‘’What’s a nice girl like you doing hanging around in Soho Walk Ups?’’ the veteran cockney whore in her mid-sixties asked me with a smirk. ‘’I… I want to be like you,’’ a 21-year-old Catherine stammered back in awe of her hypersexualized presence.
‘’Aww, you’re adorable!’’ she said with a chuckle while spreading her silk-like thighs and beckoning me to lap at her battered cunt at the end of a long shift, ‘’You have a long way to go, sweetheart!’’ If only she could see me now.
The Belfast I grew up in was more known for sectarianism and violence than anything else. It definitely wasn’t a place for an aspiring whore like myself to find herself in a world of hardcore sleaze. For that, I had to go overseas.
If you’ve read my infamous Little Black Book, you’ll know that while I cut my slutty teeth in the sex clubs of Germany and beyond, it was actually London where the depths of my nymphomania were initially triggered. And I’m not talking about the touristy areas, either.
I’ll be straight; I hate modern London and everything it has become. It’s a mismanaged and gentrified city whose soul has been ripped out. You see, I fondly remember the days when it was a porn utopia for a Gooner girl like me, and it’s something I want to reminisce on today.
Table of Contents
A Den of Sleaze
Belfast in the 1990s was no place for the faint-hearted, but when I was sent to work in London for the first time, it felt like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. Arriving at Kings Cross station, you’d have to run the gauntlet of villains, perverts, hookers, and everything in between.
It was dodgy, sleazy, and dangerous, and I loved every fucking second of it. Compared to today, finding your way around and locating all of the sleaziest secrets required a lot of groundwork, and most of it was word of mouth. But for a natural-born whore, I took to it like a fish to water.
I barely recognize the gentrified, tourist-riddled, and overpriced Soho of today. When I used to haunt its neon-lit streets, it was a shady den of perversion where a girl like me could find all of the debauchery her heart desired and of a variety that was a mere pipe dream in little Belfast.
The London Sex Shops
Respectable women on their way to work would hurry past them and try not to make eye contact with the sign. I, on the other hand, was drawn towards them like a magnet. Man, the old-school London sex shops were a Goon experience unlike any other.
Walking through the sticky doors, I remember the smell like it was yesterday. It was a somewhat stale candy-like scent mixed with dick sweat, perfume, and pussy. The look of ‘’What the fuck is a girl like that doing in here?’’ from the patrons used to turn me on like fuckin’ crazy.
Long before buying your sex toys online was a thing, strolling through the aisles of sex shops was a thrill ride unlike any other. I’d blow my wages on as much porn and hole-wrecking devices as I could, reveling in the eyes of horny men lingering in the aisles, some stroking their cocks.
They were a hive of activity and the perfect place to mingle with like-minded perverts and catch the latest gossip on where sleazy fuckers get up to the kind of stuff that wouldn’t fly in the aisles of a sex club, speaking of which!
The Victorian-Era Gloryholes of London
From the infamous Gloryhole clubs of Prague to the world of Gloryholes just for women, I’ve seen it all in the world of Gloryhole sex. But few of them hit the same as the old-school London Gloryholes did, ones I’d often find through conversing with those hanging out in the sex shops of Soho and Kings Cross.
Drunk on porn in the early hours of the morning, I’d venture into the once-majestic confines of underground Victorian public toilets to service as many anonymous men as my mouth could handle, and they were so busy that I’d come out reeking of sperm, sweat, and slit juice.
As an autistic female porn fanatic, it was the perfect place to hone cock sucking skills without the need for social interaction or eye contact, and I was in heaven. Still, when my confidence grew, London also had the perfect place for me to sink into.
The Porn Cinemas of Kings Cross and Soho
The first time I saw porn on a cinema screen at a Soho porn theater, I wept at its beauty. It was a life-changing moment for me and one that implanted a love of porn cinemas in me forever, causing me to seek out the world’s last remaining XXX theaters wherever I go.
But when I quickly understood what kind of people frequented such cinemas, it often wasn’t the screen that had my attention. London porn cinemas were a buffet of anonymous sex and were packed with horny men eager to fuck some cheap and easy cunt like the ones on the screen.
And to say that they fell in love with my cheap slit was an understatement. I’d walk in there, stand in front of the screen, remove a butt plug from my hole, and suck it clean while they watched, letting them know I was game for anything.
I’d sit in the dark confines of these seedy fortresses, using men’s dicks like throwaway sex toys and letting random guys suck on my cunt while I bathed in cinema-grade porn. Even after all that, though, I was still hungry for more. Luckily, Soho never disappointed a nymph like me.
The Infamous Soho Walk Ups
To the untrained eye of a normie, the Soho Walk Ups would be easy to miss. Cheap and tacky signs sporting hand-written ‘’Model upstairs!’’ or ‘’Sexy Girl on Third Floor (English)’’ would discreetly welcome people in for NSA sex, and, fuckin’ hell, it was cheap and sleazy back then.
Set across multiple floors in 18th Century Georgian buildings, they were essentially brothels with a working girl waiting inside and a ‘’maid’’ who was usually well over 50 or 60 and a former whore herself who’d welcome you in, take the money, and clean up after you both. A dream job!
The first time I went, I thought I’d be told to fuck off. Surely it was men only, right? I fondly remember queuing up with six men in the stairwell, waiting to go in. I’d been in a nearby porn cinema for the last eight hours, was pretty drunk, and immensely eager to lick cunt.
‘’How much for a go on you then?’’ the sleazy as fuck guy behind me asked with a touch of my ass while the others in line pretended to ignore it. I didn’t say anything, only spread my thighs for him to finger me from the back while I waited.
I was almost on the verge of orgasm when the door of the walk-up opened, and I was let in. I expected the mid-sixties London whore to be bemused at the sight of a woman, but it wasn’t unheard of. I had money to burn at the time, and I wanted her to teach me everything.
Her name was Vicky, and she accepted my kinks and desires with open arms. I’d often come to her towards the end of her seedy shift to lap at her well-used cunt, absorb her juices, and listen as she taught me all of the things that she’d learned from over four decades on the game.
It was magical.
A Vanquished Goon Paradise That I’ll Never Forget
I’ve returned to London many times over the years and watched the British capital change beyond belief. Many of the former porn haunts I used to frequent are gone, replaced with soulless, gentrified crap that all looks the same.
The sex shops see more giggling tourists than they do legit kinksters. The porn cinemas are hunted down one by one and closed down. The Soho walk ups can still be found, but they’re dramatically smaller than what they used to be.
The particular Soho Walk-Up that I used to frequent is now a trendy architect’s studio, which is somewhat ironic as it was once the haunt of a ruthless old whore who was one of the architects of the perverted mind of Catherine Duffy that you all know well today.
It feels as though sleaze has been chased out of the city and sent packing to smaller British towns and cities. It will never have the same power as the sleaze of London once did, though. The perverted memories of which I’ll cherish forever.
I want sex