An American Whorewolf in London Part 2: The Dane in Kensington

There’s something to be said about the transition from bitter cold London winter to a warm, welcoming Kensington bordello bedroom. It’s even more appealing when the lady in said bedroom, clad in black and red lingerie, is a Danish call girl with porcelain skin, jet black hair, steely blue eyes and a bright white smile, sharp and gleaming like the sexiest switchblade.

Hey there web meanderer, my name’s Seven and this is my blog, and what you’re reading now is part 2 of a series I’m doing for frowback Friday. It’s a deep delve into the formative experiences that eventually brought me to live in Thailand. After leaving the US, my first foray into overseas life was for a teaching post at a secondary school in Essex, UK. Yes I know—strange choice. I foolishly believed England would be full of posh, polite students all sipping tea with a pinky finger in the air mumbling things like “I say…” and “By jove.” Imagine my shock when I entered the classroom for the first time and had to dodge a battery that had been hurled at my head by a Year 7 boy, whose English was so bad it would take a cunning linguist indeed to decipher the dross that leaked out his mouth like sludge from a sewer pipe. The job was a nightmare the likes of which I would not wish on my worst enemy.

Thankfully, every other aspect of England was a wonder to these L.A. eyes. As someone who grew up under clear, crystal blue skies and a hot desert sun, experiencing seasons was a marvel. So were castles, 500-year old buildings, pubs, and Roman Empire-era artifacts. I got an ice cream cone with a bit of chocolate stuck right into it. I got a doner kebab after a night of downing pints at O’Neill’s. I had Sunday Roast at the old George Hotel whilst sitting next to a crackling fire. And best of all, I had London.

The Tower, South Bank, Tate, Herrod’s, and Leicester Square were a mere hour from my front door. I dove into London recklessly every weekend, soaking up every ounce of art, culture, and society that I could. It was a full two months before I accidentally discovered brothels. It happened on a Saturday night, just after sundown. I was exiting the south side of Hyde Park, heading for The Queen’s Arms when I spotted a beautiful woman in a brightly-lit 2nd story window. We made eye contact, and she beckoned me to come to her—something I had no idea how to do. The window was too high and there was no apparatus on the outside of the building that I could climb. Plus I was still at the stage in my cognitive growth where I reflexively shied away from a strange woman showing me attention. So I walked on.

On Sunday, when I got back home, I couldn’t get the visage of that magnificent goddess out of my head. So I Googled the address, and found nothing. Then in desperation I typed “gorgeous black-haired goddess Kensington” and voila! came across a Gumtree discussion thread about London brothels. After a bit more investigation, I found an ad with a matching address for what I thought could be the girl. I emailed the contact addy. A lady named Marta responded, and she included a photo. I was fairly confident that it was the same woman I’d seen in the window, so I scheduled an appointment for the following Friday and arrived at her door with my heart pounding in my throat. An old lady answered, and led me upstairs into a warm, half-lit room. She told me to undress, but I opted not to. Minutes passed. I sat on the bed with my hands on my knees, wondering if maybe I’d made a mistake. Then Marta came in. Holy Moses.

She was the most striking woman I’d ever seen in person up to that point. She pushed me down on the bed, removed my shirt and pants, and straddled me. I was trembling.

I don’t remember much after that, except the warmth and scent of her skin, some freckles on one shoulder, that wicked, white-hot smile, and the best 5 minutes of my life pre-Thailand. Roxy Music referred to love as a drug—well, not love per se, but the thrill one gets from a one-night stand. Marta was a small dose of afternoon delight—a one-day stand, and I left her feeling quite high indeed. I’m not sure why, but I never went back to Marta. It’s just as well. A second or third visit might’ve revealed some flaw in the girl. Some lack in the luster. Some smear on the shine. Better to let that one magical encounter stand on its own for all time. A trophy on my monger mantle. A debauched notch on my beleaguered bedpost. They weren’t all noteworthy, those ladies of the evening from my London past. But this lovely lass showed me how I could achieve satisfaction by way of the world’s oldest profession. It was a welcome realization, as it coincided with my admission to myself that marriage was not in the cards. And it was a precursor–a first step–leading me inevitably to my current red-light life in a place rife with hotties of Marta’s caliber.

To this day, Marta is the only Dane I’ve ever met. If the rest of the women in her come country are as comely and come hither, I doff my hat to them all. Long live the great nation of Denmark. Nothing rotten there, if Marta is any indicator. Next Friday I’ll spill the beans on another London liaison—the harlot in question hailed from Brazil. Also, swing by on Sunday for the weekly, and cheers to all of us who’ve survived another week of naughtiness in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.