Saturday 6th March 2010

International women’s day is coming up on Monday. I decide to go to the march, but am not sure of the route. I ask a taxi driver if he knows of a Women’s March. He says he doesn’t and he hopes ‘there ain’t one. They should bloody well shut up and leave the roads alone!’ I go to Trafalgar Square and find that the marchers are due. The event is called A Million Women Rise. Just before 3.00, the sun comes out and the women arrive from the northeast corner, baring red banners, chanting and whistling. The march is not actually that big, perhaps a few thousand. They barely fill the front of the square. The theme of the speakers and singers is violence against women. I sketch a number of portraits but get a higher number of refusals than I have had before, as many as one out of three. Many are concentrating on the speakers and do not want the disruption. A woman from the group Object speaks about the great victory that has been achieved through the forthcoming changes to the law that will criminalise all men who seek to buy sex on the streets. She says something along the lines that all paid for sex is demeaning, is exploitative, is rape. She is speaks in broad, sweeping terms with great hope for those who will now, as a consequence of these changes, be released from their captivity to better lives. She is followed by a woman who for ten years was a prostitute on the streets as a consequence of drug addiction, who was appallingly treated and demeaned and attacked for being a prostitute. She spoke with gratitude about her rehabilitation and her conviction in work as campaigner focusing on changes to the rapacious content of vicious video games that are commonly played by teen-age boys. These speeches are powerful, there can be no doubt about the dangers of street prostitution and that the most vulnerable are likely to be the most violently abused.

I do not know many sex workers but at least one I know enjoys her work, has done it for years and never encountered any aggression. I have heard via the English Collective of Prostitutes, of women who may or may not like their work, but who clearly wish to continue doing it and be protected by the law rather than be at risk from it. The new laws provide the police with carte blanche to arrest men buying sex whether the women wish it or not. In Sweden where this model of deterrent has been in force for some years, and also in the UK, where it has been trialled, prostitutes report that they are in more danger because they do not have time to assess potential clients, they are forced to jump into cars without discussion and this can mean the difference between an agreed transaction and an attack. The laws governing soliciting and curb crawling have been tightened on two occasions in the last sixty years but this tightening has not proved to be effective; the practices always continue. There is a horrible market place here: between those who need money desperately and those who want to buy sex. Incriminating one side as a means of deterrent is not going to make the otherside’s urgent need for cash go away: it will mean that there will be less cash in circulation, greater pressure to locate it, greater exploitation to get it and resorting to other means such as mugging and burglary. It seems simplistic and highly unlikely that reducing the number of men prepared to pay for sex on the streets will make the women who sell it simply decide to give up the game and go away. Where is there to go to anyway?

I feel distinctly at odds with the crowd in Trafalgar Square and move away to more receptive pastures outside the freezing National Portrait Gallery. I draw some feisty, punky girls who have come down from Bradford to see some bands. One of them had heard the woman from Object at her College: she said she disagreed strongly with this speaker’s argument and like me, had left the square.

I treat myself to tea and cake at the National Portrait Gall and then roam into Soho. IQ has advised me where to go.

Flat 1
I am welcomed by EB into a bright backroom with a kitchen area and a big sofa. She is my age, maybe younger, somewhat rounder and has a very typical, suburban London working class feel. She is the kind of person who I have met at the school gate, the kind who would be a playground helper, a car boot seller, a child minder. The kind of women who would help with fund raising events at the school and be sure to get her kids there on time (more than I can do on a good day!). She was well up for the Drawn Petition and encouraged GB to do it. GB was wearing purple silk undies with black lace and a pink dressing gown. She was tall blond and strong and fulsome, with exaggerated eyeliner and a long curled fringe. She was an Albanian from Greece. She was in good humour, she phoned her boy friend, he was not so sure and cautioned her which seemed reasonable enough. EB said that GB was full of herself (it was obvious she thought she was the cat’s whiskers) and had simply phoned her boy friend to ‘big the drawing thing up’ and affirm her self-importance. I think her assessment was correct. Still, I gave GB the rather good drawing I had done and did another less revealing portrait in profile which she was happy for me to take away. I then draw EB.

