I find myself sitting in a dark, dingy room in a dark, dingy house just beyond the Whitechapel district. The sun's setting, I'm waking up, and slowly coming to terms with the fact that my night job is about to begin.
The routine is simple; hoist myself up out of bed, and if not already dressed, find the nearest....relatively....clean garment at my disposal and begin using my crafty techniques to wiggle into my corset, tug on my boots, and appropriately style my ragged hair.
Afterwards, it's a short journey down the stairs, taking care not to wake the other girls in the house, especially not Mrs. Havisham, as she rather likes to sleep in, sometimes even missing hours of 'business' in order to recover what little beauty rest she can. I don't understand why she calls it that, the wretched old woman's nothing but worn leather. But I pay that no mind and do my best to be on my manners, as she does put a roof over my head and what one could call food on the table each day before I set myself abed again. But I digress.
Once outside in the street, it's a matter of simply finding the right man to entertain for the night. A girl must know within seconds of calling a man's attention what he wants, how willing she is to accomodate this, and how much she intends to get paid for it. That said and done, it's another five minute walk, arm in arm, to the dark and often dank and foul-smelling alleyway where the transaction is carried out.
My skirts are lifted, his trousers are dropped, and so begins the ritual of oh-so-dramatic moans of ecstasy as he heaves to and fro, caring not where his hands or face gets buried in the process. If you're lucky, he'll be done right quick and you've made yourself an easy few pounds. If not, as the old saying goes, just lie back and think of England.
When he's finally spent and fishes out the notes from his change purse, it's back to the dark, dingy house to clean up after yourself. After all, one can't take too much risk. A simple mixture of water, alum, and zinc sulphate, and a torn-up cloth on a stick takes care of all the unwanted seed.
Then, it's merely a matter of stripping down and sliding back between the grimy sheets for another day of sleep.
(fiction inspired by my strange obsession with Victorian prostitutes.)
Peace, Love, and MarioKart.
~Poindextra
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