The brass of Chelsea
Though the characters of Chelsea are changing, the murky world beneath its privileged surface will never disappear.
This morning I met with a friend in what I thought was a perfectly respectable hotel. Alongside grandmothers, mothers and business people, was a 42-year old Polish woman who at 10am was onto her fifth margarita.
During the next hours, various ‘ladies’ who were looking for this individual arrived. As she downed yet more margaritas, the conversations became louder and at one point a transvestite joined the Pole to talk about being added to her website. “We’ll give it a month” said the prostitute boss before sending this especially scary looking tranny away.
Afterwards the conversation turned to the silicone breasts of some of the other girls at the table and as more margaritas were consumed they spoke of how one of their number died whilst on a ‘job’ and of their dealings with the police. One girl spoke about clients with dirty fingernails and another recounted a night she’d spent with a tramp.
Other tales centred upon encounters with footballers and a well-known American actor who had been staying at Claridge’s with his equally famous actress wife. “He used the name Scott Crab” one explained before quipping: “I think he had crabs also”.
As I departed, I heard the Polish madam tell one of her brood of broads: “The more blowjobs you give, the faster swelling from Botox disappears”. Even Mrs MILF might have blushed.
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