It may be a perverted taste, but I love prostitution, and for itself too, quite apart from its carnal aspects. My heart begins to pound every time I see one of those women in low-cut dresses walking under the lamplight in the rain, just as monks in their corded robes have always excited some deep, ascetic corner of my soul. The idea of prostitution is a meeting place of so many elements – lust, bitterness, complete absence of human contact, muscular frenzy, the clink of gold – that to peer into it deeply makes one reel. One learns so many things in a brothel, and feels such sadness, and dreams so longingly of love!
— Gustave Flaubert
I lay down on a bed in a strange room and a woman I met less than five minutes ago is standing beside the bed and she is undressing. She is beautiful in a rough and used way and in a moment she will join me on the bed and look at me and smile, kiss my chest and lick my nipples and then she will make her way down my body and begin to suck my cock. This is a moment I have lived many times.
Visiting prostitutes is my secret life. Secrecy is part of the pleasure, a key part, and without it, I would not bother. Secrecy is a necessity, to keep this from family and friends, but it is also an essential ingredient of the eroticism of the experience of buying sex and enjoying the pleasures of bought sex.
‘Whore’ is not a nice word to most people, but to me it is, and when I refer to those dark ladies of the night, who occupy the dark and secret corners of my life, and the dark centre of my erotic memories and desires, I mean it as a term of affection. It is the word I will most often use in this memoir.
I have been enjoying the pleasures of whores ever since I was eighteen. With them I have grown up sexually. I began by dipping my toes into the waters of my own deepest and darkest fantasies and progressed, slowly, to a time when I would dive in and swim down to the bottom to discover what was there. I have grown up with them, and I have grown beyond what I would have become erotically and sexually without them. I have never kept count, so I do not know how many prostitutes I have known, but I am sure it is more than two hundred. If I began at eighteen or nineteen, that is just over eight new ones every year. Most I only had once; a few a few times, even fewer up to ten times, and Carmen probably twenty times or so, Ipek, more than thirty. Prostitution has also given me the chance to have types of women I would not very easily have met in real life. The only black and Indian and Pakistani women I have enjoyed erotically were all prostitutes. On the street I desired such women from afar, but had no means of meeting and getting to know them.
I have spent not a little money on it over the years, though I am lucky in that I have always been able to afford to indulge my desire; and my taste is for the cheap end of the market, and I like my whores in their 30s and 40s and a few in their 50s, slutty, tarty and trashy; as well as likeable and lovable and fun and interesting to get to know. After all, what is the point of a whore who does not walk, talk, act and fuck like a whore? I do not go for the so-called ‘GFE’ or ‘girlfriend experience’ of prostitute review sites. The best have been both. Friends and fuck fantasies made flesh and enjoyed, over and over again, without any diminishment of the exquisite pleasures they give me. So I have enjoyed women who sell themselves cheap, and who often look cheap and trashy and rough, for that is what excites me; but I believe that as people they are all far from being cheap, and with many of them I have enjoyed pleasures that are rare and of great value to me.
There are many reasons why I love to have sex with prostitutes, and one of them is that I love prostitutes. The thought of them excites me in the very depths of my soul, and like Flaubert, I have learned more about life and love and joy and sadness from prostitutes. My experiences with them have taught me more than any other experiences that I have had. Fucking whores is the essence of eroticism to me and when I am doing it during a meeting with one that goes well, I feel more alive than at any other moment. I love the idea of prostitution, the practice of it; the very fact of its existence, and I love the women who do it. I love to hold their worn and over used bodies as I fuck them, and I never hesitate to go down on them and lick out their pussies and rim them when I am invited to.
None of this is to say that I have not had very satisfying sexual relationships with girlfriends, casual lovers, brief encountresses and now my wife. Yes, I am married and have been for over two years and I have not stopped visiting prostitutes, as I do not want to. Indeed, I think I can’t; I know I can’t. Thus, I do not visit prostitutes because I do not or never have been unable to have sex in more conventional ways. I have always found it easy to meet and attract women, but I have always continued to visit prostitutes when I was having relationships.
I have never been caught. I have had to make sure that I never was; because I wanted to have girlfriends and I loved and cared for them, but visiting whores and fucking them and having them sit on my face and piss over me and fucking their arses and all of the other things I have done with them, are part of who I am; and even if that has not come about as a result of nature, it has been born of years of visiting them. And those visits were born of a desire deep within me; and another word for desire is need. I need whores as I need the air I breathe. I do not expect the experience of having sex with a prostitute to be the same as having sex with my wife; or before I married, with a girlfriend, and I do not want it to be. Why would I go out and pay for what I can have at home?
I like women, as well as desire them. More of my friends are women than men. I don’t really know why, but I often prefer the company of women to the company of men. I have a magnificent sex life with my wife, who I love deeply and who is my best friend, and of whose company I never tire. I have looked for different things in the women with whom I have had relationships and the whores I have known, and find different things in them. The whores and my desire for them is no threat to my love and desire for my wife, except in the element of betrayal; for betrayal it is. Some clients will say ‘whores don’t count,’ but I don’t buy that line. It is using the fact of the exchange of money, the rhetoric of ‘business’, to pretend that no emotions and needs were involved. It is no justification, and my only justification of my visiting whores, which I have always done when the desire for it was in me, is that I choose not to stop doing it, though ‘choose’ is a difficult word, because I do not have a choice in the matter in the same way that I can choose whether to have the steak of the fish in a restaurant. I am guided to prostitutes by forces that lie deep, deep within me, and which even now I do not fully understand or know the origin of, other than that I love sex and I love erotic exploration and adventure, and I love women.
