Hookers: Their Lives in Their Words Read online

  I do sometimes get the odd date where the client just talks endlessly about themselves and is never interested in me or how I feel. Just saying that makes me sound like a big girl but I do get sick of those types where I just sit there smiling and nodding away to their endless one-way conversation. I’ve also found that some clients only wanted to hire me as an act of empowerment. As soon as we meet they start telling me what they want and how they want me to behave in an authoritative voice. I usually stop things right there and put them straight that I won’t take that kind of shit off anyone. We usually laugh about it and I then change the subject and the night all goes well.

  I haven’t really had any strange requests. It’s usually night out, back for drinks and straight sex. One client did ask if she could phone her boyfriend while we were having sex in a hotel; she was talking to him while I was taking her from behind. She said to him, ‘Do you remember when I said I forgive you for fucking that slag you work with. Well, the noise you can hear is me getting fucked by my new boyfriend, so you’re dumped, prick!’ I couldn’t believe what she had done and just laughed my head off. Talk about getting your own back. Most just want normal sex, and someone to cuddle up to. Others like to take charge, like being on top and in control but most of the time it’s pretty much normal sex.

  One thing I’ve learned is that Viagra makes ugly women beautiful. Half an hour before bed I pop one and then I’m up for anything. If a woman uses escorts regular then you want to stand out from the crowd a little. The better the impression you make, the more chance you have of a second or third date, and the more regulars you have the more money’s banked each month. I don’t get gifts on the first date but some of the ladies I’ve met on a more regular basis do buy me stuff. One bought me a nice watch and another a lovely leather jacket. One date called for me to spend time shopping with a lady in London and she bought me some fantastic shirts and a nice suit. I think with some of my clients they like to imagine they are with a boyfriend and treat me as such.

  It would be tricky if one of them wanted to meet me as a regular boyfriend – after all, most of my clients are in the thirty-five to forty-five bracket, so there would be an age difference. There would also be a professional problem with courting a customer. When I’m with a client I act different to the way I am normally. In my day job as a bricklayer I’m loud, coarse and a bit of a knobhead if I must say the truth. When I’m with a client I act a little more refined, a little shy at times and more gentlemanly, the complete opposite to what I’m really like, a pretence if you like. I think that some of the businesswomen would get weary of the real me after a while. One woman I had as a regular more or less told me I could move in with her. She was a top barrister who was good-looking and unbelievably loaded. It’s all right meeting her for sex once every two months or so but if I lived with her she would see the real me: squeezing my blackheads out of my nose, farting, watching porn and leaving my dirty pants everywhere. I’d be out on my arse and have an injunction on me before I knew it. When I do settle down it will be with someone who likes me for who I am and not for my acting, if you know what I mean.

  I think a few clients are married but most are separated or have just gone through a divorce. One woman I would meet every few months has a husband who travels away with his job. She never wants to make love in their bed so we usually do it in the living room or kitchen. I remember once she was spread over her kitchen table, legs in the air, and I was banging her like mad. She tells me to open the fridge door, which I do, and inside there’s this huge vibrator which I gather she wants me to use on her. The thing was gigantic and very powerful, I swear to God when I used it on her, the kitchen table must have moved about five inches. I could have taken it to work and mixed my cement with the fucking thing.

  One client I was with got me so pissed I could hardly walk. That’s not like me in general but we were laughing and joking in the restaurant and I lost track of how many drinks I’d drunk. Back at her place we danced to slow music and she kept filling up my glass. We got to bed and the sex didn’t last very long but she seemed as tired as I was by then so we both fell asleep at the same time. During the night she must have tried to wake me and I have the vague memory of her putting my dick in her mouth while I lay there, you know, when you’re sometimes not awake but not quite asleep, sort of in-between two worlds. Well, for some stupid reason I knew what was going on but I was dreaming about one of my dogs jumping up on me. In my sleep I murmured, ‘Not now Bob, I’m busy, leave me alone.’ In the morning she had a right face on her and I had a terrible job convincing her I wasn’t gay. Funny thing is she never asked for a second date so maybe I didn’t convince her enough.

  About two years ago I had date with a client who was bloody mad, she had a good sense of humour and a wicked body. She paid for me to spend the night and we had sex for what seemed like ages. Nothing was taboo, she’d do anything. Well in the heat of the moment, while doing it doggy fashion, I thought what the hell and started to bugger her for pure devilment. She waited until I was just getting ready to come and said, ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’

  ‘What is it?’ I cried out.

  ‘Before I had the operation I used to be a man!’ she revealed.

  I jumped off the bed and looked at her and she was laughing her fucking head off. ‘I’m only joking you daft twat,’ she screamed amidst fits of laughter. That woman frightened the life out of me, I thought for a moment she had turned me gay.

