	The Tally

Amy loved her job, but she had no illusions about what her job really was. After all, 
you couldn't expect success if you pretended it was anything else. She was a sex 
performer, and she was paid to have sex on stage several times a night whenever it 
was her shift. And sex, whether on stage, for film or in private, was still sex. It meant 
disrobing, it meant groping and above all it meant penetration. That was what the 
punters expected and what they were paying for. The art of it was in making the sex as 
watchable as possible. And this meant that it had to be entertaining, fully visible and 
as shocking as possible.

There was no sexual act she could think of that she wouldn't do, as long as it 
left no marks which might appear in later performances in her shift. She would have 
sex with one man, two men, several men. Equally as much, she would have sex with 
an equal number of women. Her arse and cunt would take any object that would fit: 
animate or inanimate, fist, prick or tongue. Only the laws of the land prevented her 
from extending her range to include animals or children. The stage was her bed and 
her boudoir, and she would take on all comers, both from the paying audience and 
from her cast of co-stars.

She would stretch herself out naked on the stage, or dressed in latex or leather, 
her long golden brown hair flopping onto the stage, her freckled face and shoulders 
lashed with semen, while behind her a cock pounded into her arse and underneath the 
strapped-on dildo attached to one of her female colleagues pushed more awkwardly 
into her cunt. Her smiling, grimacing face, crumpled in ecstasy and excitement faced 
the audience, a face whose oriental eyes and features inherited from her Chinese 
mother belied the Celtic freckles and fair hair inherited from her Scottish father. Her 
body was all her own, spared the need for surgical enhancement by the full round 
apple contours of her breasts and the slim frame kept trim and taut in the gym. And 
her enthusiasm and ecstasy was all her own as well. The very thought of what she was 
doing, in front of so many panting, gasping punters, gave that extra erotic impetus 
which made her sexual acts the most popular and eagerly awaited in the club.

And her sex life was as integral to her character as her sparkling blue-grey 
eyes, and her small nose. She was surely obsessed. Every day she would have sex with 
one, two or more people, and she didn't really count those on stage. That, after all, 
was her job. It was not necessarily at a time of her choosing and not necessarily with 
anyone of her choosing. Not that she was that choosy. Well, she might be insofar as 
any second or third time might be, but for first-time fucks, it was anyone and 
everyone. And she kept a diary, which she'd started from when she was oh! so young. 
And in this diary, she recorded every fuck, every sexual act, but not those on stage, 
and awarded each one a coded description and a mark out of ten.

She'd always done this. Some people's diaries are a record of their innermost 
thoughts. An account of their feelings, their ambitions, their worries and their 
happiness. Others are a more objective account of events, perhaps noting people and 
places. Amy didn't even bother with names. Even initials were suspect. After all, she 
couldn't expect to know the name of everyone she'd had sex with. Her diary entries 
were brief and to the point. She would mention gender, number and any especially 
pertinent feature of the occasion. And then a mark out of ten. Occasionally, she might 
add a comment, like 'Took too long', 'Tiny prick' or 'Smelly'. And that was it. To 
anyone reading her diary, it might as well be a shopping list. 

She had her diary in front of her, cross-legged on her futon, while a naked 
woman lay on her front beside her. Amy was smoking  a cigarette, while her fibre-tip 
pen hovered over the blank paper. It was a fresh page, and she always kept a diary on 
unlined, unheaded pages, so she could get several days' entries on one page. In the 
bathroom, she could see a hairy, bare arse where a man was washing semen off his 
groin. She smiled, and entered the date in numbers, with a vertical slash between the 
day, month and year columns. And then in her neat, tiny handwriting: "1M 1F 4/10". 
Then she paused for thought before adding "Sloppy".

