Frankie

Reads: 54  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

The sordid escapades of a European prostitute trying to find her way back to sanity, sobriety and love.

Chapter 1

 

The fireplace roared with blazing indifference, warming the cramped but cosy Mont Lachat lodge she’d held up in for weeks. Kicking morphine was no walk in the park but Frankie was no stranger to coming down.. the pins and needles, coupled with the slew of volatile emotions swirling through her head. The absence of that all too comforting numbness that so well insulated her from everything difficult that had ever happened. Junk had been a friend and a protector, the only consistent one she’d ever had. Whenever the going got tough, she could slip into that ever blissful and all enveloping opioid bath. The tingling soaring numbness kept her a million miles away from anything that might cause her harm.

Frankie had no good reason to clean up, she’d fallen too far, unemployed, un-excited and unconvinced that life had anything more to offer than another kick in the guts, another broken relationship, another failed attempt at being part of the system of self advancement that would never satisfy her opioid addled soul. If she died, who would know? And who would care? Junk stopped all those hopeful internal musings about what life might still offer her by some infistimial chance, and now she’d stopped using, some of that suppressed hope had begun to creep back in.

 

In her moment of sober clarity, Frankie couldn’t help but think of him. It was the first time in a long time her mind had been straight enough to let his memory wash over her. He’d been the only man who’d ever quelled her angst, who ever made her feel loved, he was the only one who ever came close to making her feel understood and unalone. He bridged the ever abyssal gap between friend and lover, and made life seem to her like something entirely different to what she had known. The last time they eloped had not ended amicably, and Frankie’s pride was too great to reach out and extend her hand in reconciliation. How could she have distanced herself so far from someone who’d loved her so much. Losing herself in the arts at times offered her  some measure of respite and shelter from her over active mind. Frankie stared at her canvas, unable to conjure anything but the banal and the pedestrian. The harder she tried to self induce the creative moment, the further away it slipped. Going for a walk would usually stir the creative juices, but the weather outside was prohibitively cold. In two more days it will have been a month since she retreated to the French mountainside of Lachat to clean up. It had been a successful detox in the physical sense but the mental anguish caused by the lack of her opiate security blanket had forced her to confront the ghosts she’d thought long forgotten.

The anguish was a sort of grief, like the death of a loved one. Not that she’d really lost anyone to death in her life, but she’d lost someone she loved, and worse being, he was still out there.

Perhaps abstaining from her pin prick salve had been too hasty a decision, she had far too much on her plate to confront without the help of that nice warm tingle.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Frankie’s labia majora had been lacerated by a Parisian ‘gentleman’ after he’d tried to introduce her vagina with the business end of a wine bottle. It had broken in the process and caused some deep cuts. Caution now had to be exercised when masturbating, the entire area was pulsating from pain like the shuddering breast of a wounded pigeon. Her carnal desires had to be sated regardless, so she satisfied them with the same sort of quiet determination she imagined Magda Goebells had, administering cyanide to her children during the final days of the Third Reich.
She climaxed, she bled, she cleaned up.
To some it may have seemed crass to have attempted such a feat of sexual deviance in a crowded Parisian coffee shop, but Frankie was no stranger to making a mess.
The obnoxiously loud sound of a fire truck drowned out the chatter in the shop. An alcoholic busker floated around the cafe in an almost balletic manner, twisting, turning and contorting in brain damaged periottes, oozing from table to table in the search of any small amount of money that would offer his ethanol soaked soul a moment of essential and earned respite.
The conflicting smell of sweat, fresh meat, and perfume filled the air in a confusingly enticing maelstrom of sense assault.


Frankie’s dealer was 15 minutes late, this was a pedestrian inconvenience in the world of junk. His name was Hubert. A Nigerian who’d been hustling in Paris for as long as she could remember. His prices were fair and he was semi reliable. This time he arrived wearing a disheveled suede suit that looked like it had been lifted from a corpse in a rushed amateur grave robbing attempt. She wouldn’t have been surprised. He had a scar across his left eye and the side of his face seemed to have been dented in, as if it had been caved by a cast iron skillet. His eyes watered and fluttered with drug addled attentiveness as she pulled the cash from her purse. Four syrettes was all she could afford. He handed her the junk, and before she knew it, he had dissolved back into the frenetic manic metropolis of Paris. The smell of his musty negroid corpse suit lingered in the air.
Desperate for a shot, she popped the lid off the syrette, and jabbed it into her leg, an instant rush engulfed her entire body, a feeling akin to submerging oneself in a warm bath, pins and needles and satisfying numbness, it was a feeling like no other, and it made everything ok. She lost consciousness for a moment and awoke to an angry mother yelling at her; she had nodded off at a community fountain in a park and fallen into the front of a pram and bumped a sleeping baby. The mother was furious. Frankie picked herself up off the ground, looked the baby in the eye to make sure it was fine and gave it a smile. It smiled back gleefully and Frankie felt a sense of relief. She realised she had drool running all down her chin and neck from being on the nod. Wetter than a spastics chin. The baby laughed. It was drooling too. Maybe they weren’t so different she thought. Her last bastion of refuge from the judging eyes of humanity, a drooling baby.