In his novel the Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera distinguishes between what he calls the lyric womaniser and the epic womaniser. The former is driven by the desire to capture the essence of femininity, which he might find in some particular woman, who will become for him the ideal woman. Kundera’s narrator identifies him with one of the characters in the novel, Franz, and is dismissive of him. So am I. He wants to be endearing and to be forgiven by women for his weakness for women. And, according to Kundera, this type is forgiven. The epic womaniser does not believe in the essence of femininity or the possibility of an ideal woman who could embody or be the essence of femininity. Rather, he wishes to experience erotically every different type of woman and of femininity that he can. And for this, he is not forgiven.
If I am a womaniser, I am the epic type, if I may be permitted to take such a grand sounding name to myself. I have known a great many women in real life, and a great many prostitutes, and always I am guided by the desire for a new women and the pleasure of possessing her body and entering her for the first time. In my secret life, I have fucked fat women and thin women, young women, middle aged women and old women, white women and brown women and black women, housewife types and women impossibly exotic looking, blonde women and dark women; but I will never exhaust my desire for something in the great sphere of femininity that I have never experienced before, and those prostitutes I have gone back to again and again were the ones I liked as people and became attached to. In moments of indulgence I thought of them as women with whom I have erotic friendships; another term I borrow from Kundera.
Some women I have loved, girlfriends over the years, some of them of years’ standing as girlfriends, before I met my wife; and I think I must have fallen in love with two of the prostitutes I have known: Carmen and Ipek. I handled it though; never forgetting what was available from them and on what terms, and what was not. I wanted more and dreamed of having more, but what passes in a room between a man and woman, a man pursuing erotic adventures and a woman providing them in exchange or money, does not necessarily translate into a relationship, and a relationship would change what could happen in a room between them as client and prostitute. But there is something that might be strange. Sometimes, when a relationship has been in a bad patch and the sex has gone off the boil or desires frozen away completely, a visit to a prostitute has enabled me to initiate a recovering of the sexual aspect of a failing relationship. Sex with prostitutes never suffers from the lapses and diminishments and absences of desire that haunt and destroy relationships. With a whore, there is nothing to get in the way of sex and eroticism.
My first time was in Soho, London, in Lisle Street, in what is called a walk up. There is a tatty sign above a door that leads to a flight of stairs, from which a dim and seedy red light palely glows. These stairs can lead to heaven or hell, and most often both, for a whore’s room is heaven in hell and hell in heaven I had walked up the stairs of many walk ups before that day, but turned and walk briskly away in fear, but it was only a matter of time. I could not but keep on going back, and one day I walked up and I was about to turn and go, when the maid, a woman in her fifties, opened the door at the top and told me to come in, and so I went in. This was in the early 1980s, when I was young and there were still many French ladies in Soho, most of whom were in their 30s and 40s, and the lady who introduced me to the delights of prostitutes was such a French lady, who was I imagine in her early forties, and she was gorgeous in the way that only a middle aged prostitute can be, and her name was Kiki. I paid her fifteen pounds and she sucked my nipples and kissed and licked my chest, and she sucked my cock without a condom and then put a condom on me and I fucked her and it was divine. That was 23 or 24 years ago.
My most recent was a couple of weeks ago, in the genelev, or public brothel, in Istanbul, Turkey, with a lady of 34 called Ezgi (which in English means ‘Melody’), and she was beautiful, in the trashy way that I love whores to be. Slim and curvy, with exotic, oriental features, friendly and fun and interesting to converse and drink tea with; between the two bouts of fucking that I indulged with her. I spent half an hour with her. I lay on the bed and she kissed me on the lips, her mouth open and her tongue in mine, and sucked my nipples and then kissed my chest and stomach slowly all the way down to my cock, which she sucked expertly for five minutes before putting a condom on it, using her mouth, and then riding me and allowing me to fuck her missionary and doggie until I came, all the while with my finger pushed inside her arsehole. Then after tea, we did it all again. She was lovely and I will visit her again and she will be my new regular lady. I have been in Istanbul for just under a year and she was my fifth lady in the genelev in Karakoy. I was looking for a lady to stick with, and although the other four were worth fucking the once, once was enough. One of them invited me to fuck her arse, which I delightedly did, as I adore anal sex and never more than with whores. But neither she, nor the other three, bewitched me, as Ezgi did.
My earliest experiences were all with older ladies of Soho, and as I became more confident, the more I relaxed and enjoyed my time with them. I don’t remember them all now, but the memory of some of them had been burned onto my soul forever.
I remember a heavy and painted Italian lady in her mid forties, when I was 23 or so, who I paid for French (oral sex) and a little extra, to watch her play with her pussy, in a Soho walk up. ‘Nice pussy,’ she purred as she knelt on the bed, stretching open her juicy great cunt lips, before throwing herself forward and swallowing my cock. I did not fuck her then, and I can’t remember why, but around that time; it was the mid 80’s, I had a phase of paying prostitutes to allow me to watch them masturbate and suck me off. Maybe it was the fear of Aids at that time in the 80s. By the way, in all my years of whores, I have never caught any venereal diseases.
