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Chris Spags Founder and Editor

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Ever wonder what it would be like living inside a brothel without having to get tens of thousands of dollars in debt? Then you’ll be interested in this story from a woman who grew up with her mom, a prostitute, inside a brothel. Quite an interesting read.

As I was growing up, my mother worked as a housekeeper in a bohemian part of London full of hookers and artists. My family — my brother, sister, mother and often absent father — lived in a leaking basement flat of a large Victorian house, which had rooms that my mother would clean and deliver breakfast to. When I was 10, three prostitutes moved in. My mother kept their profession a secret from us, but I noticed they were very different from her — they were covered in make-up, wore low-cut tops and would sit very provocatively on the doorstep with their legs open; if she saw us on the doorstep, she would scream at us.

In our teens, we gradually worked it out, after noticing how they’d sleep in the day, then go out at night and return with men. There was only one telephone, so my mum would always rush to answer it, to prevent us doing so, but my sister and I became inquisitive and started picking up the phone. If we said the girls weren’t in, the callers would ask us if we were on the game. We’d make up names for ourselves, such as Letitia, from EastEnders, and say, “We’ll give you the full works,” a term we’d overheard. We’d arrange appointments, and men would come round. My mother would answer the door and quickly slam it. A couple of times, men wanted us to go into detail: “What colour are your knickers?” That was too much, it scared us and we’d hang up.

[Read the full story at Times Online]

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