Crack Whore
My guilty secret opens with my then girlfriend jetting off to foreign climes, leaving me to a week of being home alone without any proper supervision. After a particularly large and unruly Saturday night, I find myself walking home at 3am in the morning, in a fairly damaged state of mind and body.

Much to my surprise a girl stops me in the street to enquire if I "wanted any company". In my befuddled haze, the penny didn't drop. Gent that I was, I replied to say that I was on my way home but that she was welcome to walk with me for a bit if she wanted to.

She then put it more bluntly and asked if I "was looking for business". The penny finally dropped. She was a whore. Now usually I would have run a mile. But a combination of curiosity, my girlfriend’s absence, a recent pay day, my flat being only 5 minutes away, and some particularly good MDMA ingested earlier in the evening, resulted in my replying "alright then".

But she was not only a whore. She was a crack whore. And before returning to the flat she made us take a detour to a dealer who supplied her with some rocks (and for which I found myself paying) . I had never done crack before but, back at the flat, she offered to share a pipe with me. Being interested in new experiences I accepted. The next couple of hours passed in an insane blur of pipes and manic gibberish. It is mental stuff which I have never touched since, but which I am glad I tried just the once. Something to tell the grandkids, eh? One of the effects of crack, at least on me, is the complete removal of libido. Which, fortunately, meant that I was much more interested in smoking pipe after pipe after pipe, than I was in completing the physical transaction with the whore. Soon after the last rock had been smoked I paid her for her time and she disappeared into the night, leaving me a gibbering wreck on the sofa.

But smoking crack with a crack whore is not my guilty secret. My guilty secret is that when my girlfriend arrived home, bearing nice gifts, she soon noticed that her brand new, and very expensive, handbag which had been hanging in the hallway was nowhere to be found. Although I could hazard a guess to its possible whereabouts, I obviously wasn't able to tell her of my theory that it had been stolen by a crack whore I had met on the way home one night.

I somehow convinced her that it must have been taken by the gasman who had visited the house on the day she left for her trip. I spent the next 6 months praying that she didn't pass a hooker on a street corner carrying her handbag.
(botchjob, Wed 5 Sep 2007, 15:44, Reply)