She turned back to the previous page which was dense with similar entries, 
and took a note of the numbers at the side, which showed her totals. It was proudly in 
four digits now. And she was even prouder of the fact that the total for 'F' was fast 
approaching that for 'M'. So proud that she mouthed it to herself: "One Thousand 
Seven Hundred and Forty Three." At this rate, the 'F's would overtake the 'M's. And 
before she'd reached the two thousand. And adding the 'F's to the 'M's. Why! That 
was already over three thousand. That meant that for the ten years she'd been sexually 
active, that had been on average, just under one a day. Of course, she was making up 
for it now. One a day! God! That would be a piss poor day. Normally she'd have three 
or four times that number. She grinned to herself. She loved statistics. She didn't 
know why she did, but somehow all these numbers added meaning and shape to her 
life. 

Often when she was alone, she'd take out her diary and pore over the days, 
looking at the progression on the total, smile at those days which had been particularly 
eventful where her tally had increased by the most, and perhaps frown at the relatively 
low scores that might be associated with it. She had very high standards. A seven was 
pretty good. And not given lightly. An eight was rare. A nine rarer still. And a ten. 
Well! Could that even exist?

Often she wondered about what would have happened if she'd included her 
on-stage sex in her total. What would that have done? And would that be cheating? 
Would that make her an entry into the Guinness Book of Records? But they didn't 
really have that kind of thing in there. Or did they? She wasn't sure. But she wasn't 
sure she'd want her photograph or name in something like that. It was bad enough 
pretending to her Mum that all the money she was earning and the lovely down-town 
flat she'd bought cash down had somehow come as a result of exercising the skills 
she'd gained at secretarial college. And her divorced father. It was bad enough that he 
knew where she lived and still sent her cards at Christmas and on her Birthday. What 
would happen if he knew more about what his darling daughter did for a living, for 
whom he'd paid her mother an allowance for so many years? 

Getting fresh sexual partners wasn't as easy as all that. After all, Amy had 
soon exhausted all those at the night club. And not just the other performers, whether 
male or female. There was the janitor, the ticket clerks, the manager and that woman 
who did the fancy backdrops. There were the people in the audience for sure, but the 
management weren't too keen on their paying customers getting too familiar with the 
goods. They might not want to continue paying for the pleasure of just seeing them. 

Amy was a regular visitor at a number of cafes, bars and clubs where she could 
be sure of finding someone, male or female, or both, just the one, or several at the 
same time, with whom she could increment her tally of fresh conquests, whether at 
their place (preferred) or at hers (if necessary) or perhaps some other place (as long as 
she didn't have to pay for it!).

Of course she had to be careful. Especially with the men. You heard such 
stories! She kept a handbag full of condoms. All different shapes and sizes and 
flavours. Ribbed and nobbled and smooth. And sometimes, especially when there 
were three or more men, you just couldn't risk taking them back or letting them take 
you back. Then the back of the car, or a dark alley-way, or whatever. It just had to do. 
Not so good for the actual sex, but more than compensated by the extra notches it 
scored. Couples were fine. Two couples a little more risky, but not by too much. But 
women. No problem at all! If only more of them were willing!

Naturally, the more indiscriminate you were then the worse the sex. The 
number of ones and twos she'd had to award. And the zeros! When it was sex in only 
the most technical sense. But it still counted. That was the main thing. It might be 
crap, but it was clothes off, genitals in place, and a bit of sweat. But it counted.

Inevitably, the best sex came from her colleagues. They were after all 
professionals. They knew what to do and they knew how to give pleasure. And they 
were the lucky ones who got the chance to do it again, even though it didn't count 
against the total. But then you had to have some pleasure in your life. And she 
recorded them, and awarded them the sevens or even eights that made it all worth 
while.

So whenever a new girl or a new man started working at the club, Amy took 
especial interest in them, even though she'd invariably had sex with them on stage 
before they were able to get entered properly as a proper fuck back her own flat or 
even at theirs. Those were the good ones. That's when she was able to truly enjoy 
herself, the sweat streaming down the hard, muscular contours of her limbs, her mouth 
musky and sour from the taste of sexual fluids, her cunt stretched and sore from their 
thrusting, groping and stroking.

