Introductions

My ex-boyfriend once told me that I had a body built for sex. It wasn’t the most thin, or the most athletic. My breasts weren’t the biggest and I’m a tad below average height but, regardless of all these things, I have to admit he was right. I’m hourglass, golden hair, full lips, shapely legs and I can murmur words that will make any cock spring. Also I can lie, very well.

And as a result I do what I do now.

I study, work and play in London, England. I’m 19 and sell my body for money.

There, that wasn’t too difficult.

I don’t fit what people would think of as the ‘typical’ profile for a hooker. I’m well educated, have enough money to be comfortable without too much excess and come from a decent middle-class family. It’s just something I decided to try one day, charging the people I fucked instead of giving it away for free.

Okay, so that’s a lie, but it is the first and only one I’ve told you.

I prefer to use the term ‘hooker’ as opposed to the other options [call girl, prostitute, prozzy, whore, rent-a-cunt etc…] and I think this stems from a desire to keep it separate. Hooker sounds dirty, sounds bad and amoral. It’s a persona I can adopt through the use of a single word that allows me to separate those activities from the rest of my life.

Last night I caught a taxi back from a job. Nothing out of the ordinary; just your basic Show up Spread it Do it deal. I remember looking out of the window as we drove through the streets and seeing a woman leaning against a lamppost. She was smoking a cigarette, dressed in a long coat and thigh high boots. The orange light illuminated her in that beautiful glow that makes me adore the night streets so much. She was watching the traffic stop, start and go by with the detachment of someone who has been waiting for a very long time. I looked down at my own black fitted coat over short red dress and knee high leather boots and, for some inexplicable reason, had to fight the sudden urge to laugh.

I am London. I am a hooker.