 

As dusk fell, and the junk fugue began to wane, it was time to find herself a bed.

Frankie had  found a cheap room at a dilapidated boarding house in Villeneuve-La-Garenn, in the north of Paris. It had previously operated as a bordello, and from her observations of the types of people loitering in the hall, she had suspicion that the old habits of the building’s occupants were still alive and kicking.
The room smelt like mould, and the walls seemed to swell and creak, probably as a result of water damage. The one light hanging from the centre of the ceiling was flickering every few seconds in a disorientating manner, it made her feel nauseas. Weary from the flight from Florence, Frankie closed her eyes, laying on the soiled mattress, pondering how many people had made love in this exact bed, how many people had cried.. and how many people had died. Aroused by the ghosts of mattress trysts past, she opted to have a rub. Just before climax, she was interrupted by the sounds of yelling in the adjoining room. A woman’s voice could be faintly heard through the weeping wall.
‘Pickle my poonani you fucking dog!’ She screamed.. then there was a pause and a a man started screaming indecipherabley. Frankie put her ear to the wall to hear better. ‘I’m gonna pickle your poon you fucking bitch!! Get ready for the poon pickler baby, daddies fuckin’ cumming!’

The sordid yelling suddenly reminded her a memory of a man she’d been with almost a year ago, he was an alcoholic who had ‘gorilla fucked’ her and subsequently revealed he had hepatitis and scabies. She had caught the scabies as a result, and remembered the pain of having to be chemically deloused. She discarded the memory just as quickly as it had entered her mind, finally putting her head to rest since the yelling had subsided.

The following morning Frankie awoke to a fracas in the hallway just outside her room.
“God put my daughter in a wheelchair!! God put my fucking daughter in a wheelchair!!!” A man hysterically screamed. Sounds of a scuffle and then a heavy thud were heard, then silence. She remembered the one man from her past that she herself had nearly had a child with.. in deep reflection she found herself at the same emotional crossroads she’d been at many times before, a place where desire and despair intersected. She forced herself to close her eyes, to forget.

 

Chapter 3



A storm had begun to roll in. The street was thick with moisture and a faint but enticing smell of fried chicken filled the air. Frankie had been frequenting Saint Germain-des-Prés, one of the more affluent suburbs of Paris. An administrative office sector by day and a fine dining area by night. Frankie searched for a diner, which wasn’t a common sight in France, but after twenty minutes of walking, she found one. She spotted a dusty booth in the corner and took a seat. The waitress promptly walked over.


‘Vous avez choisi?’

‘Oui’

‘Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?’

‘Le café au lait.’

‘Oui.’

Frankie spoke limited French, but had remembered how to order a coffee with milk, a drink in which she had only ever imbibed in France.
The diner was almost empty aside from two old men sitting together in a booth, probably a couple of fags, she thought. The sounds of the street outside were drowned out by an obnoxiously loud jukebox playing Edith Piaf.
Sipping at her coffee, she noticed a folded piece of paper behind the cutlery jar. Curiosity got the best of her and she unfolded the discoloured note. It read:

“Our deeds still travel with us from afar and what we have been makes us what we are.”

She immediately recognised the quote as George Eliott, but why would someone leave such a note behind, was it meant for someone who never got it? Or was she the intended serendipitous  recipient?

