My Booky Wook: A Memoir Of Sex, Drugs, And Stand-Up - Plot & Excerpts
“Why don’t you like these women that we’ve got here?” he demanded, with a grandiose sweep of the arm across his dreary kingdom, gesturing toward the broken-faced marionette women doing a stringless dance of death on the Billie- Jean floor. “They’re just not my cup of tea,” I maintained. When he asked what I was after I replied, “Oh, probably * C&A is a now-disbanded department store. It was a bit rubbish and if you got your clothes there, people would take the piss out of you at school. 272 Call Me Ishmael. Or Isimir. Or Something . . . someone in their twenties, with massive boobs,” and he said inevitably—“Come with me, I have the perfect thing.” She was not a thing but a person, with feelings, but there are two ways this tale can be told. The first is from the perspective of someone who is a connoisseur of sex in general but also prostitution. The second is through the eyes of a man who has since awoken from the amoral dream of commodifi ed sex.
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