A friend of mine told me this story, which seems to fit well with this site. Maybe I should get the female protagonist to advertise her services here - what do you think?
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Anyway, I was walking up Portman Road last night, on my way back from the station, having attended the Stowmarket beer festival. I was planning to pick up some food somewhere, then head home and finish watching the special features on the Inferno DVD.
I heard a voice calling me from behind as I walked. A rough, female, smokers voice trying to be sexy, that was immediately identifiable as one of Ipswich's many entry-level street whores.
Now these 'girls' are pretty manky, really, and I've never before stooped to that level - in the past when I've paid for sexual services I've done so in an organised professional establishment, or arranged to meet directly in response to advertisements. This wasn't my thing, and I knew it.
Where I'd usually quicken my pace, avert my eyes, and possibly respond with a cursory 'no thank you', 'not tonight' or 'I'm gay', I instead stopped to talk to her. Which was a bit out of character.
She liked that my t-shirt said 'bass player' and liked that I played instruments. Apparently she used to be a singer, and lots of people said she sounded like Heather Small out of M-People. She did have a big mouth.
Yep. Rough and manky as expected. But for some reason - and it's not like I'd actually been drinking that much - I found myself agreeing to the transaction, and inviting her to my nearby flat.
FFS, my flat is in a mess, there were various freaky implements strewn about the place (not least various toys of the anal persuasion), and there was visible evidence of self-harming activity on my person, and around my flat.
In a strange dream-like surreality, I found myself leading this working girl home, and agreeing a price, while telling her that I was gay, and might not be able to get it up. Already I knew it wasn't going to work out.
What followed was possibly the least arousing and strangest 'sexual' acts ever.
She got enthusiastic about my piercings, but then its standard call-girl technique to pick up on an aspect of the punter and compliment them on it. What was she meant to say? Nice fat? Nice scars? Nice red socks? (Actually she did say that.)
She had a gold tooth, and soft, small breasts with big pointy nipples. It didn't do a whole lot for me. Not even the nipple-69 thing.
I could not get anything approaching wood for love nor money. She kept talking about her gay dead heroin-overdose brother who apparently looked like Michael Hutchence. 'You'd love my brother', she kept saying, and 'He was gay', and 'I wish he was here, then you'd be alright'.
I'm not even sure she was that experienced as her fingers and mouth didn't exactly flow with years of assuredness. It was workmanlike, desperate, embarrassing for both of us, as she tugged and bobbed, failing completely to get any rise out of me.
Completely detached from the scenario, I felt like I was listening to a porn soundtrack as she said the obligatory 'come on, get it hard for me, yeah, make it hard boy!' - such was the lack of sensation.
Maybe it wasn't the technique, but something in my mind. Who knows. I didn't have the nervous feeling, or the excited feeling, or anything. Nothing. After a while she realised it wasn't going to happen, and wanted out, becoming increasingly desperate to leave as soon as possible to escape the embarrassment.
She told me to visit her at her place. I'd like it better there, she said. My walls were the wrong colour, she said. It would be better if her brother was there, she said. The Feng Shui was bad, and the atmosphere negative, she said. I needed to take better care of the place and myself, she said.
I was keen to show her out, and try to make sense of this strange episode.
She was out of her depth, and had failed in her job. She has problems of her own, I'm sure. An inability to get any repeat business, for a start.
She gave me her number.
I don't think I shall be calling it.