As her coffee arrived she was overcome by the urge to empty her handbag on the table, for the sake of sorting trash from treasure. She’d often do this as a way of inducing that feeling of satisfaction one gets when having a clean up.
She tipped the bag upside down and the contents spewed out, of which included: a crumpled packet of ‘French Kiss’ strawberry gum / 3 pieces remaining. A tube of red lipstick. A single packaged straight razor. A CD copy of her favourite Jeff Buckley album she always kept with her - ‘Sketches for my Sweetheart the Drunk’ a squashed packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes of which there were 4 remaining, accompanied by bloodied tissues, 2 loaded morphine syrettes, (a habit in which she was trying to kick.) a strawberry chapstick, her tattered passport, €170 in cash, a damaged photograph of someone she’d once loved and a pack of playing cards with a symbol of a renaissance court jester on them. She stared at the jester, recalling what she had once learnt from a history book about the jesters plight.
Commonly, a court jester would be a mentally ill serf who had been appropriated by a lord or king to dress up in colourful clothing and dance in front of the aristocracy at dinner. The jester’s often had illnesses that were undiagnosable at the time, such as epilepsy and schizophrenia. So the jester would frantically dance and flail and seize in front of the aristocracy’s banquet during dinner, solely for the bemusement and delectation of the guests. A cruel fate for an unluckily ill pauper, she thought..

 

Chapter 4


Frankie had wiped back to front today and could feel the chocolate mistake becoming her. Addled by the acute onset of dysentery Frankie wandered the streets of Florence, searching for a clean bathroom, holding her painting tightly under one arm and smoking an American Lucky Strike Menthol with the other.

After an hour of wandering, Frankie happens upon a bathroom. Battered door, unisex, filthy. Stinking of musk and heroin, toilet paper long gone. In stubborn refusal to accept the situation of being unable to wipe, Frankie tore a section of her dress off and ran it under hot water in the sink, it wasn’t toilet paper, but it would do. The dress material was coarse and had a texture reminiscent of sandpaper, nonetheless Frankie endured and scraped the morning's fragmented excrement from her urchin of the sea. I deep ache engulfed her vulva but she remained resolute, throwing the piece of the dress on the floor and leaving the bathroom, but not before briefly indulging the prospect of the possibility that the portion of the dress’s scent might be picked up by a vagrant and used for masturbation purposes. She giggled playfully to herself, feeling slightly aroused by the potential barefoot male suitors future possible putrid pleasure. Upon leaving she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and threw her fist into it at full force, shattering it and lacerating her hand in many places. She couldn’t stand the sight of what she had become.


Chapter 5


Daybreak - 6am. The smell of faeces and cigarette butts filled the air, like fairy floss and corn dogs at the carnival of lost souls. Pounding headache, trundle beds squeaking with disrepair infused with the sound of anaemic Russian murmuring filled the halls, you know a shithole when you’re in one.

A voice broke into English briefly in the adjoining room, heard in a soft but assertive tone.
“Make my fuckhole suffer you reticent piece of shit..”

Frankie lay staring at the cracked ceiling pondering the worth of extracting meaning from the excrementitious goings on around her. Surely there was something of emotional value to be learned from the black mould infested rooming house she’d found herself crawling back to time and time again. Freaks always find their way home it seems..

She recalled a quote from poet Phillip Larkin on the worth of poetry.
“A poem is like a slot machine, the reader puts the penny of his attention in the slot and pulls the handle and gets a feeling out.”

The quote wasn’t really applicable to her current situation, aside from the fact an apparently ‘redicent’ male suitor's cock was being pulled like a slot machine handle in the next room, ‘feelings’ spewing forth from it like a putrid poetry pistol.
There weren't many other meaningful parallels to draw.

Frankie pulled a morphine syrette from her  bag and jabbed it into her leg with a natural junkie fervour. Numb. So quickly numb. No more need to think. Russian voices and penile slot machine nonsense fading away. Eyes starting to slowly close, the smell of shit becoming somewhat more bearable. She let out a low energy laugh, more like a whimper, and passed out. An unconscious passenger on the train of life. Destination Pooville.

 

Frankie awoke after an hours worth of interrupted sleep leaning against a bird bath in Tuileries Garden, a lush green, ornate statue studded public park. Her stomach seared with the absence of food and abundance of semen, or glú as she had affectionately renamed it.
It was time to get back work, to jump back on that perpetual and ever replenishable putrid pogo stick and see the Franc’s fly.
She splashed the fetid bird bath water trying against her vulva, in a feeble and desperate attempt to clean the hole that had helped put food on the table many a hungry night past.
“The world never permits a good looking woman to starve.” She muttered under her breath, as if to instil herself with some skerrick of hope.
The discoloured bird water rolled down her legs like a grey landslide of avian secretion, she felt cleansed.

Chapter 6


Landed in Prague. Flight - insufferable. Filled with repellent proletariat nobody’s. The fucking great unwashed. She knew her worth was less than theirs, but fuck them anyway. Pigs.
God.. The fucking Czech Republic, an inexhaustible epicentre of debauchery and retarded human sexuality. The scourge of humanity living in buildings conceived in the dreams of the greatest architects in the world, only to be spoiled by ungrateful and unknowing vagabonds and semen bandits.


