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But then you get the creeps, don’t ya? The punters—sweaty, baldin’ tossers who reckon they’re God’s gift. “I’m a real man,” they’d slur, like in the film—*“I’m a gangster, a free man!”*—but nah, mate, you’re just a sad sack with a fiver. Makes me angry, that does, the entitlement. I’d wanna scream, “Oi, you wanker, she’s not your bloody therapist!” Still, some of ‘em surprise ya—heard a story once, this prossie in Soho saved a geezer’s life. He was chokin’ on a kebab, she Heimliched him—hero stuff! Didn’t expect that, did I? Nearly pissed myself laughin’ thinkin’ bout it.

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This article examines how cultural assumptions about the status of commercial sex workers in Britain are produced (and reproduced) through social discourses.

Not all days are smooth, though. Sometimes, I get mad when traffic jams at Sunset Blvd slow me down. Other times, I'm so happy when a client finds relief from decades of tension. Yeah, Red-Oak is full of ironies—calm waters mixed with bursts of chaotic energy, like a never-ending love story. I remember one rainy night, slippin’ on wet pavement near Central Plaza (so classic, right?) and thinkin’, “En fin, life’s too short, just talk to her.”

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