‘You’re my little whore,’ he would say, as if the whole notion of paying for sex really turned him on. We spent most of our time high and in bed, so there wasn’t much outside of that to judge him by. The sex was good, not too rough. He occasionally said things like, ‘You are so worth the money,’ or, ‘You could charge double.’ But he wasn’t mean to me and he didn’t force me into anything emotional or physical that I didn’t want to do. He just insisted on paying me, that was his fantasy. And I was a broke student, so in the end just gave up fighting it and took the cash. I even held off on dumping him before Christmas because I had to pay to get home for the holiday.

It wasn’t until I was about twenty-six that I realised that made me a prostitute.

I battled with the repercussions of that for some time. Feeling dirty and ashamed. Like I should have just broken up with him, like I should never have spent the money, and posted it through his letter box instead. I always said to myself that if I ever had the money I would give it all back to him. It was such a small amount, really. About £300 in total, I only went out with him for a couple of months. But at that age, it felt like a lifetime and £300 to a skint student was a lot. I could pay him back tomorrow if I wanted to. But I have no idea where he lives, and I certainly don’t want to ask people if they know and draw attention to it all. Also, I was so high for most of that time that I actually have no recollection of his surname. Sometimes I wonder if I ever even knew it.