I was in the West End to see a client that, to put it politely, is a cunt. Those days when you leave home with a sense of foreboding. It had just been a shit week.
Added to that the West End was full of Christmas cheer, a reminder of a life snatched away from me by my own impulsiveness and poor judgement. It was decided I wanted a scrap, a brawl, a dust up.
34 Romily - looked like a Thriller video reunion. Next.
28 Peter Street - crazy Angela plus at least an extra stone of blubber. Fuck no.
2 Greens court - rapped on the door. Expectations very low. It swung open - jackpot! Venezuelan Anna in all her dusky tall slim glory.
She eyed me up deparagingly like a feminine fuckable Ricardo Mayorga - she would have blown cigarette smoke in my face and insulted my family if she could have, or maybe if I paid a bit more.
It was fucking on.
The bookies had me as the clear favorite - i had at least a weight class advantage and I had been training hard. Separeted from £40 plus £2 tip for the maid for sex and a blowie I vaulted the ropes and my robe came off. I felt good, my corner was positive.
She made her entry to the cheesy Kiss 100 90s house bleating out of the cheap radio on the chest of drawers. This was an easy win. The last time we met at the now defunct Dean Street she narrowly edged me out on points.
Ding ding, round one. She rolled on a black condom and started blowing me, decent tekkers but I couldnt get my rythme. I started to panic. Maybe it was the bright lights or had I trained to hard? I looked over at my corner my trainer wouldnt even look me in the eye. Months of his life he had wasted on the lead up to this big night and I couldnt even managed a hard on. Ding ding round over.
« Are you ready to fuck baby?!? » she was goding me like Mayorga did to Oscar de la Hoya. My corner wiped me down, gave me a talking to. Ding ding round two.
Spraid out before me, legs open in missionary, this was my chance. As I entered her I moaned, eyes rolled back slightly and I couldnt help but say « fuck me this is good pussy » she giggled « thank you baby ».
I hit my stride, right jab left hook i was going at it south paw. I was beating it like she owed me money (£42 to be precise). Ploughing it like she stole something. But i was getting cocky, my guard was dropping, i was showboating. The crowd loved it.
And then out of the blue it came. BAM! I filled the bag! It was lights out. I was down, hurt bad. The room was spinning.
She was up, hands raised in victory she knew it was over. I jumped up but my legs were jelly, like when Broner got rocked by Maidana. The ref knew it. He waved me off. I was fucked. My corner walked away in disgust.
Descending the dirty stairs of Greens court in disgrace, I know that the teachers were spot on - I would never amount to nothing. There would be no big purse, no yachts no expensive cars.
Would I return? By Soho standards shes both a looker and gives a good account of herself - for £42 its a steals. Shes on hand Fri/Sun/Tues day shift.