A tradesman is welcomed in. ‘What have you got for us tonight? Underwear?’ asks GB. ‘No’ he replies, ‘DVD’s.’ He sat down to show them. Another man came by. He was a tout; his reward, a tenner per customer he brought in. One arrived, but decided not to stay. Another arrived and disappeared into the bedroom. GB marched in but came out after about four minutes, washed her hands and continued filing her toenails.

EB told me that recently there had been there had been problems with the police. They had been raided and forced to close. They had turned to ECP who had helped them fight in court to re-open the premises. She said they had been on a march to the houses of parliament. ‘You remember the march?’ she asked GB. EB told me that even the mighty giant Westminster Council had failed to identify the owner of the building. ‘There are things we do not know’ she said, ‘and other things we have to be careful about’. She had never been on the game herself but had worked in the flat for years and took considerable pride in it. A couple more men arrived but were turned away. She said that they had taken down the posters and removed the neon signs that had always been there, to placate the new PC on the beat. What more could they do? Just before Xmas a gang of black youths had come up. They demanded their money back and threatened to burgled them. EB no longer opens the door to black men. ‘It only takes one bad apple’ she said. The gang had done over a number of flats near by but it was hard for them to report this to the cops.

I asked about prices. ‘£20.00 straight sex, £30.00 sex and blow job, £40.OO sex, blow job and position’. ‘Meaning?’ I ask naively. ‘Well you know, on top or suchlike’ GB replied. She preferred customers who stayed for longer. I asked about the rent on the flat. It was surprisingly low, but there were a lot other substantial expenses that the girl had to meet. My impression was that both EB and GB were positive about their work. No way was GB unhappy, on the contrary she was lively and enjoyed being the centre of things. EB phoned around and gave me the address of another flat near by where I could draw.

Flat 2
Up stairs we sat in a large darkened front sitting room, the maid NB on the sofa, and I on the floor opposite the amazingly lovely BB who also sat on the floor in spotted fleece dressing gown. Nothing about this girl said “tart”. All the sexy, exaggerated underwear in the world could not cheapen her; her make up was understated and pretty. She was quiet, dignified, intelligent and serious. She did not speak much English but she was learning it fast. She was 23 and married. Her husband had come here first to work on a building site and got a serious hand injury and was no longer able to work. She had stayed at school till she was 18 but something had prevented her finishing. She had intended to do nursing but had fainted during a ‘practication’ in the morgue. She did not want to be with dead bodies. She was doing this job for a few months for money to buy a house. ‘My country very beautiful, but no jobs’ she said.

She went to answer the door and then came back into the room; he wants face kissing she said. NB went to door and sent the client away. She came back into the room. ‘No’ she said, ‘No way. Mental problems, you can just tell’. NB was from a Jewish family in the North East. She had been a working girl and now lived up there but came down to London to work week on week off.

Flat 3
I went into a café to get a sandwich and then went to see EB’s good friend IB in another flat nearby. Oh she said, I could have made you toast and she offered coffee straight away. I was tired; the room was warm and cosy albeit grotty. I sat on a small sofa next to a laptop. IB sat in arm chair in the corner and RB, skinny, white skinned women with long black hair hopped up and down, presenting herself in the corridor in the age old style of doorway hookers, coolly looking the punters straight in the eye, quoting her prices and asking for a yes or no as though she didn’t give a damn.

I stayed for over three hours with these two and as I walked back out of Soho to find my bike I realised that I truly had been in a movie. One where a stranger arrives to draw portraits, a strange activity which enables time for reflection and extraordinary tales to be told whilst all the time witnessing at close quarters the nightly transactions of the world’s oldest profession. These two made a fine pair, the one with her great stories, strong views, sharp humour and world wariness. The other, keen, theatrical and happy at the disruption to the long tedium presented by the curious stranger with her intriguing skill.

