Hookers: Their Lives in Their Words Read online

  Chapter 2

  Brogan

  Age: 37

  Newry, Northern Ireland

  I COME FROM a very violent and hostile background. I lived in Newry, which is twenty-five miles south of Belfast, just two miles from the border. My family originally were good people but over the years they got caught up in the political side of Ireland, which ended with the death of my brother and later an uncle of mine. I didn’t set out to be a prostitute; it wasn’t the option I was going for at school. I didn’t sit down with a careers officer and say I was looking forward to a life on the game. It’s just something that kind of happened. I was a good-looking youngster and thought that I’d find work in a clothes shop or somewhere like that. Like other girls I even considered becoming a nurse, but seeing as I always go dizzy at the sight of blood, I thought I’d give that option a miss.

  At seventeen I was bothering with some older girls; they were a rough old lot but I liked their company. My father once took a belt to me when he found I had been smoking and threatened to kill one of the girls when they came to the house. I started sneaking off with them and going around the pubs and one of the hotels where hookers worked. I’d watch them picking up men by the bar, disappearing, and within twenty minutes they’d be back by the bar or at least standing outside trying to catch some lad’s eye.

  They always wore brighter, figure-hugging clothes, which made me a little jealous as I only had a part-time job in a newsagents and was always broke. A friend once said that the reason they wore the bright clothes was that they were just like a bird, flashing bright coloured feathers to attract a male. Well, I don’t know if that’s right but some of the girls after a few drinks did strut around a little like peacocks – or is it pea hens?

  One night my good but mental friend Mary and I got so drunk we couldn’t stand. A lad came up to our table and asked if we were working tonight. Just for fun, mind you, we said we were between customers and just taking a fag break. We teased the lad and let him buy us a few more drinks. While he was in the toilet we made our escape back to Mary’s sister’s house. We joked for awhile about being on the game and how much money we could make. Mary started making plans for how we would spend our earnings, what clothes we’d buy and what jewellery she was going to get. I crashed out on the floor, and Mary fell asleep on the chair.

  Next day, over a cup of tea, Mary asked me when we were going to start. ‘Mary,’ I laughed, ‘I was only joking, and I hope to God you are as well.’ Turned out she was deadly serious and thought I was chickening out of the idea. She explained that we hadn’t had a decent boyfriend for years and we never had any money. The clothes we wore were shit, the gold we had on was cheap rubbish and we couldn’t hold down a full-time job anywhere. I don’t know if I was just trying to be big, or maybe I was just foolish, but I agreed to it as long as we split all the money equally and looked after each other.

  I half expected Mary to say she was just teasing me but it just started from there. We scraped a few pounds together and bought short skirts and a few other items. When we got dressed up we looked just what we were at the time: two young cheap tarts. We were too scared to go into the hotel on our first night. We stood outside freezing our tits off, teeth chattering, trying to look sexy. It was a quiet night and there were no other working girls around that night. After about thirty minutes, a man aged about forty came up to Mary and started chatting. He seemed nice enough though.

  Mary said, ‘Right, I’m off, see you back here in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Wait! You can’t leave me on my own, what if someone comes on to me?’ I yelled.

  ‘Well then that’s the bloody idea, isn’t it?’ Mary yelled back.

  I watched Mary disappear around the corner and stood there like an idiot. Shortly afterwards a fat, balding man came up to me and asked if I was open for business. Nervously I laughed out, ‘I’m not a fucking chip shop, love.’ I think he was just as nervous as I was so it broke the ice when he started to laugh. I walked off down the street just as Mary was coming back. She smiled at me and I explained to the man that I was just going to let my friend know where I was going. I walked up to Mary and whispered, ‘How much do I charge him? I’ve got no fucking idea.’ She told me what to charge for what service and off I marched into the night with my first customer. I think Mary was only guessing at the prices because she had no idea either.

  Over the years I got to know the game well and could read a customer like a book. Then one day I made a really stupid mistake. I must have been about twenty-six when for some idiotic reason I stole a punter’s wallet. He was so drunk that after he paid me he dropped the wallet on the floor as he left the house I was staying in. It may seem strange that I’m ashamed of the theft but I was and still am. You see, when I had nothing I became a prostitute but when I stole the wallet I had money of my own. What I’m getting at is that I didn’t need to steal someone’s hard-earned money, it was on the spur of the moment and I regret it now.

  I knew someone who used stolen credit cards, and using the punter’s credit card they got me a few bags of shopping and a new jacket and then used the card for themselves. They did this the morning after the punter left his wallet, that way he was still sleeping off his hangover and hopefully hadn’t reported the loss.

  That night, before I went out, I heard a knock on the door. It was the same punter from the night before asking about his wallet. Of course I denied ever seeing it and off he went. Something just didn’t seem right, he had a strange look in his eye. He just knew I had nicked his wallet. Must have been a week later, I was just sitting with a friend, watching daytime television when there’s a gentle knock on the door; I opened it to find this small old gentleman standing there. ‘I’m collecting for the cause and would you like to make a paper donation,’ he quietly asks. Now, I’m not a fool and I know where the money goes but rather than have all the windows put through I tell him yes and gave him a few pounds. I knew that every penny collected went to certain organisations for guns and bullets but it paid to keep sweet with them when they came around collecting.

