London1937 CHAPTER 1During the course of the years in which I have been more or less closelyassociated with other prostitutes I have frequently listened toexplanations as to just what this one or that owed her degradation; theparticular villainy to which she attributed her advent into a life ofshame. The usual story is one of seduction by a lover under theinevitable extenuating circumstance of "before I really knewanything," with the occasional variation, "he put something in mydrink, and when I came too..." or, "he was stronger than I was and Icouldn't do anything." In these glib stories, in which none but theinconsequential details vary, the man is always to blame and the girl isnever a willing accomplice. She is always, by artifice, force ordeception, and subsequent abandonment, the victim of some man'sdepravity.I confess that I have listened to these tales and even witnessed a fewtears of self-pity, with a certain amount of scepticism. In thinking backover my own life I can find. He was handsome enough to attract interest from them, but not the real desire that would spell sexual attraction. Except he could see flashes in her eyes. Flashes of desire when their eyes met. Before she looked away. And sometimes a flush. Those times often made him hard. She looked absolutely adorable.Bottom line, she was white. If they had a relationship ... with legs ... Complicated.The dinner became a disaster. Father and son shouted at each other. Father reminded son how many years it took him to become detective. Son reminded father of the color of his skin. Father reminded son he had to play the institutional game. Son reminded father it can be circumvented by intelligence. Father told son it didn’t work that way. Son asked father how many times he took tests to advance and failed. Wounded, father accused son of being a weak, privileged baby, giving up at the first sign of trouble. Son stomped upstairs to his bedroom, perhaps proving it.“Let me talk to him,” said Dotty.
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