The day I was asked how much I would charge.

Working in the hospitality industry, I don’t get phased by much.

I’ve thrown burly men out of my bar, when they start to become rowdy, and then get told that it must be my “time of the month”. 

I’ve had to endure countless comments on the fact that I can move a barrel even though I have a vagina and not the strength of a penis. 

I’ve been breathed on by an endless amount of beer soaked breath, while being asked for my number. 

I’ve encountered wolf, dog and pig whistles, too many to keep track of. 

Yet only one thing has stopped me in my tracks; the moment the kitchen porter asked me how much I would charge for sex. 

Rage obviously hit first, but then slowly translated to pure perplexity.

For the entire shift I tried to place a price tag on a few hours spent basking in the glory of my genitals. 

Not very familiar with the going rate of prostitute services I tried to think of a fair offer. Would I charge for each act separately? £20 for oral, £100 for anal? The whole package? £200 for whatever you like? 

Where on earth would I begin? I mean I can crack a mean joke, so would I include this in the services I offer? Surely the punter would enjoy a bit of humour, perhaps it should come as an extra to try and masquerade the fact that he has to pay for something that most women would usually do for free if you treat them with some form of respect. 

During the time of questioning, I had a few bills to pay. This threw in all sorts of different prices in to the equation. Would I forget my dignity and simply ask for the £35 I needed to pay the gas bill. I also really fancied a new pair of boots I’d seen, so there’s another £55 I added to the cost of my vagina. And let’s not forget that Glastonbury tickets were going on sale soon. What easier way to pay your way in to a dirty field than to get dirty, possibly in a field. 

Thinking back over the numerous one night stands I had encountered, there had been some that didn’t really float my boat, but through bitted tongue continued anyway and regretted later. Would it be the same when charging…Would I charge more if I didn’t find the punter remotely attractive? Would I give a cheeky discount if said punter was an insanely attractive man that was just looking for a good time?

As time went on I thought and thought, and I still had no price tag to hang from my lingerie. 

I’ve always been remotely supportive of prostitution. It’s the controlling and mistreatment of women within the industry that I disagree with. If a woman is of stable nature and is in complete control of the situation then surely she has a right, and should be supported rather than shamed and made to hate the society that most probably forced her in to the situation in the first place. However I completely understand that this is most usually 99% of the time not the case. 

If I was forced in to this world of mistreatment and abuse of women, then I know my price tag would not be my decision, and here in lies the problem;


If we women were able to decide how much we were worth then there wouldn’t be a sex industry in the first place, because no man, in his right mind could bleeding well afford us. 

Unanswered screams.

How I am still unable to understand why FGM is still a problem.

Why is no one listening to their screams? Why is no one answering their screams?

I was a young girl, on a beautiful sunny day, rolling around in the grass in my fruitful garden with my beloved doggy, without a care in the world when I suddenly looked up and saw a huge bumble bee sat on the end of my foot. As the venomous poison filled my little foot I let out a blood curdling scream, that filled the voluptuous valley in which I resided. By the time I managed to take my first breath my dad came running from the house lifted me up and carried me back inside and sat me over the sink. Without any hesitation or doubt he sucked the venomous stinger from my foot, to extract the burning poison. He suffered for hours later, as he relentlessly tried to get the stinger out of his gums. When I screamed he came running. He answered my scream; he sucked out the stinger to protect his little girl, although it resulted in a painful afternoon for himself. A scream is a sign of pain, a sign of torture, a sign of discomfort. Most importantly a scream is a cry for help. We scream, because we want to be acknowledged. We scream for freedom. We do not want our pain to go unheard. So why are these poor, young & vulnerable girls screams not being answered?