It didn't exactly start with Letitia. For a long time, probably for several years of sexual frustration, I fantasised about paying for sex but didn't quite have the guts to actually try it. I even wrote down a couple of phone numbers from the handwritten Busty Massage ads in the local newsagents' windows, and one for a more professional-sounding outfit called Thrillers International, but couldn't bring myself to call them. It seemed scary and a bit creepy, and perhaps on some level an admission of defeat. What would I say to them?
I finally called Thrillers International one evening. I must have sounded a bit weird myself but I guess they've heard it all before. An older woman's voice answered, efficient and businesslike. I mumbled squeakily about wondering where they were based and what they offered, and she rattled off an address and a list of prices - hand relief I think, French, VIP and so on. I wasn't sure what that meant. She said she had to answer the door and I heard her ask someone if he'd been before, then send him to a room telling him a girl would be free shortly. I was terrified. I left it.
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