The name’s Jack Rose, or Rosy Jack as the gents like to call me, on account of that soft pink bud nestling between me rosy arse cheeks. I’m a Maryanne, see, and gentlemen pays me handsomely to do things I should likely enough do for free, though the cash definitely helps, make no mistake. Steamers, we call ‘em, the gents what come around; or swells or swanks: moneyed geezers, well mannered, classy, not like the lowlife I knew before I started in this game. But they all, to a man, love that arse of mine, love watching it pucker and pout, the filthy bastards - love to poke it, finger it, sniff it, lick it, fill it, fuck it. And I love them to do it, I’m not ashamed to admit. But I love too the gifts and cash what they show their appreciation of my little rosy star with - my asterisk of flesh, my puckered pal. This hole of mine has turned out to be a right little golden goose.          

          I don’t suppose boys are any different to girls in liking to take presents from those what are fond of us. There isn’t much wrong in gents showing their appreciation of the finer things in life with a trinket or a few shillings, is there now? I wasn’t the first and I doubt very much I’ll be the last, that much I do know. I know too that it is a harsh world, and harder still in this bloody shithole city of London I was pushed into. Fuckin’ impossible if the jaws of poverty hold you as they hold me ma and dad and the other seven miserable brats he sired. If that’s your lot you’d do you well to keep your eyes shut and crawl right back into the cunt you came from, if only that were an option. Instead we open our eyes and crawl forward, lambs to the slaughter every last one of us. A smack on the arse and you’ve no bloody choice is the truth of the matter. Every day a fucking battle. So if you can claw back a little happiness, a little pleasure, a little laughter and joy, it’s no crime. It’ll come as no surprise then when I confess that I feel like the king of the world when a coin is pressed into my palm after being pleasured. It’s bleedin’ hilarious to be making money so easily, isn’t it. And this line of work takes me places I’d never have seen otherwise, that’s for sure. When you have nothing to begin with you only stand to gain, and the way of life most rich gents take for granted seems to me to be the trappings of heaven itself. And the police are kind to me after their fashion. They shut their eyes for the most part, but then they have shut their eyes to worse than me and no mistake. The things I’ve seen in this town would make even old Queen Vic crack a smile.

          Odd the way I fell into the whole business, really. By accident, you might say. I certainly never planned it, but then again I don’t suppose anyone ever sets out to become a whore, do they? It was a bollock-numbing January in ‘93 and I was fast approaching my fifteenth birthday, though I looked much younger. Skinny as a runt and no trace of a beard as yet, though I had sprouted a soft dark down on my privates which thrilled me. I was running telegrams. Fucking awful, it was. Perhaps you’ve known it yourself, that horror when you realise all your time is being given over to others: all your thoughts are about day to day survival. Perhaps like me you have felt yourself chained to a fate you detest. I don’t know. Where I grew up ugliness was the one and only reality, joy was unheard of except for the odd booze up or street fight. I was working about fifteen hours a day running around in all weathers.