Working girl interrupted

I must concede that it’s a weird fantasy, but it’s a fantasy nonetheless. Not in the kinky sexual way, just something I oddly daydream frequently about: proposition an Oxford Rd prostitute… to have a conversation.

In my ‘fantasy’, I’ll stop by the Rosebank Zone Seattle, and buy 2 hot drinks (Earl Grey for me, naturally, and most likely a cappuccino for her), then cruise the streets to find a suitable conversation partner. The one that’ll grab my attention won’t be the loudest and crassest, she’ll have a feigned sense of confidence about her that she believes will convince all her customers she’s in charge (after seeing Monster I can’t really imagine this always being the case).

Then I’ll sit her down – under the most luridly bright streetlight, where there’s less risk of her attacking me for my money – and give her an interview.

I imagine the conversation will go something like this (if any reader out there has been in the trade before then you’re of course welcome to correct her imagined responses):

Me: So… what’s your name?

Oxford Rd Prozzie (ORP): Angelica. But you can call me Baby, girl!

Me: Um… thanks, but this isn’t that kind of conversation.

ORP: Then why the fuck have you pulled me from the street, girl, I could be doing business right now!

Me: I don’t really know. You looked lonely, like you could do with some company. Not to say you wouldn’t be swamped with opportunities from passers-by if I wasn’t talking to you now, of course. But also, you looked like you needed a cuppa…ccino, that is. It must be really cold wearing that pleather-mock-croc-hot-pink mini skirt and backless purple sequined top, and your feet must be really sore in those chunky clear plastic platforms, plus your voice must need soothing from all the jibes you screech at cars driving past you.

ORP: Well, fine. I’ll sit here for 5 minutes with you, but as soon as a client comes past, I’m off.

Me: Who are your typical clients, then?

ORP: Anyone, really – from rich married guys to boozy beggars who feel the need to splurge their day’s collections on some lovin’.

Me: I see. And which type of client do you prefer?

ORP: Actually, the beggars. The rich guys are more demanding, and they treat you like you’re a worthless piece of shit.

Me: Why do they come to you then, if they don’t respect you?

ORP: To control someone without fear of being judged. To order someone around who won’t disobey them, who will make them feel powerful because they can buy her body.

Me: Do you charge rich and poor men the same prices?

ORP: In this area, you have to, otherwise the rich guys will go to the competition – those bitches Fiona and Krystal in the next road would do anything to steal my clients.

Me: So it’s all about who’s cheapest, then? Nothing about appearance or prowess?

ORP: Mostly. There’s also some element of “which street is the quietest where no-one will see me pick her up” involved.

Me: I see. And where do they take you?

ORP: Oh, we just do the transaction one or two roads down from Oxford, where the coppers won’t find us.

Me: And what do these transactions normally involve?

ORP: My you’re a nosy one! Nothing you haven’t done before, I suspect: hand jobs, blow jobs, regular and anal sex.

Me: Ok. You like doing all of those things, or you just have to comply with what they demand?

ORP: Honey, I aint got the luxury of choice. You gotta avoid all possibility of violence, so you just get on and do what they ask of you, take your money and get back on the street.

Me: Uh-huh. Not a very pleasant job, by the sounds of it. Why do you sell your body?

ORP: It’s not my first choice, but it pays better than anything else. What job is ever thoroughly enjoyable, after all? Plus, my regulars treat me special [sic] from time to time… roses and shit.

Me: Have any of your regulars fallen in love with you? Or you with them?

ORP: The beggars do – they feel they’ve failed in all other areas of their lives, so the bit of attention they get from me becomes their only real connection to other people. As for my regulars, I treat them all like I love them – they like that. They get very jealous when another client arrives during their love parade.

Me: So any sex tips for a less worldy lover like me?

But before she answers, a Beemer with tinted windows will approach, and she’ll jump up to sell her wares to the wary solicitor. I’ll sigh, drink the last sip of Earl Grey (by now cold) and carry on with my life pretty much in the same way as I would have if I hadn’t had that conversation.