A Conversation With Darwin of the Cloth Workers
originally posted August 14, 2006
"She is lovely," I said to the fellow, Darwin, as I walked up on him, catching him unaware. His head was at an odd angle atop his shoulders. This was not inexplicable. Samantha was bent at the waist to pick something up from the grass. Sometimes I think the girl has a lack of grace, but I know better. She has learned, like others on the coffle, that men do not always expect, or even want, a modicum of grace in a whore.
"Yes, well. Yes, she is," he stammered.
"In the Boarding House, back in Ar, men paid more for her than the others. Four copper tarsks per ahn," I told him.
"So much?" he asked.
"She is blonde," I explained. Of course, this did not truly explain why I charged more for her than the others. Blonde hair, while uncommon in Ar, is not all that rare. It is not as exotic, for example, as Portia's swarthy skin or Emily's status as a Dancer. There is a system of mercantile mathematics at play here, you see. One charges more, purportedly for one reason or another, and customers make the assumption that the girl is worth more. That is not to say that Samantha is not worth every tarsk bit of four copper coins or more. It is only to say that men would likely pay that much or more for any of her chain sisters for an ahn of use. Each has something special. Something exotic. Something unique to offer. Despite his stammering and protestations, I do not think this has escaped Darwin's attention.
"Oh, yes. Of course. A blonde. They are not common in Ar then?" He asked.
"There are some numbers. A girl called Keri, in particular, dances at The Braided Whip Tavern in the Teiban District. She is blonde. A filthy little tramp, freckled across the bridge of her nose. She wears khol about the eyes, a collar about her throat and, most nights, little else save the brand," I told him. "To be sure, however, there are far more brunettes in Ar than blondes. Sables. Chocolates. Any number of shades."
"You frequent 'The Braided Whip' often?" he asked.
"No, not often. Not infrequently either, however," I informed him.
"I see," he answered.
Samantha had hurried off after retrieving the item from the grass. It was a bit of white ribbon that used to be the hem of her previous silk. She uses it to tie off the tail of a braid most days. It must have come loose. Darwin takes to staring at her often. I don't think she likes the notion at all. She saw him, you see, at his lowest point. In chains. Beaten and broken. Women do not respond to such fellows no matter how many of them protest that they would like an accomodating fellow who will do as he is told. When it comes right down to it, they want nothing of the sort. They want to understand a man's assertiveness. They want to bask in his confidence. They want to be bound, either by his will or by actual bonds of leather or steel. To be sure, they enjoy the idea of a fellow calling after them, pursuing them, showing them romantic affections. In time, however, such things ring hollow. It is an empty victory for a woman to have a man at her beckon call. She has won, yes, but what has she won? If he is no longer a man, how can she relate to him as a woman?
"If you would like to see her dance, I will take you to The Braided Whip when we return to Ar," I said.
"What about her?" he asked.
"Her?" I replied.
"Samantha. Does she dance?" he asked.
"All women dance, Darwin," I said to him. "It is instinctual. It is a natural by-product of their submissive nature. To be sure, not all women are naturally, initially anyway, submissive to all men. Such women do not discover that they are able to dance until they are introduced to the man that they cannot help but be submissive before. It is not long after that that they discover what they really are."
"What they really are?" he asked.
"Women," I said. "True women."
"Oh," he said, mulling the thought over.
"To answer your question directly," I said, "Samantha does what she is told. She dances."
"I see," he said.
"They all dance," I told him. "From the first girl to the bottom whore."
"Of course," he answered. I wondered if he was truly understanding what I was saying. I think he might have understood it. If not in its entirety, at least he was starting to comprehend the notion.
"You are of the Cloth Workers. It is a fine Caste," I said.
"I am no longer of the Cloth Workers," he said, holding his head down.
"Lift your head, man," I told him. "You are of the Cloth Workers. Has there been any who would challenge your right to wear the colors of your Caste?"
"My behavior these past months has been shameful," he told me.
"You are a man. You will stumble now and again," I told him. "The importance of stumbling does not lay in the fall, but how one picks oneself up."
"I have fallen so far," he said, heavily.
"Indeed," I agreed. "Yet, not knowing the sword, you stood ready against the Tarnsmen of Treve, bandit kings of the eastern hemisphere. Some say of all Gor."
"I could scarcely grip the hilt," he admitted.
"You are of the Cloth Workers. You cannot be blamed for having a poor knowledge of the handling of weapons," I told him.
"That is true," he said. "But I was scared."
"You would have been a damned fool not to have been scared," I said. "We were not attacked by Schendian pygmies astride saddled frevets, man."
