Where the aim is thigh high

2010-06-06 13:32

Word got around that sex workers had invaded Nelson Mandela Square

in Sandton, home of Fifa and other World Cup luminaries.

Like bees to a honey pot, they had swarmed into the trendy

playground of the rich and famous after learning that very important people from

across the world had set up camp at the square ahead of the World Cup.

It made business sense, I reasoned.

The arrival of the VIPs surely

­translated into VEM (very easy money) and there would obviously be lots of VHPs

(very horny people) among the VIPs who, it is assumed, will be loaded with euros

and dollars.

Apparently these ladies ­trawling the square were not shy to make

their moves on potential clients.

This is music to any news hound’s ears, so off I went to the square

on a chilly Thursday night, trying my best to look the part in formal pants, a

­neatly pressed shirt and jacket.

The place was crawling with sexy young women clearly on a mission

­under the gaze of the gigantic statue of the father of our nation.

I saw them approaching men, ­especially white men, with broad

smiles and naughty eyes.

Surely I, too, would soon be ­approached? I walked around the

square trying to look important.

Alas, my wanderings proved ­fruitless. They just were not

interested.

I obviously did not look important or rich enough. As the night wore

on, I resorted to cruising in restaurants.

Everywhere, sex workers were ­chatting up men with foreign accents.

Nothing came my way.

Not a single wink, let alone the naughty slithering of a

tongue in my direction.

My last stop for the night was the bar at Michelangelo Towers.

­People were milling about or having a quiet drink and a chat.

No sex workers. Not a thigh in sight.

Then, a beer or two later,

two young women pulled up chairs alongside me.

Action at last, I thought.

One

was dressed in a tight-fitting striped dress which revealed a body so curvaceous

you’d have sworn it was sculpted by a talented artist.

Her ebony thighs caught my ­attention.

The ladies took their time

to make a move, but just as they did the barman approached and politely ­told

them he had instructions not to serve them and they should leave.

I watched them arrogantly swing and sway their hips ­as they

left.

The barman, Isaac, told me: “They are pests. They come here and

order a glass of water and a slice of lemon while scouting for men. And once

they get their man they never let go.”

Isaac had a word of advice for me: “Don’t play around with them.

They are leeches. They will leave you ­penniless. I don’t understand why you

would want to pay such money just for the warmth of a woman’s thighs.”

The next day I continued ­hunting with my colleague, Leon Sadiki.

I

was hoping that our luck would change because Leon is built like a heavyweight

boxer and women seem to like his ­complexion, which reminds me of black Kiwi

shoe polish.

Our first stop was for a warm-up drink at the Diplomat Hotel in

Jozi’s CBD.

This is a brothel – a down-market one where the smell of sweaty sex

and used condoms greets you as you ascend the flight of stairs, which is lined

with ­near-naked women.

Here you can get laid for R50 in a dingy room and watch a really

­tacky strip show for R7.

It was business as ­usual at the ­Diplomat.

Oxford Road looked deserted. We found a pair of sex workers on the

corner of Rivonia and Fricker roads in ­Illovo – R200 for a quickie in a dark

corner, no World Cup discount.

At the corner of Eton and Rivonia was a group in

mini-skirts – R150 for a bonk in an office parking lot plus an extra R20 for the

security guard who provides the “stadium” (a place for ­having sex). –

Mukurukuru Media



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