I don’t know why they call us streetwalkers. There’s very little walking required in this line of life. I do a lot of lying, moaning, spreading, stroking, cajoling, licking and a surprising amount of talking. But very little walking.
The men who come to see me don’t walk either. They cruise slowly by in their cars while I lean back against a wall, one leg bent to show plenty of thigh, head leaning to one side and an open empty look on my face. I’ve learned to recognise which cars hold genuine punters and which are just out to see the sights and add a tiny little thrill to their tiny little lives by ogling the girls on the street. I’ve also learned how to tell which cars hold the plainclothes cops. Sometimes they are punters too but they never pay.

When I’m out on my little patch I hide behind a thousand names. When I wear my long blonde wig I’m Trixie or Bambi or Paris or Candi or Barbi or Smurfette. As a brunette I’m Delilah, Simone, Beatriz, Siobhan, Miranda. I’ve been a red headed Erica, Tallulah, Mirabelle, Bianca,
Caprice. I can disguise myself with make-up and short skirts and big eye lashes and seductive smiles and become whoever I want or need to be. The real me never comes out on the street, not because she’s scared or needs to hide, but because becoming somebody else is the ultimate freedom.

How did I end up here? It’s the usual story. I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, got in with the wrong crowd, made the wrong decisions and trusted the wrong men. I’m a lazy, shiftless, good for nothing dropout with a habit to feed, nowhere to hide, no future, no hope, no worries. I ran away from a broken home, abusive step-father, uncle, brother, mother, had to get out, see the world, make something of myself, show them all one day they’ll see. Or maybe I had a good happy home, a warm caring family, went to the best schools, had best friends and the best future. And here I am working the street anyway. You can’t look at a person and truly see what path they took to get to where they are. We’re far too complicated for that.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong or sleazy or depraved about what I do. They say it’s the oldest profession in the world and I see it as providing a service to men who don’t really know what they need. They think they’re looking for a blow job or for a quick furtive shag. But deep inside so many are searching for nothing more than basic human contact, a smile, a kiss, a warm body to hold next to their own. They’ve lived their big tough manly lives for so long that not only do they not know how to ask for affection they don’t even know how to tell themselves that this is all they need. They come to me asking for crude physical contact and I give them so much more that they treasure without even realising it.

The divorcees make me sad. I can see in their eyes where the hopes and dreams and happiness drained away in a moment of total incomprehensible loss to be replaced by anger, mistrust and self doubt. They long to replace what they have lost but no longer know how to trust their own feelings so how can they trust another woman to truly love them and fill that hole within their hearts? With me they can be open and honest because they know it is temporary. A tiny pre-packaged slice of affection they can enjoy for a few moments without having to worry that they may say or do or be something wrong and cause everything to fall apart on them again.
The middle-aged married family men make me sadder. They have everything they ever wanted, only to find that they didn’t really want it at all and are now lost in a world of their own creation, not trying to find a way out, just looking for a little hint that there may be something else, something other, something different out there. A taste of strange before they go back to their familiar humdrum. There is no hope for these men, their potential has already been spent.

As for me, my potential on the street is limitless. Next week I may be Katarina. Deep voice, deep soul, deep throat. Tomorrow I’ll be Suzette. Light and airy and happy and a breath of fresh air to someone’s day.
Today I am Roxanne. I wanted to be a ballerina when I was younger and I’m still very flexible. Would you like me to show you?