5. THE PROSTITUTE'S TALE

Accounts of meetings with the future Minister of Publicity continue.

“Well i never,” gasped the deity’s pupil, “whatever next?”

“You might well ask,” smirked Dingleboot, “so take a close look at the debate down there. I know that this is the one you’ve been waiting for, you pervy young scalliwag. What in the name of goodness can a woman of the oldest profession on the planet have to contribute to the demise of an earthly Minister of Publicity in the noble British government? I ask you that much...”

The mists that separated there from here cleared, though they’d never really been anything but clear anyway, but it’s a nice image.

“I think I might be able to add something,” put in the prostitute nervously. For the benefit of this drama she’s known as the prostitute, but in reality she was an ex-prostitute, having served her time on the streets both at home and abroad, and retired to squalid luxury in what was little more than a garden shed in the suburbs. The view when she rose in the morning, though, was pleasing, and that was all the bothered her. That and a comfortable bed without other squirming bodies in it: a real luxury indeed.

“What does a woman with your reputation have to do with things?” asked the judge judgementally.

“Judge, you must know,” smiled the prostitute, “as one of my ex-clients, I mean...”

He had the courtesy and good manners to blush and sink into silence.

“It was in Spain, on the Costa Brava,” began the prostitute. “I went there most summers when I was a go-getter and fancy gal. I was in the trade that I was in because I liked it. I got a kick out of sex, out of pleasing men and seeing the happiness on their faces when all went well. I’m convinced that there was nothing evil or wrong about it. The guys were on their own and on holiday, and needed an outlet that was possibly marginally better than their own hands! So I fulfilled a useful service whilst still getting considerable pleasure and satisfaction myself. And, if you want to know the truth, I wasn’t a bad looker. I always looked after myself, used all sorts of salves and creams to keep my skin fresh for as long as possible, and as a result I had my own bottom patted many times, I can assure you.”

“How seedy,” grunted the judge.

“Why, judge, if the truth was to be told you were one of the better bottom patters when you yourself took a Catalonian holiday,” teased the prostitute who actually had a very good memory, and the truth of her accusation was borne witness to by the further shrinkage of the judge into his chair.

“Get on with it!” snapped the librarian, who disliked all things to do with bodily pleasure because, sadly, he’d never experienced any.

“I had a particular spot, sitting on a low wall that bordered the beach, and I would disport myself there clad only in a rather fetching bikini skilfully selected my me because it both revealed and concealed!. Everyone knew me, if they were local, and I was well liked because I’d spend some of my earnings in the bars after work. I never enticed a punter into the little hideaway where my secret little corner was after dark. After dark was my own personal time and I enjoyed a drink and a sing-song, as do many who perform more … acceptable tasks.

“My charges were modest. I had no desire to cause hardship to my, er, punters. So I don’t think I’m lying if I tell you that I was popular. I was even told that some lonely men holidayed in that specific place just to spend an hour or maybe even less with me.

“And it was to this idyllic world that Edna Tomkins came when she was on the verge of starting her political career. You see, I was soon told that she was from a council estate where poverty was rife, and those she would like to see as political colleagues were invariably millionaires. She needed funds so that she could at least take the first step up the ladder and join the political middle classes. And when she saw me at work, with young men in fancy shorts eager to pour money into my bikini bottoms she thought she had discovered a way of making that money for herself. But I had learned my craft, knew how to tempt potential gentleman clients by hooking my thumb behind my bra strap and tugging it temptingly as if I was saying I’d let you do this for starters if you spent an hour with me. And all the time I would adopt an innocent expression. There’s nothing a man likes more than the thought that he might be about to deflower the innocent even when his common sense tells him that the woman he’s deflowering is far from the innocent creature his dreams say she is! So the future politician listened in and took note of my suggested charges and my range of services even though I could tell she had no idea what some of the, shall we say more advanced, services were!

“But she was looking at short-term gain rather than long-term profit, and decided that whereas I might earn enough in a season to see me through the year, she wanted to make enough in a fortnight to launch her career in politics. So when a potential customer sidled up to me and asked ‘how much?’ and I replied with a modest figure she listened in.

“Then, next day, she appeared on that same stretch of shore wearing a bikini of her own, and to make sure she could carry the wad that she planned on earning she had sewn deep pockets into the bikini bottoms, pockets so absurdly deep that even when empty they hung down almost to her knees! She looked a rare and rather ugly sight despite her natural beauty, which far exceeded my own, and when she perched on the wall too close to me for me to be happy she scared any potential punters off when she replied to the question, ’how much and for what?’ a sum of money that was ten times my own prices! I mean, ten times! She was almost laughed off the wall! And she didn’t do me any favours when she stomped off and called me every name under the sun, just because I had sidled to my cosy little enclave with half a dozen brash young men in the time she’d made nothing!

“’You have to learn your trade, madam,’ I told her rather stiffly, ‘like everyone else. A teacher can’t teach without being trained, nor can a judge judge or a doctor doctor. All professions need training for, and that includes the oldest in the world.’

“’You’re disgusting!’ she told me, “and listen you here, without training I can do anything I like! I can even be a politician if I want to! You just wait and see how powerful the name Edna Tomkins will be! You’ll blanch at the very sound of that name, that you will!”

“And then she stomped off and I found myself smiling to myself when an old man with a walking stick tripped over and caught her quite accidentally on the bottom with the business end of the stick as he fell! Served her right, being such a dreadful sight on such a pleasant beach! And you know what? She reported that old man for assaulting her when all he’d done is stare at the unbelievably outrageous sight that was a future Government Minister and accidentally slip on the sand because he simply couldn’t believe his eyes and failed to notice a sea-washed rock that was in the way!”

“Well, he might have been more careful,” suggested the librarian.

“Maybe,” said the prostitute, “but he was old and she was young and very, very silly. I hope that pointed stick hurt her backside. I even find myself wondering if it gave her any ideas...”

“It’s a thought,” mused the policeman.

“I say,” interrupted the Judge whispering, intending only her to hear, though his whisper was hoarse and rather too loud for the kind of secrecy that he intended, “afterwards, when we’ve finished in here, how much for a blow-job?”

© Peter Rogerson 24.09.18