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LANGSTRASSE REDLIGHT DISTRICT, ZURICH - THE JOHN'S TALE
My typical weekend begins promptly at 5pm on a Friday afternoon. Usually I and my mainly married colleagues will walk the couple of hundred yards to a bar near the train station which loosely describes itself as a “British Pub”. This means the décor and furniture are in poor condition and the beer is warm. They used to have a Filipina working there who could actually speak English but she left.
Actually it’s not so bad and very convenient for a quick pint or two after work. As I drink I pull out my packet of continental menthol cigarettes and light up. I only smoke when I drink – in fact I try and keep all my vices together in the hope that they will only count as one sin in total come the final reckoning. I am in many respects a bad man.
I spend an hour with my work mates becoming slowly more and more frustrated at the requirement for me to retain at least a modicum of respectability. Just before 6pm I run for the 6.01 train to the city centre and my transformation from almost respectable employee to whoremonger is nearly complete.
On the train I break out my hip flask and take quiet nips of vodka. I begin to relax after the exacting trials and tribulation of the so recently expired week of work. At the main train station it is a quick transfer to the bus and a 10 minute ride to the heart of the red-light zone.
My first stop is a Thai style bar and my usual hostess Nan brings me a glass of dry white Chardonnay as I light up another cigarette. “Drink for me?” Nan asks and I nod almost imperceptibly.
Nan’s a cute looking girl and she doesn’t look her 30 years. She is slim and dresses in a revealing short skirt and skimpy top. She has a small son and no husband but I’ve never been able to tempt her to meet me outside the bar worse luck.
After two more drinks I tip Nan unnecessarily and walk to the main drag of the strip. I have a drink in a few more bars and chat to some girls I know. Almost everyone knows me around here. At work a woman once mentioned that she’d read in the paper that there were 2000 prostitutes in this city. “2000?” I said. “I must know all of them...”. Even she thought that was funny.
Most of the freelancers working the bars are African, Brazilian or Cuban with a sprinkling of Russians and other east Europeans. The Thais are mainly in the erotic clubs and massage parlours which I rarely visit as it is too controlled (and expensive) for my taste.
In one of the bars suddenly Claudia wanders in and immediately makes a bee-line for me. “Hey Paul do you wanna buy me a drink?” she coos. “OK,” I reply and she slides in next to me at the bar and begins stroking my thigh.
Claudia is 28, good-looking, African, English speaking, no kids. She has a number of piercings and I’ve been with her several times before. “Do you wanna come with me short time or I’ll stay with you tonight if you like?”. She flutters her eyelids mockingly. “OK, short time,” I say.
We walk to her small one-room apartment and do the business. It costs me around £100 for an hour. (This is an expensive city.) I emerge from the apartment block into the rain and make my way to my favourite bar. This bar has a band every night and a quiet Thai restaurant/bar attached which is good for chatting once you have selected your potential mate for the night.
I wander through the bar and say hello to several girls and a few other whoremongers I recognise. I am looking for Nina but in the end it is Nina who finds me. In French she exclaims “Paul, where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” I smile, escort her to the small, quiet bar and buy a bottle of dry white wine for the two of us.
My O-level French is not very good but it is good enough for our purposes. “Paul, I want to stay with you tonight. Tomorrow I have to go back to Paris. OK?” I nod. I like Nina. She’s also 28, African, French speaking, big smile and warm personality. She has one kid in Africa and a caesarean.
She’s not the cutest girl on the game here but she’s has got a nice ass. She is also very friendly, good fun and I trust her enough to have her in my home. I trust Claudia too as it happens but as it turns out tonight is Nina’s night. We have something to eat and then get a taxi back to my apartment.
In the morning I drink a bottle of white wine while Nina does a pretty good job of cleaning my apartment. After lunch we retire to the bedroom for an hour. Later we shower together, dry ourselves and get dressed. I give her £400 and then walk her to the train station to buy her a train ticket back to the city.
“A la prochaine fois!” she says as she kisses me. “Yes see you next time, honey,” I reply. She gets aboard the train and waves at me until she’s out of sight. I like Nina, she’s sweet. They are all sweet – well nearly all.
I spend the rest of Saturday afternoon drinking wine and doing chores until I fall asleep sozzled and content. I have bust my weekend budget of £500 so next weekend I’ll have to cut back a bit. Yeah next weekend…….
Sunday is my day of rest. No women, no fags and no booze. Just a very bad hangover, plenty of bottled water and plenty of sleep. With luck I’ll just about be fit for work tomorrow morning.
You might think that this lifestyle is a bit risky. I would say that my lifestyle and that of the girls around me is riskier than most but nowhere near as risky as most people would probably imagine.
You might also think that it is impossible to love a prostitute but that’s not true either. I love (in my own way) all the women I associate with. They are different, daring, unusual, sexy and alluring. They are in addition a surprisingly kind bunch of people.
Prostitution isn’t well understood (or well regarded) in the UK. It’s generally thought of as a seedy, dirty world populated by drug addicts, pimps, pushers, traffickers, criminals and sad people (like me).
Now, no doubt all of these types of individuals exist in the sex industry here (& elsewhere) but this is largely due to the illegal nature of the trade and the lack, therefore, of any regulation except the prosecution of all and sundry (weather permitting).
I have a great deal of experience of prostitutes. I am 47 and over the last 15 years I have paid for sex with women in the UK, USA, Holland, Switzerland, the Philippines and Thailand.
I have had good (mostly) and bad experiences. I regard myself as a professional John. Being a professional John, however, doesn’t pay well. Sebastian Horsley says in his article “The Brothel Creeper” (Why I’ve slept with 1000 women) that it cost him £100,000. I’ve spent a similar amount on only 500 women so he must either be cheap or a better negotiator.
Why do I go to prostitutes? Well, I don’t want a traditional girlfriend and I don’t want to do one night stands. Plus if I pay I get who I want (within reason) no strings attached.
Prostitution is not all sleaze, pimps and drugs. It is women’s business and it can be classy and expensive. The double-standard employed by government whereby it appears sex can be packaged and used to sell almost anything for a profit by anyone except women themselves for their own well-being.
Society at large should stop victimising whores (and Johns) who are engaging in natural human activity and press for the decriminalisation of prostitution.
by Paul Pisces
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