(Acquiring a Humiliation and Degradation habit by reward and behaviour shaping.)
In the City of Fallen Angels, anyone can sit on a vacant bar-stool. He does. He's, maybe, ten years older than me, slightly podgy, wheezy, doesn't look too fit.
"Hi mate, you don't mind?"
"No."
I'm an easy-going guy having a mid-day beer in an eaterie, taking the edge off my inhibitions in readiness to bar-hop when the girlie bars open in an hour. Meantime, I watch the street life pass by, especially the go-go dancers in their skimpy 'Love for Sale' advergarments on their way to work. Hanging from their backs, are signature shag-bags. Inside, a change of clothes, rubbing alcohol and a packet of free, Social Hygiene issue, Trust condoms.
As the go-go girls pass on the street, they fish for an early catch. Their faces turn towards us, and their eyes, filled with the promise of wet-dreams fulfilled, meet ours and stick. A smile or a nod, and they'll brighten and sashay up, shoulders back, breasts pressed to the point of overflow against their halter top. "You like my company?" If you remain stony-faced, as they pass their heads rotate until their forward motion causes their faces to snap back to the front, seeking other hungry eyes.
He orders and looks across at me. "You got a girl?"
"I'm Tom. No. I'll hook up with someone later."
"I'm Colin. I bar-fined out a hot one last night."
"Where from?"
"Panama Jacks. Here have a look." He has one of the new digital cameras and he hands it to me to view. "She's Precious, her name."
She's a pretty thing, laying against the bed head, clutching her legs, drawn up and parted. She's eighteen or nineteen, teen breasts, tight figure, hairless as a baby and smiling charmingly.
"Precious from Panama Jack's, I'll remember that."
"But not tonight. I'm bar-fining her again tonight."
"You saw her first. She gave you the full 'girlfriend experience' then?"
"Terrific, my kind of girl."
"Wife material?"
"Fuck off -- No -- A wannabe whore."
I glance back at her picture. She so sweet, I'm sure she never imagined she could be mistaken for a 'puta' when she sought her fortune as a gentlemen's entertainer in Angeles. However, not all men are gentle. I say, "Really. She doesn't look the type."
"A piece of trash. When they step on the stage and offer their bodies for rent they become whores, sex-robots, nothing more than a masturbation tool, an empty vessel to fill with cum. That's the way I see it....
...But, she's fresh meat, only been here two months, still needs to be stripped of her illusions. I can do that. I don't make them whores, I make them feel like whores. When she feels like a cum rag that's passed round to mop up cum, with the word 'No' wiped from her vocabulary, my job's done."
"Mmmm ... Interesting take, I've never thought of it like that. She looks to me like she'd make a nice girlfriend?"
"She's a fuck-pig bred in farm dirt, like the pigs, but she chose to move down the food chain. She's a consumable, prey for any bottom feeder. I can butcher and cook her any way I chose. These cum-magnets arrive thinking they've still got something wholesome to offer. They have romantic notions, but they've never fucked professionally. I'm not here for romance; I come to spew six months of stockpiled semen into the arsehole of a lipsticked fuck-pig."
"Ahhh ... D'you visit often?
"Twice a year, for a month. That's usually enough time to train up two new whores."
"Oh ... What's your main job?"
"Cabbie, I come in the low season months. Bilk the tourists in high season, 14 hours a day, and blow my ill-gotten gains in the low season."
"London?"
"Yeh."
"Me too."
He adds, "It's like awarding scholarships -- I pay well and they get an expensive education. When I go home I leave behind two whores fully qualified to suck the self-respect out of moral defectives, and snare them in a travesty of marriage."
"You should register as an educational charity then you wouldn't have to pay tax."