It was about that time that I first experimented with watersports. My first experiences of the golden art were watching a few of my tarts pissing, and the first of all was a middle aged Soho lady who emptied a great flow of her golden rain into a bucket while I watched, and kept on repeating the phrase ‘nice wee, wee,’ as she did it. And indeed it was nice. I had visited her before, and had French and sex with her, a couple of years before that day of watching a lady empty her bladder for the first time, and she was thinner then and younger looking. She seemed to have aged by more than the number of years since I had last seen her. She was heavier, and she had started to look, sometimes, like the saucy and sexy mother of your friend who lives down the street, and who you secretly want to fuck; not because she is glamorous, but because she is not, and she is your neighbour and your friends mother and there is something of the auntie about her. After her pissing and before sucking me off, she told me that she had another client for whom she would do the same thing, but that she would also have to make him drink it. ‘Makes me heave,’ she said, but after many more years I would get to where my predecessor was, and drink it, straight from the gushing cunts of other whores.
Only two other whores besides Ezgi have bewitched me as Ezgi has. One was a lady named Carmen who was Spanish and who worked in a walk up in Frith Street in Soho at the Oxford Street End. She told me that she was 43, and I visited her many times over five or so years. She must have passed from 39 to 44 in that time, while I went from 28 to 33. She was magnificent; lover, mother, sister, friend, Goddess.
Carmen was the first woman to piss over my body and she performed the golden art on me expertly. I had longed to be pissed over by a middle aged woman for as long as I could remember, and by the time I was 29 or 30, I had more than ten years of experience of visiting prostitutes, and I had found the courage to be wholly frank with myself and them by then about what I desired; more frank than with women I have known and had relationships with.
The first time that I asked Carmen to do it, it was in addition to the usual service I bought from her. That was a body massage, and cock sucking, which always included her sucking my bollocks; her party piece, or signature as I like to say. All whores have one; some little trick that is theirs and which they perform expertly. Carmen was a superb cock sucker; superb even though she did it with a condom on me. She gobbled so well and her mouth was so warm, it felt like I was being sucked off bareback. The cock sucking was always followed by a fuck and her wonderful dirty talk; a filthy commentary in which she told me what to do to her and what a wild and filthy cock loving whore she was, while my cock fucked her gorgeous cunt, until I filled the condom with spunk. ‘Fuck my pussy. Give me all your spunk,’ she would always cry out at me when she knew I was about to blow into her cunt. But of course it was the condom that every time got the cum blast; and it always was a blast, for this lady excited me beyond almost all other experiences I had had.
The day she pissed over me for the first time, we did the pissing before the cock sucking and the fucking. She laid a black plastic sheet on the floor and had me lie on it naked. She stood over me, squatting slightly forward and looking down. She asked me would I like her to hold her cunt open and I told her yes and she stretched her lips wide open and even pointed to her peehole, in case I did not know exactly where it was. My eyes fixed on her peehole and her cunt, hanging above my cock, where she was going to relieve herself and I was harder than I had ever been before.
Then at last it came, after she had strained for a minute or so. The sensation of the first splashes of her golden piss jet on my cock, followed by the full flow that lasted a minute or more was sublime. The sight of her piss gushing cunt, of her poised over me and looking down, and the warmth of her golden rain on my throbbing cock was the first time I was truly taken to the realm of the erotic; a place I had known existed, deep in my soul; and at last I had found the way to it. When her piss flow subsided, I was soaked in it and it was a most wonderful feeling.
I stopped seeing Carmen because I left England for Turkey. I visited Carmen once after leaving England. It was a year after I had left, and one of the last things I had done before leaving England was to visit Carmen and enjoy her piss and fuck her for what might have been the last time. It was not, as I saw her once more, the following summer, when I was back visiting England on holiday. She looked more than a year older; age was catching up with her, but she pissed and sucked and fucked as deliciously as ever; though I knew it was going to be the last time. I had moved on.
About four years after that; and even though every year in between I had been back to England and had at least one and often two prostitutes during my stay, I had not visited her. One day, five years after I had left England and fucked her goodbye; only to fuck her again the next year in what turned out to be the goodbye, I saw her name card on the wall inside the door of the old flat and went and knocked on a whim. She would have been 48 or 49 by then, but it was early in the afternoon and she had not arrived yet. I waited around outside, a discreet distance away, to see if she would come. I was meeting a friend and had little time, and she had not arrived by the time I had to leave.
Since Carmen I think at least twenty other prostitutes have pleasured me with their piss. A notable one was about four years ago now, and she was also my one and only south-east Asian lady. She was called Isabella and she worked in Soho too. She was forty and very beautiful and very oriental looking. She had coffee coloured skin and jet black hair, cut quite short. She squatted over me as I sat on the bidet and sprayed my cock with an ocean of piss, holding her cunt open the whole time and telling me to savour her champagne. Then she sucked me off and rode me, still sitting there on the bidet. She had magnificent nipples; they must have been three quarters of an inch long, and she pushed them into my mouth and made me suck them as she rode my cock with her hot and tight pussy.
The most recent piss shower I have enjoyed was with a lady of 34 called Mandy, also of Frith Street, who claimed never to have done watersports before, although she had been working as a prostitute for a year, as she told me. She said afterwards that she had enjoyed it and asked me to return. That was a year ago, and Mandy was the last lady I had in England, but she will not be the last.
With her I sat on the floor, again on a black plastic sheet. I asked her to do it on my cock, and that was where her spray of piss went first, but I moved forward so that it was hitting my chest and then I finally did what I had been longing to do with a whore for a long time and opened my mouth so that she was pissing right down my throat. I genuinely drank it all, and it did turn her on. I could tell by the look of surprise and pleasure on her face as she looked down at me. She allowed me to lick clean of piss drips her cunt lips, which were two of the slimmest, longest, most delicate looking and most magnificent I have ever sucked between my lips and into my mouth, when her flow was done. Her cunt tasted delicious; fresh, salty and clean.
