The Client


It may be a perverted taste, but I love prostitution, and for itself too, quite apart from its carnal aspects. My heart begins to pound every time I see one of those women in low-cut dresses walking under the lamplight in the rain, just as monks in their corded robes have always excited some deep, ascetic corner of my soul. The idea of prostitution is a meeting place of so many elements – lust, bitterness, complete absence of human contact, muscular frenzy, the clink of gold – that to peer into it deeply makes one reel. One learns so many things in a brothel, and feels such sadness, and dreams so longingly of love!

-- Gustave Flaubert

I lay down on a bed in a strange room and a woman I met less than five minutes ago is standing beside the bed and she is undressing. She is beautiful in a rough and used way and in a moment she will join me on the bed and look at me and smile, kiss my chest and lick my nipples and then she will make her way down my body and begin to suck my cock. This is a moment I have lived many times.

Visiting prostitutes is my secret life. Secrecy is part of the pleasure, a key part, and without it, I would not bother. Secrecy is a necessity, to keep this from family and friends, but it is also an essential ingredient of the eroticism of the experience of buying sex and enjoying the pleasures of bought sex.

‘Whore' is not a nice word to most people, but to me it is, and when I refer to those dark ladies of the night, who occupy the dark and secret corners of my life, and the dark centre of my erotic memories and desires, I mean it as a term of affection. It is the word I will most often use in this memoir.

I have been enjoying the pleasures of whores ever since I was eighteen. With them I have grown up sexually. I began by dipping my toes into the waters of my own deepest and darkest fantasies and progressed, slowly, to a time when I would dive in and swim down to the bottom to discover what was there. I have grown up with them, and I have grown beyond what I would have become erotically and sexually without them. I have never kept count, so I do not know how many prostitutes I have known, but I am sure it is more than two hundred. If I began at eighteen or nineteen, that is just over eight new ones every year. Most I only had once; a few a few times, even fewer up to ten times, and Carmen probably twenty times or so, Ipek, more than thirty. Prostitution has also given me the chance to have types of women I would not very easily have met in real life. The only black and Indian and Pakistani women I have enjoyed erotically were all prostitutes. On the street I desired such women from afar, but had no means of meeting and getting to know them.

I have spent not a little money on it over the years, though I am lucky in that I have always been able to afford to indulge my desire; and my taste is for the cheap end of the market, and I like my whores in their 30s and 40s and a few in their 50s, slutty, tarty and trashy; as well as likeable and lovable and fun and interesting to get to know. After all, what is the point of a whore who does not walk, talk, act and fuck like a whore? I do not go for the so-called ‘GFE' or ‘girlfriend experience' of prostitute review sites. The best have been both. Friends and fuck fantasies made flesh and enjoyed, over and over again, without any diminishment of the exquisite pleasures they give me. So I have enjoyed women who sell themselves cheap, and who often look cheap and trashy and rough, for that is what excites me; but I believe that as people they are all far from being cheap, and with many of them I have enjoyed pleasures that are rare and of great value to me.

There are many reasons why I love to have sex with prostitutes, and one of them is that I love prostitutes. The thought of them excites me in the very depths of my soul, and like Flaubert, I have learned more about life and love and joy and sadness from prostitutes. My experiences with them have taught me more than any other experiences that I have had. Fucking whores is the essence of eroticism to me and when I am doing it during a meeting with one that goes well, I feel more alive than at any other moment. I love the idea of prostitution, the practice of it; the very fact of its existence, and I love the women who do it. I love to hold their worn and over used bodies as I fuck them, and I never hesitate to go down on them and lick out their pussies and rim them when I am invited to.

None of this is to say that I have not had very satisfying sexual relationships with girlfriends, casual lovers, brief encountresses and now my wife. Yes, I am married and have been for over two years and I have not stopped visiting prostitutes, as I do not want to. Indeed, I think I can't; I know I can't. Thus, I do not visit prostitutes because I do not or never have been unable to have sex in more conventional ways. I have always found it easy to meet and attract women, but I have always continued to visit prostitutes when I was having relationships.