He laughed. I, too, laughed, for the imagery was ridiculous. After a time, when we had dismissed ridiculous images from our heads, I spoke again.
"You are of the Cloth Workers," I told him.
"I am of the Cloth Workers," he said.
"Yes, well. Yes, she is," he stammered.
"In the Boarding House, back in Ar, men paid more for her than the others. Four copper tarsks per ahn," I told him.
"So much?" he asked.
"She is blonde," I explained. Of course, this did not truly explain why I charged more for her than the others. Blonde hair, while uncommon in Ar, is not all that rare. It is not as exotic, for example, as Portia's swarthy skin or Emily's status as a Dancer. There is a system of mercantile mathematics at play here, you see. One charges more, purportedly for one reason or another, and customers make the assumption that the girl is worth more. That is not to say that Samantha is not worth every tarsk bit of four copper coins or more. It is only to say that men would likely pay that much or more for any of her chain sisters for an ahn of use. Each has something special. Something exotic. Something unique to offer. Despite his stammering and protestations, I do not think this has escaped Darwin's attention.
"Oh, yes. Of course. A blonde. They are not common in Ar then?" He asked.
"There are some numbers. A girl called Keri, in particular, dances at The Braided Whip Tavern in the Teiban District. She is blonde. A filthy little tramp, freckled across the bridge of her nose. She wears khol about the eyes, a collar about her throat and, most nights, little else save the brand," I told him. "To be sure, however, there are far more brunettes in Ar than blondes. Sables. Chocolates. Any number of shades."
"You frequent 'The Braided Whip' often?" he asked.
"No, not often. Not infrequently either, however," I informed him.
"I see," he answered.
Samantha had hurried off after retrieving the item from the grass. It was a bit of white ribbon that used to be the hem of her previous silk. She uses it to tie off the tail of a braid most days. It must have come loose. Darwin takes to staring at her often. I don't think she likes the notion at all. She saw him, you see, at his lowest point. In chains. Beaten and broken. Women do not respond to such fellows no matter how many of them protest that they would like an accomodating fellow who will do as he is told. When it comes right down to it, they want nothing of the sort. They want to understand a man's assertiveness. They want to bask in his confidence. They want to be bound, either by his will or by actual bonds of leather or steel. To be sure, they enjoy the idea of a fellow calling after them, pursuing them, showing them romantic affections. In time, however, such things ring hollow. It is an empty victory for a woman to have a man at her beckon call. She has won, yes, but what has she won? If he is no longer a man, how can she relate to him as a woman?
"If you would like to see her dance, I will take you to The Braided Whip when we return to Ar," I said.
"What about her?" he asked.
"Her?" I replied.
"Samantha. Does she dance?" he asked.
"All women dance, Darwin," I said to him. "It is instinctual. It is a natural by-product of their submissive nature. To be sure, not all women are naturally, initially anyway, submissive to all men. Such women do not discover that they are able to dance until they are introduced to the man that they cannot help but be submissive before. It is not long after that that they discover what they really are."
"What they really are?" he asked.
"Women," I said. "True women."
"Oh," he said, mulling the thought over.
"To answer your question directly," I said, "Samantha does what she is told. She dances."
"I see," he said.
"They all dance," I told him. "From the first girl to the bottom whore."
"Of course," he answered. I wondered if he was truly understanding what I was saying. I think he might have understood it. If not in its entirety, at least he was starting to comprehend the notion.
"You are of the Cloth Workers. It is a fine Caste," I said.
"I am no longer of the Cloth Workers," he said, holding his head down.
"Lift your head, man," I told him. "You are of the Cloth Workers. Has there been any who would challenge your right to wear the colors of your Caste?"
"My behavior these past months has been shameful," he told me.
"You are a man. You will stumble now and again," I told him. "The importance of stumbling does not lay in the fall, but how one picks oneself up."
"I have fallen so far," he said, heavily.
"Indeed," I agreed. "Yet, not knowing the sword, you stood ready against the Tarnsmen of Treve, bandit kings of the eastern hemisphere. Some say of all Gor."
"I could scarcely grip the hilt," he admitted.
"You are of the Cloth Workers. You cannot be blamed for having a poor knowledge of the handling of weapons," I told him.
"That is true," he said. "But I was scared."
"You would have been a damned fool not to have been scared," I said. "We were not attacked by Schendian pygmies astride saddled frevets, man."
He laughed. I, too, laughed, for the imagery was ridiculous. After a time, when we had dismissed ridiculous images from our heads, I spoke again.
"You are of the Cloth Workers," I told him.
"I am of the Cloth Workers," he said.
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