The Walk of Shame.
This situation is not unusual for me. I'm hanging onto the dangling knob above me at the centre of a London tube train carriage, acutely aware there are lecherous eyes feasting upon me, some obvious, some not so. They're mostly heterosexual male. Not one of them has had the grace to offer me a seat. The Piccadilly Line from South Ealing to Barons Court is always rammed at 9am. The jostle and tussle of the carriages along the well-used tracks are causing me to stumble and press into tightly packed passengers, causing my un- cupped breasts above my low- neck silk top to jiggle temptingly for their feasting eyes. "Go on, feast away, you naughty people," I muse. I can see some unapproving passengers tutting and shaking their heads. Some have a hand fidgeting in their pocket and the voyeuristic of them are taking furtive pics whilst pretending to scroll and text. I give them my temptress look, my sultry eyes to the lens. They can jack off to it later, "Have it boys, you dirty bastards," I conjure in my mind.
Some would call this the 'Walk of Shame.' It's the term used for us girls having pick-up sex through the night with nothing to change into the following morning. It happens. If I was a straight guy, then no, this thought would not even enter their heads. The result of this is having to suffer the indignation of being inappropriately dressed for a morning journey home or to the office. Guys don't need to bother. Nothing in our handbag other than some slut wipes and a spare pair of knickers to freshen up if we're lucky. Some make-up for reapplication, a selection of condoms, a purse and a line or two. Wearing night club attire this hour of the day marks you out like an owl in broad daylight. I'm so well used to it. It's part of the job now.
Barons Court station signs streak past the window. Sparks light up the dark tunnel and the train pulls abruptly and noisily to a halt. I teeter in my 5" Blahnik heels and quickly lose balance, falling thankfully into the arms of a helpful soul who obligingly stops me from crashing into the rest of the herd who await impatiently to swarm out of the carriage doors.
'Good night?' he says, his eyes taking in my swaying breasts beneath the flimsy top as he helps me towards the carriage's sliding doors with a firm supportive arm around my shoulder.
My head's still swimming in the excess of alcohol I've consumed and I feel well hungover. I gaze lazily into his deep brown eyes summing him up. Married I guess, 40ish, kids, a suburban commuter stuck in the rat race. In his sharp suit, tie and a brown briefcase, I'd place him in insurance services or banking. A chancer. He wasn't unattractive, short and thick brown hair, possibly Italian judging his accent. Yes, I thought, I would.
'Wouldn't you like to know!' I tease, '... 'and no that isn't a question, that's an observation!'
He blushes and his eye brows rise, and as the doors open, changes from his chivalrous demeaner to an average frustrated rat race Joe and pushes out onto the platform and ghosts away with the swarm.
In heels, negotiating the awkward carriage step to the platform is no mean feat, but I manage, just. There are no steps to talk of and no escalator or I'd have eyes wandering up my short and tight, high waisted tight pvc pencil skirt, eager to get a dawn glimpse of my thinly gusseted, shaven snatch no doubt. I wasn't sure if I was grateful or disappointed. I like to be desired.
I stumbled awkwardly and somewhat indecorously through the front door of Mattison's Estate Agents. I'd turned a head or two along the high street and felt very self- conscious. On my mind right now was a strong double espresso.
'Morning Toni, my, you had a night you dirty stop out!' exclaims Tania, our always bright, always shining, young office receptionist. 'I hope it was worth it!' She looked me up and down admiring my outfit and winks.
'Tania, you know me,' I boast, 'A girls got to do what a girls got to do in this dog eat dog sales market. Bring me a coffee, there's a love.'
Tania's reception phone beeps. Answering she relays to me, holding her hand across the mouthpiece... 'Mr P wants to see you Toni, I'll bring it up...' She looks me up and down again, winks and sucks her pencil, before pushing it in and out her mouth in a provocative fashion. '...I'll perhaps give it half an hour!'
Mr P was in fact Peter Mattison, the sole proprietor of Mattison's Estate Agents. He'd inherited the business from his father, Thomas, but everyone affectionately called Peter, Mr P. Married with 2 children at public school, self-assured, well groomed, he took pride in his appearance. He also took pride in his staff and paid well. He was generous but that generosity came at a price. His female staff, especially the sales staff, were expected to dress for the job and he gave them ample clothing allowances for the part. He was also expected on occasions to take, shall I say, liberties, or so I'd heard!
I walked upstairs to the open entrance of his salubrious office and knocked on the solid oak door. Dark panelled walling, a high plastered ceiling skirted with intricate cornicing, crystal chandeliers and a plush burgundy Axminster carpet were before me. He sat behind his antique office desk and bayed me in with a simple 'come hither' gesture of his hand and placed his phone on the desk. Mr P was not a poor man.
I sashayed across the deep carpet and stood to the front his desk, straight backed, chest out, legs together, a model of deportment.
'You've done well Toni. We've a sale. Mr Phelps has called this morning. He said you worked your butt off for it last night. Is that true?'
'I did Mr P. I did everything you'd expect of me to make the deal. Everything. I've been a very good girl.' I cooed, boastfully, bouncing up and down on my heels, excited that I had achieved my aim.
' No! No Toni you are being a little disingenuous I think. Look, I'll not mince my words. You are a bad girl, from what he told me. A very bad girl in fact.' He eyed me up and down from his leather padded seat as if deciding what to do with me, stroking his chin in deliberation. Tension was in the air. 'It's what I would expect from the likes of you, it's why I employ you.'
Standing, he loosened his tie, removed his pin strip suit jacket and placed it neatly onto the back of his chair. Straightening his linked shirt cuffs, he returned to his seat and continued to stroke his chin.
'Apparently, and correct me if I'm wrong, and these are his words, he's been 'working' you most of the night. You're a real slut he said. Is that true Toni?'
I could feel my face colouring up. Shamefully, it was all true.
'We've a motto in this business Toni. 'Quid pro venditionis.' It's what I demand of my sales staff. Do you understand what that means? After all, it's what keeps us in business, and what I demand of you.' His eyes continued to look me up and down, pouring over my body like the guys back in the tube carriage.
'I do Mr P. It's what you've drummed into me the day I joined. 'Anything for a sale.''
I wasn't sure where this was going. I felt like I was being ridiculed. I so needed this job, what with my expensive life style. The flat in Battersea, the gym, expensive restaurants; they all deplete my bank balance.
'Do you have boundaries Toni?'
'In what respect Mr.P?'
'In respect of how to achieve a sale of course!'
'I follow our motto sir.'
I could feel myself sinking down a pit. I could be out on my ear in the not too distant future. I also noticed I'd started to call him Sir, not Mr P. It was like being back at school. He addressed me like a headmaster when he was normally more familiar.
'You do indeed. Literally I think. Would the term 'quid ad officium' mean anything to you?'
I hadn't a clue. I'd had a job to pass my English exams and been too busy larking around at school than to concentrate on foreign languages. I bowed my head and shook it guiltily.
'It means 'anything for a job!' Didn't they teach you Latin at school?'
Oh course they didn't, I went to secondary modern. I was lucky they taught basic Maths.
'No sir! Just French.'
'You enjoy your job don't you. I think you'd do anything to keep it.'
