Shivering on a street corner in November while the sleet drives relentlessly into my face, could not be further from the sunny climes of Beverley Hills. Blythswood Square in Glasgow delivers the same services as Hollywood Boulevard. There the connection ends. In the movie, “Pretty Woman”, Vivienne was gorgeous, strong, and independent. Her client, Edward, was equally gorgeous and a millionaire. Her place of business was the posh Beverley Wiltshire. Her wardrobe came from Rodeo Drive, and she had a fairy tale ending. How I hated that movie! The life of a sex worker in Glasgow is not a career or lifestyle that little girls dream of.

Like most girls, I dreamed of being a Disney Princess, rescued from her wicked family by a handsome prince, and living happily ever after. Aye, right!, as we Glaswegians say. There was no one to rescue me in my teens when my alcoholic mother, a single parent, brought her Prince Charming to live with us. I'll spare you the details. Suffice to say, he was another piss artist who thought I was fair game for his needs. Mummy dearest wouldn't hear a word against him, so I left.

Living on the streets was hard and it was only a matter of time before I started selling myself. Then the drugs began. It became a vicious circle. The other sex workers looked out for each other and offered me somewhere to stay. It was pretty grim and overcrowded, but it was safe.

A space had become available because Lydia was leaving. She was the closest thing to Julia Roberts on the Glasgow scene. When she spun her stories to us, we all thought she was fantasising. Turned out it was true.

Lydia’s patch was Blythswood Square. There are upmarket hotels around, and one night she got lucky. A rather inebriated tourist/businessman had got separated from his friends and couldn't find his hotel. Lydia, who isn't a druggie, escorted him not just to his hotel, but to his room. She was still good-looking, one of the sought-after street girls.

She saw her chance. Omar was a bit older, but handsome and fit. More importantly, he had money, plenty of money, and he was married, of course. She helped him undress and put him to bed, where he immediately fell asleep.

It was a beautiful, comfortable suite. Lydia was not going back out into the cold. She stripped off her skimpy clothing that she wore under a good camel coat, bought in a charity shop. It gave her a classy look, she said. She was right. She then took advantage of the expensive toiletries and luxurious bathroom.

After drying herself, she slipped into bed beside him. Heaven. Soft pillows, fresh bedding and a warm, clean man beside her. Didn't happen often.

In the morning, a rather hungover Omar assumed they had had sex. Lydia then went into action. She rolled the duvet down and found his already hardening cock. Her experienced hands pumped up and down till he started to moan. Her mouth took over, taking his full length in, licking and probing with her tongue, then nibbling and nipping. She worked it. She sat astride him, swinging her full tits inches from his face.

Unlike in the movie, she was not averse to kissing and she kissed him long and lingeringly. She’d had plenty of practice. From under the pillow, she produced a condom—she was one of the careful girls—tore it open and rolled it down, and guiding his dripping, erect penis into the restricting item. She then positioned herself so he could take her doggy style, offering a choice of pussy or ass. He chose ass.

She told us she gave the performance of a lifetime. It must have worked, because each night for the next seven nights, she went to his hotel at 10pm and returned at 8am the following morning. The sex was demanding, but not rough or too weird. He was a good-looking guy who wanted unrestricted sex. Back home in Egypt, his wife was not adventurous or very willing. He had several mistresses.

On his last night in Glasgow, he made an offer. No, he had not fallen for her; he wasn't taking her to warmer shores, but since he enjoyed her body and company, he would put her up in a modest but good flat on the South Side and would pay the bills.

She could still work as a prostitute if she wanted, but not from the flat. However, he was in Glasgow every month on business, and she should be available for him. His brothers or cousins would visit Glasgow often, and he wasn't a greedy or demanding man. If Lydia was willing, she could do business with them, instead of her regular punters. His family would pay well. Nothing violent, but would she be willing to perhaps service more than one man? The most would be 4.

It all happened quickly for her. Yes, she is still a sex worker, but she has more control, money and a decent place to live. We wished her luck and enviously watched the taxi cross the Squinty Bridge over the River Clyde, heading to Strathbungo.

For the rest of us, the guys who came looking for sex were a mixture of sad, desperate and bad.

The sad ones were the best clients. They came to us because it was the only place they could get sex. Most of them were married, but their wives no longer indulged. Usually a quickie in their car and a blowjob satisfied them. Often, they just needed someone to listen.

