Fiona Pitt-Kethley

Paying For Sex

A Hollywood actress who'd come to stay
with a born-again film extra in Richmond
enquired where to pay for sex in London.
On being told that there was no such place,
she asked, 'How do you manage then?'

The answer is ­ we manage badly.
Free sex is something like the NHS ­
months to get down to it with some coy types.
And all the details that you have to tell!
The form my mother filled for glasses
was no worse.

First, there's the questionnaire (to place your class)
on education, work and cash. (They're pleased
if you earn slightly less than them ­ enough
to dress well, pay your way, but not enough
to make them feel inferior.) Next comes
the one on sex ­ how many men you've had,
what did you do with or to whom. And all
to see if you are worthy of a fuck.

Men who'd buy endless rounds when with the boys
mentally price us up as ­ two lagers
or six gins ­ turn surly if they've got it wrong.
(A whole distillery would be too low
a price for some of them; and yet, if we
are simply generous, we're labelled 'cheap'.)
I think we're less inclined to price, although I've heard
some careful girls get night-attire from Marks
then take it back if the seduction fails,
ensuring they don't waste more than they paid
for Durex planted in their flatmate's drawers
to be discovered in all innocence.

And there are men who dub you 'beautiful',
who also need 'I love you's' said before.
Romantic shits ­ they're first to knock you off
the pedestal they put you on. Goddess
becomes Aunt Sally, crown ­ a dunce's cap,
when all is done.

That actress wished to pay a straighter price ­
to keep control and honestly enjoy
it like an evening at the theatre,
where players, who are good and love their job,
stand up to do their bit. I see her point.
Yet, all that is conventional in me
shrank back appalled when a man,
(pretty and young as I was), hinted that
he'd like a fiver as 'a souvenir'.