Stiletto (English)

By Karin Eloff

In reaction to popular demand, the topselling Stiletto is now available in English too. Karin Eloff was a good Afrikaans girl  from a conservative religious background with an honours degree in psychology. Stiletto is the true story of how this model schoolgirl became Zoë - initially a stripper, then a dancer and masseuse in an escort agency and later editor of a pornographic magazine. Her path was littered with middle-aged men, Afrikaans girls with exotic stage names, risky as well as downright dangerous sexual behaviour, and drugs.  In Stiletto she reveals how she got there, what she learned from the experience, and how she survived it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tafelberg
• Release date: Apr 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9780624050810

Karin Eloff

Karin Eloff is die Doppermeisie wat ’n ontkleedanser en sekswerker geword het – en redakteur was van Loslyf – voordat haar swangerskap haar lewe verander het. Toe het sy Stiletto begin skryf, die boek oor haar jare in die volwassevermaakbedryf, en die wêreld stormenderhand verower daarmee. Deesdae woon sy in Johannesburg saam met Wanya, haar negejarige dogter wat haar behoorlik met vrae peper, en doen teksversorging by ’n Sondagkoerant. En in haar haar vrye tyd bespeel sy die tjello – nadat sy graad 7 geslaag het, is sy hard aan die oefen vir graad 8.

Book preview

Stiletto

Karin Eloff

For Wanya

You are my belief, hope and love.

K.E.

Foreplay

"In Afrikaans the female labia are called skaamlippe – ‘ lips of shame’. Why do people call them ‘lips of shame’? I’m not ashamed of them – there’s nothing to be ashamed about," is Karin’s opening salvo.

Carel has never thought about the body part in question in quite this way. Do you expect an answer? he replies wilfully.

Not really, she sighs.

Carel is very aware that Karin is studying his expressions and body language carefully. Of course she is. This is a necessary, probing conversation; to tell the truth, both of them are still weighing each other up – deciding if they can work together. If they want to. Penning the real story of the personal journey of a woman who worked in the underbelly of the sex industry demands mutual trust and honesty as well as an objective, cold Third Eye. Especially if parts of that tale read like a thriller.

Your question about ‘shame lips’: It’s probably inheritance, Carel says. Our ancestors were a seriously pious, God-fearing bunch – and that spilled over into their way of talking and thinking.

They probably fucked through a hole in the sheet, she remarks.

Carel laughs. Were you always this outspoken?

I call a spade a spade, she says. "In the twilight zone of strip clubs and brothels, men are very different; well-considered language doesn’t exist – as you can imagine. And I’m talking about Afrikaner men. Most of my clients were Afrikaans – regular, everyday boerseuns. One wonders what their mothers and fathers would have said. Or their wives …"

Carel looks at Karin. She has an open face and fine features. Her hair hangs in dark, crimson strands. She smiles easily and has an infectious laugh; she speaks in a lovely, chatty tone. Her bottle-green eyes are large and full of life. She gesticulates wildly with her hands when she speaks.

What’s your natural hair colour? he asks.

Blonde. But I never wanted to be a platinum blonde.

A blonde like those in the jokes is one thing she certainly isn’t, Carel thinks. He wonders how and why Karin ended up in the sex industry. Stripping and prostitution hardly require the intelligence or skills of an honours degree in psychology. The industry implies a terrifying shadow existence filled with drug abuse and violence; it is certainly not on the general list of recommended career choices. What was a nice, well-educated Afrikaans girl looking for there? And what path was she on when she became Zoë the stripper – and an erotic masseuse in the Stroke Palace, winner of the Miss Hustler title, editor of Loslyf, journalist and mother of a daughter?

Why are you looking at me like that? she asks.

I don’t mean anything by it, he reassures her. She has lovely manicured hands. Practical fingernails. And a blue-black tattoo on the back of her left hand.

He points at it. Does it mean anything? he asks.

She laughs. I had it done in Pietermaritzburg when I was stripping at a club there. The guy said it’s a Maori symbol of immortality. Whatever. For all I know it means my father is a plumber or something – but to me it’s still very cool.

Do you have any other tattoos?

She turns around in her chair. Several, she replies over her shoulder. Look.

What’s written on your back?

"Faith, Hope and Love," she says and moves so he can see a section of Faith. "Hope is below it and Love over my kidneys. I’ll show you sometime if you want."

Never mind, I believe you, he chuckles.

Faith, Hope and Love – the words tattooed on her body are in a large gothic font, as in Gutenberg’s Bible.

Why did you have specifically those words tattooed on your back? What made you choose them? Carel asks.

My understanding of growing up. Everything that has brought me to where I am now, Karin answers. Faith, hope and love is my destiny – it’s my story.

Then I think it’s time that you told it. And start at the very beginning.

So, will you help me expose everything?

Yes, he says. Right down to the bone.

She stares out the window for a moment.

That’s fine, she says. So, what now – how do want to do this?

"Conversations. E-mail. Give me everything you have up to this point. You should speak as you speak; write as you write – I can’t do it for you. I wouldn’t want to. You must tell it in your own words.

She hesitates. Can I change people’s names? she asks, suddenly worried. "I’ll have to."

He thinks of all the gossip about famous actors, sportsmen, pop stars and businessmen who use the services of strippers, masseuses, lap dancers and whores.

Why do want to change their names? To protect the guilty? he asks.

She shrugs. Guilty or not guilty – who’s to say? I’m also guilty and not guilty. I believe in honesty and will be brutally honest about myself, but I grant some of the people involved their privacy …

As you wish. Names? One’s as good as another. I know sex is a difficult subject, and where you come from, the landscape is probably pretty bleak at times.

