I had a foray into sex work many years ago before coming back to make it a regular part-time thing.
At this particular time in my life, I was working from a small studio flat in a large block of apartments in central Exeter. It was a clean and tidy little place, but really, it was nothing special.
One day a posh sounding man (nothing unusual there) called “Jack” contacted me to make an appointment.
I let him in and immediately thought to myself, “Oh God, this guy wants me to think he’s ______ ______, look he’s even gone to the trouble of buying the same coat. What a twit!”
He was dressed exactly as I’d often seen him in the national Press – long beige coat included.
“Oh you know who you look like don’t you?” I asked.
I was thinking to myself, “OK, I’m not going to fawn over you because you look like a shorter version of Mr T.”
He was looking down, counting out his money.
ASIDE: I wasn’t, and never have been what they call, a “high class escort”. I’ve always charged the going rate and actually, considering I usually go over time by about ten minutes, a little bit cheaper than that. My thinking has always been to keep prices reasonable and get those regular clients coming back. Plus I’m fairly vanilla – there are things I just don’t do!
He was counting the £50 out (!!) (I think I saw some moths escape), grinning sheepishly before asking who (whom?) that was. I said: “Well you look just like —— ——“. He softly asked (his voice throughout was just above a whisper) what I thought of “that situation”.
“I think he’s a wan*er. I love Princess Diana” (This was before she was murdered).
He croaked/whispered: “Well there’s always two sides to every story isn’t there!”
He was actually a gentleman throughout our session and kept whispering how “beautiful” I was (I call this cock talk). He was extremely vanilla and just wanted the usual things most of my men want.
He came to see me once more after that, but I was a tad off-hand with him and didn’t see him again. I just didn’t get the whole dressing up and pretending to be someone else thing.
Meanwhile, I received a call from a man who ran a working country house (Read: brothel) asking me if I’d seen —— ——. I told him I had indeed seen a look-alike, but Brothel Guy insisted it was no doppelganger – it was Mr Treason himself – did I want to help them sell a story about him.
I didn’t (I was sneaking around and didn’t fancy telling Mum I was hooking on the side).
A few months later it was all over the media.
His modus operandi was obviously to rock up just as he was, thinking that no one would ever think it was him because who could be that audacious and cocky?!
Talking about cocky. Did you ever read the rumours that he had a big ‘un?
Not so. Strictly average as I remember!