It’s a tricky balancing act. But it’s not like you’re going to lie on the floor the way you would at home. So the best way to do it, at least as far as I’ve discerned, is to curl into the fetal position and lie horizontally across the toilet seat, with one hand bracing yourself against the wall and the other squirting the water into your ass. The art of douching in a public washroom is a boon to any whore’s curriculum vitae.
At the moment, I’m performing this delicate act in a kebab shop in a small town in the north of Germany. The floor is streaked with mud and clumps of toilet paper. A tiny but persistent stream of water flows from the tap. The space is brightly illuminated with a single bulb, hanging from a wire.
Normally, anus-related preparation would be done at home before leaving to meet a client. But in this case, it’s been close to a two-hour journey to get here, so I want to be sure my ass is in tiptop shape on arrival. I fill up my rectal syringe with water from the tap, drop my jeans to my ankles and curl up on top of the toilet seat.
There’s considerable debate among anal aficionados about the proper way to douche. But I’ve always had the best results with a single injection of water followed by a wait of four to five minutes, instead of repeated fast injection/expulsions.
When using the waiting method, I also highly recommend having some music to pass the time. In this case, I’ve already mounted the toilet before remembering that my phone is in my backpack, perched on the sink, so I decide to forgo the tunes and just zen out, staring at the tiled wall.
Exiting the toilet, I glance back at the guy behind the counter to see if I’m about to get a dirty look for the fact I just spent an inordinately long period of time occupying his washroom. But he doesn’t look up from his phone and I head to the door, my backpack in one hand, a bottle of water costing one euro in the other; the price I had to pay to make use of his facilities.
The eventual recipient of my hopefully-spotlessly clean ass lives in a low-rise apartment a short walk away. It’s set about 50 metres back from the road, behind the buildings of the main street. I find the alley he’d told me to look for, between a lingerie store and something that I think might be a defunct Irish pub.
At the end of the alley, I make a right and come to a white metal gate with an intercom system. He buzzes me in, the gate clicks open, and I continue around the corner to the door of his building. After being buzzed in a second time, I take the stairs up to his third-floor apartment.
I rarely ask for any info about what a client looks like in advance of meeting. But when he opens the door, I’m initially a little shocked by his appearance. He’s mostly bald, with a large hook nose, and a mouth full of stained teeth. He’s probably a good three inches taller than I am but his back is severely hunched and his right shoulder is twisted across his body.
He stands wordlessly, looking at me over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and I wonder if he’s about to tell me to leave. But he glances quickly up and down the hallway, and then with an irritated flick of his hand, ushers me inside.
We’ve established from our communication that he doesn’t speak English very well and my German is non-existent, so I’m not expecting much negotiation. I smile and step closer to him. His expression doesn’t change and he just continues to stare at me over his glasses, breathing heavily.
It’s unusual for me to be intimidated by a client. But there’s something serial killer-esque about his demeanour. I can also tell from his shuffling to close the door that he’s struggling with some kind of mobility issue, though I’m not sure exactly what.
In determining whether someone is a potential threat, size, age and physical ability are all going to play a role. In this case, even though there’s something off about his demeanour, it’s unlikely he’s a physical match for me in the event that things get rough.
I step in closer to him, place my hands on his chest and stare into his eyes. He’s motionless for almost 60 seconds, then all at once makes this strange snarling noise and moves in for a kiss at the same time he roughly grabs my ass. His mouth is open wide, like he’s trying to take a bite out of my face and his tongue rubs roughly against my lips.
He’s specifically requested that I arrive without underwear and his finger presses aggressively through my jeans against my asshole. Even through the denim, I can feel the sharp edge of his fingernail. The whole thing feels strangely violent and I push him gently away.
“Easy there,” I say, trying to compose myself. “We want to go slow.”
He continues to stare wordlessly, then abruptly orders me to drop my pants.
A fact you learn early on in the sex business is that people love watching whores get undressed. It’s always better to strip down in front of the client and to take your time with it, letting the process linger.
He doesn’t seem interested though, and begins grabbing roughly at my belt. I take a step back and remove my jacket, laying it over my bag sitting next to the door.
Slowly, as I stare into his eyes, I pull my T-shirt over my head. If he’s enjoying it, he doesn’t show anything; his expression remains unchanged. I slowly unbuckle my jeans. I slide them down and leave them in a heap next to my bag . . .