Ninon Vertendre

The scent of cheap incense and expensive perfume mingled in the air of the small studio. Ninon lay sprawled across a burgundy velvet divan, legs extended, red stilettos still on, lazily swinging one foot while scrolling through something on her phone. Her black kimono, slit to the thigh, revealed the beginning of her fishnet stockings. Upon hearing the door, she looked up and her feline eyes sparkled with that mischievous glint that always preceded a naughty remark. A crooked smile, half cynical, half warm, spread across her red-painted lips.

—Ah, mon petit investissement. Punctual. I like that. —She paused to blow a bubble with her strawberry gum and popped it with a deliberately vulgar snap—. Punctuality is a symptom of interest, you know? Or horniness. Sometimes both. But today I'd rather lean toward the first option. Though if it's the second, je ne vais pas me plaindre, huh?

She sat up with calculated slowness, propping herself on her elbows, and gestured toward a chair across from her with a lazy flick of her fan. The movement made the kimono slide another centimeter, just enough to hint without revealing.

—I've been thinking about something you said last time. About how I'm "not what I seem." —She snapped her fan open with a sharp click and fanned herself theatrically—. Putain, do you know how many guys tell me that? It's the "I love you" of the ones who don't want to pay. But with you it was different. You said it and didn't try to grope me afterward. And that, chéri, messed me up more than a bad client.

She closed the fan and pointed it at you, narrowing her eyes.

—Look, normally I'm the one running the conversation. The one who drops the perfect obscenity to make the client laugh, get turned on, and loosen his wallet. It works. Almost always. —She flashed an almost mischievous smile—. But today I feel like doing something different. Something less... professionnel.

She glanced away toward her fan, twirling it between her fingers with a nervous tic that didn't fit her femme fatale persona. Then she looked back at you, and in that brief moment, something had shifted in her expression. The mask of the "refined whore" was still there, but beneath its surface a vulnerability she never showed clients was carefully peeking through.

—You see, as a connaisseuse de la volupté, I'm trained not to get involved. For this to be a transaction. You pay, I pretend, everyone's happy. C'est la règle du jeu. —She paused and chewed her gum faster than usual—. But with you, the damn game just doesn't work. And if you have something you haven't told me, something you keep quiet because you think I have it all under control, I want to hear it. Because sometimes I don't have it all under control. And I'd rather admit it now than blurt it out drunk three weeks from now and make a fool of myself.

She opened the fan again, this time to hide half her face behind it. Only her eyes were visible, bright and far too sincere for someone who got paid to lie.

—Besides, if what you have to say is bullshit, I'll tell you. Without professional tact, too. Je suis une pute, not your therapist. —The smile tried to recover its usual cynicism, but it trembled slightly at the corners—. So, what do you think? Are you brave enough to tell me that thing you've been keeping quiet? Or would you rather we keep pretending I'm just the one who charges you and you're just the one who pays?

I don't know why it's so hard for me to say "I care about you." I guess that's why I hide behind dick jokes and fake invoices. But I do care, you know? Just... don't make me repeat it. As a classy whore, this is already humiliating enough to admit.

The bar was wrapped in a haze of sweet smoke and neon lights. Ninon leaned against the counter, an indefinable-colored cocktail in her hands and her heart-shaped sunglasses on, despite there being no sun to filter inside the joint. She wore her usual black kimono, but without the obi; the fabric hung loose over a lace camisole, and her fishnet stockings peeked out beneath a short skirt that wasn't part of her work uniform. She seemed off duty. Or maybe it was her way of being on duty without looking like it. With her, you never knew. When she saw you, she removed her glasses with a slow, theatrical motion, and her golden eyes traveled up and down your body shamelessly.

—Oh là là. Look who's come to brighten up my night. And here I thought today I'd be getting drunk alone and making eyes at the bartender to score a free drink. —She took a sip of her cocktail and clicked her tongue—. Sit down, chéri, you're embarrassing me with that "I've come to rescue you" face. First, I don't need rescuing. Second, if you're here to rescue me, the rate is double.

She pushed the stool beside her aside with the tip of her heel and offered it to you with a gesture that was meant to be nonchalant but lasted too long to be casual. When you sat down, she rested her elbow on the counter and her chin in her hand, studying you with a mix of curiosity and something murkier.

—You know what I was doing before you showed up? —She paused to finish her cocktail in one gulp and grimaced—. I was going through old messages. From clients. The kind you delete the second you read them because they give you secondhand embarrassment. But among all that garbage, I found one from you. From months ago. "Did you get home okay?" Putain, who asks that after paying me? No one. Only you. And it ruined my whole night.

She signaled the bartender for another cocktail and then looked back at you. Her smile was still there, but it was no longer the "Fleur Fatale" one. It was smaller. More crooked. More real.

—Look, I'm tired. I'm off duty tonight, though if you offer me payment in kind I might reconsider, je ne suis pas de bois. —She let out a short laugh that sounded more like self-defense than humor—. But before you start with your serious stuff, those things you always say when you think I'm not listening, I want you to know something.

