The night I spent with a prostitute, eating chicken wings

Eating chicken wings with a prostitute, hardly a euphemism but an actual evening that occurred, in yet another unexpected random London night.

Anyone familiar with what sights and sounds Kilburn High Road has to offer, especially after dark, will understand and possibly appreciate the circumstances and events that could unfold when hanging about long enough. 

Besides the wall to wall vomit and the familiar vagrant shouting, "hey bruv, got any change?" It wasn't unusual for me to have another adventure, except this night may have been the most interesting.

With a dead mobile phone, I stood at the bus stop at 12 am waiting for that damn bus, which now and then gets cancelled or rescheduled for no reason, and this night was no exception. It's famous for being the most unreliable route.

As I stood waiting and being lied to by the automated bus schedule, another 15 minutes went by. A woman approached the bus stop, she stopped to look at the signboard and let out a huge sigh. “Yep, cancelled again” I said to her. I was bored, exhausted, alcohol-infused and in an obnoxious mood. She just looked at me with a vacant stare. Welcome to London commuting.

We both waited a little longer, perhaps another 10 minutes before we struck a conversation. As I said, I was bored, I asked her a question or two about the bus, just enough to engage a conversation. Another 10 minutes later and we were smoking, I, of course, bummed a lighter and Rizla from her. Smokers always seem to be the most social people.

We made some small talk until I started to get hungry and noticed that the famous fried chicken spot was still open.

“Chicken wings?” I asked her. She shook her head declining my offer. When I returned with my pseudo-fresh wings drenched in delicious heart-attack inducing flavours, I noticed she was still sitting there. I opened the box and kept my offer open. "Heart attack?" I offered. She laughed and hesitated at first, but relented. She took a bite of my wing... I was in there.

Not that this is by any means my method of “picking up random chicks”, granted it worked, but not tonight. I, like a few other people, become chatty and obnoxious when over-tired and alcohol induced, but in a wearing off tipsy state, so fuck it, let's chat.

We continued to chat about a few light topics while munching away at the BBQ wings. I pretty much could detect that she was by no means some innocent, stranded damsel in distress, something about her gave it away that she may have been a professional by other means. Did I care? No, I had someone to talk to, share wings and kill time.

It wasn't a moment later after I made this rationalisation, she dropped that she was a prostitute. “Oh, for real?” I replied. “Long day?”, yeah, a pretty dumb thing to say, but she found it amusing. I carried on being aloof to her responses and began to joke around by giving a few silly yet amusing replies.

An hour had passed and still no bus.

She then decided to start walking towards her house which was a good 3 miles up the road. She knew I would be heading in the same direction and offered her company if I cared to walk with her.

Now at this point, three things came to mind. One, I never thought I would be walking up the street with a rather attractive prostitute, and two, I never thought I would be sharing chicken wings with a rather attractive prostitute.

Third? I really am curious about this girl, but more about her lifestyle and career choice. I wanted to find out more.

A few more things would be coming to mind as the evening unfolded.

So we started heading out. As we walked on, we started asking questions about each other's lives, nothing too personal, but light questions, where we’re from, how long we've been in London, the usual crap.

At some point a bus whizzed passed, our bus to be precise.

Too late, we were too far from the nearest bus stop and being friendly bus drivers, he would have just driven off, but at least we knew the bus was back in operation.

So we proceeded to the next stop and decided to wait a little longer for the next one. The next bus would be there in about 28 minutes. It beat walking another mile and a half.

We continued to chat. It was precisely here she went quiet and asked me why I have not propositioned her after knowing we had got along and especially knowing her profession?

I joked in response stating she obviously hadn't met her daily targets. She didn't find it too amusing but found it a little funny a few seconds later.

I declined in the best way possible, “I appreciate the gesture, but I am seeing someone, and I wouldn't feel right by her but thank you.” Fair enough, she left it there, mentioning that honesty is not something she sees very often in her profession. I am sure.

We continued to joke around, perhaps a little light flirting, but nothing that could escalate circumstances. I was not interested, and she could sense it, but we still enjoyed the fun and innocent attention.

30 minutes, still no bus.

40 minutes passed, again, no bus, we then decided to walk on again.

At that point, I was exhausted, and either needed sleep or an energy drink, even for its placebo effect, who cares. 

We stopped at an all-night supermarket and decided to make an outing out of it and bought a few snacks for the trip.

As we started making our way down the road, I said to her I would love to ask her more questions about her lifestyle, as I would want to document this not only for my curiosity but would love to write about it. She agreed and jokingly asked for a 50% cut if it ever turns into a book. “20% and we got a deal, my last offer” I replied.

We still had another 45 minutes of walking after all, so I asked her more questions. We got on to the topic of how she ended up “this way”. She was from an abusive household and ran away when she was 16, typical, and nothing special. She got involved with the wrong crowd but eventually broke away.