IB is in her fifties and has done the job of ‘maid’ since her thirties. She had been a prostitute when she was younger, but not like this. “At the high end’ she said, ‘if you know what I mean’.
Her story is a priceless, a one in a billion, jackpot of a tale that could easily be made into a film if it was ever written up. For twelve years, she lived a glorious, luxurious, exotic life in a family at the topmost echelon of international society. It is not the purpose of this blog to disclose or even indicate where, for whom or what: this is IB’s tale to tell to the world when the right person comes, offering the right deal. But I can tell how it came about.

IB made up her mind to be a hooker when she was 12. ‘It was one of those wonderful black and white movies that did it’ she said. She came to London when she was eighteen having had only one boyfriend. She linked up with a friend who was already a hostess and went to work in the nightclubs of Mayfair. Over the next few years, she worked at all the best. There was only one instance when she felt scared and this did not concern sex but a very nasty prank involving a loaded gun. She managed to escape great danger using her wits. The next day the wealthy young perpetrators brought her back to the club and explained that it was just a bit of fun, the bullets weren’t real and she gave them what for. One day a friend suggested they hang out at the Dorchester. She remarked on an ashtray full of stale butts and removed it sharply. A well-dressed man noticed this action. This was her exit from active service as a hooker and her entry into a world of untold wealth, respect and satisfaction. She spoke of many places and people. I could only goggle.

As she was telling me this, she was also commenting on the evening’s goings on. There was not enough business. Half the time she told RB not to bother getting up for the men she was watching coming up the stairs on the security screen. Subjecting a girl to undesirable clients is not in the interest of the maid or the house. The maid needs to keep her girl safe, well and motivated works only for tips. She commented on the sleazy surrounding. It is deliberately kept seedy she said, the customers like it. These men are not coming here for the decoration. I commented on the tacky high-heeled shoes lying on the floor. ‘Oh! You’ve got to wear them’ she said, ‘its expected, house rules. We’re strict. Condoms, no alcohol, no underage …’

Unlike the 2 girls in the other flats, RB is single. She lives in the flat of a friend of hers who had this job before her. Her only companion apart from IB is her mum back home with whom she frequently talks on the phone. Her mum is a washerwoman, her father a builder. She stayed at school till she 18 but was not interested in it. She is 21. She will stay here till she has saved enough to buy a house back home. She was happy to sit for a drawing and appreciated having someone else around. She smoked quite a lot. After each client, she noted the fee down in a little book. She was paid twenty-pound notes mostly. Her clients are expected to clean themselves with a wipe before she enters the backroom; she rarely spent more than five minutes with them before washing herself in the bathroom basin and coming back. Looking at her takings for the day, she got irritated. ‘This job fucks with your head’ she said. ‘I want to do something better. I want to do porn. It is better’. IB said it wasn’t. They could abuse you and there are no condoms in porn.

When RB was seeing her next client, LB commented that RB gets restless and has these turns. ‘She is not earning as much as she hoped. She wants more customers. That’s what she is here for. This job is not for everyone’ she said. ‘You tell those who will be OK. It’s in their eyes. To be a prostitute there is one thing that is very important; you cannot be afraid. If you are frightened of the work, you will not be any good’. RB was not frightened at all. She was bored and who could blame her. Her shifts are three weeks on, one week off. Hours and hours go by with very little activity. But the house sets the rules and the girl has to abide by them.

IB has some property back home. After her wealthy patron died, she lived and married in America. But that was a long time ago and I do not know the exact circumstances which led to her becoming a “maid” in her late 30’s which is early in maid years. She said this work suited her, she liked it. She had the know how to set up a brothel, but she couldn’t be bothered.

IB has awarded me an honorary title. This is LB, which stands for Lady Bollox.