Holy shit, it's cold. Now I can see why the other girls don't bother dressing up much. It might get you one or two more punters, but if it's cold and raining and there's no punters around, then it doesn't make much difference that you bothered to put on nice stockings and a short skirt. Fuck, if you're the kind of guy who comes down here to pay twenty quid for a blowjob then your standards aren't really all that high to begin with anyway.
But then, I'm new to all this, and it looks like it's going to be a hell of a learning curve. This wasn't exactly a childhood dream for me. Believe it or not, I want to be a librarian. I'm in the middle of my post-grad and it's just been impossible to make ends meet. I work in a pub at weekends and one evening a week, but it's just not enough. I'm studying so much that taking on more hours isn't easy and there aren't many jobs around that would fit around my course. My credit card was maxed out and I was at my overdraft limit. I literally couldn't afford food and I ended up borrowing some money from this guy up the next close. He's pretty well known around the area. Alan, his name is, but everyone calls him Mario because of the preposterous moustache he sports. He seems to be veritable underworld gentry.
There are always expensive cars parked outside and a stream of people parading into his flat, from guys in sharp suits and too much jewellery to guys in tank tops and too many tattoos to all manner of women, who are frankly just too much. He deals, he's the local hardnut, he seems to have worked his way round every half-decent looking girl in the neighbourhood and probably half the city. And he lends money to people that can't go anywhere else. I suppose I should have known there would be a price to pay. I'd never imagined him being as sweet and understanding with me as he was when he offered me the money in the first place. But that's just the hook. There's always a price to pay. And Mario is very...persuasive. Sweet, naive little me never even imagined that if I couldn't pay back every penny with extortionate interest, it would end up with me standing on this fucking street corner at midnight asking strangers if they want their cocks sucked for what is practically fucking spare change.
A few guys have passed already in the hour or so I've been here. The responses are a weird mixture. There are guys out with their girlfriends who sneak a furtive glance at my legs before a sharp tug on their arms leads them away while the girls chew the poor guys' ears about their unfaithful eyes. There are awkward, geeky guys who look at me with a kind of terrified lust, as if staring at the forbidden fruit itself before passing on, probably to wank themselves stupid over porn that cost them more than I would have. There are the abusive guys, walking guffaws in pink rugby shirts, calling me names I don't care to repeat. And then there are perhaps the worst of all; the ones who look at you with a wan, pitying half-smile and a slightly quickened gait. They might as well just say it outright: "my guilty liberal conscience says 'care' but my smug middle-class superiority complex says 'junkie whore' so I'll acknowledge you with my best mixture of condescension and contempt and tell all my friends of the horrible state of affairs in the city over a latte tomorrow afternoon after we discuss the fate of the Lib-Dems and debate just how hot Caitlin Moran is." I'm sure he thinks his liberal handwringing will make a difference. He doesn't have a clue. And of course, I'll probably have fucked one of his friends by tomorrow afternoon.
It's so cold out here. Quiet, too. The wind's starting to pick up and...shit. Now it's raining as well. I've got this cloaky shawl type thing, but it's not going to keep me dry for long, and I've only got this floaty, see-through top on underneath. The wind's catching my legs just above my stocking-tops and I can feel goose-pimples coming up. I wonder how many of the other girls bother to wear nice underwear. Not many, I reckon. When they started, they probably made the same mistake I've made tonight. Delicate, expensive knickers might look great in your bedroom and can make you feel sexy as hell, but when the wind is blowing up your skirt and you're standing on a street corner for hours at a time, it just gives you a chill.
Another guy walks by. "Business?" I mumble, almost hoping he doesn't even hear. He turns to look at me with a start.
"Umm...no, sorry." The poor bugger's embarrassed. "Uh, thanks, but yeah, um, no." And on he walks. It's going to be a long night.
Shit. It's fucking freezing now. Right now I'd probably go home with a guy for nothing just for a chance to warm up. But no. I need to make some money. I need business.
Oh God, not with these guys though. I can see them staggering along the street. It's about chucking out time. There's going to be a lot of these guys coming by over the next half hour or so. But these are the kind of guys I'd leave the pub rather than get cornered by. You can hear them a mile off. One's a loud, cackling Cockney who's the only one laughing at his own jokes, but laughing more than enough for everyone. He's big and well-built, probably not bad-looking if he wiped that smirk off his face. The other is a horrible pudgy wee guy, ugly, balding, with a horrible snorting chuckle. I step back a little, hoping they'll just walk by without saying anything to make me feel any worse than I already do. Cockney stops when he sees me.
"Alright darlin'?" he sneers. "Looking for business, are ya?" I look up at him icily and say nothing, hoping he gets the message.
"Come on darlin'. Don't be shy." He's such a cocky bastard. Do I really look like a hooker? I could tell him to fuck off, tell him I'm waiting for a taxi, waiting for my boyfriend. But somehow I just bite my lip nervously.
