But the perk that makes my civilian mates most jealous is that we have access to the local lapdancing club.
Whenever we feel like it, we can make a phone call, get a VIP table with ropes around it, and drink free bottles of beer that would normally cost the same as a decent shirt. The owner assumes that, because we all work in porn, we’re obviously sex-crazed mingehounds who will be throwing money about like bastards. What he doesn’t know is that we get so titted out at work, we all peg it out the office on our dinner hour to stare at fruit machines, electric guitars in music shop windows, and, in my case, calendars of kittens in wine glasses.
So instead, we just get pissed up, talk shop, clock minor celebrities, (and bitch about their general rubbishness for being famous and still having to pay to see someone get their knickers off), and go out of our way to demonstrate to women in various states of undress that we’re not interested in paying for them to do anything for us. Not that we expect it for nothing, oh no – we’re genuinely not interested. We’ve spent all day looking at tits, Photoshopping zits off the arses of Readers Wives, squinting at transparent fannies on light-boxes, making up readers letters, putting words into the mouths of splayed-out models, and looking at more tits. And arses. And fannies. And then some more tits.
One night, after we’d all been out for a slap-up meal followed by a go on the London Eye with some representatives of Big Massive Newsagent Chain, a group of us take the very rational decision to stop out and get even more hammered. Our Accounts Manager makes a phone call, and the next thing I know, we’re off to a club. My heart sinks when I realise it’s the same fucking lapdancing club. Half an hour later, I get so bored with tits again that I turn my chair around, face the wall, and submerge my head into a pint. I think about how much work I’ve got on tomorrow. I think about my overdraft. I think about my ex, and what she’s doing now, and how much I miss her.
And then I get a tap on the shoulder.
I look up, and one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life is standing in front of me. Massive brown eyes that you’d want to swim around in like a baby seal. Beautiful long brown hair, that frames her doll-like face. Perfect, petite body, encased in a dark, filmy negligee. Seriously, you would have given her £20 just to watch her open a tin of cat food, or read an
“Would you like a dance?”
She’s got a French accent. Oh. My. God.
I sober up immediately. I get up. I take her hand. I walk across the club, feeling the eyes of every one of my workmates on me. I look back, fighting down a gormless smile.
And then I stop, in the middle of the club. Right on the uncarpeted, 50p piece-shaped bit. And I turn round. And I look into her eyes. And I smile.
And then I dance.
It takes me 10 seconds to realise that she isn’t dancing. She’s staring at me with perfect hands on perfect hips, with her perfect mouth screwed up into a perfect pout, and her perfect eyes staring perfect little daggers. And then I remember where I am. And I say; “Oh, hang on…you mean a dance, don’t you?”
I pull out my wallet, desperate to give her some cash so I can get rid. Nothing there. I look for my debit card. Left it at home. Shit. Shit. Before I can get a pen and paper so I can write an IOU for any future earnings I make, she snarls something incomprehensible at me as if I’d tried to slap her face with me cock, and storms off. In the corner, I can see my boss, all my workmates, and random strangers pissing themselves with laughter.
And I start to wonder to myself if I'm really suited to the life of a Smut Pedlar after all.