She didn't come across as one of those stereotypical “hookers”, she was well-groomed, took care of herself and pretty street smart. Smarts she had picked up from spending 12 years on the streets. I couldn't pity her at any point, not that she would have wanted it, she was an intelligent 28-year-old, but obviously lacked something from breaking away completely.

I had to ask her what's next?

“What's next? I am saving up to start a business as a physiotherapist, I have another year left of studying”.

Physiotherapist? A complete game changer, I was not expecting that. Each question I was now going to ask, was going to open another thousand questions.

She chose physiotherapy because she knows she is good with her hands. As if I had any doubts, I thought, but she also felt that by providing sex and massages, she saw it as a form of therapy.

Odd, but look, if this was her justification, who cares, she believed it and if it helped to cope until she retired, I admired her tenacity.

She sighed, “another 10 minutes, you can come up and charge your phone if you want?”. She had to add one last bit to that sentence... “we're not having sex, you're seeing someone, okay?”

Now three things crossed my mind at that point. One, I never thought I would be walking up the street with a rather attractive prostitute, two, I never thought I would be entering the apartment of a prostitute. Three, “did I just get cockblocked by a prostitute?”

We had arrived at her apartment, as we entered, it was really not what I had pictured. It was a cosy, clean, beautiful apartment. Not to say that a run-down-little-shit-hole is synonymous with a lady of the night, no, but it was homely, almost to the point you would expect to see a loving husband and a little tyke or two come out to greet mommy home. It was that homely, with some very lavish art items I noticed, yep, she had good taste.

She took my phone to put it on charge, seated me down and proceeded to make a cup of coffee, and sweet enough to offer me something to eat. I declined, but she ignored my reply and presented a salad minutes later.

We spoke more, we spoke about intimacy. She refused to kiss her clients, it was too intimate to her. Regardless she allowed them access to her holiest of holies, she managed to cling on to some special aspect that would define intimacy from just sex, or just fucking for that matter.

I could understand that. I made a statement that many women don't often see it as being a problem with kissing random guys in clubs and such, as it's just a kiss to them. I always deemed that a kiss is deadly, perhaps for the woman it’s fine, but to some men, it's the engagement of more.

Those were my opinions, anyway.

Surprisingly, she fully agreed, which I was pretty relieved. Who better to get feedback about this than an actual sex worker who has seen it all? If I want plumbing advice, I certainly wouldn't ask an electrician, after all.

She added that a kiss is the most intimate act one can express. “Fucking is easy, passion requires something more”. I was starting to really like this girl.

This was weird for me, what the fuck was going on here? Could I see myself with a girl like this? Sweet, kind, a hidden heart? Yes, but no, I am not certain I could... besides I was seeing someone at the time, so no. Looking back after breaking up? Yes, I could but still a no.

She didn't have a boyfriend, I know, male instinct in me had to ask, for curiosity, I think?

She prefers to stay single until she could "put all this behind her". Not that she had any regrets, she had a comfortable home, studying a profession and earning rather well. Her justification of performing sex was no different from a bricklayer, a service that has been around for centuries, in demand and just as laborious and draining. She had thought this through I thought, and who am I to judge or reverse engineer her rationality?

I could only assume or look on in from the outside on what she said, felt or experienced, she knew way more than I could ever imagine.

“If you found the right guy, will you let him know about your past?” I asked her.

She replied “If I can avoid it, I won’t tell him. Not everyone has to know everything, just because I fucked for a living does not mean I have to let him know. I will be a physio by then, so it won't matter”.

“Guilt? Holding secrets?” “Forgive me, but I am finding some sort of philosophy in this” I replied.

“Fuck guilt, he wouldn't have to know if I was a waitress, it's only seen as guilt because I am a sex worker which is seen as taboo or dirty. It’s not that I am harming anyone, so some secrets are best left out, but it depends... if I tell him it's because I want to tell him, but not for the guilt”.

I liked her, she was certainly smart and showed similar philosophies.

“Besides...” she added, “would you even tell your girl that you’re here with me right now?”

I laughed and replied “I will have to, I will want to write about this, so she will have to know, she knows me well enough, and besides, if she doesn't believe me, well then, she's the wrong girl”

“Well, hopefully, she doesn't understand” she replied as she smiled back.

Fuck, was that an obvious flirt?

One more question before my phone was charged enough to Uber home, “are you happy?”

“Four years ago I would say no, but because I have a purpose to finish my degree, it's the happiest I have ever been”. Probably the best reply anyone has given me about happiness, and damn well done to her!

That was good enough for me, my phone had charged and we exchanged contact details. I stayed for another hour or so, just enough for us to have become well acquainted. Would we keep in touch? We certainly did, but not for nothing else other than knowing that there is a good soul out there.

A few more months and she will be qualified, but I do recall her promising me a free massage, on a professional level that is. As if I would decline...

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