All Chapters of Love Story Of A Prostitute: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

People ask me about places and people yet my recollections are hazy about it. The environment of my childhood had been of abuse and poverty. My mother would make up fantasy stories to smooth over the harsh facts. Because I was imaginative, I had the tendency to bring to life places and characters from the stories she told me. Even as an adult, I cannot trust myself to say what was real or otherwise without doubting the truth of my recollection. Even so, some things are so real because I carried the physical scars with me. I had a fair share of drunkard clients. They did not realise the force of their strength. These incidents left such an impact that no matter how many fantasies overlapped with it, the scars lodged themselves deeper in my heart each time I made up a story. I felt the urge to because I could not help it. I needed a form of escape for the sake of my sanity. I lived the day in daydreams and the night in fitful sleep. I did not have nightmares anymo

I judged based on my experiences. I felt some passion within me. There was this raw energy brewing in me that I was alive and well. So I must live as well as I could. I did do so too, in the best way I could to cater for all my emotions and listening to my heart's call. I let my heart lead the way when it did not concern people, and I let my mind lead when people came into the equation. Except the only person dear to me in the world -- my mother. I have gone a long way since then, and today I make my own choices about what I wanted in life; even if it meant a regression into the past. Only that this time it would be on my terms. I could reject anyone I wanted. I could stop anytime I wanted. Then I neither had a choice nor was I aware of it. Nowadays, the field of psychology would categorize me as a "highly sensitive person". Should they take a step further, I would be classified a "neurotic". When I was growing up in pov

Bearing in mind that I did not wish to get caught in the rain, I hastened my pace to the lively part of the boulevard. I was to meet a client for the night called Mr Boardmann at a restaurant of his choosing. Penelope told me that it was a stone's throw away from his penthouse suite. The row of buildings at the boulevard emitted colours of an array of orange hues at night. Lights from posh restaurants dimmed at timed intervals in the middle of the stylish tables, giving diners an enhanced glow on their features. When I peered in from the windowsills outside, all I could think of was the painting of Van Gogh's Potato Eaters. I saw a similarity between the present day style of dining and that of peasants back in 1885. Like moths attracted to a light source, the diners had congregated around the table like it was their lifeline. I sought to mock the diners and the Mr. Boardmann whom I did not know. Dimmed lights were the colour of earthly hues

"Let's cut to the chase. I'm afraid I'm not much one for small talk." He said, after I had lost count on how many times I had smiled at him. "I understand. Shall we make a move to your place?" I asked, eager to cut to the chase as well. He barely spoke. He did not seem engaging or friendly, and I would like to get it over with. He had a disillusioned look about him. I expected a rough, hasty round of intercourse; after which he would be satiated. Then I would be on my way, never to see him again. I looked at him, concentrating on the spaces between his eyes. Some clients had gazes which unearthed me. I did not always look at my clients directly but I was aware that I should give the impression of making eye contact. People reacted best when they feel you are looking at them. That was the basic rule of customer service, jotted down in my current notebook. Looking between their eyes made it easier for me to talk and perfor

Henry, the good, old doorman greeted us at the marble arch entrance. He nodded and I smiled my standard formal smile. We took the elevator right up to the fortieth floor; the highest floor of the serviced suites, which just opened for residence one month ago. We walked along the wide corridors which were supported by avant-garde beams with arches reminiscent of an Italian garden. We arrived too soon at his door because I was in awe admiring the carvings on the corridor walls. The number 409 was carved into the door. He unlocked the door with a key which shone like gold. How appropriate, I thought. Even the key matched the architecture. The same glow could not be said about its owner. Those eyes which had pierced me just now at the restaurant made me not want to look at him directly in the eye anymore. When he opened the door I took the chance to view him from my position at his side. I did not take in to both the way he