  An uncle of mine once refused to pay and first his windows went through, then his car got firebombed, so he decided to ‘donate’ a few pounds every so often. I was expecting him to walk off after I paid up but he started to make idle chit-chat with me. After talking about the weather and everyday things, he tells me, ‘You know there was a young lad about two streets over from here selling drugs. The whole area seems to be getting worse with scum like that around. I had to pay him a visit and tell him he had two days to leave the town. He didn’t leave, even though he knew the people I was speaking for. He was a stupid boy, didn’t listen, seems his friends found him at home with his legs nail-gunned to his arm chair. From what I gather the ambulance men had to saw through the chair to get him to the hospital.’

  The man at first seemed inoffensive but his tone had changed and he was starting to scare me. ‘You live here with your friend, don’t you? Could you please tell me was your friend also involved in stealing my associate’s wallet?’ he asked. Soon as he said ‘wallet’ I knew I was in big trouble. I answered honestly that it was spur of the moment and I would refund all the money and what was used on the cash card. I went in the house and got a few hundred pounds from my savings and thrust it all into his hand. I apologised but he didn’t really take it in; he just counted the money and started talking about my family and my other friend who used the credit card. How the hell he knew is beyond me, but he knew everything.

  Before he left he said to me, ‘My associate is rather upset over this but as a favour to you, I’ll sort it all out. Maybe in return, you could do me a good turn some day. Would that be all right with you?’ I thought he meant I’d have to sleep with him or something like that so I agreed to it. I sat down next to my friend, who was still watching the television, oblivious to my conversation on the front door. When I explained what had happened, she said that I may be wrong in assuming what the man wanted for a favour. She explained
to me that certain organised people used hookers to set someone up. Get them back to a house where they lay waiting to punish them some way or another; it’s called a ‘honey trap’. She explained that what I had now become was a ‘sleeper’, someone who will be called upon, maybe tomorrow or three years or so from today, to repay the favour.

  It must have been about seven months later when the gentleman arrived back at the door. To tell you the truth, after the initial scare and a few worrying weeks I soon forgot about it all. Then there he was, asking me, as a ‘working girl’, if I would pay back the favour I owed. He wanted me to get picked up by a certain punter and bring him back to the house I shared on the following Saturday. This wasn’t a hard thing for me to do because I knew who he was talking about, he had been one of my regulars at one time. I was told to leave the back door open and not to mention it to anyone. I agreed and off he walks down the street without a care in the world. You’d swear he was just passing the time of day with me, talking about the weather and whatnot.

  I had agreed to do something I could never do. I was sure the punter had a wife and kids. God knows what they had planned for him, beat him up or even kill him maybe. I told my friend I was leaving to visit a friend and packed everything that I could get into two suitcases. I left behind loads of stuff, got in a taxi and made for the ferry to Liverpool. I stayed with a cousin who I hadn’t seen for years and then moved on. I can honestly say for years I was expecting them to come over and look for me. I know now they wouldn’t have bothered but being so scared, and from all the stories I heard, I was petrified for a hell of a long time.

  About two months after I left Ireland, my friend, the one I was staying with, was done over bad. Some man jumped on her one night when she came home a little tipsy from the pub and beat the living daylights out of her, breaking her hand and smashing two of her teeth out. She told me on the phone that it was probably nothing to do with me, but did find it strange that another friend who usually walks home with her, as she lives nearby, for some reason didn’t want to go out that night. I’d like to think it was nothing to do with me doing a runner but I have a nagging suspicion that it was.

  There I was, hundreds of miles from home, now living in Newcastle. I would have stayed in Liverpool with my cousin but her ex-husband moved back into her life. Guess she must have told him about my lifestyle so I was out on my arse. I spent some time in a women’s refuge and then moved to a small flat in Newcastle. Funny thing was that when I started making friends and going out I always attracted the wrong ones, the ones your family warned you about as a child. Soon I was back on the game but now I was mixing with drug dealers and criminals. I had started to use an escort agency which got a fee for every customer they arranged for me. What myself and the other girls did was to let the punter know an easier way to contact us and pocket the fee without the agency knowing. When I got a gullible punter I learned how to milk them for their money. Another hooker told me how she would tell the punter she only did the work to put her son through college or to get money for her mother’s operation. You couldn’t tell them this straight away but after they had visited you a few times, and they were getting smitten with you. That way you wouldn’t scare them off and they would feel committed to helping you out.

  I was now earning anything from £500 to £1,500 a week; the money was flowing in fast. I moved to a bigger house and things were working out fine. I had regulars and the escort agency was providing a good living so I was putting money away ready for the day I could pack it all in. One of the hookers I knew was a regular coke user and would sell me or give me some to get through the nights. I found working in the clubs and bars till all hours was starting to get to me and I was always worn out. I had never taken anything before and was worried about the side effects. The girl who was getting me a few grams a week looked great, nice figure, happy and showed no ill effects and she was always on the stuff.