After cleaning up she sucked my cock beautifully and I fucked her doggy style and then in the missionary position, because I wanted to look at her face and into her eyes as my cock slide in and out of her pussy. I sucked her tits while I fucked her until I filled the condom with cum. A half hour of bliss enjoyed for sixty pounds, and to be another fragment of my erotic memory forever.
A lady called Angie, who worked at the same flat, though on different days, from Carmen, and who I visited during the Carmen years. She was a London girl and a sexier version of the girl who lives next door to you, and about my own age, so a bit of a rarity, as I usually go for mature ladies. Angie was beautiful and voluptuous and had the perfect courtesan’s figure, with large breasts and a round arse and for me the finishing touch: luscious, though not large rolls of flesh around her stomach. She was the prostitute among the many I have known who seemed to enjoy it most and if she did not cum on several occasions when I was with her, then she is a fine actress. Of course, a good whore is always a good actress, and I have never expected a prostitute to enjoy the sex as I enjoy it, but if she did, then it is all the better.
A lovely, slim blonde French Lady of fifty (and looked it with her skin that was beginning to be a little dry and wrinkled, and the bony look that comes to older women who are slim) in Soho, who one sweltering summer’s day in some summer in the mid 1980s, sucked my cock until my cum rained over her face, as both of our bodies, mine naked and standing before her, hers seated in a chair and clad in sheer black stockings and suspenders, ran with sweat in the searing heat.
‘It’s ninety degrees in my kitchen,’
she told me when we were chatting just after I arrived. She increased the temperature by another ninety degrees as her expert lips worked my throbbing knob and her hot saliva ran down my shaft and onto my balls and her soft warm lips and her snake of a tongue pleasured my cock until it emptied itself over her lips and her chin. If she is still alive, she would be over seventy. I wonder where she is now. I know that if I met her again she would not remember me, but I have not forgotten her, and if I could have her suck me off again now, I would pay whatever she asked.
A trashy South London lady of forty or so, with home drawn tattoos and dirty blonde hair, with whom in a South-east London somewhere, I had my second watersports experience. The memory of her golden juice pouring from her cunt onto my cock, as I admired the rough tattoos with which she had defaced her slim and worn body. Her manner, tough and cheerful, defiant perhaps, a woman whom life could never destroy and it had no doubt tried. She was divine.
A very large Black lady of 25, perhaps, in a window in Amsterdam, who came from God knows where and gobbled me off and let me spunk in her mouth and expressed surprise that I didn’t want to fuck her. ‘No fuckee?’ she said, as I began to dress, after the cock sucking. It was during the Aids fear phase. I am glad that I got past that terror.
I remember another one in another window there on the same day. She was probably in her early thirties and she had milky white skin that was covered in tattoos, and she smoked in the most alluring manner I have ever seen; and I adore watching sexy women smoke. She held her cigarette in her hand and held her arm straight out and every time she took a drag she arced her arm back, taking her hand to her mouth and pulled voluptuously on her cigarette and then extended her arm back again to its full length.
She, and not the heavy black lady who sucked my cock and received a mouthful of my spunk, is the one who inhabits my erotic memory of that far off day in Amsterdam. I made a mistake. I should have chosen her, but if I had, would I remember her with the same intensity of desire that I remember her now, not having had her? Yes, I would, but not in the same way, and the desire would burned in a different way, more slowly and I would be able to fantasize of her accurately; knowing the touch and feel of her flesh, her moves, and her signature, whatever it might be. It involves smoking in my fantasy of it.
I have learned, though, as I have got older, how to choose well, and I make few mistakes now. And that day I did not really make a mistake. The lady I visited was fine and sucked me off well, and I must have been having a black phase. But I wish that I had had the tattoo smoking lady, who represents the quintessence of whoredom to me now. Everything that is alluring and irresistible to me about whores is encapsulated in her and her lithe and illustrated body and the extravagant manner in which she smoked her cigarette. Then again, maybe it is as well that I did not, and instead, created her in my own imagination as I have. The experience itself, had I had it, might not have provided such fertile ground on which the fantasy could grow. I will never know, but there will be others who come close to what she has become. And others already have.
Of course I have also had dull experiences with prostitutes, but never a bad experience; if bad means badly treated or cheated over money. My bad experiences were no more than visits in which I did not catch fire erotically. I did not fancy the woman, and should have left and not stayed. In the Soho walk ups you don’t get to see the lady before you meet her. I learned quickly that I should act on my first impulse. If I meet her and don’t think it will be a good experience; an experience worth having, then politely make excuses and leave. I learned to do that early in my days as a client. And it is simple, my manner of choosing: do I fancy her, do I find the lady desirable?
I always like the search; it is perhaps the equivalent of the chase. It is the anticipation, and the feeling of joy when I happen upon a lady I desire on sight and know that I have the money in my pocket to enable me to possess her for half and hour for an hour. The Soho walks ups are ideal for that, but one must be prepared for a lot of searching and a lot of walking up and down stairs. This is a sport that requires patience. The Turkish genelevs are like canal Strasse in Amsterdam. The ladies stand in the windows and you walk around and take your pick. I take my time over it, to choose well and to prolong for as long as possible the search and the anticipation and the postponement, for a while, its fulfilment.
These days, many more upscale prostitutes and escort agencies and massage parlours advertise on the web, and include pictures of the available ladies. I have never done it that way and I never will. I will always fall upon patience and chance, for I need the spontaneity of the moment of meeting and the rush of desire, and the conviction that it has to be her; as a counterpoint to the planning of a day to go to visit a prostitute.
