Different Strokes

Published September 29, 2010 by Claire

In the three years I’ve been lifting my skirts for a shilling or two, I’ve come to realise there are two types of ‘escort’.

First, the ladies who are in this purely for the folding stuff. The women who hold their clients in contempt, who profess to have no feelings except those of disdain for the ‘poor fools’ who visit them. The women who will post mockingly on ‘Ladies-only’ forums about the latest poor sap to get his wings caught in their sticky web, who will boast about the ‘fool’ who wants to please them, perhaps sexually, or perhaps by offering gifts and sometimes more. Who will speak of him behind his back as though he were something they’d wipe from their shoe in disgust, and then whisper sweet nothings into his ear with a saccharine-sweet smile that hides the calculator buzzing behind the eyeballs. These are the women with whom I am ashamed to share the tag ‘prostitute’.

Thankfully, there are plenty of what I’ll call ‘Type 2’ hookers. These are the ladies who, whilst they obviously enjoy the benefits of working shorter hours and earning a good wage, also choose to do this job because they enjoy the company of their clients. They respect their gentlemen and appreciate the extra gestures like small gifts or help or advice. They know where the line is, and they don’t take advantage of a chap’s generosity or of the occasional gent who’d like to ‘take them away from all this’.

One day in the future, when we ladies swap our stilettos for slippers and our corsets for cardigans, our coiffures for blue rinses and our negligees for nighties – one day, those type 2 ladies will have a list of ‘old friends’, and on that list will be an assortment of gents and other ex-floozies. Those old friends will continue to meet up, to laugh and reminisce, and when they shuffle off to the Pearly Gates, those type 2 ladies will be missed.

What will the type 1 ladies have, I wonder? They may have a drawer full of Cartier watches, a closet bursting with designer frocks, and a Swiss bank account brimming with dosh. But they won’t have the memories, and they won’t have the friends.

I know who I want to be.

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