There were businessmen in the city, like Omar, and on occasion, I went to their hotel. At least it was dry and warm there. They looked for more. I had to strip and perform for them. Sometimes there was more than one. I worked hard for my money these nights. So far I've been lucky, none have been violent or mean. Other girls were not so lucky. The worst ones were the guys who wanted a quick shag and a blowie behind the nearest available billboard, on wasteground littered with needles and empty Buckfast bottles. Money is money, and beggars can't be choosers.

Not everyone was a paid client. I had a special friend, Jamie. Like me, he too was homeless, begging outside Primark in Argyle Street by day, rentboy at night. In the days before I took Lydia’s place, we shared a shop doorway just off George Square.

At first, I found the stony gaze of the statues creepy and disconcerting. When the town emptied and the late-night buses trundled off to the suburbs and schemes were the best times. Jamie and I would huddle in our thin sleeping bag and comfort and keep each other warm. To begin with, we just cuddled and shared any drugs or alcohol we had. Sex was a way of making money, nothing else. How it changed, I'm never sure. We had cuddled down for warmth as usual, rain bouncing off the pavement—at least we were dry in our chosen spot. I was aware of Jamie’s hands working their way up inside my hoodie. Tentatively, slowly, uncertainly. I held my breath. I didn't stop him. He kept going, reaching my braless boobs. Stroking and caressing. It was good. A warmth spread over me. I shuffled round to face him.

“Is it okay, Carol? I've no money.” I silenced him with a soft kiss. He sounded so vulnerable. My hands stroked his cold face, then worked downwards to his jeans. I rubbed his arousal through the fabric. He groaned. I unzipped him and slid my hands inside. He was wet and pulsing. His hands had now found their way inside my joggers. He didn't seem to know exactly where he was going. How could that be? He was a sex worker, like me.

“Never been with a bird before,” he muttered apologetically. I hadn't realised all his sexual experiences had been as a rent boy with older men. I guided his hands and encouraged his moves. With my guidance and the energy of youth, we got there. In a strange way, I took his virginity. It was the sweetest, most moving sexual experience of my life. Amazingly, after all the false starts, fumbling and restrictive clothing, we both came. That night was the first of many. We were a couple. Pleasuring each other, keeping each other warm every night during the cold winter.

When I was offered Lydia’s place, I was torn. I desperately wanted off the streets—to have access to a bathroom, a kitchen, a roof over my head. Not the Ritz, but safe. How could I leave Jamie, though?

There was no way he could come too. This wasn't a room in a flat, it was a place shared by several females, only females. He wouldn't hear of me turning it down. He had a pal who would share our doorway. They would work as a pair, make more money. We might even make enough to get a room together in time.

We spent our last night together somewhere special. We went to Glasgow Green. We lay on the grass, naked, and explored each other's gaunt bodies with urgency and need. It was always quick. We never had enough food to give us energy. We lay looking up at the stars and the moon, promising that we'd see each other again soon. We never did. Jamie’s body was pulled out of the River Clyde a few days later.

Tonight, as I watched every car go by, and felt my feet soaking through the thin soles of my cheap boots, I was determined that the next client would be my last. I would get help and go clean and start to live. I was only 19, and Jamie had not made it to 19. Please let the next one be nice and have a car. Footsteps approached me. Oh no, there were two of them and one was a woman! A hard night of weird stuff lay ahead.

⁓.⁓.⁓.⁓

November is such a cold, dark month. Tonight my venue was “The Hielan’ Man’s Umbrella”, the railway bridge at Central Station. Under it are shops and doorways. It got its name as a meeting place for folks who had come from the Highlands of Scotland to seek a career in the big city. I hasten to add, not the career I had chosen. I saw a young girl, scantily clad, standing beside a darkened doorway, and approached her. She looked nervous.

“My name is Carol. I’m not the Polis (police). I'm with Outreach, part of The Street Pastors. I want to help you.”

It's been a year since that man and woman approached me. As it turned out, they were not looking for a threesome or weird sex—they were with Outreach. They changed my world, gave me my life back. I got addiction treatment and a place to stay, and also got my self-esteem back. Now clad in warm clothing, carrying my Street Pastors ID, I try to give something back.

Not every Prince Charming looks like Richard Gere.