And so it was that Amy was particularly looking forward to a night of real 
passion when Lucinda started working at the club. And Lucinda was her real name as 
well. Not one of those made-up names like some of the girls adopted. And even some 
of the men. Not Savannah, Asia, Chesty or Satin. And such a pretty girl as well. She 
salivated at just the thought of her, as Lucinda nervously entered the changing room in 
her unusually drab clothes. A blouse, a skirt and woollen tights. Her shoes were flat 
and dull, and her dark brown shoulder-length hair was actually tied back with a dull 
green hair band. Fuck! Do people really dress like that. Amy usually wore clothes 
only just on the right side of decency, made from latex or satin or silk, to encourage 
lustful thoughts and proclaim her intentions. Amy couldn't wait until this girl could 
strip off to be sure that her body matched the beauty of her well-scrubbed face, free of 
mascara, eye-liner or lipstick. You wouldn't have imagined her as a sex performer.

However, Bob, the stage manager, assured the girls that this indeed was what 
Lucinda was. She'd previously been working as the Garotta A-Go-Go on the east 
side of town, but she'd fallen out with the management who kept on wanting her to do 
things she hadn't wanted to do. But, as he reminded them, their loss was a gain for the 
Hardcore Heaven. 

"And what won't she do?" wondered Dirk Dongle, whose prick had a special 
place in Amy's arse, as he never tired of reminding her.

"Well, men, basically," Bob told them. "She won't do men at all. So, that's 
you out, Dirk. Otherwise, she'll do everything. And I know. I've seen her. She's 
fucking good. She'll do anal and double penetration and fisting and even pissing. I've 
heard she'd even done on-stage shitting, but as you know we don't do that until it's 
really late. And she gets the crowd going. She's a fucking draw. We expect to get a lot 
of the Garotta's crowd down here. And that can't be bad!"

"She don't look much," sniffed Mandy, a tall India girl with a weird tattoo on 
her arse. 

"She wears proper gear on stage," Bob assured them. "She's not like that 
naturist who wouldn't even wear heels on stage."

Amy liked the sound of this girl. And as top-ranking girl she knew that she'd 
be the one to get first taste of her. And then back to her place afterwards, she 
reckoned, maybe just the two of them, without inviting back one of the other girls, 
even Ebony, the Jamaican girl who she normally always had time for, even if extra 
sex with her didn't officially count. And if she was that good, well, maybe she'd be an 
eight. Or even a nine! But that would be too much of a good thing.

And so it was to be. But not before Amy's appetite had been whetted with a bit 
of double penetration from Dirk and Handy Andy, underneath the strobes, in front of 
the early evening audience. Amy blew kisses at some of the regulars and some new 
ones she'd never seen before, while Dirk's prick thrust in and out of her arse, and she 
lowered and raised her crotch on Andy's ever-reliable ten-inch prick. It was a good 
night. There was a good atmosphere. She grinned avariciously at the pile of notes that 
were scattered on the stage and were being added to as the punters tossed more 
towards her. She'd get her normal 50%, while the two men would have to split the 
other half between them. A good night's haul, and the night was still oh! so very 
young.

Back in the dressing room, she watched as Lucinda exchanged her drab clothes 
for stocking, heels and a tight latex skirt which just about hid the splendid melons of 
her breast and obscured only the tiniest of thongs. She stood behind Lucinda, and 
placed her hands on the girl's bare shoulders, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror 
with its newly applied bright red lipstick. "It's going to be so good, isn't it?" she 
gushed enthusiastically.

Without comment, Lucinda raised her hands to her shoulders and firmly 
removed Amy's hands, which rather startled her. She smiled sadly. "I'm sure it will 
be." Then she turned her head round and looked into Amy's face. "You will be gentle 
with me, won't you? At least at first."

