My Name is Ni Wayan

By R.J. Tennyson

 

Ibu gave birth to me, and now it is my turn to take care of her.

I have been here for three hours.

He is my first customer.

His skin has spots like a duck egg, but feels like damp tissue paper.

As I run my hands up the back of his legs and over his arse, he moves, grinding his cock into the massage table – fucking it.

I have no choice. Ibu is sick, and needs medicine.

I tell him to roll over.

His cock is hard, lifting the sunset-coloured sarong.

He smiles, teeth the colour of the corn I ate for lunch.

He asks if I’d like to have dinner with him – I am only young, but I know what he means.

I have no choice. Ibu is sick, and needs medicine.

At dinner he tells me about his children; and his grandchildren.

He doesn’t ask about my parents; or my grandparents.

He touches me, like I am his girlfriend.

Yes, I am a girl, but I am not his friend – I am just his fantasy.

I have no choice. Ibu is sick, and needs medicine.

He orders a bottle of wine; it costs as much as I get paid for one week of massages.

He whispers in my ear that he thinks I am worth the same as one bottle of his wine.

I laugh on the outside, and tell him I am worth as much as six bottles.

We agreement – I am worth only as much as two bottles

I have no choice. Ibu is sick, and needs medicine.

We go back to his hotel room, it smells old, like him.

He takes a blue pill, swallowing it with the last mouthful of his wine.

I undress slowly for him.

He lies back on the bed watching me – stroking his cock.

I have no choice. Ibu is sick, and needs medicine.

He whispers in my ear.

I lie on my side, pulling my knees to my chest.

He lies behind me, his breath scolds like the lava of Agung, but I know the real pain is coming.

I close my eyes tight – the goddess Lakshmi lifts me from my body.

I have no choice. Ibu is sick, and needs medicine.

It feels like a dream.

I am floating above the bed; Lakshmi holds my hand in hers.

We watch him thrust, his hand looks big as it holds my throat.

He lets out the grunt of a dying babi, a pig – tearing me from Lakshmi’s grip, and back into my body.

I have no choice. Ibu is sick, and needs medicine.

I feel his dry cracked lips against my shoulder.

He rolls over, and immediately begins to snore.

I lay frozen, my tears pool, leaving a second damp patch on his crisp white sheets.

I want his scent gone now – but I know he wants my scent to stay with him forever.

I hope he does not wake until morning, when it is time for me to leave.