  Slowly I was getting addicted to it. I needed more and more, sometimes just to get me up out of bed in the mornings. My money started to go down and I started to experiment with heroin. Coke was bad enough but heroin is a totally different ball game. I started smoking it and then mainlining it straight into my veins. All my troubles would disappear while I used it. At first I took it first thing in the morning, just to face the day. I then started using it every few hours. Before long I’d take it as soon as I’d score some off a dealer. Heroin is a strange drug that can make you feel safe from the outside world but remember it’s heroin and the craving for it that makes the outside world seem so bad in the first place. It’s just a fucking vicious circle.

  I’d wake up in parks not knowing how I got there or how long I had been there. My sole goal in life was to get heroin, nothing else mattered. I used to look at drug users years ago and try to imagine how they could let themselves go. Well, on heroin nothing bothered me, I wouldn’t wash or clean my clothes, my house was a tip and my so-called friends deserted me.

  I did try to get off the stuff but that was a nightmare. I couldn’t sleep, felt sick all the time, couldn’t go to the toilet, couldn’t eat and was scared and panicky all the time. I’d also get pains in my bones, especially my legs. It felt like someone had kicked lumps out of them.

  I plucked up enough courage to visit a doctor who examined me and found that apart from the body sores all over me and collapsed veins, I had some liver damage. I was booked into a hospital which eventually got me on methadone and arranged for me to get a drugs worker who I can call with any problems or just for someone to talk to.

  I’d like to warn others off prostitution and drugs. My life is wrecked, with no family or real friends. I have nothing. I have lost most of my teeth and apart from looking like a skeleton I have drug-related arthritis and trouble walking. If all this can happen to a young Irish girl, as I once was, then it can happen to anyone. It would be great if I could end my story on a good note but there isn’t any. When others have their families around them at Christmas I’m on my own with only one goal and that is to get drugs and get wasted. I have no self-respect for myself or hope for my future. I hope my short story will put others off. No doubt I’ll be found dead soon but the cravings stop me doing anything about it all.

  Chapter 3

  Carissa

  Age: 34

  Scotland

  I HAD SPLIT with my boyfriend and the twat left me with a mortgage and credit card bills to pay. I had a friend Donna who used to sell drugs and was a hooker. I was never a tart or anything before but I just couldn’t find the money to pay the bills. Donna told me I could make between £200 and £350 every night if I wanted to. Of course I would have to do things I didn’t necessarily like but I decided to get on with it.

  I worked at home at first with Donna getting twenty per cent of my takings, as she would send the customers around. It must have been about eight o’clock on a Saturday night when she phoned to tell me my first customer was coming around. I’d been drinking since six and was right tanked up by the time he turned up. He was an ex-Army friend of Donna’s and knew it was my first night on the game. We took our time and he paid me £65, which came in handy as I was down to my last few pounds. I didn’t feel embarrassed about it at all, maybe it was the drink or that I had just come to terms with it, in my own way. After we got out of the bedroom he told me that Donna always made him a cup of tea and some beans on toast afterwards. I thought I’d do the same and after he left I phoned Donna, who told me the guy was lying and had taken me for a free meal.

  I slept with three others that night and made about £180 in total. Over the next few months I got ahead of all my bills and started spending money on myself, which I hadn’t been able to do for years.

  About two years ago I was servicing a client when he asked me if next time I would do something a little different. He was a wealthy Pakistani business man so I knew I would be quids in if I accepted. He wanted me to take Rohypnol, which I knew was a date rape drug. He had some sort of fascination with having sex with me unc
onscious. I told him no way at first but he offered me £800 so I agreed. He was a regular visitor and a friend so I knew I was safe.

  He turned up at my home one night as arranged, crushed a few tablets into my drink and within half an hour I was out of it. I can’t remember everything that happened because I started to feel suddenly hot then cold and finally passed out. I awoke a few hours later feeling dizzy and a little nauseous. He had left £800 for me and I have no idea what went on. I felt a little sore but no more than I would from a hard night’s work. We did this about three more times before he stopped picking me up. I guess he must have found some other girl who would accommodate him better than I could. Strange thing was that when I woke up I would find I had bright red lipstick on, which I don’t use. The crazy freak must have put it on me when I was asleep; guess I’ll never know what went on.

  Some of the punters do ask for strange things. One guy called Steve asked if he paid me £250 extra could his friend film our session. Seeing as he was already paying for two hours with everything involved I decided to go ahead with it. Everything has a price so even things I wouldn’t normally do seem less taboo if they wave more money at me, guess that’s the same with most of us working girls.

  We did everything you could imagine with his mate moving around us filming everything, in close-up detail. It was hard to concentrate with someone sticking a camera between my legs but I just thought of the money and got on with things. At one time I had to stop as he was hurting me a little and I didn’t feel in control of things. We finished and he paid me the full amount and thanked me before leaving. A few days later I tried to spend the money only to find the stinking fucker had paid me in fake £20 notes. To make things worse I found out he had made a packet selling the film to some German porn company. If ever I catch the prick I’ll stick his camcorder up his arse and see how he likes it.