‘And the woman which thou sawest is that great city,
which reigneth over the kings of the earth.’
– Revelation, 17: 18
She’s spread her legs,
Pulled up her skirt and pulled down her knickers.
She’s giving me that ‘come-hither’ look,
Her wet tongue pressed against white teeth,
Just like in the website photos.
A menu of services is propped by her bed,
And her bra is stuffed with foreign currency –
Yuan, rubles, riyals and dollars.
And although her lipstick is smeared by the last client,
And the mascara has run into the lines around her eyes,
At my slightest hesitation she arches her back
And tells me I can have ‘anything you want’.
All I have to do is choose my pleasure.
I don’t have to say it out loud;
Her discretion, she assures me, is absolute.
Just point to the place on the A-Z map
And swipe my bankcard between her lips:
The bill will be sent to an account of my choice,
And nobody I don’t want to will ever know that this happened.
I don’t even have to enter her – if that’s not my thing
(And in fact it’s the punters I’m here to screw);
Because from now on she belongs to me.
Even if I leave and never come back,
A little bit of her will always be mine –
At least, until somebody makes me a better offer.
What did the boy in the cloakroom say
When he took my coat and hat?
‘London is open for business.’