Whilst exchanging stories with a junkie she’d squatted with in a shooting gallery in Vienna she had heard rumours of the ‘Metropolitán Delicatessen’. A unisex den of evil and lycenchousness nestled in the browning bowels of Prague’s red light district. Once an underground fallout shelter during World War 2, it had since been reapropriated for patrons of less than conservative sexual behaviour.
Subterranean and labyrynthian in its structure and depraved in its practice, Frankie thought this was as good a place as any to flex her ever insatiable muscle of voyuerism. She’d always sought redemptive pearls of humanity amongst the depravity, the muck and the mire. 

 

The pungent but slightly satisfying smell of pork fat filled the air and a faint crackling sound reminiscent of skin frying could be heard throughout the ‘venue’.
Black oily ropes hung from the ceiling like poisonous snakes. Discarded adrenaline syringes littered the floor. Presumably for the purpose of bringing a ‘chosen one’ back to life after being anally fucked into oblivion.
Daunting was a word unfit to encapsulate the essence of delicatessen. There was Jewish sorcery afoot.

 

A stocky overweight grey skinned gaythlete approached Frankie.

 

‘First time at Delicatessen?’

 

‘Yes this is my first time.. feeling like a fish out of water at this point..’

 

‘That’s ok madam, I remember being frazzled by my first time here, but once you learn the rules you’ll feel right at home.’

 

‘Well then tell me what I need to know.’

 

‘Ok let’s start with ‘Knighthood’

 

‘In the gay community here, when an initiate has proved himself and demonstrated his ability to either power top or power bottom, he is inducted into the knighthood. Essentially the same as the Queen knighting a person with a sword on their shoulder and a few words are spoken. In the gay world the sword is substituted with an erect penis, but it’s all pretty much the same.’

 

Frankie looked puzzled. ‘I thought this was a heterosexual sex club, I think there’s been a mistake.’

 

‘No my dear, there’s no mistake, Delicatessen is a unisex club, we’re just required to tell you the gay rules first.’

 

‘Right.. go on..’

 

‘So next up we have the Hot pocket.’

 

‘The game of hot pocket involves a group of men sitting in a circle of chairs whilst a younger man/initiate is passed around the circle getting fucked by each man for 10 minutes. The game continues until the participant either has a mental breakdown an/or defecates themselves, the man who is fucking the hot pocket at this time loses the game and is systematically fucked into oblivion by the group of men, excluding the exploded hot pocket participant.’

 

‘Then you’ve got Angels, and this is where it gets very serious.’

 

‘Not unlike umpires in a soccer game. Angels are observers and arbiters of the gay rituals. They hang from the ceiling with hooks in their back and their penis’s are injected with a stimulant known as kaverject, they are seen as demigods in the gay community, and to have a rock hard angel smiling upon you during a sex act is most often seen as a positive omen.’

 

‘Oh oh and then there’s the Seers. These are shamanistic gay men who believe through heavy semen ingestion they are able to obtain powers of clairvoyance. I haven’t seen anyone achieve it yet, but god knows they try!’

 

‘This is certainly a great deal to take in..’ Frankie looked at the gnomish grey poofta befuddled.

 

‘I know my dear, but the club mandates we brief you on the more.. how do you say.. ‘complex’ aspects of Delicatessen.’

 

‘I understand. You’re just doing your job.’

 

‘Well I don’t actually work here, I’m just a regular gaythlete.’

 

‘I’m not gonna even ask what that is, could you direct me to the heterosexual section?’

 

‘Of course, I’m sorry to have rattled on. 

Once you’ve traversed the labyrinth and consulted with the Minotaur, only then will the gates to the grotto be opened.’

 

Frankie abruptly awoke to find herself in a soiled bed, the sound of screaming echoed the hallways of what seemed like another cheap boarding house. A needle clung to her arm by its tip. It had all been a dream she thought. Or had it?

 

Chapter 7

 

The inexhaustible pearl of Paris.
The city of lights, of wine, cheese, poetry, decadence and beauty was home also to the filthiest contrast
Homosapien discharge, domestic abuse, gangrenous penises, vaginas swollen with venereal disease, down and outs, piss and shit, bile and all the rest. The sweet and the fucking sour. A rotting cheese receptical of humanity’s best, brightest and brain damaged.

The stained velvet carpet of the once opulent Parisian hotel lay dank and fluid stained, the screaming ghosts of all the children that would never be, encrusted into an indifferent floor addled by the sands of semen and time.

