Julia Roberts Not-Prostitute Bond Girl.


I was somewhere just outside of Barstow when the drugs began to take hold. No, wait… That’s someone else’s story. I forget who’s. What was my story? Ah yes!

I was somewhere in Islington trying to find drugs for a crack-head I had been abducted by the previous day. He had originally lured me into what I believed to be a van at the time (it later turned out to be a shopping trolley covered with kitchen foil) with the intentions of making me a “real-life Julia Roberts” [sic]. Now, just like every little girl I wanted to be transformed into a not-prostitute before my 26th birthday , so I took him up on this offer immediately. He drove (pushed) me around for a little while and said we were going to Mayfair, where he had a lovely little studio set up where I would then have a stunning “Gok Wan makeover” and then have head shots taken of me with my new look that he would send off to his friend who worked for Paramount and he would get me a part in the new “James Bond” film. He said I had the cheek-bones of a geisha and the body of a coke addict. I have never been so flattered by the words of a man in my entire life.

Almost twenty-eight hours had passed. Looking back, I should have been suspicious as it is only usually a forty-five minute trip, tops, but my dream of being a Julia Roberts non-prostitute Bond girl was about to be achieved and I didn’t care about anything else. I had fallen asleep and awoke to the sound of people banging spoons against sauce-pans and chanting something I can only describe as a large group of seals burping in unison. The doors to the van (foil on the trolley) opened (was pulled off) and I was immediately blinded by a brilliant white light and over-whelmed by the smell of tacos. After five-or-so seconds my eyes began to adjust and I looked  around the studio he had brought me to. Much (not really) to my surprise, this was not a studio in Mayfair but a mold and damp infested basement. I was surrounded by a group of maybe four-dozen elderly ladies dressed in nothing but aprons with the naked body of a well toned man printed onto it with a fried egg covering the genital area, much like you might by a friends Grandmother for a birthday joke. They began banging the spoons and pans over their head and making the same unusual sound when one of them approached me with an envelope. Needless to say I was terrified. A pretty little girl like me. What was happening? I sheepishly opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. “welcome to the world of the sex-trade” it read. They had done a back-wards Julia Roberts on me. I was about to become a prostitute.

I should have realised much sooner that something was not right. Maybe I should have thought something was up when I remembered I wasn’t previously a prostitute, or maybe when a crack-head asked me to get in his trolley-van. But this was no time for should-haves. This was a time for action. I handed the envelope back and said “I’m in”. Why not after all? I’m not making very much money at the moment and god only knows how much cock I’m not getting. They explained their joy and shown me a door. It was a little bit like Narnia, but more like a freezer in the back of an old wardrobe. Actually, it was a freezer in the back of an old wardrobe. “What’s this for?” I asked the elderly lady who seemed to be in charge. She had flowing grey hair coming from her chin and smelt like PCP. She reminded me of a younger version of my mother. She explained that it was to get my nipples hard. I didn’t understand this, but looking back I don’t understand any of it. Actually, I don’t think any of this happened.

One moment please…

I just checked and I have a balls. I’m not even a girl. I called Max and he said I was with him last night and I left at about twelve and Sue says I got back here around half twelve.

Hmmm… Who am I thinking of? Weird. Maybe I’m just losing my mind? Probably not though. I think.

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