Becoming a Prostitute Has Never Been Easier
Becoming a prostitute is a mind set, a cultural shift where girls no longer see any reason to feel ashamed, contrite or degraded.
Gone are the analogue days of standing on street corners in a short skirt that shows your knickers, or pasting cards in smelly phone boxes. In the digital age, becoming a prostitute is practically the fashion.
Finding new partners is a swipe away, easier than painting your toe nails. If you go on a dinner date and the guy is boring the fillings from your teeth during the main course, you can slip off to the loo, hit the smart-phone and hook up with somebody a taxi ride away in time for dessert.
Girls like sex. Sex is good for you. It’s healthy. It keeps you young. The stigma once attached to sleeping around is so last century. Many girls (boys, too) who need cash view becoming a prostitute in the same way as, say, working the night shift, just better paid. According to a recent survey, for 1 in 20 students, becoming a prostitute is seen not only as the only way to pay living expenses and college fees.
For a lot of girls, becoming a prostitute feels sexy, bohemian, written in the stars. Gemma, my best friend at school, is flighty, moody and beautiful. Her list of old boyfriends, ex-lovers, blind dates, strangers randomly met and internet one-nighters reads like a telephone directory abandoned in the Heartbreak Hotel.
In a school staging of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she once played the nymph Daphne, who pursues Apollo…
Apollo flies and Daphne holds the chase. The dove pursues the griffin. The mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger—bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies.
And the role of the nymphet stuck.
Becoming a Prostitute Blog
Gemma moved to Paris six months ago to polish up her French and I made the journey from Barcelona on the overnight train at the weekend to visit. Seeing old friends is like being a teenager again. You jug. You giggle. You slip back through time to who you were not whom you have become.
Apparently, I had not brought anything suitable for the Montmartre night ahead and Gemma dressed me in a black dress with a scooped back that showed the crack in my bottom, Mandaley mules, and my hair held in a chignon – très Français.
Gemma was stunning in scarlet with matching lipstick. She insisted on giving me a key, in case we split up, sprayed a cloud of Guerlain Shalimar in the air and we clip-clopped on our heels down two flights of stairs into a taxi driven by a man in a matelot shirt with a rakish moustache and dark glasses. Paris always lives up to the cliché.
The driver dropped us at the entrance to a hotel where the restaurant had a view across Paris to the Eiffel Tower, lit that night in red, white and blue. The table was waiting for us. Dinner consisted of small elegant portions on large plates which cost a fortune and we barely touched. We did finish the bottle of Moët & Chandon. When you say no to champagne you say no to life.
There is something sad and poignant being one of two girls dressed up with no one to admire you except the gay waiter from Austria with awful French and the fat man at the next table with the skeletal wife who resembled the remains of the trout meunière amandine pushed to the side of my plate.
After dinner, we went to the bar, where girls dressed like us, alone and in pairs, sat sipping cocktails and looking as if they were considering the existential benefits of becoming a prostitute. Two men joined us. Jean-Paul and Georges, both French, fluent English speakers and both ‘in finance,’ a phrase that always makes me imagine a man who goes home at night, strips off his clothes and gets into a bath filled with $100 bills.
How the deal was made, I have no idea, but ten minutes later, Gemma went to the loo and Jean-Paul followed. They vanished – to his room in the hotel, I would later discover. If Gemma, sparkly in red, was the prize, Georges didn’t seem miffed being left alone with me in black and an empty glass. He asked if I wanted another drink. I said no, and he shrugged and said: Let’s go up to my room?
I should insert here that I have never shied away from going to bed with strangers. Quite the opposite. There was a time when it was something I would seek out, just for the madness of it; the danger. But I wanted to confirm what I thought I already knew and asked with false naiveté: What for?
‘Well, to sleep together. Isn’t that why you are here?’
Georges was quite good looking, in a French rugby player sort of way. But the idea of becoming a prostitute that Montmartre night in Paris would never have entered my head.
I took a taxi back to Gemma’s apartment – the Mandaley mules were beginning to hurt – and drank mint tea while I opened my notebook and wrote a heading in green ink: Becoming a prostitute has never been easier.
5***** “Chloe Thurlow’s novel draws the reader into a world of love and desire. Moving at a pace and keeping up the suspense throughout, the heroic Katie Boyd falls for a doctor from a different world with different perspectives. Their worlds collide, and it is the chemistry between them that has the reader gripped to the end. There is nothing cliché in their relationship. The reader feels present in the story, especially in familiar locations in the novel, like the city of London. Brilliant and thoroughly enjoyable read.” Sarah Jeffery, Amazon