Amy was too put back by Lucinda's rejection of her very innocent advances to 
do anything but nod. "Yes, of course," she replied, as an uncharacteristic warmth 
spread over her cheeks. How dare Lucinda! Was she going to be as much a cold fish 
on stage?

However, such fears were misplaced, when the lights went up on the two girls 
as they came on stage to the excited whoops of the audience. As soon as they were in 
action, Lucinda was as warm and intimate as a girl could be. An expert improviser, 
sensing Amy's most sensual spots, and neither hurried nor too slow. Just right, in fact. 
The two stripped each other on stage. The stockings were pulled down, the dress was 
hauled up, hands groped over breast, back and even the precious shoulders. Their 
tongues waggled at a distance, and then with warmth and passion, their mouths 
interlocked while their hands felt around each other's spine and bottom. And soon the 
fingers, tongues and teeth were on each other's vagina and anus. Amy was suitably 
impressed. Although, unlike her, Lucinda clearly never shaved her pubic hairs or even 
trimmed them, they were perfectly shaped and not too long. And in amongst the hairs 
were the beautiful folds of a perfect vagina, which kept its glory inside rather than 
dropping it out like so many of the other girls. Especially Corrie's. That girl couldn't 
hold anything in, let alone her cunt. And that lovely puckered anus. And the flavour of 
it. Bittersweet to the taste and rich in odour. Just as she preferred. 

But true to her word, Amy probed only with her fingers, and left it up to 
Lucinda to do the penetration, which she did efficiently and expertly with the clear 
purple dildo that was provided for the job. And Amy didn't know where it came from, 
but even with the audience whooping at her, all she was really conscious of was 
Lucinda and her fingers and the way it made her vagina ache from pleasure. More so 
than Handy Andy or even Georgy Porgy had ever been able to do with the real thing.

As they left, the stage, Amy quickly kissed Lucinda full on the lips. "That was 
fucking great!" She said. "You're a real fucking professional."

Lucinda carefully wiped her lips with the back of her hand and made no 
comment.

Amy wasn't that easily put off. "So, after we've finished, are you coming back 
with me? To my place. I've got a great flat, you know. And a really big comfortable 
bed. And then we can carry on where we've just left off."

Lucinda frowned. "Are you asking me back to your flat to have sex with you?" 
she asked flatly.

Amy smiled broadly. "Of course. It'd be such good fun!"

Lucinda carefully sat down on her chair by the mirror, still with a frown on her 
face. She looked up at Amy. "I'm very flattered, er, Amy," she said politely. "And, no 
offence. You are a very attractive girl. And I'm sure your feelings are genuine. But, 
er, Amy. I'm afraid, it's out of the question."

And then Lucinda turned her head to face her reflection, ignoring Amy while 
she tidied up the lipstick on her mouth.

Amy wasn't that easily put off. "You can't be meaning that! I mean, you were 
pretty much game on the stage. Why can't we do the same thing more intimately and 
more privately? I know you'd enjoy it."

"Amy." Said Lucinda firmly and not facing Amy at all. "What I do on stage 
and do for a living is one thing. And what I do when I'm not on stage and not doing it 
for a living is another. Please accept that, and I'm sure we'll get on  fine."

For the second time that evening, and for only the second time she could ever 
recall in her entire memory, Amy reddened from the humiliation of rejection. She 
attempted to say something, but her tongue, despite still tasting of Lucinda's vulva, 
was somehow tied and she lost all ability for coherent response. Without a word, she 
wandered off to her own chair by the mirror and studied her own freckled face, damp 
strands of hair plastered to the forehead, with its oriental eyes and full red lips, and 
tried to reassure herself that in some way that she'd never before suspected she was 
not after all unattractive. 

How could it be that anyone, male or female, would not succumb to her 
beauty? Especially a woman who only moments ago was clearly enjoying her body, 
and whose stated preference was indeed for women and not for men at all. What 
strange thing was this? And had she done anything to deserve this rebuff?