  Another mad fucker I went with used to own a chain of clothes shops and paid me good money. Her mother had recently moved in with her as she very frail and full of arthritis. The old woman had a very foul mouth but was funny in her own way, I guess. The client told her mother that I was the decorator and ushered me upstairs to ‘decorate’ the bedroom. We were safe upstairs as the mother couldn’t get up there and had her own room next to the kitchen. As we were about to have sex the mother shouts up and asks if I would I like a cup of tea. Before I can answer the client puts my knob in her mouth and her head is going up and down like crazy. I shout down to the old woman politely, ‘No thanks, I’m OK.’

  The old woman shouts up, ‘What about some tea and toast, it’s no trouble.’

  I try to answer but I’m about to come and the client has got her hands grasped tightly around my arse and my knob in her mouth.

  ‘Hello, can you hear me,’ shouts the old crow.

  ‘No … no … tha …’ and with that I explode into my client’s mouth and scream out in passion.

  The old bat shouts upstairs, ‘Right, so you’re fucking the decorator now are you? Who’s it going to be next, the fucking milkman?’ Both the client and I are on the floor pissing ourselves by now.

  There is one client I never want to meet again. We went out for the night, watched a film and back to her house for food and possibly sex. We had a few glasses of wine and shortly after we were having hardcore porn action on her living room floor. The Viagra was doing its job and I was giving the client her money’s worth. A while later we fell asleep in each other’s arms on a rug by her fire. Next thing the client is shouting for me to get up. I open my eyes and the fucker is pointing this dirty great bread knife at me. ‘Where’s my fucking purse?’ she screams at me. I jump to my feet and she is shouting every kind of obscenity you can think of at me. I tell her I don’t have it and she threatens to cut off my dick if she doesn’t have her purse back. She’s swinging it around close to my face and my dick and shouting at me. I look around the room and her coat is on the floor with her purse lying on top of it. ‘Look there it is, just where you left it when we came in,’ I told her. Client then picks up the purse, checks through it and then accuses me of hiding it. That’s about when it dawns on me that the client is a mental case and in about three seconds I was dressed and out the door. I thought the nutter was going to cut my balls off.

  At first I just did this to help with the mortgage but now I put money away for my retirement each month. On a bad week I make about £250,
on a good week about £900. Hopefully it’s just for the next few years and I don’t rule out settling down and getting married. If the subject of me ever being an escort comes up then I may just explain (lie) that I never had sex with any of the ladies I met.

  I think that any man wanting to become an escort would have to be confident to even contemplate it. I guess my best advice would be to relax, just have fun, don’t try too hard and let the woman make the first real move. It’s all right to try to kiss her but don’t just barge in and grab hold of her tits. Remember there are women who use an escort purely for the company and a good night out, it’s not all about sex – but that’s usually on the menu if the client requires it.

  Chapter 12

  Pam

  Age: 33

  Bolton

  AS A CHILD I lived on a small farm with my younger sister, my two older brothers and my mother and father. The farm had everything we needed and was fantastic for us kids. We had horses, cows, ducks, chickens and pigs and an abundance of eggs, meat and fresh vegetables. We never went hungry. Every year gypsies would come and work on ours and the surrounding farms for a few months. I have great memories of playing hide and seek and various other games with their children. They were so full of life and if they weren’t working they were playing or singing around a camp fire.

  This one day I came home from school and saw an ambulance and a police car outside the house. I don’t know why but I knew straight away someone was dead. I was only twelve but had the feeling that it was either my mother or my father. I was too scared to open the front door for fear of what awaited me. A neighbour came out of the house crying and left the door open. I walked in and there were various people in the house, relatives, neighbours, friends, ambulance men and a police officer. Suddenly my mother held me and I knew my father was the one who had died.

  My mother took me and my two brothers, who had just turned up, into the back room. She told us how my father had died and all the time she was crying her eyes out. He had gone out in the morning on his tractor to do some work on one of the fields. He always came home at half twelve for his dinner, but on this occasion he was very late so my mother went to look for him. My dad was never late for his food, you could set your watch by him. She walked across the fields and between a small field and a lane she found my father’s tractor overturned and my dad crushed to death.

  My younger sister was at a neighbour’s house and we went to stay there for a few days as well. Mum needed time to sort out the funeral and dad’s affairs. She came to see us every day and she looked really worn out. Her eyes were red from crying and even as a child I could see the pressure was getting to her. To cut a long story short, over the next year we lost the farm and my mother killed herself after we got taken into care. She had been suffering severe depression and I guess the last straw was losing her children. My younger sister eventually got taken in by distant relatives but as they already had a large family there was no room for my brothers and myself.

  In the care home I was always getting into trouble. To tell you the truth I was a right pain in the arse. I got moved around from care homes to various foster homes but I was just getting into trouble everywhere I went. I lost contact with my brothers and haven’t seen them since I was a teenager. I found out a few years later that they had joined the Army so they probably have families of their own by now. I did get to see my sister again but I’ll tell you about that later on.