Planning is most often essential, though I have spontaneously in the past, many years ago, decided to head for Soho and make a visit. These days I am more deliberate. I choose a day ahead of time and one when I have to go into the city on other business. It is not difficult to disappear for an hour or so and no one who I know goes to the genelevs or the rougher and down scale corners of the city where they are, and where people like me don’t go.
Planning is essential to not being caught. When I was younger and lived in London, it was easy to slip a visit in Soho, or around South London, the area of London when I lived in to the course of a routine day. Now it is the same, but I am more careful. I am older now and less fond of wild risk taking and I have more to lose, and I don’t want to lose it. But I can’t lose my visits either. The technique is simple: make your visit invisible within the course of a normal day. Don’t have a definite place where you are supposed to be, unless thee is no chance of it being noticed that you are not there. Be where you can’t be contacted, and be there legitimately. It’s not for nothing that I don’t have a mobile phone.
Another lady; this one young, very good looking in a glamorous and slightly tarty and aggressive way, and with a deep, earthy, sexy voice and a North of England accent that only increased the earthiness. It was again in Soho, and again at the flat where Carmen and Angie worked, and where I met Mandy more recently too. What a great flat.
I arrived and was invited in by the maid, I saw this young lady I knew I had come to the right place again. I wish I could remember her name. We took care of payment and she went of to prepare herself and said that there was a news item on the television that she wanted to watch. She left open the door to the kitchen where the television was, and where the maid was sitting. It was a high profile child abduction case and everyone was interested in it. I did not mind her wanting to see the rest of it. And it revealed the person behind the prostitute to me a little. She was a young woman who was interested in the world and keen to get the story on what was happening, and compassionate in her concern about its evils. When she returned, she spoke about the case a little, and she was a woman and a person, and I liked her. Then, the conversation over, during which she asked me my name and a few questions about myself, and told me a little about herself; I had told her what I wanted when we took care of the money part at the beginning: watersports, French and sex. She had brought back the perennial black plastic sheet, a bin liner torn open down the seam, and she asked in a matter of fact way; and looking at me knowingly, but benignly, after the pause when the ordinary conversation had ceased:
‘Where do you want the watersports?’
She was again a prostitute, a professional and the tools of her trade are her body and her friendly and easygoing conversation and that little of herself that she shared a little of with me. I replied
‘On my cock.’
Again, in a matter of fact way, she said, repeating my words, ‘on your cock,’ and in that moment she became a gorgeous whore who I desired beyond all else; the essence of fucking and sucking and pissing and licking and touching and everything else that I craved to have.
She invited me to undress, which I did, and waited until I was finished and lying on the floor on the black plastic sheet, and my cock already erect; a fact that she noted with a little smile. Then she undressed, not with the exaggerated movements of a stripper, nor like a woman just arrived home from work and changing her clothes either, but somewhere in between, and all for the pleasure of my eyes, and she knew instinctively what to do and how to do it for me, as did all of the whores in all of the best visits I have experienced; meaning that some connection beyond the connection of bodies has taken place.
She swung one leg over me and facing me and looking down she pushed her lovely pussy towards me a little. And I recall that she was shaved and she had lovely prominent piss flaps, which she gently pulled apart, and I watched and watched. Maybe thirty or forty seconds past, as she concentrated and strained a little, until first a little squirt and then another and then another, and finally a full, strong gush shot from her pussy and tumbled in streams down on to my throbbing cock. She kept going for a long time; at least a minute and I watched the piss cascade down on me and felt the deep, deep relaxation that I always feel when a prostitute empties the contents of her bladder over me. When she was finished pissing, she stepped back over me and gave me tissues to wipe myself with as I was getting up. Unlike Carmen always did, she did not ask me to wash, but once I had wipe myself, she directed me to lay down on the bed, and she put a condom on me and began sucking me off. Her blow job technique included some licking and sucking of my bollocks, and I remember thinking at the time that there must still have been some of her piss on them and the thought heighten my excitement and my pleasure.
It was quite a few years of living in Turkey before I went to the genelev, but I did have one whore who I picked up in a bar and took home and fucked all night. She was not very good looking, but very cheap and fucked nicely. Apart from her it was one or two visits when I was back in London, from 1997, when I left England, until 2003, when I made my great discovery.
Perhaps I did not seek out whores in Turkey because I was getting so much pussy in real life, but the desire for whores always comes back to me in the end, and now I have had almost all of my best whore experiences in Turkey and the best whores in the world are the whores in Turkey.
The Turkish genelevs are reminiscent of Canal Strasse in Amsterdam, except that you have to pass a police check to get in. They are the state licensed brothels and all cities have one. They are a paradise of cheap and highly pleasurable erotic adventures, and for a man like me, who likes his whores to be cheap, trashy and beautiful, they are heaven on earth. In the Ankara genelev in Bentderesi, near Ulus and below the castle: the world’s old profession carried out below the city’s oldest building, over four years or so, I enjoyed the favours of twenty five of so of the ladies there. Short visits of fifteen minutes or so cost the equivalent of twenty pounds or so, and for a half hour visit I would pay the equivalent of between sixty and seventy pounds. I used to try a new lady first with a short visit, and if she pleased me, I would visit her again for half an hour, and on a few occasions for a full hour. I will describe some of them here; the memorable ones, and describe what we did together.
