She was not amused at my state but laughed at the statement. Poppy chatted away with my new friend—I couldn’t really remember his name. I went to my room to change into something more comfortable but instead passed out.
The following morning, Poppy raved about my new friend. Apparently once it was established that I was out cold, she phoned him a taxi, but it took a while to arrive, so they got to know each other. I was very hung over and Poppy’s prattling can often sound like the ‘Flight Of The Bumblebee’, so I tend to zone out.
‘Yes, yes, Andrew seems very nice.’
‘Mum! His name is Angus!’
‘If you say so, sweetie.’ How could I explain to her that I wanted her to shut up, there was no point in getting attached to any man because I was too unlovable for anyone to take me seriously? And my days as being someone’s fuck thing were long gone.
‘You should go out with him, Mum, I really like this one.’
‘We’ll see, my love.’
By the end of the day, she had reminded me three times to call him and thank him for getting me home safely. Or to invite him over for dinner, or some such excuse to talk to him again. I reluctantly did as she asked, knowing no good could ever come from it. He invited me over for dinner, and to me that meant I felt obliged to fuck him.
He was a perfect gentleman, said all the right things, put on his best manners and presented himself as the yin to my yang. My inbuilt sense of cynicism told me that this guy is either a saint, or just really wanted to shag me. So I let him. My motivation was part pro mode and part self-preservation. I was not prepared to allow my heart to run away with the fantasy of happily ever after bullshit. Instead I opted for giving him what he wanted, so he needn’t ever pursue me again with false promises of undying affection.
It turned out I misjudged him, and he persisted in calling me and attempting to get to know me better even after I gave him sex.
Sometime later he invited me to accompany him to a work ball. I started to shiver all over. There was no way I was going to be seen out in public with him. He wanted to understand my reluctance, so I was honest with him.
‘Angus, I really like you, so much so that I could not bear to see you hurt or embarrassed by me. I used to be a sex worker and if you take me to a ball, chances are I’ve probably shagged half the guys in the room. I like you too much to put you through that.’
I couldn’t get away from him fast enough, but he grabbed me, pulled me close and told me that he already knew and had been waiting to hear it from me.
I’ve put Angus through hell with my cynicism, my self-doubt and obsessive sense of independence, but each time he seemed to stay firmly by my side, loving me more than I love myself.
We’ve been happily married for years now and over time I’ve started to see myself as he sees me—that I am more than fuckable, I am truly lovable.
55
Final Word
Life has changed since I was a child. Men no longer rule the world; there are more women in the police force, there are social workers and rape counsellors to minimise the distress of sexual abuse. Men are now more often presumed to be accountable for their own urges and actions rather than victims of youthful sex appeal. There are child protection agencies that are obliged to listen to children and advocate on their behalf. Abuse is not defined by force but by scar, be it emotional or physical.
Today I am a happily married middle-aged women, loved by her child and respected in her profession, who has reached the pinnacle of her education. I have acquired half an alphabet behind my name. I am smart, funny, experienced, sexy, well-travelled, well-read, a loving mother and wife. I am not now nor have I ever been merely defined by my occupation.
I am finally proud of myself, despite and because of my history, and my life is now an open book free of secrets and shame.
About the Author
Annika Cleeve has an alphabet of qualifications behind her name, and during her studies she spent 18 years as a sex worker, plying her trade all over the world.