[Pub Lover]

Well, how to start? A few years ago the New Zealand government for whatever reason legalised prostitution, but of course it had to add a bunch of rules of it's own like any Liberal vipers nest. Having made it half way through my 23rd year & still having failed in the eyes of society to "prove myself a man" by having penetrative sex with a willing woman, I decided to partake in one of the services that my island nation home provides.

Driving into the city I managed to forget my motivation for the trip, lost as I was in the beauty of my fair isle. However as my car crested the hill at the edge of the city, and it's shanty town of poorly maintained shed-like houses came into view stretching all the way from the dingy harbour all the way to the hill top at my side, my premeditated actions didn't seem such a good idea, but before I was able to lose too much of my initiative I had arrived at the brothel.

Inside it had all the looks of a cheap motel, the carpets were frayed and curling up at the edges, the windows were grimy and cobwebbed forcing the internal lights to be on despite the bright winter's day outside. A sullen man with a worse moustache than my own was at the counter, he hadn't looked up when I entered, no doubt because whatever other patrons that miserable hole attracts all know were to go.

Deciding against acting like a boisterous jerk because I hadn't yet started drinking, I switched to my Plan B for dealing with people that I would rather see dead. Posing as the bewildered Englishman that I very probably am, I asked if this was the place where I could endeavour to purchase intercourse with a lady of negotiable virtue. He looked at me as if I had just taken a shit on his face and told him it was candy, so I restated my question closer to how a person would.

With understanding the sullen look returned to the man's face, he pointed up the stairs and I tried to not look at his soiled clothes with disgust as I thanked him. At the top of the first flight of stairs it looked like someone had vomited not only their lunch but one of their vital organs as well, so I delicately stepped around the mess, and carried on up the stairs.

A cardboard sign simply saying "Sex" had been stuck to the second door on the floor, and it was on that I knocked. The door was answered by an angry and rotund Polynesian woman who rudely instructed me to sit on one of the foldout garden chairs inside the room and wait my turn. I hadn't expected there to any other patrons at ten in the morning on a Friday, or even that the place would be open, so the four other men in the room received the full of my disinterest as I studied my shoes and the carpet around them with occasional bursts of hard stares at the ceiling.

If I was to construct a list of the most uncomfortable hours of my life, I would hope to have that fifty-four minutes somewhere near the top. In hindsight the haste with which I left the waiting room was probably equally matched a few minutes later by my haste to leave the... boudoir would be too classy, and bedroom a tad too pedestrian. I think the only word that'll fit is 'sexshop'. I'd describe the actions I took, and the relative positions of the naked & mildly attractive thirty something white woman with a clear drug habit, but it'll be best to say that I left with both my money & virginity intact. With the money I bought several crates of beer, and I enjoyed drinking them immensely. In conclusion, I would rather be drunk and alone than sober with the consequence of whatever.