Below is a short story written as coursework for my second year of A level English Literature and Language based around the question of what it is to be a woman. I aimed to discuss questions about the relationshop between femininity and sexuality, the importance of each of these and how they can both be abused. The idea of feminism was another important factor for me to consider and how at times I feel that women can be womankind's worst enemy.
The room has the basic necessities for the Show Sisters to perform: a bed, chair, mirror, cabinet with show tools, c.d. player. There is no window but a choice of three light settings. A faint whirring sound is emitted by the air-con unit. Electra enters, carrying a small bag from which she takes her make-up and stands in front of the mirror, applying the last little touches. The men like the Sisters to wear a lot of it; it heightens the sense of fantasy. She takes off her uniform lounge trousers and t-shirt and puts on a tight dress which unzips at the front: this man requested clothes; he thinks undressing is part of the fun. She packs her make-up back in the bag and slides it under the bed. She waits. She’d look at the clock if there was one, but it brings too much reality to the show service. The door handle turns and is pushed open. The client walks in; heavy boots thump against the tiles; rough polyester brushes against the wall.
Electra is left on the bed, sweaty, limp and fatigued. The make-up is smudged on her eyes and strands of hair are stuck to her cheek. She wishes there was a window so she could air the dank smell of sex that lingers. She wishes there was a shower so she could wash herself clean. Pulling the bag from under the bed, Electra groans and sits up to pull on her clean underwear and uniform lounge clothes. She doesn’t want to hang around; she hates being left in the room alone after the show service. Without putting the room right again, she pulls on the handle and leaves. The bed unmade, the chair knocked over, the air-con still whirring.
The Mother Sister sat in a corner of the common room, reading a fashion women’s weekly. There were tears against the binding where pages had been ripped out by the Daddies. Electra made her way across the room and took a seat next to the Mother Sister. She felt hollow, weak, numb, and needed some company, a friendly touch to help remove the bruised feel of the last touches. Mother Sister looked up and into her eyes. She was always so good at understanding what was needed completely; she had been in the same position many years previously. “Oh honey...” murmured Mother Sister, “oh baby, baby come here” as she put her arms around the battered girl. Electra remained tense for a moment, all the muscles in her body defending themselves. “It must have been a bad one ‘eh?”. Electra nodded her head almost imperceptibly. “I heard there’d just been a big battle on sweetie, a lotta the other Show Sisters have been picked as well”. They remained still and silent for a few moments until Mother Sister roused the despondent girl and lifted her gently to her feet. Walking Electra to the kitchen, Mother Sister felt the goose bumps on Electra’s arms. She was thankful that a lot of girls had chosen the Daddies’ Brothel in recent years as it spread the workload for all the Show Sisters. It was down to a change in mentality, a leak of information. In the kitchen, Mother Sister sat Electra on a stool and went to bring her some toast and a shot of Sensation Vodka to calm her nerves. Electra waited; she felt cold and her eyes were heavy. She felt lost in a delirium. She could hear some other Show Sisters at the table chattering away, they probably hadn’t had to perform recently.
“At least you feel feminine here” one Show Sister calculated. “I’ve heard those bitches at the Dry Commune take every little last bit of girl out of you. Shave your head, give you sacks to wear, and tell you that you’re worthless. At least here we feel like we’ve got something to prove ourselves with “. The other Sisters murmured in agreement. “I just wish we could still be out there sometimes”.
More Show Sisters were coming in day by day, from all over the surrounding area. There were Daddies’ Brothels located all over the country, the only alternative to the Dry Communes. The Daddies accepted any girl fourteen and over but it was difficult to make the decision if you were that young. At first the Dry Communes seemed like best place to go: women only, no performances and one hundred per cent guarantee of being kept on until death. But then rumours began to slip out. There were tales of girls escaping the Dry Communes and fleeing to Daddies’ Brothels, girls who couldn’t handle the emotional abuse of the Mother Wardens, the degradation of the living conditions, the slow manipulation of femininity into gender neutrality. The Daddies and the clients didn’t make you feel loved, but they made you feel like a woman in the only way left.
Electra knocked back the Sensation Vodka Mother Sister had given her and felt some warmth slip back into her bones. She lifted her eyes; she was slowly stepping out of her momentary depression. The Daddies were good for providing the Sisters with this stuff she thought and smiled coolly. She could feel her heart beat slow down, her mind relaxing, and her muscles loosening. It’s a man’s world she thought, it’s a man’s world and there’s no space for silly little women in it. I like being here, she thought, I’m happy here she thought, never been better. Mother Sister was watching Electra calm down and warm up and took her lightly by the hand. She led her to the Daddies’ private room. The best girls for the shows without service were always the ones who had just performed. Mother Sister knew there had been a big battle today and knew there was another coming tomorrow. The men had to get pumped up in order to fight like animals. They needed to fight like animals in order to win the war.
No woman would choose to live like this but at least it meant they were still alive. Everybody has to sacrifice something in order to save something they love. There was a war going on, the world was being torn apart. In just five years the landscape was unrecognisable from what it had previously been. Stoicism was what was needed to fight these beasts and the female heart is too soft, too compassionate to do the job properly. The males think a truce is not what is needed, instead complete annihilation, complete independence. And now the women rely wholly on the men to bring that about.
Returning to the common room, Mother Sister sat back down to her fashion women’s weekly, flicking through the pages that told her nothing of the independence women used to have. If you forgot about how it had once been, living with the present wasn’t quite so bad. The television hummed; the air-con whirred; and the Show Sisters talked quietly in the corner.