The first time I went there, walked around and looked at all of the women in the windows, until finally I chose. She was around forty; she was slim and tall with peroxide blonde hair and her arms were heavily tattooed. With her I enjoyed an uncovered blow job, fucking in a range of positions, and then she invited me to fuck her arse. It was the first time I had had anal sex with a whore. She did not charge extra for it. All the way through, she kept saying, in English, ‘oh yes, My God, oh yes, Fuck me, Oh My God.’ She was not a great actress, but she had a lovely deep, tight arsehole. I only saw her once; she was good, but once was enough with her.
My second there, a few weeks later, was Ipek. Short and pale skinned with dark hair, late thirties, small tits like little buds and a lovely shaved cunt. She had many tattoos. I continued to see her for the whole four years. With her I became friends. With her I fell in love. But a man of frequents prostitutes cannot be loyal, even to a prostitute. I was not loyal. I even betray whores. My visits to her were always for a half an hour and sometimes an hour. We would chat and drink tea and the fuck and then chat some more and then fuck again. It was a routine and she had her routine. After tea she would ask me to undress and I would, and then on the bed and wait for her. She would stand in the middle of the room and undress and do it slowly and teasingly. She knew how much I desired her.
I was always hard by the time she came to the bed and she would kneel between my legs and then lean forward over me and kiss and suck my nipples. Slowly, she would work her way down my stomach and then take my cock in her hand and start to stroke it. Then she would lick my cock head and then take all of my cock in her mouth and suck me off. She never put a condom on me before she sucked me off. She would pause a moment and tell me to look in the large mirror behind her and gyrate her arse and make sure that her pussy poked out between her legs and she would reach down and push her fingers into herself and all the while suck my cock lovingly.
When she knew that I was ready, she would and take a condom from the bedside cabinet and roll it over my cock and then get herself into position over me and sit down on my cock and start to ride me. She rode magnificently, squeezing my cock with the muscles inside her cunt, as she slid up and down my knob.
Then she would stop and roll over and invite to get on top and fuck her. Sometimes I would get straight to that; others I would get between her legs and lick her whore pussy out for her; and yet others we would sixty-nine and as I licked and sucked her cunt I would gaze at her arsehole and wish that she would let me have it, but that secret she never gave up to me. Instead I would rim her and taste on the tip of my tongue the sweet and fetid flavours of her anus. Finally I would get on top and fuck her and gaze own at her and admire the many tattoos on her arms and her tits, as my cock slid in and out of her lovely cunt.
I stopped seeing Ipek because I left Ankara for Istanbul. I must have been in love with her, as she would not let me fuck her arse, at any price; and other ladies there did. But I kept going back to her and one day I will go back and see her, and not a day passes when I do not think of her. It will be the same with Ezgi. I will go on renting and fucking Ezgi’s exquisite cunt and enjoying her sublime cock sucking until she disappears or I do.
Others did let me fuck their arses. There was Guler. She looked like the epitome of the cheap whore. She was in her mid thirties and she also was pale skinned and had long, long black hair. She was tall, and shapely and voluptuous, with great pendulous tits and wide hips and a peach of an arse. She was beautiful in a rough way and she chain smoked the whole time we were together. She had a scrawled tattoo on her arm that she had done herself. I saw her a lot of times. She was a great person, as well as a magnificent fuck, and I liked her as much as I desired her. We would chat and smoke and drink tea and then we would go to bed. I loved to lie there and watch her undress and see her great tits fall out of her bra. She always wore cheap stack heel black shoes and I always asked her to keep them on. She also wore a ton of cheap, fake gold and silver jewellery: bracelets, necklaces and rings on every finger and on her thumbs. She was a goddess.
She would lick my nipples and stroke my cock and then get down and start to gobble me off. Guler gives the best blow jobs I have ever had. No other woman comes even close to her. Her technique is to minimize the amount of contact between her lips and mouth and your cock. The touch of her lips is like velvet and all the while her warm breath blows gently down your shaft as she softly sucks you in and out of her mouth.
When that sublime pleasure is over, it is time to fuck her. She would put the condom on me and lay back and as I was ready between her legs, she would take hold of my cock and open her pussy wide with her other hand and guide me in. She was tight. Her pussy must get stretched ten times or more a day, but she is as tight as a glove and a wonderful fuck. After taking her that way, she would ask me to stop a moment and I would withdraw. She would turn over and I would stick my cock back in her pussy, now from behind, and fuck her like a dog.
Finally it would be time for her arse. I would pull out of her cunt and position my cock at her sphincter. She would ask me to enter her slowly and then gently I would push. Slowly my cock would slip into her arse. I would stay motionless when it was all the way in her and then when she said she was ready I would fuck her arse hard and deep, until I spunked, deep in her arsehole.
She once asked me to marry her. That would have been the means of her escape from that place. She was joking, but there was seriousness in it too. It was too late, though. I was already engaged. In another version of my life, would I? Would I marry her or one of her kind? Yes, I would.
Guler, you are a lady and I thank you.
There was Hazal, whose name means ‘take pleasure’ (haz-pleasure, al-take) and she was and I did. Long dyed blonde hair, dark skinned and tall, thirty, with sinewy limbs, shapely and slightly sagging tits and a large stomach. She would French kiss me fiercely and wank me hard and then suck me off until I almost came. Then she would make me wait and then tell me to fuck her. I would screw her in her pussy and then she would turn over and I would fuck her arse. She was so tight up there and her anus squeezed my cock until I thought her arsehole would crush it. As my cock fucked in and out of her arse, she would call me her beloved and tell me how much she loved me and in the moment she was enough to make me believe her.