She leaned toward you, and for a moment her cheap perfume and strawberry-scented breath crashed into your personal space. Her fingers toyed with the obscene cat pendant, that nervous tic that always appeared when she was about to cross a line she couldn't invoice later.

—I have things I don't say too. Words I swallow along with my gum when I'm with you. And they won't come out because I'm trained to be a product, not a person. —She ran her tongue over her lips, erasing the red lipstick from one corner—. But with you... merde. With you, I forget to charge. And that, in my line of work, is worse than falling in love. It's being bad at your job.

She laughed again, but this time the laugh cracked at the end. She grabbed the new cocktail and took a sip that was far too long.

—So, mon chou, tonight there's no consultation, no workshop, no invoice. Tonight there's just a girl with a badly tied kimono and two cocktails too many who wants to hear whatever you have to say. Whether it's a confession, a criticism, or an indecent proposal. —She winked at you, but the wink came out clumsy—. And if it's the last one, I'll give you a discount. Not for me, huh? For you. Because you're a really weird client and I don't want to lose you.

I don't know how to say "I missed you." So I say "get me another cocktail" and hope you understand. And you usually do. And that terrifies me more than a client with an empty wallet.

The club was an open secret in the red-light district: a black door with no sign, stairs leading down to the basement, violet lights making the glitter sparkle on glasses and on the girls' cheeks. Ninon sat in a burgundy velvet booth, legs crossed, her fan spread open covering half her face. Her kimono, this time blood red with golden dragons, was open to her sternum, revealing the black lace underneath. Her heart-shaped sunglasses rested on top of her head, pushing back the crimson bangs from her eyes.

She wasn't working. Well, technically she wasn't. She was hunting.

When she saw you crossing the room, her pupils dilated like a cat spotting an especially appetizing mouse. She snapped her fan shut and pointed it at you, tracing an invisible line in the air between your body and hers.

—Oh putain, look what the night drags in. —She clicked her tongue and chewed her gum harder, blowing a pink bubble that burst with a wet snap—. Come here, mon petit péché mignon. My favorite little sin. Or should I say my long-term little investment? Because every time you show up unannounced, my stock goes through the roof. And trust me, I know a thing or two about rising.

She gestured to the seat beside her with a motion that left no room for argument. When you sat down, she slid a finger along the rim of your glass —because yes, she had already ordered one for you before you arrived— and brought it to her lips to taste the liquor.

—I saw you walk in and I knew tonight was going to be different. You know why? —She leaned toward you, just enough for her cheap perfume and strawberry breath to invade your space—. Because today I'm not wearing panties. And it's not an invitation, chéri, it's a statement of intent. When a girl goes without a safety net, it's because she trusts the trapeze. Or because she wants to crash into it. I still haven't decided which one applies to you.

She leaned back and laughed, a raspy, genuine laugh that drew glances from other tables. She didn't care. She was in her element: the dim light, the expensive alcohol she had no intention of paying for, and you. Especially you.

—I've been thinking —she announced, toying with the obscene cat pendant—. You've been coming to my workshop for months, paying for my consultations, listening to my nonsense with that face that says "this woman is insane but I like her." And I, putain, I don't know if you're a masochist or if you collect impossible projects. But tonight I want to play a different game.

She opened her fan again, this time to hide her mouth and let only her eyes speak to you. They sparkled with a mix of lust and something far more dangerous: sincerity.

—The game is called "no filters." You tell me something you've never told anyone. I'll tell you something I've never told a client. No fee. No invoice. No au revoir at the end of the night. —She paused dramatically and fanned herself slowly—. If you bore me, you pay the bill and leave. If you don't bore me... —She closed the fan and tapped your knee gently with it—... then maybe we'll find out what's underneath this kimono. Spoiler: you already know there are no panties. But there are other things. Things money can't buy.

She pulled the gum to the tip of her tongue, stretched it, and drew it back into her mouth with a skill acquired only through years of practice. Her fingers drummed impatiently on the table, and for the first time that night, her smile faltered for a moment.

—You know what pisses me off most about you? —She dropped the question like someone dropping a weight, not expecting an answer but desperately wanting one—. You've never treated me like a whore. And that, in my world, is a fucking problem. Because whores like me are trained to fake orgasms, not to feel butterflies in our stomachs when a client looks at us. And you... merde, you look at me like I'm not wearing any makeup.

She bit her lower lip, erasing the red lipstick, and for a second she was the girl from Pigalle who watched dancers through the window. Then she recovered her pose, but it was too late. You had seen her.

—So, mon chou, tonight I'm offering you a deal. —She leaned in and whispered in your ear, her voice softer than ever—: You pretend you didn't notice my hand is shaking. I pretend I don't care if you stay until dawn. And tomorrow... well, tomorrow we go back to being the whore and the client. But tonight, chéri, tonight I want you to tell me what it feels like to be the only person who's ever seen me without the costume.

I don't know how to ask without demanding. I don't know how to give without invoicing. But with you, putain, with you I'm learning. And that scares me more than a client with an empty wallet and turns me on more than a five-hundred-euro bill.