He was unattractive with a large gut and a prominent bald spot. I’d been with men a few years older, even a decade older, but I was about to have
sex with a man who was probably a year or two older than my father. He’d looked okay enough on his online profile, but clearly those photos were old and most likely edited. As soon as he approached me in the Claridge’s lobby, I felt my stomach turn. I felt the eyes of guests assessing my heavy make-up, short skirt and heeled boots. I’m sure some assumed this man was a relative, until he slipped his arm around my waist.
I insisted on waiting in the wings while he confirmed his booking at the front desk. I wondered briefly if the staff would notice when I’d walk out an hour later. Job done. My first job. My only it would turn out. The panic was already setting in – could I really go through with this? I took a few steps toward the entrance to escape, but the mass of luggage coming through the door prevented a quick exit. When he came to gather me, my mind went blank and I just focused on the money.
Money had never been an issue, but in my second year of university I was stuck funnelling funds to a leech of a boyfriend and trying to keep up appearances among a new set of stylish peers. They were wealthy international students who wore Fendi,
Chanel and Moncler in the way I wore new season
Topshop. The monthly allowance my parents provided simply wasn’t covering the Mayfair nights out, the Uber execs and the designer vintage goods I had developed a taste for. I chose them over a supermarket shop.
www.elle.com
And for people that think you can't be incel if you can fuck a hooker, this is how they really feel about their clients: just a wallet with no name attached for you to know it has an owner.
