(estimated reading time: 6 minutes)

Clumsily I hobbled along the river bank desperately wanting to forget what happened earlier that afternoon. Walking in heels has always been a challenge, walk ing on a scorching pavement in a tight dress was even more so. My feet were bleeding temporarily shifting my focus from my client’s disturbing confessions to the possibility of having to learn how to fly- I was clearly not built for glamorous footwear.

I rang my pimp. He was in the middle of devouring something particularly scrumptious and his end of the conversation consisted primarily of satisfied moans and munching. Being my tactful self, I described Leonardo as a “dodgy gentleman” while casually mentioning some of his confessions and wondering whether that meant that my body is going to be soon found in a ditch. James* laughed it off partly semi-acknowledging the fact that his client likes to have sex with 13 year school girls but reassured me that there is “nothing to worry about” because “the Italians have a different standard of what is appropriate. It’s just a cultural thing.”

His response enraged me. He knew. Of course he knew. But chose not to care. Ideas were rushing through my head: from hiring a detective to becoming a badass ninja and assassinating the guy while hanging upside down outside of his window. But one thing was certain: going to the police was not an option.

James had another booking lined up for me. He was throwing me right into the deep-end: overnight booking, 6pm, Mayfair hotel. THE Mayfair Hotel. Once again he used the same standard description “a lovely gentleman who knows how to treat a lady”, mid-50s. The client however had a very particular request.

…He wanted me to wear oyster-coloured lingerie.

My confusion was understandable. Firstly, which part of the oyster? What kind of oyster? Why not marmite? or lobster? or raspberry jam? Did he mean an oyster-card? What IS the colour of an oyster?! I had 4 hours until my booking. Where the hell do they sell lingerie the colour of sea-food?

The client had another request.

“He doesn’t like experienced girls, he likes new girls.”- warned me James in between the chewing.

Great. So my new client had a fetish for sea food. He liked his girls oyster-coloured and fresh.

After that morning nothing could possibly faze me.

I had no oyster coloured lingerie, hence I had to settle for black. The client would live-was my reasoning.

Up until that evening I had never thought that walking into a hotel could be so awkward. When it comes to style, I believe that less is more. I never wear flashy jewelry or excessive make up. Part of being an escort is trying to blend in while still looking attractive. Was it my imagination? Was it my paranoia? I wanted to believe that it was both, but everyone’s eyes followed me as I walked into the bar to the right of the reception. The few people who sat at the bar went quiet for a few split seconds examining me from head to toe. I sat probably looking very tense searching for the client with my eyes. Elegant looking waitresses in high heels gracefully trotted around the bar, while occasionally giving me hostile glares, deadly lasers shooting out of their eyes. They knew I am an escort. They got to see plenty of them on a daily basis, a painful reminder that there are some people in the world who make the same amount of money an hour while others make the same a week.

Eventually I was approached by a middle aged man, grey hair, grey goatee, grey suit, grey eyes. He was almost…faceless. If I were to close my eyes even for an instant I would immediately forget what he looked like. He introduced himself as Chris (I knew it was a fake name-the hesitation gave it away). There was barely any small talk. We went upstairs into his room where he told me to take off my dress and offered me some white wine. I was alone in a room with a man twice my size, twice my age, knew nothing about him, and I was pretty certain that my “agent” did not bother to background check him.

He sat back in one of the satin armchairs and expressed his disappointment at the fact that I was not wearing oyster-lingerie. His perfectly expressionless face made me guess that he is either a lawyer or a banker (the former turned out to be correct).What followed was a 30 minute interrogation as if I was in court. He was not very keen on answering my questions, and kept them short and monosyllabic. I politely reminded him that our policy involves handing over the money within the first ten minutes. Lazily as if doing me a favour he picked up his briefcase and produced several handfuls of paper notes. I had previously never seen so much cash in my life. He slowly counted out almost two thousand pounds and chucked the heap of money on the bed where I was sitting.

He then made me sit at his feet seiza-style while he got out his best leg of three which I was expected to attend to. Funnily enough, giving a blow-job while being interrogated about my personal life and having to listen to condescending comments about how “being an escort-defines you for life” was not particularly turning me on. But the man had quite the appetite. The entire session took place giraffe-style i.e. standing up… in front of the mirror. He could not stop admiring his own beer-belly. What I mean is that I had to stand in front of the mirror pretending to really enjoy myself while being addressed exclusively as “little girl” and being asked irrelevant personal questions in between. In between those questions he would not cease offering me an extra “few hundred pounds” if I were to agree and have sex without a condom.

I suddenly remembered a tiny horrifying detail: this man had booked me for the whole night. We were two hours in and I somehow was not convinced that I would survive till the morning. I did not have the time to eat or drink properly that day, so in between blowjobs I would be sneakily downing handfuls of salted peanuts and washing them down with wine. (Any potential escorts reading this: never follow my example. A professional escort does not drink on the job because a) you want to have a perfectly clear mind b)safety reasons-avoid getting drugged.)

Chris was out of breath. He was lying next to me, eyes shut in post-coital bliss, gently humming to himself some kind of unmelodic tune ignoring my presence. I made an attempt to start a light-hearted conversation, and instantly wished I hadn’t. The humming stopped, his eyelids opened and I was greeted by two colourless chunks of grey ice staring at me, clearly puzzled by why I was still there. His unblinking python-like stare made me shiver. I suddenly felt like an intruder, unwelcome and ashamed. I felt similar to how I felt while sitting waiting for him at the bar-somehow beneath everybody else. His phone rang and he got called back into the office. My client got up and began to hurriedly put on his clothes.

“You can take you money and go”- he grunted without looking at me. Before I knew it, he was out of the door. No ‘Goodbye’, no ‘thank you for a nice evening’. Only a couple of used condoms, an empty bottle of wine and tipsy me, sitting in a pile of cash.

On the coffee table beside me, there was a business card left behind which read “J Sheekey Oyster Bar”.