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I remember one evening, in the clinic where I used to drink coffee and collect condoms, a particular humorous remark made to a young prostitute by one of the older women. The humor—for those it is lost on—was in the absurdity. The truth of the matter is that the nature of prostitution flavours the sexual act as far too distasteful and too sleazy and too bound up with degradation to allow any kind of wholesale enjoyment.
Of course this will fly in the face of the fantasists, but the reality of prostitution usually does. That is not to say these unique and exceptional experiences do not, once in a blue moon, occur.
For some women, they do, and when they do, no-one is more surprised than the woman herself. I would know, because on two occasions those experiences happened to me.
When I was sixteen I was released from a court order, the purpose of which had been to keep me detained for my own protection. It did not have the required effect. Anyway, this did not happen; I was released after a few months and it was at this point I went to live in the brothel on Leeson Street. The first car that pulled up on my first night back on the streets was driven by a young man in his early to mid-twenties.
He was attractive, not disrespectful in his manner and he was shy, quiet, not speaking to me much on the way to the laneway I used. When we arrived there I realised that I was aroused. I suddenly realised that I missed it; I missed being held and touched. He pulled out his wallet and asked how much he owed me.