“You probably wondered about how I could afford the clothes I wear,” began Luigi. “Well, maybe you didn't. But I can afford these clothes and I own my flat and I have investments. I don't have to work. I do though, for charity. I work at the gay helpline, and for an AIDS charity. And I can because I have the money.
I was a … let's be honest … a whore for a while. A high class whore. Like there's any difference, really. Between high class and low class.” He avoided their eyes.
“Yeah, big dayil,” said Keith, his accent strong again, “I was too, mate. So fuckin' what? I was on the strayits for a whoile. There's nothin' fuckin' immoral about it whatever those happy clappy religious drongoes say. Nuthin'. I gave payple pleasure. For twenty minutes. They gave me money. No harm done!”
“You've got to remember, Keith, I was brought up strictly Catholic. No sex before marriage, gay sex an abomination, even pulling your wire against God.” Luigi smiled grimly.
“Yeah! Bullshit! Maynwhoile the fuckin' priests are diddling the altar boys.”
“Not our priest! Cold as ice he was. Anyway, I was at a gay pub, The Lord Grey, as it happens, and an old bloke came up to talk to me. When I say old, I mean old. He offered me money if I would have sex with him. He wanted me to fuck him, 'cos he couldn't get it up. Being old and all.”
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2 comments:
Define old, you daft git...
When I was 20, 30 was old. At 30, 50 was old. Now that I'm 60, 80 is old.
These are young guys, in their 20s. They mean someone in his 70s.
Happy now?
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