There was another lady called Ozlem, who was in her mid forties and looked tired and worn, but was still attractive and glamorous and lovely to chat with, before and after. She gave me a nice cock sucking without a condom and an equally nice fuck with one, in her stretched and flaccid cunt. I ate her out after I had fucked her. She was surprised, but she liked me for doing it. Afterwards she showed me a photograph of her daughter, a dark beauty of nineteen, though already with signs of darker knowledge, in the tattoos on her arms and the blank and hard look in her eyes. I wonder if she knew what her mother did for a living. I was tempted to ask if I could meet her and I even wonder if that was why she had shown me the photograph. The story of how we met would have been a novel one: my mother is a prostitute and he was her client.
There was Serap, who looked like a hybrid of the middle aged wife who lives next door to you and the tramp of a streetwalker you were tempted by as you passed her one evening. She said she was thirty nine, but she won’t see forty five again. She was sweet and friendly and she sucked cock very well and I enjoyed looking down at her admiring the faded glamour and beauty of her fleshy body.
There was Yasemin, who was thirty or so, with enormous hanging tits, which she was proud often to tell me were natural; and a soft rolling stomach. She was dark haired and dark eyed and dark skinned and she was the perfect oriental fantasy woman. Sometimes she wore a headscarf and she did not even take it off when she was sucking my cock and I was fucking her and sucking her great dark nipples. It added something of the thrill of the forbidden to the pleasure of having her.
Sedef was a young woman in her middle or late twenties who enticed me one evening when I was wandering around the place from window to window and finding myself unable to choose. She was very dark skinned and had dark, dark brown hair. I had been looking at her and wandered off and come back, and although she could not have known it, she was on the list of three who had caught my eye and sparked my desire on that balmy summer evening as I walked around. What she did know was that the desire for her was there, in my lingering at her window and in my look. She came outside and called to me and I went. She was lively and danced her way behind me to her room and continued to dance and bump herself against me as we took care of the business. Then it was time for the action and she stripped off and slowly her voluptuous young body was revealed to me as I lay on the bed waiting for her. She knelt between my legs and sucked me off, and she did it superbly, and every now and then she would pause and ask me if she was good, all along knowing the answer to her own question.
I saw her once more, and again on an evening when I could not decide. She was in a different mood and more reticent. I asked her about her work and she answered my question with a question of her own:
‘Who could enjoy this work?’
Later, as she sucked me off, the call to prayer sounded from a nearby mosque. The sacred and the profane are never far from one another. She stopped sucking me and we sat in silence and listened to the melancholy sound, and she did not resume until it was over. It seemed to me a revelation of who she really was, and showed how a little piece of a former self of hers survived in her and gave her the strength to keep going. Then we fucked, but she gave me no arse, but then she was a religious woman.
Naza was the image of glamorous low rent whoredom. She was around thirty and she had peroxide blonde hair, cropped short. For clothes, she always wore a pair of jeans with the zip undone, and a white bra and white thong. She adorned her wrists with cheap bracelets and her fingers with cheap rings. She had beautiful dark eyes full of promise. She was intelligent and interesting to talk to and I saw her twice. And there was something of the kind and efficient nurse about her, which put me off a little. I would have seen her more often, except that she always put the condom on me before performing the blow job. She said it was the sake of health, and of course she was right. Her fucking was exquisite, though, and she had a lovely technique of rubbing my cock head all over her cunt lips before pulling me into her.
Finally, two women who were both called Gozde, or that is the name they both used professionally; a stage name, if you will. The first was twenty three, she said, and she looked it; but she did not look young and she did not seem young. She had an ‘E’ scrawled on her upper left arm, which she told me was the first letter of the name of her child. She was good looking in a peroxide blonde and shapely, and coarse and vulgar sort of way. It is difficult to imagine her doing anything in life other that what she did; which was to have cheap sex with men she does not know. She had a foul mouth and every other word was an obscenity and she looked every inch the whore that she is. It thrilled me to hear her use such foul language and to flaunt her whoredom. She was the most glamorous piece of trash I have ever seen.
That foul mouth, however, could create the finest sensations in my cock The business dealt with, she squeezed my cock tightly between her fingers through my trousers and told me to undress, and as I stood taking off my clothes, she sat in a chair in front of me and as soon as my cock was free from trousers and boxer shorts, it was in her hand and a second later in her mouth. She sucked it hard and sighed loudly as she sucked it in and out between her lips. Her head bobbed up and down fast until she stopped and beckoned me to the bed. I fucked her in many positions, before coming in her from behind. All the time that my cock was gong at her cunt, I had been poking my finger into her arsehole. She would not let me fuck her arse, though. Even an utter skank like her has some standards, it seemed.
Some time later, I was at the genelev again and looking in the window of the commission where she worked. She was standing there and she did not recognize me. Usually, the women do recognize clients they have provided for before. It as the first time that I had not been recognized by a woman I had had. Then there was some commotion nearby. Another customer had got into an argument with one of the men who sit and take the money you pay to visit the house. They were pushing each other and shouting, and Gozde came outside to see what was happening. She had the look in her eye that suggested that she likes to see a fight. She stood right next to me and still he did not know who I was, or that she had received me once. It was an odd thing to have been so close to a woman before, and for her now not to feel me next to her as I felt her. It was one of those moments in which truth is disclosed. I had no feelings for her, other than the memory of twenty minutes of polite negotiation over money, small talk and cocksucking and fucking, and which she had performed well, so that I remembered her fondly for that. She had no memory of me at all, and neither had her body. We had had sex; I had felt intimacy in the closeness of her body, but she had felt nothing in the closeness of mine.