I have never been caught. I have had to make sure that I never was; because I wanted to have girlfriends and I loved and cared for them, but visiting whores and fucking them and having them sit on my face and piss over me and fucking their arses and all of the other things I have done with them, are part of who I am; and even if that has not come about as a result of nature, it has been born of years of visiting them. And those visits were born of a desire deep within me; and another word for desire is need. I need whores as I need the air I breathe. I do not expect the experience of having sex with a prostitute to be the same as having sex with my wife; or before I married, with a girlfriend, and I do not want it to be. Why would I go out and pay for what I can have at home?

I like women, as well as desire them. More of my friends are women than men. I don't really know why, but I often prefer the company of women to the company of men. I have a magnificent sex life with my wife, who I love deeply and who is my best friend, and of whose company I never tire. I have looked for different things in the women with whom I have had relationships and the whores I have known, and find different things in them. The whores and my desire for them is no threat to my love and desire for my wife, except in the element of betrayal; for betrayal it is. Some clients will say ‘whores don't count,' but I don't buy that line. It is using the fact of the exchange of money, the rhetoric of ‘business', to pretend that no emotions and needs were involved. It is no justification, and my only justification of my visiting whores, which I have always done when the desire for it was in me, is that I choose not to stop doing it, though ‘choose' is a difficult word, because I do not have a choice in the matter in the same way that I can choose whether to have the steak of the fish in a restaurant. I am guided to prostitutes by forces that lie deep, deep within me, and which even now I do not fully understand or know the origin of, other than that I love sex and I love erotic exploration and adventure, and I love women.

In his novel the Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera distinguishes between what he calls the lyric womaniser and the epic womaniser. The former is driven by the desire to capture the essence of femininity, which he might find in some particular woman, who will become for him the ideal woman. Kundera's narrator identifies him with one of the characters in the novel, Franz, and is dismissive of him. So am I. He wants to be endearing and to be forgiven by women for his weakness for women. And, according to Kundera, this type is forgiven. The epic womaniser does not believe in the essence of femininity or the possibility of an ideal woman who could embody or be the essence of femininity. Rather, he wishes to experience erotically every different type of woman and of femininity that he can. And for this, he is not forgiven.

If I am a womaniser, I am the epic type, if I may be permitted to take such a grand sounding name to myself. I have known a great many women in real life, and a great many prostitutes, and always I am guided by the desire for a new women and the pleasure of possessing her body and entering her for the first time. In my secret life, I have fucked fat women and thin women, young women, middle aged women and old women, white women and brown women and black women, housewife types and women impossibly exotic looking, blonde women and dark women; but I will never exhaust my desire for something in the great sphere of femininity that I have never experienced before, and those prostitutes I have gone back to again and again were the ones I liked as people and became attached to. In moments of indulgence I thought of them as women with whom I have erotic friendships; another term I borrow from Kundera.

Some women I have loved, girlfriends over the years, some of them of years' standing as girlfriends, before I met my wife; and I think I must have fallen in love with two of the prostitutes I have known: Carmen and Ipek. I handled it though; never forgetting what was available from them and on what terms, and what was not. I wanted more and dreamed of having more, but what passes in a room between a man and woman, a man pursuing erotic adventures and a woman providing them in exchange or money, does not necessarily translate into a relationship, and a relationship would change what could happen in a room between them as client and prostitute. But there is something that might be strange. Sometimes, when a relationship has been in a bad patch and the sex has gone off the boil or desires frozen away completely, a visit to a prostitute has enabled me to initiate a recovering of the sexual aspect of a failing relationship. Sex with prostitutes never suffers from the lapses and diminishments and absences of desire that haunt and destroy relationships. With a whore, there is nothing to get in the way of sex and eroticism.

