Bedtime Stories for Big Girls

I have just writtent this, as a bit of practice. Hope you like. Bit rough around the edges but if I start tweaking I'll be here all bloody day.


1990
The gritty details were organised by Tina, an older hostess at a Champagne club in the West End of London which I had started working at that night. I was to receive £90 for my sins.
“Ninety pounds” I thought, trying to concentrate on what Tina was saying. “Ninety bloody pounds. That’s about two hundred and sixty NZ dollars. Yeehar!"
I was only used to doing it for about 80 or 100 NZ dollars. Well, fuck me, I thought. Then I laughed out loud because that was exactly what was going to happen! Things do seem funnier when you’re drunk, don’t they.
“Are you listening?” demanded Tina “Get the money first, it’s very important!”
“I know, I know. I’ve done this before you know, just not in London”
Being practically straight off the plane from New Zealand, I thought £90 was a fair sum. What a fool!


After an evening of sipping & tipping fine champagne I felt slightly giddy. “Too much sipping and not enough tipping” Tina scolded in my ear, as I giggled thanks and goodbye. I was soon to learn that the real problem wasn’t too much champagne, but not enough cocaine.
However, drunk as I was, I was nowhere near as drunk as my client and that’s they way you want it to be.

Back at his flat, it all happened-or rather didn’t happen- in a matter of minutes, and my first ever client in England fell into what can only be described as a drunken coma, confirmed by a good poke in the ribs with minimal reaction.
I looked at him, lying naked, his withdrawn, limp dick looking more like a cartoon piggy’s snout than anything remotely phallic. Was it something I said, I wondered?
Another sharp poke in the ribs got the response I wanted. Absolutely nothing, not even a grunt of discomfort. Rising off the bed, I stripped off my stockings and lacy underwear in a most undesirable, unprofessional fashion and stuffed them into a large handbag which also contained my jeans, a tee shirt and a pair of clean, cotton knickers. I slung the bag over my shoulder and disappeared into the bathroom. Sex or no sex, I had worked up a sweat at the club, dancing to all the eighties hits, with his clammy hands touching my bare shoulders and that was enough for me to want to scrub down
The en suite had a fantastic shower, and for a bloke that lived alone, his towels were remarkably soft and smelt of summer fresh fabric softener. Probably courtesy of his cleaner no doubt, as he seemed to have a few bob.
As I was drying off I checked my reflection closely for signs of guilt of my latest transgression (I always tried to check) but saw none, so I rolled up one of the smaller towels and stuffed it in my bag and checked again. Nope, still nothing, so I took a new-looking flannel and two bars of wrapped soap. I was moving into a flat and needed all the help I could get to set myself up. Right down, in fact, to a bottle of vodka, a purple paisley shirt (it was much nicer than it sounds, honestly) and two pairs of white sports socks, brand new. (He had about fifty pairs!). Oh, and enough of his marijuana to last about a week, seeing as he had a huge bag of it.
His wallet, that was stuffed with cash, I left untouched, as I am not a thief, just a homemaker. To throw him off track about the rest of the stuff, I left a note by the wallet telling him to be more careful about the girls he brought home as I could have taken anything! Although, I did admit to taking some weed, as most potheads don’t mind about stuff like that when they have as much of it as he had. So long as you’re honest!
I glanced in the hallway mirror on my way, and saw an innocent face grinning back, free from guilt. I wondered, could there be a portrait of me tucked up in some dusty attic somewhere, my features a twisted, contorted, dribbling grimace? I should be so lucky. I knew even then my looks wouldn’t last forever, so I’d better make the most of it, romp in the hay while the sun was shining.
I decided to walk a little before catching a cab to my sisters flat in Putney. It was about 4.30am and the sun was rising above the rows of terraced roofs, teasing them with a glimmer of another hot and hazy day.
I had absolutely no idea where I was in London, but I think it was close to Putney as it didn’t take long to get home, and the driver had no complaints about going south of the river.
Although he did tell me I could pay the fare by blow job, (did he know I was a whore or did he try it on with every girl he picked up at that time in the morning?) which I gracefully declined. After all, I had ninety of your finest English pounds. I was rich!