my husband even though, God knows, it would have served him right. So the guy took his hands off me and cut into my girl-friend. Well, that suited her down to the ground. Her husband used to call her a whore and that's just what she was. She slept all around the whole damned town: that's how they come from Brittany. And, what's more, she was jealous of her husband. My husband, who was the jealous type himself, got his hair up and made me quit seeing her: and since I was bored to little pieces I started taking a nursing course that was supposed to prepare me for being a hospital attendant. It was good having something to do. At about the same time we went to stay at my mother-in-law's place and she did the looking after the kids. I lost the last bit of interest I had left in staying at home. As soon as I'd finished' the course, I got a job as a nurse's assistant in the women's ward of a hospital on the outskirts of Paris. And that's when I began to grow up. I met another nurse: she went for women.

From the beginning I always saw her hanging around with her little playmate whenever she was at the hospital. They were together all the time, grinning and rubbing up against each other as if their skins were itching. I couldn't figure out what was eating them. My Brittany girlfriend, who'd been pretty hot to educate me, had never got as far as this lesson, and I didn't know that there were women who made love to each other. One of these two was a widow. I asked her one day, poor dumb kid that I was, Why don't you get married again?

Men don't give me what I'm looking for, she said; and when I laughed, she said: you're pretty green, aren't you, honey?

That same night they took me with them into an empty room. Things got started right away. The two of them took off, kissing and licking each other. They wanted to know if my husband didn't go down on me sometimes. I said no and that anyway I didn't like to sleep with him. I was as red as a tomato and hot in the gut when I said that. They knew damned well it excited me to watch the two of them kicking a-round on the bed, with all those moans and sighs. The next day they introduced me to Paulette, another nurse's assistant, and Paulette didn't waste a minute trying to put her hook in me. I was too much of a dimwit to give in just like that; as a matter of fact, the truth is I didn't see much in her. One day I did go up to her apartment and there and then I let her make me; first, she gave me some wine and cognac before she rolled up her sleeves and got down to business. She was really very kind to me and did her best; I didn't come, but it was nice all the same and I promised to come back for another shot.

Back I went two day later. She pulls off my dress, kisses me, frigs me, sucks me: that did it. I blew, and I was launched: I was getting to like this stuff. I got a little wet; no, I guess I can't say I really shot off. It wasn't before Helen and I got together that I began to knock off solid ones. At bottom, I didn't like Paulette very much either and that must have been why I couldn't really get into gear with her. But with Helen it was different. She was blonde, she had a terrific body, and the minute I set eyes on her I swear I felt like sucking her off without going through all the preliminaries. I must have carried it off pretty well, for she went square out of her mind when I went down on her, and when we left the room where we always played our little games, she had circles three deep under her eyes. It made me happy and sort of proud to see her like that. When the widow's pal met us in the hallway, she asked where in bejesus we'd been. Visiting a patient, we told her.

The hell, she said, laughing, you don't get peepers like that from looking at patients. Later, she sang on the stool. The widow and Paulette found out that I had a crush on Helen and then, my God, you should have heard the stories fly; after the stories we had bitter scenes and hurt feelings and finally hair got torn out by the handful. Pure damned good luck they didn't kick us out, the four of us.

Sleeping with my husband was getting to be more than I could take. Once in a while I said I was sick, or that I had a headache or some old thing or the curse, so as to get out of it. With Helen it was another story: she was really a beautiful kid, blonde hair and all that. When they shifted me to the men's ward I missed her a lot.

I worked with the men six months without ever once getting hot for one of them. Then comes along one fine day and a real Foreign Legionnaire—a tough kind of guy who'd been around all over the place—gets put into a private room.

He was tough, but he was also good-looking. He used to give me the eye. That was every morning. He'd stare at me. One day he grabs me and kisses me, and it winds up between the sheets.

I was always afraid someone would stick his head into the room and catch us scrapping. Even though he couldn't make me come, it was a damned sight better than the football I played with my husband. That Legionnaire kid knew how to suck the bottle dry and he fucked like an angel. I was a little jealous, for a woman came to see him every day. Sometimes, as a matter of fact, I acted a little nuts: after having sucked off a nurse, I'd tear into his room to get a fitting from him. He was jealous too; he knew what the score was in that hospital; but whenever he'd raise a stink about my girl-friends, it would make me happy to see that he cared, although he could get me in tears over the least little thing.

That went on for about six weeks. Coming back to the house, I'd be as nervous as a cat. I couldn't feature my husband at all: the sight of that guy would make me sick. To get out of sleeping with him, I had a doctor fix me up with a paper saying I had something wrong with my plumbing and had to lay off for a while. I wasn't hitting it off so well with my Legionnaire friend either, but his fatherly advice made me at least forget the blonde nurse. He gave me a first-class line: I ought to change my life; I ought to go with him to Paris, I wouldn't have to work anymore. He pulled the wool right over