Being Propositioned by Whores

Whores fascinate me, they always have. Oh and yes, I'm going to use the word whore. Not prostitute or escort or lady of the night or even hooker. Nothing else fits quite as well as whore.

I once got told by a co-worker that I must hate loose women as I used the word whore. This is untrue. For one, whores aren't loose women. Loose women don't get paid to have unsatisfying sex with ugly men named Darren or Kevin. Whores do. Secondly, I think even whores themselves would appreciate a word which has a little bit more of an auditory impact. For example, I'd rather get described as a fag than a homosexual.

Anyway, I'm off-topic here.

I'm interested in whores. Purely in the same way that I'm interested in sharks. If there was some sort of aquarium where they were all kept, I would have a season ticket.

The first time I got propositioned by one was when I was living back in New York. I was walking around the village and it was dark and relatively quiet. I saw a woman, dressed in what I practically deemed to be unsuitable for such harsh weather. She stumbled my way and asked if I would 'like to party.'

I reacted in the way I would have reacted had someone offered me a marshmallow at the point where my stomach just couldn't let me say yes. A simple 'no thanks', coupled with a thin, courteous smile. Inside, of course, I was booming. I felt flattered. A woman who makes it her business to have sex with men, asked ME if I wanted to be her next client.

This initial jubilation soon gave way as my mind picked apart exactly what it was which caused her to approach me. Firstly it was a cold, quiet night. Apart from the pimps and drug dealers, I was probably the only dick around. Secondly it was an area populated by students. I was wearing my preppiest Abercrombie shirt and looking whiter than white. She was safe to assume I had money (If only she had known that I was a gay journalist). Finally, I realised there may not be any grand planning behind her simple request to 'party' - she was after all at work and needed to fulfill her quota for the night.

Regardless, I walked home proud that night. I was a real man, turning down whores left, right and centre.

The second occasion happened just a few weeks ago.

I was walking down 'sex alley' in London (a small stretch of sex shops and strip shows located in Soho which also serves as a useful shortcut) when I spotted what looked to be a lost housewife at the end. It is worth noting that my eyesight is piss-poor at the best of times.

She was in her 40s, had a long purple coat on and looked as if she had been shown the wrong way to John Lewis. I was positive that she needed someone to help her find her way back to the safety of the olive counter. As I approached, I could see her saunter closer and just as I expected to hear a kind request for directions, the words 'do you wanna cum?' emerged and fell on the pavement between us.

Again, I resumed the marshmallow defence and kindly declined, walking away.

I was pleased to think that I looked like someone who had the sort of disposable income that would allow for the occasional whore here or there but in 'sex alley' that wasn't a tough image to portray.

My fascination continues but from afar it will remain. Sharks and whores will forever remain enigmatic creatures to me. Soho can at least be my Sea World for now. Looking but most definitely not touching.