The Porcelain Girl

The man who pisses on me every Thursday wears a wedding ring and a suit that costs more than my rent.

I know it's Thursday because Thursday is when the fish special runs at the restaurant next door and the whole alley smells like lemon butter and capers. I know it's him because he always comes at 11:40, after the dinner crowd thins, and he always orders the same thing: a gin and tonic he doesn't drink, then he finds me.

Tonight he's already unzipped by the time I settle onto my knees in the stall. The tile is cold through my fishnets, biting into my kneecaps. I've learned to bring a square of cardboard from the recycling bin out back, but I forgot tonight. Sloppy. My knees will be purple tomorrow.

"You're early," I say.

He doesn't answer. He never does. That's part of the arrangement, I think. If he spoke to me, I'd become a person, and then he couldn't do this anymore.

The first splash hits my chest. Warm. Always warmer than you'd expect. It runs down between my tits, such as they are, and pools in the hollow of my collarbone before spilling over. I keep my eyes on his shoes. Italian leather. Hand-stitched. I can tell by the way the welt curves, the tiny imperfections that mean a human being made them instead of a machine.

He's shaking. They always shake. The guilt, the relief, the shame, the whatever. I stopped trying to name it months ago.

When he's done, he zips up without looking at me. I hear the click of his belt buckle, the rustle of him adjusting his jacket. Then his footsteps, quick and even, heading for the door.

"Same time next week," I call after him. It's a joke. He doesn't laugh.

The door swings shut. I'm alone with the hum of the ventilation and the faint bass thump from the main floor. I stay on my knees a minute longer, letting the wet soak through my mesh top, feeling it drip down to my stomach. The smell is sharp and ammoniac, cutting through the club's fake vanilla air freshener.

I stand up. My knees pop. I'm twenty-three but my body feels forty.

The bathroom at Club Sanguine isn't much to look at. Three stalls, two sinks, a mirror that's cracked in the corner from the time a girl got thrown into it. The walls are painted black, which helps hide the stains. The lighting is red, which makes everyone look like they're bleeding.

I grab paper towels from the dispenser and start cleaning myself up. There's a system to this. First the face, because that's what people see. Then the chest, then the stomach. The mesh top goes in the trash. I keep spares in my locker.

My name is Dasha. I'm eighteen years old, which means I'm technically not supposed to be working here, but the owner, Viktor, doesn't care about things like that. He cares about whether you show up on time and whether you make him money. I do both.

The girl in the mirror looks like she's been through something. Dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer hides. Hair shaved on one side, the rest hanging limp and damp around her face. A septum ring, a lip ring, a row of studs up each ear. Tattoos climbing up her neck like ivy, black ink on pale skin. A sparrow on her collarbone. A snake winding around her ribs. Words in a language she doesn't speak on her forearm.

I don't know who I thought I'd be at eighteen. Not this.

The door opens. Katya comes in, all six feet of her, blonde hair in a ponytail so tight it pulls her eyebrows up. She's the only other girl who works the toilets. We don't talk much. There's not much to say.

"Busy night?" she asks, going to the sink to wash her hands.

"One so far."

"Lucky." She scrubs at her fingers like she's trying to take the skin off. "I've had four. One of them wanted to shit on me. I told him that's extra."

"Did he pay?"

"He paid."

I pull a fresh top from my locker, a black crop that shows off my stomach and the tattoo of a rose just above my hip. It's not modesty that makes me cover up between customers. It's practicality. The less skin exposed to the air, the less I have to wash.

Katya catches my eye in the mirror. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You look tired."

"I am tired."

She nods like that makes sense. It does. We're all tired here.

The thing about working at Club Sanguine is that it's not actually about sex. Not really. It's about power, about degradation, about men who need to feel like gods for fifteen minutes before they go home to their wives and their mortgages and their quiet, desperate lives. I'm not a person to them. I'm a receptacle. A toilet. That's what Viktor calls us. His little toilets.

I used to hate it. Now I just don't feel much of anything.

I clock back in at midnight. The main floor is packed, bodies grinding against each other under the strobe lights, the bass so loud it vibrates in my teeth. I cut through the crowd, heading for the back hallway where Viktor's office is. He wants to see me about something. He didn't say what.

Viktor's door is open. He's behind his desk, a big man with a shaved head and a gold chain that disappears into the thicket of his chest hair. On the desk in front of him is a stack of cash and a bottle of vodka, half empty.

"Dasha." He doesn't look up from counting. "Close the door."

I do. The noise of the club fades to a dull throb.

"Sit."

I sit. The chair is leather, cracked, uncomfortable. I cross my legs and wait.

He finishes counting, stacks the bills into a neat pile, and finally looks at me. His eyes are pale blue, almost colorless. They've always scared me a little.

"I have a client," he says. "Special client. He wants something different."

"Different how?"

"He wants to take you home."

I don't react. Reacting is a weakness Viktor can smell.

"For how long?"

"A weekend. Maybe more. He's paying five thousand."

Five thousand. That's more than I make in two months.

"What does he want me to do?"

Viktor shrugs. "Whatever he wants. That's the point."

I should say no. I know I should say no. Nothing good ever comes from a client who wants to take you off-site. But five thousand dollars is five thousand dollars. It's rent. It's food. It's maybe, if I'm careful, a way out.

"Who is he?"

"His name is Alexei. He's..." Viktor pauses, choosing his words. "He's part of something. A group. They have money. Real money."

"What kind of group?"

"Does it matter?"

It should. It really should. But I'm thinking about the five thousand, about the way my knees ache, about the fact that I haven't eaten anything but instant noodles in three days because I spent my last paycheck on ink instead of groceries.

"When does he want me?"

"Tomorrow night. I'll text you the address."

I stand up. My legs feel unsteady, but I don't let it show.

"Okay," I say. "I'll do it."

Viktor smiles. It's not a nice smile. "Good girl."

I leave his office and walk back through the club, past the dancers and the drunks and the men who pay to piss on girls like me. The music is still thumping. The lights are still strobing. Everything is exactly the same as it was five minutes ago, and everything has changed.

Tomorrow night, I'm going to meet Alexei. Tomorrow night, I'm going to step into something I don't understand.

But that's tomorrow. Tonight, I've got three more hours on my shift and a line of men waiting to use me.

I head back to the bathroom. There's work to do.