Where new writing finds its voice

The Faceless Functionaries of Madame X

Michael Spring

Dressed for action, wielding whips
Three ladies in leather, glistening lips,
High heels and cleavage, mini-skirted,
Arrived in the Public, where no one flirted.
Pumping hormones, cellulite flexed,
The lads slurping beer in the bar were vexed.
Strippagrams. They had to be,
But it wasn’t my birthday and they came up to me.
Stroking my manhood, one purred, ‘Outside.’
‘Round here, we usually shake hands,’ I sighed.
‘Don’t you know who we are then?’ I shrugged, perplexed.
‘We’re the faceless functionaries of Madame X.’ 

‘We’re international rescue, we’ve had a call.
Tell me, pet, do you like oral at all?’
They were glossy, smooth, offering pneumatic bliss.
Fishnets, suspenders, flesh peeping out above oiled zips.
Their hands were everywhere, this wasn’t in the script.
One said, ‘How would it be if we – slowly – stripped?’
I said,  ‘You’re having me on. You’re from TV.’
‘No love,’ she said, ‘we’re rescuing thee.’
‘Hornby Double-O, pigeons, the garden?’
‘Wouldn’t you rather have a great big hard-on?’
‘It’s better than football, it is, this sex,’
Said the faceless functionary of Madame X.

Just then Derek emerged from the snug.
Belched and farted, looking smug.
Scratched his belly, picked his nose,
Saw these ladies, and then just froze,
Open-mouthed, as one girl licked her lips,
And sucked the nut off the top of a Walnut Whip.
She said, ‘The Merc’s ready and waiting. Come for a ride?
It’s cold out here, but nice and snug inside.
‘In twenty years’ time, you could be just like him.’
The black limo was waiting. They ushered me in.
I remember saying something about my kecks.
To the faceless functionaries of Madame X.

The sunlight pierced the morning like a surgeon’s knife.
I was smiling, alone and barely clinging to life.
I was broken, battered. I’d been mauled.
Rubbed sore, bruised, and in one place, bald.
Cast up on morning’s shore, dishevelled, wrecked.
Disfigured, smeared, twisted. They’d no respect.
There was a smell of Chanel mingled with burning.
Some champagne from a bottle overturning –
At least that’s what it seemed – had left a sticky stain.
On the mirror was scrawled, ‘Thanks for a great night, chuck, we’ll be round again.’
On my thigh, I discovered a tattoo, a member, erect.
The mark – of the faceless functionaries of Madame X.