Maybe you live in a fine, quiet, suburban neighborhood; a place with money, and but one STD going around from a well-known culprit (hint: it’s the hitchhiking hobo just come into town, and it ain’t Jack Reacher). Not me. I live in what is termed "a poor man’s Brighton." Seeing as Brighton is the gay capital of Europe, a haven for AIDS, thinking about what a poor man’s penis must look like where I’m from is a sad state of affairs indeed. It is essentially one enormous genital wart. Nobody sleeps in a poor man’s Brighton.

When times get tough (what is termed a "pussy-embargo"), cheap variations are plentiful. I found mine in a massage parlor on the corner of a long stretch of road from my house called The Sunset Boulevard or "Uh-oh, I bet I know where he’s going" Street. I saw Asians inside, and came up with my own, albeit racist, conclusions, that turned out to be entirely well-founded on good, racist accusations.

She was doing it for the money, and I was gradually breaking her into anal, but over the years it was an almost pleasant exchange. My first time was nerve-racking to say the least. I kept my boxers on, and I think I suppressed an erection with the steam rolling out of my eyes with thoughts of, "It’s not that kinda place. It’s not that kinda place." After my first time, I thought innocently, "Well, that was a mighty fine massage. I must go again."

And thus you become a regular—someone unlikely to blab about the shop’s custom. Which is why I’m writing this document of the four years of decadence that followed my second visit, and my first paid handjob (which, frankly, just isn’t the same; no finesse, no slowing down at climax, and no violently squeezing the glans while screaming at your testicles to "pump that iron"—disappointing to say the least, and no amount of tears do such disappointment justice).

I pretty much started a relationship with a prostitute; she was a very beautiful, intelligent, well-spoken woman with HUMUNGOUS TITS. I’m not a breast man, but hot-diggity you haven’t lived until you’ve had a pair of ‘em slapped across your chin, right into your eyes. I grew very fond of this young woman; I cared for her. I would buy her Doritos and bring them to the shop where she worked, romantic-like, because her hours were from nine ‘til nine and she was forbidden to go anywhere after closing time. Or before opening time. There is a word for this.

I became a little infatuated with her in ways that would impede me from meeting any other women who wouldn’t fuck me for money. There was a language barrier, but out of all the prostitutes I’d been with, she understood me the most, so we were clearly destined for love, it was just how long it took us to get there. I would say "blowjob," and she would hear "I’ll call you"; she would say "Motherfucker you think this pussy is free?!" and I would hear "Get out before I call the police and don’t forget your wallet!"

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She would make house visits, but play it like a woman who had freedoms. You have to admire that kind of obliviousness to her situation, like the women who expect me to invest in a house and our baby’s food. Steadily we seemed to grow fonder of each other, a kind of familiarity that made me care for her deeply. Of course, she was doing it for the money, and I was gradually breaking her into anal, but over the years it was an almost pleasant exchange. Even if she would yawn during intercourse, at least we could laugh about it during, so magical was the bond.

And then, drunk, I told her I loved her… in the middle of a handjob. That wasn’t cool. I genuinely had feelings for this woman. She made me feel like a good man enough times when I’d been at my lowest (by good, I of course refer to breaking a woman’s coccyx in half with my indomitable five-and-a-half inches of kosher pride), yet all she could do was roll her eyes. And, no joke, that was the last time I saw her. I think she wanted to tell me she felt the same, but that she couldn’t, for the agony in her heart and the citizenship papers she’d just cleared. Maybe that’s why she stuck her middle finger into my asshole just before I came, I know not.

Now, aside from losing my virginity at the not-so-tender age of 24, prostitution is one of the only ways I’ve gotten laid, and, being drunk most of the time, it often results in waking up with holes in my wallet, hangovers, and regret. I think part of this is because, well, despite the lack of cleanliness in being covered head to toe with baby oil, jacked off, and then returning to the local pub for a pint, sex for me is rarely about finishing; I’m better off staying at home, frankly, masturbating.

But there have been pluses to my exploits: my first breast-job, holy fucks, what an orgasm! When a masseuse squeezes your moobs together and makes them look like your very own pair of jugs? AND YOU CAN LICK THE NIPPLES?! Best. Fucking. Climax. There have also been times when everything has gone so smoothly, we were like angels making love in the palm of God’s hand. And when it was my turn to orgasm (oh yes… ladies), I’ve expected nothing spectacular, only to scream at my balls two seconds later to stop doing what they’re doing afore my anus becomes prolapsed from the intensity.

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One of my regulars at one time was a 64-year-old Asian woman, and let me tell you, them women age well, son! I have licked the assholes of at least five prostitutes, and while this can best be described as unsavory (hepatitis B being endemic in China), one of them tried anal sex for the first time following my displays of mad tonguing skills, so you tell me there’s anything wrong with that.

Is it a good idea to go down on a hooker when she’s jumped into the shower five minutes prior to your hardcore session of intimacy? When semen and vaginal fluids are hardly disparately tasting substances? The ansther ith yeth, of coorthe. I consider myself a good to capable lover (in that order, at any one time), but in foreplaying, I discovered that as a man, the very last thing I can do is multi-tasking; I tell you, it’s a good thing women don’t have Adam’s apples, because otherwise rubbing the clitoris in a clockwise motion and sensually kissing the neck would result in headbutts, a broken windpipe, and fisting.

Having sex with prostitutes is a good moral indicator of how much you care for women on the strength of their circumstances (like, she wants you to cook her dinner but hasn’t the money to pay for the ingredients). There are times in my life when I know I’ve done wrong, but generally I consider myself to have fought hard for the type of person I am, and for good reason. And then, outside of public domain, when it comes to friends and relationships, I think myself almost an aristocrat of high-pedigree morality and outstanding social correctness.

Not so when it comes to illegal immigrant prostitutes.

I have been drunk enough to convince newcomers to the country, who don’t know the value of British currency, to try anal for twenty pounds (roughly $45), because a boy’s training wheels have got to come off sometime, right?

I just realized how that last line might have read, so to clarify, it was me sticking my penis into someone else’s anus. And by that, I mean totally a WOMAN’S anus, pot-shot and to the side!

There are not many things I’ve done in this life where I’ve thought it would get me a one-way ticket to hell, but this is certainly one of them. And to you hopefuls out there, anal is purely a visual thing; it is in no way more intimate, and the wide-open space on the inside almost defeats the purpose of the tighter muscle, which wouldn’t be the tightest of the two if you knew how to perform your vaginal duties. There, you have been told, from one guru to another.

Or as my yellow-skinned lady love called me, guwu.

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