I once knew a lady who ran a very successful private gentleman’s club.  It was terribly exclusive and the only advertising was a series of artful postcards displayed in selected telephone boxes around London. All other business was a result of very good word of mouth. The lady was among many, many things responsible for introducing me to Jean Paul Sartre. I had no idea what she was talking about then and Sartre remains at arm’s length from my periphery now, but in my defence it is quite difficult to discuss existentialism when one of you is wearing a bad wig and a headmistress outfit. Another lady who occasionally… stood in for our lady of Sartre, was a self published poet.

I couldn’t help but  wonder… where would I find the funding to explore the literary world of sex for sale workers? Surely that is an anthology in the making.

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