I worked as a gloryhole girl

So I used to work at a gloryhole.

I was studying in London. I had no money and my stint as a librarian had come to an abrupt end when I quit out of sheer boredom.

Scanning job listings I happened upon a vague advert offering opportunities at a 'gloryhole' - a word I'd never seen before. I sent an email (I'd had a glass of wine) and to my surprise found myself meeting with the 'maid', an older lady who couldn't pronounce her 'r's and had clearly seen it all.

She was polite and surprisingly formal - though endearingly frank when describing the mechanics of what was expected of a gloryhole employee.

I'd expected/wanted her to say

"You're far too respectable to be doing something like this"

and send me home but instead she advised me to work in my underwear ('because of the fluids') and asked if I could start on Thursday evening.

And so that's how I, a nice girl from Canada, wound up sucking ** for money in a north London flat.

That first day I worked six hours, gave five ** and went home with £150 - a chunk of which I splurged on a sushi comfort binge. My jaw ached, and even the wasabi couldn't mask the taste of sperm

And so, every Thursday night for three months I'd make my excuses and head to an anonymous flat in north London to ** strangers for money.

Everything worked according to a set routine. The maid answered the door, collected the money and walked the guy to the top of the stairs. On the landing there stood a door with a hole in it. The guy put his ** through and I'd ** him till he came.

I developed a routine: Locking the door and taking off my top whenever the doorbell rang, spitting on the ** to get it wet, stroking it till it got hard, sucking it till my mouth filled with sperm and spitting the ** into the wash basin in the corner. At least this was the theory.

Some guys couldn't come. Some couldn't even get hard. Others would explode in moments. Occasionally guys would stand at the door for a minute or two afterwards, and I'd watch their ** shrivel away before they pulled their pants back up.

A surprising number of guys preferred to come outside the hole, spraying their mess against the door. After each appointment the maid would scrub the door and landing with bleach - which explained the sickly stench of cleanliness that hung in the air.

Though I'd work alone, occasionally my shift would cross over with another girl's. I became friendly with two other employees: a 'larger girl' - as the British euphemistically put it - who ended every sentence with a giggle - and a pretty little thing from the provinces who was earning rave reviews online and promised me she was about to quit every time I saw her.

Anyway, three months in and it was clear the venture was in trouble - girls were quitting and I was working more shifts, but seeing fewer and fewer guys. Despite her best efforts the maid couldn't get the place running efficiently - guys would book and never show, or turn up without booking. And so I returned to straight society.

I'd paid off my debts and got out before I'd caught something. And that's my confession.

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