An American Whorewolf in London Part 6: My English Rose

The below account marks the moment when I, as a lonely whoremonger in the London brothel scene during the early 2000s, left that behind for good (save for one random night in Camden the following year, but that’s a tale for a later time). After 8 months living and working in Essex and some hit-and-miss experiences with various working girls, my relationship status changed.

She was a barmaid at the pub round the corner from my flat. I drank there almost every day after work, and for most of that time the staff consisted of an old man and a rough, husky gal from Dundee with a missing tooth and cheek piercing. She had a heart of gold but she was tough to look at. Then one day, out of the blue, the girl behind the bar was a drop-dead gorgeous blue-eyed brown-haired goddess. I couldn’t believe it. She stood out like a diamond in a garbage heap. I walked up to the bar and said, “You must be a dancer.” Her eyes widened. “How’d you know that?” she asked. “I can tell by the way you stand. You have a dancer’s posture.” Turned out she was a dancer. In fact, dancing was her passion, second only to singing.  “What’re you doing working here? You’re way too good for this place,” I said. She laughed and said she was broke, and didn’t have a choice in the matter. Then she said, “You’re American—what’re you doing here?” I told her I’d had a mid-midlife crisis. That sparked a conversation that was still going come closing time. Thankfully not another customer entered the pub the entire evening. As she turned out the lights, I told her I wanted desperately to invite her back to my place but that it wouldn’t be gentlemanly, so instead I’d just come back tomorrow. Months later, she would admit that I had her hooked from my opening line, but that not trying to bed her on the first night is what sealed the deal.

I continued for the rest of the week to stop by after work and regale her with tales about Los Angeles. We talked incessantly about music, film, books, and culture. Finally, on the 5th straight night of intense banter, I asked her back to mine. She accepted immediately. Back at my apartment we kissed and groped each other like teenagers. I asked her to stay the night and she said she would. But I made no attempt to copulate with her. Instead, I put my arm around her waist and went to sleep. The next night she wasn’t working, so I skipped the pub and went to the Chinese buffet with come coworkers. When I arrived home, she was waiting outside my front door. Once inside my flat, she practically tore my clothes off. From that day on we spent half our lives naked in bed together.

On weekends we took short excursions to various European destinations—Edinburgh, Sardinia, Barcelona, Paris—but most of the time we just went to London. We record shopped in Camden and Soho. We walked around Hyde Park and Portobello Market. We rode The Eye and took in the Tate. We toured the Tower of London and saw Macbeth performed at The Globe. It was an enchanted romance that seemed too good to last. And it didn’t.

About the time I was considering taking a job in Seoul, she got the chance to audition for a pop group called Alice DJ. So we had to make a decision. The choices were 1—stay together, with one of us sacrificing our future plans, 2—attempt a long-distance relationship, or 3—cash in our chips and bid farewell. In the end, option 3 won out. Not that we didn’t try to keep it going, but once we were on different continents, what we had slipped through our fingers like sand. Sexy, naked sand.

After my stint in Seoul, I went back on two occasions to jolly old England to visit her. The first time was great—we pretended no time or distance had passed and grasped at the last few imaginary straws of our already defunct relationship. I stayed at her place, slept in her bed, ate her food, and chatted with her mum. It was…anticlimactic. A few months later I went back again. We met for dinner in Piccadilly Circus. The atmosphere was cordial, nostalgic, and platonic. She told me she had a new boyfriend. I kissed her goodbye anyway, and that was the end of us. She went back to her new man and I found a really slutty nympho in Camden (more on her in a couple of weeks). In the subsequent years, she’s become the lead singer of a cover band and put on a few extra kilos. That last time we talked was before my relocation to Thailand. If I’m honest, I think of her on occasion. I wonder how she’s doing, whether or not she’s happy, and if she’s lost weight. But I don’t linger long on those thoughts. I don’t have time. My harem now occupies most of my free moments.

Next week’s frowback will cover Amsterdam—when this whorewolf left London to prowl the back alleys of that famous red-light district. Check back Sunday for the weekly, and cheers to all the sweet Thai ladies who make dating white girls unnecessary. Peace!