Portrait of a Prostitute.

I‘ve been thinking a lot about prostitutes the past day or so.  I’ve been re watching ‘Bored To Death‘ season 2 this past week or so.  For some obscure reason it’s created a lingering thought process that arrives with me, randomly throughout the day, day-dreaming the romanticisation of hanging out with prostitutes.

Generally when I think of prostitutes I dont think of them in a sexy sleazy way.  For some fucked up reason in my mind,  they’re all  non-judgemental-sexual-hipster-psychologists, who want to hear all my horrible secrets.  Unrecognised souls, that took a wrong turn climbing that property ladder….with daddy issues.

I think the roots of this misconceived notion comes from Jean Paul Sartre and a trip to Berlin.

The Sartre connection is boring and you can figure that one out yourself.  But the Berlin story….

It was a long time ago, in a land far far away, Germany to be precise.  It was my third day fear and loathing Berlin and my disposition had become weary and tetchy.  I was in that post adventurous cave man state of mind where all I wanted was ‘warm’ and ‘eyes-closed’.  Nonetheless I trudged on, taking power naps here and there- cinemas, trams, benches, shopping centres, playgrounds.  I was a burnt out bum with foreign notions of grandeur.

Anyway, I heard this story about a bar that was designed by H.R Geiger and had a load of Alien shit on the walls, so me and my friend Macdara were wondering the streets looking for nerd mecca.  We figured if we kept going from bar to bar we would eventually find it, being from Kilkenny, which is so small you can literally be in two places at once,  this plan seemed not fuckin stupid.

On one particular street, Ostridge strasse I believe, existed the home of Berlin’s infamous and beloved prostitutes.   These women were walking the streets in -7 degree temperatures, in belly tops and skinny jeans- AND they approached YOU to see how YOU were.  As an Irish man, I’m more used to women who would rather throw up on me than say hello, so it was nice.

In hindsight, they were very like the Concern chuggers on Grafton street.  Only instead of saving Africa they wanted to have sex with you.  And just like the chuggers on Grafton Street, the novelty soon wore off.  I was getting harassed by all these beautiful women as I tiresomely trudged through the forest of the soliciting sexy skinny trees.

Still on our quest to find a bar made by aliens, we stopped and asked a prostitute where this place would be.  She just happened to be the hostest prostitute this side of the fallen wall.  We talked with her for quite  awhile and became very smitten with her.  She was great at flirting.  If I hadn’t had lost my wallet I probably would’ve given her fivers just for laughing at my jokes.

My fragmented memory has replaced her with a beautiful blonde angel in pleather pants. She told us many things, most of which I forget.  I think she told us competition was tough because there was a lot of extra prostitutes out and about due to the forth coming world cup.

She also told us the secret to how the prostitutes stay so warm and so naked on the streets of Berlin in the middle of fucking winter.  They use these heat patches and place them in their shoes, gloves and under their shirts.

I thought this was amazing because- THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT I WAS DOING!!.   I unwittingly had the exact same street smarts to that of a whore… and this was before I became a photographer.

Some other secrets she told us:

1: If you make a prostitue climax- you still have to pay.

2: Having sex with a prostitute would still be considered as cheating by your wife/girlfriend

3: The Aliens bar was a myth.

She did point us in the direction of a bar that was pretty awesome.  In the bar we decided we were going to go back, hire that prostitute, bring her for breakfast and Richard Gere her back to social acceptance. And then marry her.

Unfortunately for her, that bar was pretty fucking awesome and we completely forgot to go back and save her soul.

Next time Belinda, next time.

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About davetheminogue

I'm one of those cynics you're always reading about.
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