"But what if I can't get it up?"
I've never paid for sex. I've also never been paid for sex - but only just. Oh, and I'm a (fairly) straight, male.

End of 1st year uni exams, 19 and skinny. Sunny Oxford in early summer. Organised boat trip down the Thames to celebrate - arranged by college drinking society, but with proper townie crew. Unlimited free wine. All very lovely.

Idiot me decides that the best thing to do is to down 4 litres of unbelievably cheap white wine. Idiot me then starts to stagger. Idiot me then starts to copiously vomit over the side of the boat. Boatmen, reasonably if unmercifully, decide that unloading me from their boat onto the towpath 5 miles outside Oxford is the best way to deal with the situation.

The girl I'd been trying and miserably failing to pull over the course of the entire first year, sportingly, volunteers to escort me back to civilisation. Unfortunately, somewhere on the towpath trip, I annoy her so much that she returns home alone (I've never found out precisely how, and hopefully never will). Instead, I pass out on the towpath.

I'm woken by a fat-ish guy aged about 30, shaven hair and an earring, asking me if I'm alright. Yes, I say. Do I know where I am? Not really. Do I fancy a lift back to town? Yes, that would be lovely. So we get into his MX5-ish sports car. He regales me with tales of his musical talents, the fact that he's signed up with East 17's manager and has lots of record deals in the pipeline. Very interesting, I say. Do I want to go back to his house and smoke some weed? Well, of course I do.

So we go back to his parents' rather large (parent-free) country house, sit down in the living room, and he plays me some godawful sub-Pet Shop Boys dance bollocks. Very nice, I say. He rolls a joint. I smoke it. He kisses me. I kiss him back, slightly surprised and confused by what's going on. He stops.

Do you fancy watching some TV? Yes, I say. OK, walk this way to the bedroom (no, I didn't ask what was wrong with the TV in the living room). So we sit on the bed and he puts on the football.

He kisses me again. Will you fuck me up the arse for £150? Err, what, I say? Will you fuck me up the arse for £150? No, actually, I don't think I will... indeed, I don't think I'm capable in my current state.

At this point I develop the fear and demand that he takes me home. To his great credit, he does, asks for my number, and I almost feel guilty when I deliberately get the digits wrong. I return to the college bar where my coursemates are still drinking, and affect memory loss covering the entire rest-of-day.

(and no apologies whatsoever for length. I'll have you know some people would pay £150 for it...)
(stalinism, Mon 23 Jan 2006, 14:01, Reply)