My first time was in Soho, London, in Lisle Street, in what is called a walk up. There is a tatty sign above a door that leads to a flight of stairs, from which a dim and seedy red light palely glows. These stairs can lead to heaven or hell, and most often both, for a whore's room is heaven in hell and hell in heaven I had walked up the stairs of many walk ups before that day, but turned and walk briskly away in fear, but it was only a matter of time. I could not but keep on going back, and one day I walked up and I was about to turn and go, when the maid, a woman in her fifties, opened the door at the top and told me to come in, and so I went in. This was in the early 1980s, when I was young and there were still many French ladies in Soho, most of whom were in their 30s and 40s, and the lady who introduced me to the delights of prostitutes was such a French lady, who was I imagine in her early forties, and she was gorgeous in the way that only a middle aged prostitute can be, and her name was Kiki. I paid her fifteen pounds and she sucked my nipples and kissed and licked my chest, and she sucked my cock without a condom and then put a condom on me and I fucked her and it was divine. That was 23 or 24 years ago.

My most recent was a couple of weeks ago, in the genelev, or public brothel, in Istanbul, Turkey, with a lady of 34 called Ezgi (which in English means ‘Melody'), and she was beautiful, in the trashy way that I love whores to be. Slim and curvy, with exotic, oriental features, friendly and fun and interesting to converse and drink tea with; between the two bouts of fucking that I indulged with her. I spent half an hour with her. I lay on the bed and she kissed me on the lips, her mouth open and her tongue in mine, and sucked my nipples and then kissed my chest and stomach slowly all the way down to my cock, which she sucked expertly for five minutes before putting a condom on it, using her mouth, and then riding me and allowing me to fuck her missionary and doggie until I came, all the while with my finger pushed inside her arsehole. Then after tea, we did it all again. She was lovely and I will visit her again and she will be my new regular lady. I have been in Istanbul for just under a year and she was my fifth lady in the genelev in Karakoy. I was looking for a lady to stick with, and although the other four were worth fucking the once, once was enough. One of them invited me to fuck her arse, which I delightedly did, as I adore anal sex and never more than with whores. But neither she, nor the other three, bewitched me, as Ezgi did.

My earliest experiences were all with older ladies of Soho, and as I became more confident, the more I relaxed and enjoyed my time with them. I don't remember them all now, but the memory of some of them had been burned onto my soul forever.

I remember a heavy and painted Italian lady in her mid forties, when I was 23 or so, who I paid for French (oral sex) and a little extra, to watch her play with her pussy, in a Soho walk up. ‘Nice pussy,' she purred as she knelt on the bed, stretching open her juicy great cunt lips, before throwing herself forward and swallowing my cock. I did not fuck her then, and I can't remember why, but around that time; it was the mid 80's, I had a phase of paying prostitutes to allow me to watch them masturbate and suck me off. Maybe it was the fear of Aids at that time in the 80s. By the way, in all my years of whores, I have never caught any venereal diseases.

It was about that time that I first experimented with watersports. My first experiences of the golden art were watching a few of my tarts pissing, and the first of all was a middle aged Soho lady who emptied a great flow of her golden rain into a bucket while I watched, and kept on repeating the phrase ‘nice wee, wee,' as she did it. And indeed it was nice. I had visited her before, and had French and sex with her, a couple of years before that day of watching a lady empty her bladder for the first time, and she was thinner then and younger looking. She seemed to have aged by more than the number of years since I had last seen her. She was heavier, and she had started to look, sometimes, like the saucy and sexy mother of your friend who lives down the street, and who you secretly want to fuck; not because she is glamorous, but because she is not, and she is your neighbour and your friends mother and there is something of the auntie about her. After her pissing and before sucking me off, she told me that she had another client for whom she would do the same thing, but that she would also have to make him drink it. ‘Makes me heave,' she said, but after many more years I would get to where my predecessor was, and drink it, straight from the gushing cunts of other whores.