Frankie mesmerised herself watching a block of rancid butter sizzle frantically in the skillet, souring the air of the apartment.

A crossdresser on the first floor was bastardising Fondue by using the wrong cheese, a delirious junkie on the second shooting up without checking for air bubbles and a wine damaged couple on the third organising a suicide pact.
Diabolical humanity in motion, couldn’t save itself if it fucking tried.

Out the window down the street a man in a disheveled boiler suit had struck a women in the back of the head and dragged her down an alley with calm determination. Frankie felt wet. The Parisian savannah was in full swing, and she had front row seats. She remembered when she too had once been worthy of accosting. A cool wave of nostalgia washed over her.
Crawling an itching with syphhilis her eyes rolled back in her head.
She watched the man in the boiler suit staring into the woman’s excavated howling maw.
Devoid of any life or lubrication left to give, she lay lifeless like a discarded marionette.
Frankie delighted in the violent spectacle.
She was a freak.. an epicurean entirely divorced from reality and she knew it. Her life had become a rotating tedium of violent coitus, yeast infections and voyeurism. She shrugged and returned to her burning butter trance.

 

Chapter 8


Frankie arrived at Vienna International after a short flight from Paris. Today she felt oddly detached from reality, lack of sleep was likely the culprit.
She’d made use of her time in transit to ruminate on the last encounter she’d had with a man she’d once held dear. It had been a hot December evening last year, the final day of a 4 day heat wave, they had been arguing about Ian McEwan’s 2001 best seller ‘Atonement’. The gist of her contention being that the novels weakness was that it preyed on romantic sensibilities in the reader too often as a hook and thus took something of a literary shortcut. Her lover disagreed, countering by contending that ‘the book was successful because of its openness to sensibility and that it was a strength and not by any means a shortcut or weakness.’ It had been a short argument and despite the topic being impersonal, she still felt angered he didn’t see it her way. She forced herself to break free of the memory. Instead deciding to reflect on the emotional importance of reading and how surreal and essential the concept of inhabiting the mind of a another human being through written word was. She felt satisfied at her observance.
Walking through the departure lounges toward the exit she noticed a woman reading a book by Salman’s Rushdie she’d heard people rave about: ‘Midnights Children’ she knew nothing of the books subject matter but thought it was a catching title nonetheless.

After a short cab ride, Frankie arrived in the city district of ‘Landstrasse’. It was eerily quiet for a Saturday and sheets of cold rain swept the streets in a manner that seemed to have a kind of menace to them almost as if there were a spectral entity pupateering.
Walking to her hotel, she noticed a vagrant laying in the gutter, disheveled and sick looking. She decided to give him €10 out of pity, at which point, he thanked her and produced a sealed envelope with a wax stamp on it.
‘What is this?’ She asked,
‘I pickpocketed some Jew dogs on their way to the Opera earlier. I think there’s tickets inside, they won’t let me in anyway, try your luck.’
‘Oh.. umm, thank you!’.
She hurried away from the unusually grateful metro-hobbit and tore open the envelope. It contained 3 tickets to
‘Il Barbiere di Siviglia’ at the The Vienna State Opera. (The Barber of Seville).
She’d never been to such a thing. Her only experience with anything theatrical was when she’d tried her hand at standup comedy when she was 19.
It was a short lived affair.

Frankie decided she may as well put the tickets to use, but what to do with the two spare tickets? Vienna was a city in which she had no ally’s, and she was averse to the prospect of the tickets going to waste.

In front of her hotel stood a hotdog stand. ‘Weiner Wurstle’ the sign read. She decided she may as well try a real Vienna sausage, as she’d already had the ‘other’ kind in a backpackers in Prague some time ago. A regrettable encounter.
‘One Scharf Wurst please.’
The man handed her the sausage in bread.
All of a sudden, she began to feel an odd sensation come over her, almost as if this whole time she’d been nothing but a marionette, every action she’d made being controlled by forces unknown and that the power over her had just switched hands..


Submitted: October 21, 2020

© Copyright 2020 greyvelvet. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Comments

Criss Sole

This was a very interesting journey to take, and i wonder what Frankie will end up doing with the tickets.
I really liked how you describe everything in such great detail, even down to the smell. It seems a little nightmarish, and i feel bad that Frankie finds herself in such a messy situation.
I really liked your writing style.

Wed, October 21st, 2020 12:15pm

Other Content by greyvelvet

Short Story / Other

Short Story / Other

Short Story / Other