Right now we may be seeing political turmoil but the fact remains, London is a city built on sex.
There are two types of currency here—money (of which there is a lot), and sex (of which there is even more). All you have to do is step out of your front door to see it, to sense it in the air.
I walk out onto Shaftesbury Avenue and from there into Soho. I see beautiful Eastern European girls hurrying along, buttoned-up from the cold, rushing to begin their shifts at the Windmill, Sunset Strip or Sophisticats.
Meanwhile, over in the East End, the old ‘pound-in-the-pot’ strip pubs still thrive. If you’re an afternoon drinker with a bunch of coins in his pocket then you can have a pretty good old time.
In Mayfair, we see sleek girls ferried to-and-fro in sleek cars, going to meet the rich men with whom they are sleeping. There will be dinners in Le Chinois, at Sexy Fish, at Novikov. There will be delicate, eye-wateringly expensive underwear. There will be bedrooms in some of the most expensive hotels in the world with the Do-Not-Disturb sign affixed on the doors all day and all night.
And in Westminster—well, what a grubby explosion of fucking is going on over there. Reporters and junior ministers screwing in the hazy, beery afternoons. PRs and civil servants. MPs and the hot wives of party donors. Everywhere, the politics of a nation brushed breathlessly aside to make way for the politics of fucking—the only politics that truly matters.
And back here in Soho, up those narrow staircases we find the girls plying their trade….Romanians, Brazilians, Lithuanians, Greeks, Italians . . . even English girls (!) In their grubby, bright bedrooms, a price list on the wall, a set of toys, plus uniforms, hung in full view in the open cupboard. Here, half-cut barristers and CEOS, tourists, villains, professors and social workers, plus down-and-outs who’ve scraped together the cash, all come for half-an-hour’s knee-trembling satiation—and then out into the street again, a spring in their step in the sharp London winter air, and no-one any the wiser.
And in Soho still, the Italian baristas who walk to and from their shifts stopped by hungry young men with glinting eyes. And in the private members clubs, celebrities passing their telephone numbers to waitresses and lithe receptionists . . . . and hours later their eyes glazed, mouths opens, their bodies conjoined sweaty ecstasy in private rooms.
And the media executives, the people who work in advertising, in design, in editing, for film companies, TV . . . you really think they’re not at it as well?
You think that industry isn’t awash with energetic sexual performance too?
Of course they’re at it—the whole fucking town is at it (fucking, that is) and this lot are the worst of the bunch. Locked in store cupboards at the back of empty production rooms, in the disabled toilets of major chain hotels, or behind screens on shoots for family TV shows, flies are undone, and hands start to stroke and then the fun really begins.
And down there in Southwark, at Borough Market—you think those stall-holders aren’t getting any? Of course they are.
‘A pound of spuds and a pounding, miss?’. ‘If you just come round here I’ll show you where they filmed Bridget Jones’, ‘The van’s parked up over there. If you don’t mind lying on a consignment of radishes then it’ll be fine.’
Panties
And let’s not even pretend about Canary Wharf. Well, it’s an open secret isn’t it? Shorting the pound is fun for a while, as it rollercoasters up and down, but what’s even more fun is retreating into posh lavatories constructed of marble and glass and removing Hugo Boss trousers and Victoria’s Secret panties and really giving the markets a boost. Or behind the whiteboard in the meeting room when the boss is at another $1000 a head lunch at Nobu.
And back over in Mayfair, the hedge fund managers hedging their bets—well, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, isn’t it? But, on the other hand, you’ve got to speculate to accumulate. And so there are expense account lunches and then we went to the park in the afternoon, and, wow, I didn’t realise how deserted it is, all those bushes . . . .
And over in Stratford, heart of the East End, young professionals, retail assistants and students travel to their shiny new build apartments, with them their Tinder and Happn and Bumble dates—a swipe, a drink, a ‘yeah, you’ll do’ and then an Uber back and clothes are removed and then the rest.
In Kensington, in glossy Wholefoods, glances are exchanged over £5 carrots, Instagram details are exchanged, and direct messages sex up fuck time later.
On Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road languid language students, young girls from abroad craving adventure, respond to eye contact from horny young men. Cellphone numbers are exchanged. And in the big clothing stores, bored young women experiment with styles while flicking through Tinder and Instagram, deciding who to fuck later that night.
And at night the clubs around Leicester Square—Tiger Tiger, Zoo Bar, Ruby Blue and the rest are filled with horny foreign students, tourists, a few locals and pick up artists, each craving for a little of the pleasure pie. Don’t worry friends—there’s plenty to go round.
In Greenwich, sailors manoeuvre their vessels into the creek. In Shepherd’s Bush, Shepherd’s herd their flocks. In Bethnal Green, green young students spend whole afternoons in bed. In Bow, girls bow for cock. In Earl’s Court, earls court then fuck secretaries and boutique gym managers. In Neasden, girls get on their knees. In Brick Lane, they’re getting laid. In Bank, you can bank on a wank. In Holborn, hoes burn with pleasure. In Maida Vale, the veil of polite society is ripped off. In Chelsea, it’s a sea sin. In Fulham, they’re full of cum. In Buckingham Palace, they buck and they fuck. In Parliament, stout members stand up.
It’s no coincidence the the two most recognisable landmarks in London are Big Ben and the London Eye. One is a giant phallus standing proudly over its terrain. The other is vaginal, tight and waiting to be penetrated. Yes, sex is written into the architecture : it is encoded in its very physicality. And the whole city is on a perpetual walk of shame.
So when anyone asks me how to get laid in London, my answer is very simple: walk out of your front door.
For more on sex in London go here.
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