Only two other whores besides Ezgi have bewitched me as Ezgi has. One was a lady named Carmen who was Spanish and who worked in a walk up in Frith Street in Soho at the Oxford Street End. She told me that she was 43, and I visited her many times over five or so years. She must have passed from 39 to 44 in that time, while I went from 28 to 33. She was magnificent; lover, mother, sister, friend, Goddess.

Carmen was the first woman to piss over my body and she performed the golden art on me expertly. I had longed to be pissed over by a middle aged woman for as long as I could remember, and by the time I was 29 or 30, I had more than ten years of experience of visiting prostitutes, and I had found the courage to be wholly frank with myself and them by then about what I desired; more frank than with women I have known and had relationships with.

The first time that I asked Carmen to do it, it was in addition to the usual service I bought from her. That was a body massage, and cock sucking, which always included her sucking my bollocks; her party piece, or signature as I like to say. All whores have one; some little trick that is theirs and which they perform expertly. Carmen was a superb cock sucker; superb even though she did it with a condom on me. She gobbled so well and her mouth was so warm, it felt like I was being sucked off bareback. The cock sucking was always followed by a fuck and her wonderful dirty talk; a filthy commentary in which she told me what to do to her and what a wild and filthy cock loving whore she was, while my cock fucked her gorgeous cunt, until I filled the condom with spunk. ‘Fuck my pussy. Give me all your spunk,' she would always cry out at me when she knew I was about to blow into her cunt. But of course it was the condom that every time got the cum blast; and it always was a blast, for this lady excited me beyond almost all other experiences I had had.

The day she pissed over me for the first time, we did the pissing before the cock sucking and the fucking. She laid a black plastic sheet on the floor and had me lie on it naked. She stood over me, squatting slightly forward and looking down. She asked me would I like her to hold her cunt open and I told her yes and she stretched her lips wide open and even pointed to her peehole, in case I did not know exactly where it was. My eyes fixed on her peehole and her cunt, hanging above my cock, where she was going to relieve herself and I was harder than I had ever been before.

Then at last it came, after she had strained for a minute or so. The sensation of the first splashes of her golden piss jet on my cock, followed by the full flow that lasted a minute or more was sublime. The sight of her piss gushing cunt, of her poised over me and looking down, and the warmth of her golden rain on my throbbing cock was the first time I was truly taken to the realm of the erotic; a place I had known existed, deep in my soul; and at last I had found the way to it. When her piss flow subsided, I was soaked in it and it was a most wonderful feeling.

I stopped seeing Carmen because I left England for Turkey. I visited Carmen once after leaving England. It was a year after I had left, and one of the last things I had done before leaving England was to visit Carmen and enjoy her piss and fuck her for what might have been the last time. It was not, as I saw her once more, the following summer, when I was back visiting England on holiday. She looked more than a year older; age was catching up with her, but she pissed and sucked and fucked as deliciously as ever; though I knew it was going to be the last time. I had moved on.

About four years after that; and even though every year in between I had been back to England and had at least one and often two prostitutes during my stay, I had not visited her. One day, five years after I had left England and fucked her goodbye; only to fuck her again the next year in what turned out to be the goodbye, I saw her name card on the wall inside the door of the old flat and went and knocked on a whim. She would have been 48 or 49 by then, but it was early in the afternoon and she had not arrived yet. I waited around outside, a discreet distance away, to see if she would come. I was meeting a friend and had little time, and she had not arrived by the time I had to leave.

Since Carmen I think at least twenty other prostitutes have pleasured me with their piss. A notable one was about four years ago now, and she was also my one and only south-east Asian lady. She was called Isabella and she worked in Soho too. She was forty and very beautiful and very oriental looking. She had coffee coloured skin and jet black hair, cut quite short. She squatted over me as I sat on the bidet and sprayed my cock with an ocean of piss, holding her cunt open the whole time and telling me to savour her champagne. Then she sucked me off and rode me, still sitting there on the bidet. She had magnificent nipples; they must have been three quarters of an inch long, and she pushed them into my mouth and made me suck them as she rode my cock with her hot and tight pussy.

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