Amy wasn't a girl who gave up easily, and she still had two more appearances 
with Lucinda that evening to look forward to; but in both cases, it was the same. On 
stage, Lucinda was passionate, sensual and sexy. In no way did she seem abashed or 
reluctant, expressing her joy unambiguously as Amy penetrated her with a dildo or 
licked her clitoris. Her passion didn't seem to be at all feigned, and she still managed 
to synchronise her sexual activity to the slow, loud beating of the music in the night 
club, somehow unfazed by the pressure of all the male eyes on her.

And then, off stage, she showed no interest in Amy at all, who endeavoured to 
repeat her entreaties that Lucinda should come back with her, but meeting only with a 
polite refusal. Amy was disappointed. She'd been so looking forward to her new 
conquest, and it just wasn't to be. And so, despite the lateness of the hour, when she 
finished work for the evening, she headed off to a night club she knew to pick 
someone up, anyone, it didn't matter.

The two young and skinny girls she picked up weren't that bad. In fact, she'd 
awarded them a six, despite the fact that there were so off their faces that they really 
made no objection to the indignities she put them through. Amy wasn't even sure the 
girls had ever had sex with each other before, let alone any other woman. But they 
gamely took dildos into their cunts and arses, and showed a fair bit of enthusiasm, 
even though they did fall asleep rather too promptly after they had climaxed. As Amy 
noted '2F' in her diary, and incremented her total of women conquests accordingly, 
she still felt empty and unsatisfied. Neither of them were as good or as beautiful or as 
passionate as Lucinda, who she remembered so fondly. Neither of them could be rated 
as the nine that Amy was convinced that sex with Lucinda would have scored. But she 
set aside her diary, locked it in a drawer with a little key, and nestled on her bed 
between the two girls, and sighed. Tomorrow was another day, and Amy was used to 
getting her way.

However, Lucinda was more of a challenge than even Amy could crack. 
However much she pleaded and begged and cajoled, Lucinda was steadily adamant 
that sex on stage was one thing, but off-stage was another. "I mean, don't you have 
any other girlfriends you can spend the night with?" Lucinda inquired ingenuously a 
few days later. 

Amy sighed resignedly. She'd already resorted to having a night with the 
pesky Candy on an evening when her disappointment at not bedding Lucinda had 
most distressed her. Not that Candy was that bad. She had a lovely smooth crotch and 
was always very energetic, but sex with her in no way improved her total and was not 
really what she was looking for. 

And at the same time, sex on stage was just as passionate and orgasmic as 
ever. Amy found herself particularly looking forward to these moments of ecstasy 
more than the sex she had in the evening in the comfort and luxury of her bed in her 
luxurious apartment with whoever it was that she'd picked up for the evening. But she 
found she was taking out her frustration in Lucinda's rejection in harder and more 
aggressive sex. She pissed on Lucinda one evening, even though it wasn't in the 
script. She forced her fist deep inside Lucinda's vagina until the girl squirmed. She 
nibbled and bit her clitoris and nipples while Lucinda gasped as much from pain, if 
not more so, than for pleasure. She pushed larger and larger dildos into Lucinda's 
orifices to the amazement and satisfaction of the audience who cheered loudly at the 
extent of the punishment that was being displayed.

Amy even tried to tempt Lucinda back with the promise of an evening out with 
no sex at all, but Lucinda wasn't having any of it. "Much as I like you, Amy," she 
said, wiping the mascara off her face," I just don't trust you. As soon as you can, 
you'll find an excuse to go back to your apartment, and then you'll slip off your 
clothes, lock the door and try seducing me. I'm afraid that's a temptation, I'd rather 
not have to face."

Amy blushed. That was precisely what she'd intended to do. She'd even 
rehearsed her lines.

"Please just accept that I don't want to have sex with you anywhere but on the 
stage," Lucinda continued severely. "My body and soul belongs elsewhere. Sex is not 
something for me that I intend to enjoy other than on the stage."

