An American Whorewolf in London Part 4: The Blonde in Vauxhall

What’s up internet, my name is Seven and this is my blog. On Friday’s I post a frowback to days long past—days that pale in comparison to life in Thailand. Days so fraught with despair that their events can be seen in retrospect as stepping stones creating a chain of encounters that led me to Bangkok, like reverse breadcrumbs providing the impetus for leaving the West in favor of a life in paradise.

But not all of my past experiences were bad. In fact, a smattering of liaisons with working girls in various other locales actually helped amalgamate my acceptance of those social norms that permitted me to embrace the world’s oldest profession as something other than taboo.

I’d never indulged in such carnal delights while living in the US, mainly because I lacked the courage. But the brothels of London changed all that, first in the form of a chance meeting with a Thai girl—an event that would prove fortuitous—then with a lovely girl from Denmark, followed by an exotic Brazilian (all topics of previous frowback blogs). Those brief, shining moments were glimmers of hope in an otherwise bleak existence. The following essay recounts one such encounter with an English girl in a high-rise apartment overlooking Vauxhall Park. However, it wasn’t as pleasant as the others.

She’d posted a long-running ad on Craigslist offering all kinds of juicy sexual services along with an alluring if not clear selfie that revealed long blonde hair, a bit of her back, one eye, and half a smile. From what I could glean, she looked fairly fit. Imagine my surprise when she opened the door—in black lingerie and a fur coat—with not a small amount of fat, buttery pudge around her midsection. My first instinct was to bolt, but fearing that I might hurt her feelings, I instead made the mistake of entering. Her apartment was nice enough—a studio with a big bed and bookshelves lining one wall. She had the heat turned up to maximum, and some smooth jazz playing low from a Bose system. She offered me a coffee and confection. I looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She hesitated for a moment, then chuckled softly to herself. “Let me explain,” she said.

She told me she was not a prostitute. Rather, she was a nymphomaniac getting her uni degree in sexual psychology (or some such nonsense), and she bedded strangers as part of some kind of research. I didn’t care much why I was there or what her motivation was. I just wished she’d have cut back on the ice cream.

I’d never banged a fat chick before, and had no intention of starting, so while I developed an escape plan, she guided me to her bed and began pulling my pants off, all the while talking like the dirtiest whore on Earth. She began blowing me without permission, and I must admit she was very talented. She cooed and moaned mid-fellatio as if she was the one getting off. After some time, she asked if I wanted to fuck her. I said no, but she could keep blowing me if she wanted. “As long as you don’t cum in my mouth,” she said. I agreed. She then took to the job like a religious devotee worshipping at an altar. I shut my eyes and pretended she was skinny. It took some mental gymnastics to put her flab out of my mind, but in time it worked. Afterward, she cleaned me up with a modicum of tenderness, and I paid her and fled. A week later, she emailed to ask if I wanted to come a second time. I blocked her. Over the span of the next year, I saw her ad pop up on Cragislist regularly. I wondered how many surprised, disappointed men were met at her door by the Pillsbury dough girl in a fur coat.

Considering the crap shoot that is brothel-hopping based solely on blurry photographs on the internet, it’s a wonder that this chubby blonde was the only hiccup in my erotic odyssey. Next week I’ll tell the tale of the second Thai girl I banged in London. Her name was Jane, and she was a sweet morsel of feminine goodness that still shines like a gem in my memory (gemory for short, copyright BKK7). She quickly overshadowed the comparatively bad experience in Vauxhall, further cementing my belief that Thai girls are better than white girls in every single respect.

Be sure to check back on Sunday for the weekly, and cheers to another day above ground in a country with a comparatively smaller chance of being tricked into a tryst by a fatty—Thailand.