My ex-boss wandered into my office one day and proclaimed, with an odd mixture of pride and shame, "I love paying for it".

He then revealed that he kept a diary of all the prostitutes with whom he had made the beast with two backs. He gave marks for various elements of the experience - perhaps attractiveness, technique, hygiene, dismount - one can only speculate.

How quickly they got out of his face after the deed was done was certainly an important factor.

What really made him brim with ill-placed pride however, was the varied ethnic origin of his paid-for conquests.

In a tone of voice which conveyed excitement and worldiness superior to anything we could imagine, he bragged:

"I've had international pussy"

In retrospect I think his write-ups on these women of the night would make excellent node fodder, and am considering pointing him in the direction of E2 for the purpose of Everything Entertainment.

Then again, for all our sakes, maybe not..

Oh yes. Paying for sex really pushes my buttons. How else other than by the outlay of large denomination banknotes and/or credit card usage am I, a fat, overbearing, snaggle-toothed, walking abortion, going to get the sort of premier grand cru grade quim that I regularly get stuck up on the regular basis that I so do?

Of course, she's not a prostitute. If you must know, she's more like my gilly, or my concubine. I don't actually make deals like "if you give me £25.00, I'll slobber on your maypole" or similar. No, rather, I buy her large quantities of expensive consumer goods and every so often she lifts her (extremely short designer) skirts for me. It's advantageous to all parties. I get to parade around and truthfully brag to my gittish cadaver-in-waiting mates that I'm getting my end away with an FHM-standard Perfect Ten every night - and firing them when I feel like a change, and she gets to parade around with vast quantities of expensive clobber and jewelry and suchlike and get the admiration of her equally shallow and pointless pals. And if I get bored I can always terminate her retainer without the annoying formality of a divorce and having my estate cut up as a result of same, and march down to Boujis or Mo*Vida or Chinawhite and find some other "socialite" cut from the same cloth as her, of which there are thousands.

And the best thing is, if I called it prostitution, which, frankly, it is, it would be totally Not Cool, but nobody says that because they're all secretly approving of it in any event. Everyone's a winner. And, unlike if I was actually in a relationship with her, she's not bugging me about getting married or moving in or suchlike. I just want tits and arse that don't squish in my hands and a box that'll grip what I push and without all the bollox that comes with it, but without the social stigma of having to explicitly pay for it. Comparing this arrangement to prostitution is like the difference between bribery, which is immoral and criminal and corrupt, and lobbying, which is entirely respectable and above board.

Actually, no, that's the second best thing. The best thing is that it doesn't cost me more to give it her up the wrong'un. That's definitely a plus.

(Inspired by the proliferation of pointless nobodies and "aspiring models" in slebmags and red-topped gutter tabloids talking about how they shagged some famous person and are now spilling the beans. What must be going through these peoples' minds?)

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.