But Amy was obsessed. And she'd never been obsessed before. Not since she 
was a schoolgirl and had a crush on her Chemistry teacher, who when they'd finally 
got together turned out to be such a horrible disappointment. But she was sure that 
Lucinda wouldn't be a disappointment. And she found her thinking about the girl all 
the time, even when she was enjoying sex with other people. In fact, one day on stage, 
as Lucinda's tongue probed her vagina and her fingers her breasts, she found herself 
saying out loud: "I love you! I love you!" And then hoping no one had heard. Sex on 
stage was one thing. Love was quite definitely another.

But she was in love. She even got to love Lucinda's appalling taste in clothes. 
The very frumpishness and plainness of it was in itself a cause for celebration. She 
would look longingly at Lucinda, at her scrubbed face and tied-back hair, imagining 
the two of them on her mattress, while she confessed her love and divulged the truth 
of her diary-keeping. And then the two of them would entwine lengthwise on the bed, 
arms and legs interlocked, as she would confess all her secrets and her longings. And 
soon the sun would rise and shine on the two of them, lying in serene bliss, and Amy 
would never need to make love to anyone else. Well, not for a few days anyway. 

And her diary would read '1F. 10/10.Heavenly!'

And so it was, after an afternoon session, that Amy actually followed Lucinda 
out of the building, keeping her distance so that Lucinda wouldn't see her trailing her, 
although a girl like her, in her thigh-length boots and skin-tight dress was not going to 
be the sort to merge unnoticed in any crowd. And Lucinda led her on such a long trail 
uptown. Several stops on the subway, past several dismal blocks of decrepit 
apartments, around the back of a depressing paint factory and then to a large Catholic 
church which Amy could see Lucinda enter.

Amy very rarely went into churches. In fact, never at all as a rule. And a 
Roman Catholic one. Well! What would her Calvinist father have thought? But Amy 
hurried in and found herself alone. It was forbidding and to Amy not at all welcoming. 
All around were paintings and sculptures and carved cricifixes and row upon row of 
pews, but no sign of Lucinda. She had vanished altogether. Amy cursed herself. 
Clearly, Lucinda had seen Amy behind her and had taken the opportunity to slip into a 
church just to get away from her.

Amy left the church, lit a cigarette and sat on a bench in the church grounds 
reflecting on the futility of her passion and making plans for the rest of the day. 
Perhaps she'd go to a bar. Pick up a couple of men. Have a good fuck somewhere. She 
noticed rather a few people around her, mostly men, dressed in very poor quality 
clothes. In fact, some of them were distinctly ragged. Couldn't they afford anything 
better? But then she spotted a sign. 'Soup Kitchen' it read. What did that mean? Was 
it some kind of rock club or a strange kind of cafe.

But, no, it was actually a place for vagrants to gather to be fed soup and bread 
and whatever. Fuck! How sordid! Amy sat on the bench fascinated. Poverty was 
something she'd never really known, and she'd often been disgusted by the sight of 
beggars and the like on the subway. However, there was a bit of excitement amongst 
the vagrants who all gathered by a door at the side of the church. And then a rather 
elderly nun appeared carrying a large cauldron, which she placed on the ground. Like 
feeding animals at the zoo, thought Amy sourly, as a couple of other nuns emerged 
behind the first nun carrying cups and some clear plastic bags full of sandwiches.

The nuns weren't so bad looking. Quite thin, and from what Amy could see, 
probably quite attractive underneath their gowns. And then one of them looked up in 
her direction, and with a start Amy now understood. That sweet face. That strange 
slightly beatific smile. Lucinda was a nun. 

Amy glanced at a carved crucifix over the church sign, in the afternoon 
shadow of the church itself. Now she knew, and the sadness and waste of it hurt her. 
Now she knew to whom Lucinda's body and soul belonged.