Yes, she concurs, "but you’d be surprised – you find unexpected compassion in bars, clubs and brothels. Sex can be beautiful. Even when you least expect it. People don’t want to talk openly about sex and don’t accept it as an integral part of their being. It is misinterpreted – and that’s what makes it dirty and ugly. It’s as if it’s a sickness. Why do people always complicate things?"

That’s a good question, Carel chuckles.

So, are you ready for the journey? she asks. It’s quite a roller-coaster ride …

1

WHAT’S A NICE GIRL LIKE YOU …?

1. Kiss me …

Kiss me, he murmurs and lifts my head with both hands from his lower body. He speaks English with an accent because he’s Spanish. He is a dancer who reminds me of a Bengal tiger. A handsome man with short-cropped, red-brown hair and deep, dark eyes. The details of his life are not important – only that his face shows the lines of someone who has lived life to the full and has taken the gravel road. Just like me.

His name is Abelardo.

It’s a strong, rhythmic, musical name. It means noble strength, he told me when I asked him about it.

And I am Karin, I introduced myself. It means pure and chaste.

It is dance and music that brought Abelardo and me together – a yearning for rediscovery and a search for self. We formed part of a group of people attending the annual Biodanza gathering: five days in Champagne Valley in the Drakensberg. Biodanza is described as follows:

Biodanza is a form of intervention intended to further health and well-being by encouraging self-expression and auto-regulation through music, dance and interaction. It originates from South America and was developed by Rolando Toro.

We danced in our shadows and our light – and finally I saw Abelardo and he me. He couldn’t keep his eyes off me.

Would you like to come swimming with me? he invited after the first session of the day.

Of course. He looked sexy and I felt hot from the dancing.

We ambled off, away from the rest, talking, laughing about nothing in particular.

It’s a privilege to be ourselves here, without alcohol, drugs – without any stimulation apart from what comes from within.

And here we are. Our wet bodies struggling to find warmth in the moonlight. Fortunately it’s high summer, and the difference between swimming-pool water and sweat is only a few minutes ...

Why am I telling you this story?

Because Abelardo is the first man to whom I truly gave my virginity freely.

Wait, allow me to explain. Here is the short version, for purposes of introduction: Fucking is easy. It’s a clattering racket and it means less than a cigarette butt when the gasping and sucking is over. I have done it to the point of boredom, with more men than there are days in the year. I learned to divorce my emotional self and my physical self. That night, for the first time, a man reached out to me without reserve. It was wonderful.

Kiss me, he said.

We made love. That was that. And when it was done it was done. It was a moment in time when two souls could connect.

The difference between making love and sex, I believe, is this: You can’t make love if you don’t love yourself, and you can’t love yourself if you are not yourself. How can you give yourself to someone if you can’t grasp the worth of what you are giving?

I don’t see my past as deep and dark. It’s still an important part of who I am now. Yes, I’ve made mistakes. Many. But I like myself. Here and now, the way I am. I learned that I don’t have to apologise for who I am. You have to be yourself to give meaning to your life. I believe that.

Abelardo and I floated on clouds of self-love and shared it with each other. His hands felt like those of someone who loves himself. I could kiss him like a woman who cares about herself, who doesn’t make excuses for her sexuality. My orgasms give birth to worlds within myself; it’s an integral part of my being, and I’m not going to apologise for it.

Virginity is about much more than mere flesh. I am thankful that I could lose my virginity all over again at the age of thirty-five. I even saw some proof: The next morning at sunrise, there was a bloodstain on the paving by the pool.

Virginity is my choice; it does not have to be a physical condition.

Yes, Abelardo: I gave you mine …

Perhaps I will bump into him somewhere again one day.

Who knows?

2. In the city of light, love and monsters in church towers

Virginity will always be an issue for women.

Start just before your first sexual encounter, Carel said. But I want to work in a bit of objectivity first. If you want to write a story about yourself, you have to develop the ability to leave yourself every now and then and view yourself from above, as if you were someone else.

They call it the third person.

I learned that from the famous British writer D.H. Lawrence in his much-lauded novel Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Both the main character and her lover take turns being the third person.

In terms of virginity: when do you know for sure you’ve lost yours?

Was it when, as a girl, one Karin Eloff played catch with her cousins on her grandparents’ lawn one afternoon and fell so hard that there was blood in her panties? Even her sister would remember the blood-in-the-panties afternoon for the rest of her life. Or was it in grade one when she stumbled on the beam during gymnastics practice and landed on it hard between her legs. There was also blood in her panties then.

Then there was the time when she started to menstruate. Belatedly in grade nine. The blood ran down the drain in the shower in thick, snotty clumps. Some pieces stuck to the tiles on the shower floor. She looked at it and felt very pleased that she was a woman now. And wondered if it meant she was no longer a virgin.

Shortly afterwards, in grade ten, she went to Germany on a school exchange programme and had the most phenomenal orgasm of her life. She stayed with a family who had an eighteen-year-old son, and he had super-sexy, super-horny teenage friends …

Somehow it happened that in a communal state of drunkenness, one of them landed on top of her. She, flat on her back with a pair of jeans on, her legs slightly parted and her pubic bone shamelessly thrust up and forward; he, also fully clothed, with his huge erection rubbing against her clitoris in slow, instinctive movements.

All that rubbing had to lead somewhere.

The fabric of his jeans, and hers, rubbing against her clitoris – and his firm, friendly nudging – had her moistness seeping through everything into his receptive pores. Before she