Confessions Of A Prostitute #2: Losing Friends

You might think it's the money and Whisky Sours I miss, but Adam was much, much more than a punter...
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When I began, I was told that there would come a time when I would be able to glance at a roll of purple tinted, twenties and know exactly how many pounds lay in the bundle.

That time came quicker than I could have imagined and sometimes it still shocks me to know that what most make in a week, I make in an hour. In the beginning, my idea of the value of money took a polite decline. With no children or family to care for it became very easy to spend as if I wasn’t actually working for it. Nights out ended up being on me, frequent ‘days off’ always ended in a shopping center and I was not saving a penny.

But one thing I do is pay taxes on my earnings. I remember my Father used to joke that the only person he feared more than God, was the taxman. Once I knew I was going to work for myself, I made sure that HM revenue, knew too.

‘You’re too smart to do this forever.’ noted Adam on a forgettable afternoon some months ago.

‘What’s your plan, where is this going?’ he probed.

I stopped fingering the first edition of  ‘Gone with the Wind’ he had just gifted me with.

Fully dressed, I reclined in the deep leather sofa and let out a sigh. Where was this going? I had not given it much thought.


Confessions Of A Prostitute #1: Why I Do It

How Old Is The World's Oldest Profession?

Adam on the other hand, thought about everything. A by no means Orthodox Jew in his mid fifties, I had become his regular companion after he lost his wife to ‘Vagina Cancer’ –as he not so eloquently put it.

‘I’m not quite sure.’ I admitted while watching one of the larger fish in his in home aquarium.

‘Ah, you must have a plan. One cannot whore forever. You’re a smart girl. Make a business plan and stop spending all your money in Zara or wherever you young girls like to piss it away.’

I was fond of Adam. Petite in stature, the height of his intelligence commanded your attention. Once he’d got his orgasm out of the way, we would usually curl up with a Steinbeck or H. Thompson, while taking consecutive sips on a Whisky Sour.

His place was a great representation of himself, deceptive, warm and rich.

We would still giggle over the recollection of me being confused as to when the lift opened up into his home.

‘Are we in the right place?!’ I squeaked once I’d got my breath back.

‘I do hope so’ He laughed.

Fluent in Italian and Hindi already, he was helping me add Latin to the roster. His intention was for me to better myself. To see prostitution as more than just a quick way to financial freedom but to make sure that my acts could pay for lives beyond my own.

Adam died last week.

I was told by his daughter who invited me to his funeral, and also thanked me for being a friend to her father.

Yes, I am sad.  I admit, that I know there are readers that are going to wrongly assume that all I miss is his money and Whisky Sour making skills but you’re very much wrong.

I never imagined that I would make genuine friends along this journey, that it would not just be money that would be my only ally, that I would be encouraged to get out the game by the one who enjoyed playing it the most.

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