Miss S - Confessions Of a Working Girl: A True Story

CONFESSIONS

of a

Working Girl

a true story

MISS S

Copyright 2008 by Miss S

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This book is a memoir. It reflects the author's present recollections of her experiences. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

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Originally published in the United Kingdom in 2007 by Penguin Books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

S, Miss

Confessions of a working girl : a true story / Miss S.

p. cm.

"O

riginally published in the United Kingdom in 2007 by Penguin Books."

1. S, Miss. 2. Prostitutes--Great Britain--Biography. I. Title.

HQ185.S15 2008

306.74'2092--dc22

[B]

2008025809

Printed and bound in Canada

WC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To everyone that's paid a price.

Monday 29th

September 1997:

The First Shift

Evening shift 6 p.m.1 a.m.

3 x normal service = 60

2 x 5 tips = 10

Total earned: 70

Clients to date: 3

Mr. Tights Man wanted to see me and I hadn't even said hello. Polly, the receptionist, informed me when she came back up from "The Parlour." Holding a packet of new tights in one hand, she handed them to me with a slight smile. "He asked if you could wear these for him."

I took the packet with curiosity and dashed off to the bathroom to put them on. Sitting perched on a chair in the corner, I began to roll my hold-ups off my legs.

"So you've got John then!" I looked up, puzzled, at Chlo, who was looking at the nude-coloured tights I had laid on the black-and-white tiled floor at my feet. She had been fixing her hair at the sink mirror. "Better not wear your knickers...He likes that best."

She looked back to the mirror, completely oblivious to the fact that I was wearing a lacy bodysuit.

Chlo was a sickly-thin short biker in her late thirties, with a long brunette mullet which constantly needed combing but looked a mess no matter what she did with it. Scarecrows had nothing on Chlo. She didn't get much work. One or two men would pick her, if she was lucky. She rushed off and wished me luck as a buzzer went. Putting my heels back on, I clipped the gusset of the bodysuit closed. Picking up some condoms from the box by the sink as I left, I put them in the pocket of the cheap, short leopard-print robe I had been given to wear over my "uniform" and wrapped it around me.

So this was it: after sitting around for a few hours and saying hello to a couple of men, my first shift was finally about to begin. All the girls' advice from earlier that morning was bouncing around in my head as I teetered down to the room. He was standing up at the foot of the bed when I knocked and walked in. He said hello and told me to take off the robe and my underwear, so he could see me in just the tights. I obliged. It was a surreal scene, light music playing in the background. Anything could have been playing for all I caredI wasn't really listening.

I approached him, putting the rubbers on the bedside table. He was quite ordinary really, a ruddy, balding short guy with a pot belly. Turning me around, he stroked my encased bottom, down my legs, and around. He liked to rub me through the nylon, to make the fabric damp, he said. I had managed to suck a rubber on, as instructed, after reaching for it as he was on his knees sniffing at my behind. I was then asked quite politely to kneel on the bed on all fours. He positioned my bottom high in the air, took a deep sniff, and ripped a hole in the fabric for better access. It was all over in a few strokes and a shudder. At the last moment he whipped off the rubber and came all over my back. He said thanks and proceeded to have a shower; then it was my turn to wash away the stickiness he had left on me. After I had dried off and tidied up, he was ready to be shown out, fumbling a fiver into my palm as I stood at the door. It was all over in fifteen minutes flat! I saw him several times after that, but it never got any strangeralways the same routine, just different-coloured tights.

That was my first client: he knew exactly what he wanted, didn't take very long, and was polite. Still, a little disconcertingI didn't know what to make of it. Up in the waiting lounge I had thought to myself: what am I going to do if they are all as weird as this? I asked Chlo whether they were all that bizarre. No, she reassured meMr. Tights Man was definitely one of the exceptions. My relief was short-lived when a few hours later a client notoriously known to the girls as Mr. Suck It Bitch summoned me to the Green Room. Again, I hadn't even said hello to him. Apparently, as a new girl, I had the privilege of being picked sight unseen.

Mr. Suck It Bitch came in twice a weekhis wife was pregnant and otherwise occupied. Why "Suck It Bitch"? No one was forthcoming with the answer, but as I headed out of the lounge, I was assured that all would become clear by a girl who had just tottered by with the obligatory small plastic bundle of rubbish.

Mr. Suck It Bitch wasn't as bad as he sounded, a very presentable guy in his thirties, smart suit, and a bit of a laugh. Well, his thing, plain and simple, was a good hard blow-job, which was something I knew I did well. I didn't feel as nervous as I could have done. I still felt uneasy as I got to the end part of the massagehe really didn't seem to deserve the nasty tag the girls had given him, but what did I know, he was only my second client! He rolled off the bed and stood up as bold as brass at the side of the bed, his erection standing proud, hands on his hips. I sat there on the mattress with the condom in hand, tearing it open with nimble fingers and holding the rim; I pulled and sucked at the rubber surrounding him, all the while listening to his non-stop commentary, starting with a hearty "Ahhh..." and escalating to a cry of "Come on then, bitch. Suck it, bitchSuck it, bitch" OK, yep, I got it now. He forced my head down on him with his hands. Why do guys do that? I gagged time and time again as he sought to shove himself further down my throat.

Pulling out of his deep-throat exploit, he gasped and flipped me over so suddenly that I had hardly caught my breath before he plunged in between my legs and was in me up to the hilt. He was spent in one fell swoop and lay on top of me in a sweaty mess. Easing off me, he stretched like a pleased canine as I reached for the tissues to take off the condom and wipe him clean, depositing the rubbish in one of the small bags at the side of the bed. "Marvellousfucking marvellous," he groaned and, kissing me on the forehead, he bounded into the shower, leaving me to tidy up. Smiling as he emerged, I held a towel out for him and climbed under the still running water myself, to wash off his sweat, among other things.