I remember some nondescript, uncle would be the word, talking with a pretty young thing, and was immediately disgusted that beautiful youth and ugly age should mix so. I wondered what it feels like standing there. Calling out to those who walk past. Grabbing an arm. Later, we were eating downstairs, safe, laughing about old times, talking about people we’ve never seen for ages. At the same time, girls are fucking their clients, so incongruously, they are fucking them.
We drove down a road, and the girls were all standing alongside, the best looking ones at the beginning. As the car drove by slowly, I was conscious of the guilty pleasure of looking, the opposite end of which is people watching while sipping your coffee. The window afforded protection, but from what? There was an irresistible urge to look and gape and wonder. But I struggled to understand. I mean, is it wrong to pay for sex? Now walking within arm’s reach, I saw another car with windows drawn down, guys inside leering at the girls with a mixture of wide-eyed smiles and curiousity. I couldn’t look the girls in the eye, and when I did, one winked at me and playfully clicked her tongue.