  I was about seventeen when I left foster care and was given a flat in Bolton and did my best to find work and turn my flat into a home. I stuggled by on my dole money and cash-in-hand jobs like working a few hours a week in a café. Anne, the woman next door was so obviously on the game. She had so many men coming back and forth she should have installed an escalator. I would sit in the kitchen of her flat and we would spend hours talking about anything over a cup of coffee and a cigarette. She was at least ten years older than me with the wickedest sense of humour you could imagine. We became instant friends from the moment we met. At that time in my life I needed a good friend because just a few months before I’d had an abortion and I needed someone to talk to.

  I was going on nineteen and had come a long way from the little shy farm girl I used to be. Living on my own I learned to stand up for myself. I now worked part-time in a factory and bought most things that I needed from shoplifters or someone going out using stolen credit cards. Whenever Anne had a client she would put a potted plant in the window so other punters, and me, knew she had a visitor. One morning I was sitting in Anne’s kitchen chatting away and for some reason I said I wouldn’t mind going on the game. She tried to talk me out of it but as I had now said it I wouldn’t change my mind. Anne told she had lost her family, kids, friends and her self-respect since becoming a hooker. I told Anne that I understood what I was about to do and seeing as I had nothing to lose then it was on the game for me.

  The thing was that living next door to Anne and hearing all her stories, I had become used to the prostitute lifestyle that she led. Nothing really shocked me about it so eventually it seemed like a fast way to earn money to make my life better. Within a few days Anne had picked a nice visitor for my first time. He arrived at my flat and within minutes I was £30 better off and officially a hooker. He went away happy after having his blow job and I had money towards the rent: job done. I went from having two to three visitors to anything up to ten a day. Most customers would come back to visit me every month or so. I would tell them to let their friends know about me so my business soon picked up. Holidays were always the best, especially on the last pay day. I’d have visitors all day and most would leave a tip. I lost count of how many drunks left me an extra £10 for me to have a few drinks over Christmas.

  There’s always the threat of getting arrested and being locked away, that’s the chance we take I suppose. I was eventually arrested twice and imprisoned once for prostitution so I became wary of who my customers were. I got a visit one night from a client of another hooker friend of mine. I invited him in and looked up and down the street in case the police were lurking around. He asked me what I was doing and I explained that I didn’t want to end up in prison again. ‘That’s all right, love,’ he laughed. ‘I’m on my dinner break.’ With that he showed me his police ID card. I stood back a little shocked, half expecting to be arrested. He then asked, ‘I hope you do discount for the boys in blue, like your friend does?’ What else could I do but knock £10 off his bill, just for his cheek. I wish all coppers were just as understanding.

  I once popped around to Anne’s flat just as a punter was leaving. I literally bumped into him as he left her home. I apologised and he looked a little embarrassed, like most men would when they had been caught visiting a hooker. Just then Anne ran out and smashed him over the head with a large, heavy saucepan, knocking him out cold. His eyes just started rolling in his head and down he went, crashing against me and falling face down. ‘The bastard was sneaking out without paying. I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea and he crept out when I was making it,’ Anne told me. We left him there and locked ourselves in Anne’s flat until the creep woke up and eventually fucked off. ‘There’s a fresh cup of tea on the table if you want it. Hope you like it because it cost me a £30 blow job,’ she informed me, and we both fell about laughing.

  I’d been a hooker for well over ten years, working from home, at massage parlours and on street corners and after putting a little money away each week I had managed to save quite a large nest egg. I’d also managed to stay off drugs, unlike the other working girls I knew. The time felt right to quit the game and try to settle down. What I couldn’t do was stay in the same area as too many people knew what I was and I’d forever be bumping into ex-customers, police or nosy bastards who could make my life hell. Could you imagine if I’d met someone and one day an old customer turned up at my flat? That would be a big problem. If I got a job it wouldn’t have been long before some gossip or copper tipped off the boss on my past life.

  I event
ually moved about twelve miles away, got a job in a large supermarket and bought a small two-bedroom house. Things were going fine and I had contacted the care homes that I had been put in as a child and the adoption agencies to find out what had happened to my sister and brothers. My brothers had eventually moved abroad but there seemed to be no information on my younger sister or the members of my family that took her in. I finally gave up after a million phone calls and meetings with agency workers. It was just taking up too much time and always ended in heartbreak.

  I’d been promoted at work and was now in charge of the large clothing section. One day I was struck by how cute these two little ten-year-old twin girls were. I had once had two identical twin uncles and twins have always intrigued me. Their mother was holding up items of clothing next to the girls to see what suited them. I walked forward and said, ‘There’s a changing room just behind the clothing racks if you’d like to try them on the girls.’ The mother turned around and she was my sister;older but undisputedly my little sister Lizzy. In a matter of seconds we both began to cry and hold each other tight. The two little girls started to cry, wondering why their mother was so upset. It took us a little while to explain to the gathering store staff and Lizzy’s husband what the hell was going on, and that we weren’t cracking up.