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This article is a hard-hitting look at prostitution and all of its downfalls. Just kidding. It’s totally not. It’s not even a tale about actual prostitution. But as you may (or may not) remember, I’ve had a few brushes with “prostitution” – if you can call it that. There was the time I kissed that grosky old man’s hand at Battersea train station for £10 (read here). Then there was that time I slept with that guy and was so mortified by how loud we were in the bedroom that I had to leave as quickly as possible, so accepted £20 for a taxi. And by “accepted”, I mean stole out of his bedside drawer while he was still asleep, not I’m not really sure that counts (read here). And then, most recently on a trip to Dublin I kissed a guy with no teeth for half a pill (read here). These were all extremely proud moments in my life as I’m sure you can imagine.

In my defence I don’t go looking for these situations, they’re like a boner on the 356 bus – you have very little warning and when it happens you just gotta roll with it. Well last night was a “I’m definitely getting the last train home” night, that turned into a ‘spending £22 in a Shoreditch chip shop at 3am’ night, (no, I wasn’t alone – that would have been monstrous). So we’re on bar number four or five, and drink number twenty-something and the time for my last train is looming. So naturally I backed my drink, grabbed my bag and am leaving for the station. So as you can see, I totally had good intentions. Then a cute guy told me I was beautiful and that he’d pay for my taxi home if I stayed a little bit longer. Yes, that’s all it took. I’d already checked my bag back into the cloakroom before he’d finished his sentence. It was an unstoppable attraction, like Sarah Michelle Gellar and every film script she’s given; saying no is just not an option.

So I did the whole “Nah, I can’t take money off you for a taxi” bit while slowly stroking his upper arm and performing felatio on my straw. Then he did the whole, “It’s fine, I want to stay a bit longer and enjoy the night” while looking me up and down like I was a rotisserie chicken and he was Rosie O’Donnell. Then I did the “I honestly couldn’t”, while walking with him to the ATM to withdraw the cash. But in all honesty, if you’re a good-looking guy thats gonna make sure I get home safe, quick and at whatever time I want – that’s smoother than a French pornstar’s bikini line. So I accepted his generous offer while he molested me in the queue for Barclays. Okay, molested is a strong word. And I don’t think it can be used on someone that was drunkenly let it happen, so maybe dry-groped is more appropriate. But I totally would’ve let him feel me up whether he’d offered to pay for my ride or not.

So we’re walking back to the bar and we have a snog, but I’m so not down with public displays of embarrassment – not unless they involve throwing a drink in someones face, Eastenders style. So, seen as the evening had been spent so classily already, we moved things to an alley. Again, this sounds much worse than it was. It was really more of a side-street than an alley. He totally wanted more, but I told him straight up, “I don’t give blow jobs on street corners, do I look like Janice Dickinson?” so we went back to bar, had a couple more drinks and then we were all gonna get a cab to East (for even more drinks).

Stumbling up Frith Street he has to take a telephone call, and when he’s done, he reports that somebody in his family has died. Oh my God. I was speechless for him. Its so horrible getting personal news when you’re out in public. Although he seemed to be taking it quite well. For like 30 seconds. Then when the news (and tears) hit him on Old Compton Street, we decided that it would be best to leave him with his friend to grieve. I didn’t want to bother him with goodbyes and thanking him for taxi money while he was so upset, so we just hailed a cab and left.

The money for a taxi got spent in some desperate kebab shop and I ended up with my head in the toilet. They say you shouldn’t take candy from strangers, well perhaps you shouldn’t sell them your candy for a score. The moral of the story is: Money can buy you doner meat, cab rides and kisses off younger twinks but when the shit hits the fan you’ll probably still have to hold his hair back as he vomits.