The other Gozde was very different. She was the opposite of the first one. She is the most beautiful woman that I have ever had sex with. She did not look like a whore, though that is not to say that a whore who looks like a whore cannot be beautiful; many are. She told me that she was Kurdish and came from the east of Turkey. She was thirty and said that she had never been married. She had had a boyfriend; a pimp. She said the word with contempt. She also told me that she had had a client in the past, who as an engineer, and who brought her presents. He was not her boyfriend, even if she thought of him that way, but a client who treated her with care and respect. And that’s as good as it gets. She did not tell me much more than that. The women are often secretive and evasive about their real identities. It’s their bodies that are for sale or rent; not themselves. And knowing only a little, you invent the rest.
She was tall and slim and sultry looking and had short dark brown hair and black eyes and the palest white skin. I saw her three or four times and we became friendly with each other. She told me that she liked to read and asked me to get her a book. I bought her a novel and she said that she read it and liked it. Then she disappeared. She must have been moved to another genelev in another city. Maybe she got lucky, and another customer married her and rescued her. It happens sometimes, but it’s unlikely.
She was sad and sullen at times, and she could never hide it well. She knew that she could have done more and been more, but it was probably too late. She was lost. How she got there, I don’t know. I don’t know how any of the prostitutes I have had sex with got where they were, although Mandy told me that she had started doing it out of necessity a year before I met her, and that now she found it interesting. She said she was exploring herself, and her clients. She had been an art teacher, she claimed. It did not sound entirely plausible, but you can never know for sure. She did not seem unhappy, though.
Gozde’s story is probably a sad one and one in which she has not been able to be the heroine of her own life. Most of their stories are sad ones, I imagine, and the reality probably even more unpleasant that the imagined story I could make up for her, and all of the others.
I would fuck her from behind and she would rest her elbows on the bed and cup her head in her hands and look blank. There was a large mirror on the wall and I could see her face, if I looked, staring into the mirror and looking empty and wishing perhaps, that she could be somewhere on the other side of that mirror.
Ipek is the one I remember most fondly from there most of all though, and she was the opposite of Gozde. I miss her shining eyes and her mischievous smile, and her pale and roughly beautiful body with its tattoos and its glow of the sordid and the irresistible. I miss her deep, guttural voice and her lower class eastern Turkish accent; her dirty laugh and her boisterous and joking manner and the way she asked if I loved her and if I had missed her, whenever I went to visit her. She did not love me of course, but she liked me and I had fun with her, and liked and admired her as a person and a friend, as much as I desired her as a woman. Sometimes, it felt to me that it was not just fucking, and that I was making love to her, and even if she did not experience it in the same way as me, it is enough that she allowed me to go on feeling what I felt to keep my illusions intact, even as I knew that they were illusions.
More recently, in Istanbul, I met a very large and beautiful woman of forty-eight, with long dyed blonde hair, lovely intense eyes and a warm and benevolent smile. She said her name was Cigdem. Her tits were not huge, but big and soft and shapely and sagging, and her stomach hung heavily down and looked like a pile of tyres unevenly stacked. I rubbed and caressed it as she sucked my cock. I complimented her on her stomach and she laughed and said she had gained a lot of weight. I told her I liked it and that she was beautiful; and to me she was, and she was pleased. Her cock sucking was punctuated by pauses in which she looked up into my eyes and pursed her lips and sighed deeply. It was theatre, but marvellous theatre.
She was fantastic in bed. She sucked my cock with consummate skill and sat on my face and her great bulk weighed down on me as my tongue explored her vagina and her anus. Then she got on all fours on the bed and slide a finger into her arsehole and asked me to do her the favour of sticking my cock up there and fucking her, up her arse. I did, and it was only the second time in my life that I had penetrated a woman’s arse before having her cunt. I fucked her arse from behind for a delicious while, and then asked her to turn over. She did and I guided my cock into her lovely soft, warm pussy until it could go in no further and I paused to savour the sensations of her cunt holding my cock. Then I began to fuck her. I kept that going as long as I could, but being careful not to come, for I wanted to finish in her arsehole. I pulled out of her cunt and she put a pillow under herself to lift her arse towards me. My cock slid easily into her arse and her hands reached down and she opened her cunt for me to admire as my cock fucked her arsehole until I came.
Afterwards we chatted and drank tea and told each other a little about ourselves. I was not entirely honest. She asked me if I was married and I told her that I am not. I always take off my wedding ring when I go to a whore. It is a little ritual and has a symbolism to it. These things must be kept apart.
She told me that she had been a prostitute for many years, but had given it up three years before, but then got into debt and had to return to it. She said that she had come from a good, professional family, and had married and had three children, now grown up. Two of them were married and one was going to the bad. She had ‘fallen’, she said, but she did not elaborate on that. Adultery, perhaps; but her choice of word, ‘fallen’ suggested that whatever had happened, it had been her own doing. It suggests that, but it is not certain. Nothing is certain in the exchange between a whore and her client. It is a world of lies and half truths and ambiguities. Cigdem’s story may be fiction, or it may be fact, or most likely a mixture of both. What she did tell me though, is that ‘Cigdem’ is only the name she uses when she is working, and that her real name is Yurdamur.
She told me that many of her customers were young men of eighteen or nineteen, and for them she was more of a woman, she said, than her younger peers. To them, she would be their mother, as they wish she had been. A young man first venturing into the realms of sex and whores would be in good hands with Cigdem: a majestic performer and a woman of intelligence and compassion. There is much to be learned, of life and love, and passing joy, and sadness, from a woman like her.