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SMUT STAND REPORT: July 18, 2015 (Manchester, UK)

WHEN: 6 hours (4-10pm), July 18, 2015. WHERE: On Thomas Street near Kelvin Street (across from Cane&Grain bar), the Northern Quarter, Manchester, UK. OUTPUT: two pieces of microsmut and three full-length pieces, including one soft-core early morning fuck against the dresser and a hardcore camping story about what happens when the woman is on top and the fire has died low.

Tonight was the night I was going to try staying out a little later. I was going to brave the wilds of Saturday night on Thomas Street, I was going to edge out of my comfort zone a little… I shouldn't have set so early. The problem is, I keep thinking that I really would rather talk to people on the more sober end of the spectrum. I think I need to admit that the bulk of my patrons, in every location I've ever done, have had at least one drink in them; it is also possible that British people need a few drinks in them more than most, in order to even consider getting a piece of smut done, because the late afternoon shift, even on a Saturday, just isn't cracking here.

I started out with a microsmut piece from a man who had been in a group of men staring at me from the window of one of the bars facing my stop. I got the feeling that the group had been daring each other for an hour to go out and get something done—at least two members of that group came up separately and asked me the same questions, about what the fuck I was doing—and he got the short straw to actually go through the process. He didn't feel that interested or excited in our consultation; to be honest, his eyes were a little dead, and I didn't think that he was giving me the real truth about what he wanted. Like, he said he wanted a softcore piece because he'd be sharing it with his girlfriend, but he totally had the vibe of someone more on the medium-hard end of things. I think he would have enjoyed the process a lot more, if he had just said, "Fuck it, I'm going for hardcore." I know I would have enjoyed it more.

Thankfully, the vibe picked right back up with my second customer, a tall, scruffy-faced ginger fellow wearing a precisely tailored jacket, shirt, and tie on top, and Daisy Dukes and some high, HIGH heels on the bottom. GodDAMN, he had long legs. Yes, he was the star of a stag party. His friends were being so pushy about it, I thought he would end up opting out entirely, but eventually they came back and he said yes, he was down for it. His friends needed a LOT of sternness to get them to bugger off during the consultation, but thankfully the groom-to-be was almost entirely sober and did the work. He was an ideal customer, actually: held good eye contact, answered the questions thoughtfully, didn't over-explain. He was an absolutely trustworthy respondent in every way, so much so that when he came back out of Cane&Grain to collect his smut, I asked him to watch the stand while I popped in to use the bathroom. Finding someone to trust with my kit while I take a pee break is not easy, let me tell you! When I meet someone who feels safe, I make myself go pee, because who knows when I'll get that chance again?

The next full-length customer was moderately amusing—the couple had completely forgotten that it was their five-year wedding anniversary, until the man's parents had given them a card yesterday—but there was definitely a lot of downtime between customers. At several points in the evening I did an income-to-time spent analysis in my head. My average income per hour declines with each passing minute that I get no commissions, and at a certain point I need to pull the plug.

And too, the way that British people seem to go out, at least in these heavily clubby districts, is a serious trial to my soul. It's almost always single-gender groups, men and women completely segregated. (What is that about, holdovers from single-gender schooling?) And then in this particular spot, I am in direct line of view of two bars, where people have had a couple of hours to suck down drinks and speculate about me. When they finally get up the nerve to come over and ask, they come in a fucking group. THEY SWARM. Tonight a group of seven men came swaggering over en masse, clearly determined to Find Out What The Actual Fuck (and ogle my tits, of course). Before they could even open their mouths, I said, hey guys, you understand that, for a woman in my position, having an army of men push in close like this is actually kind of awful, can you please step back? To their credit, they did.

I was glad I stuck around though, because a young man who had been watching me from the other bar across the street, stepped up while I was doing a quickie piece of microsmut, asked to be texted when I became available for the next consultation, and generally displayed all of the important signs of interest and earnestness of intent. He was SERIOUS, and when we started talking it become clear why. He's a German lad, a professor here of some sort, in a long-distance relationship with a young woman back in Berlin. They were approaching their one-year anniversary and he wanted to send her a little surprised love-letter packet, and include a piece of smut in it. (Everyone together: AWWWWWWW.) They had met while he was an adjunct in her college course; I asked whether they had ever role-played the whole teacher-student thing, and he cracked a shy grin and bobbed his head up and down: "Oh, yes!"

I asked if they talked or made a lot of noise during sex, and he said no, they couldn't. His girlfriend was living in a student dwelling with very thin walls. He went on to tell me that this building had actually been converted into a dorm; previously it had been a sex club for American officers stationed there after World War II. … I know, right? The things I learn doing the Smut Stand!

The whole time I was working on his piece, though, I could tell that it was time to pick up and get out. The roving gangs of lads had gotten bored with the skateboard demo a block away and were pushing past the stand in ever-increasing numbers. The girl gangs (the hen parties) were starting to get up in my face too. I've said before that I pack up when things get weird, and I never know the exact time that's going to be, but I identified another red flag for myself last night: the moment when someone leans over and randomly hits one of my keys as they swing past the stand. That is the moment. That is my number-one red flag that my moment to depart the scene has arrived. It is a sign, before anything gets actually violent or rape-y, that there are people on the street who are happy to carelessly violate my work space and touch my property without asking. That is a sign that it is time to go.

*****

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ONE COMMENT ON THIS POST To “SMUT STAND REPORT: July 18, 2015 (Manchester, UK)”

  1. angella dare July 19, 2015 at 5:29 am

    Darling ,I did try to warn you about Neadethal Britian, they are cunt’s in every way.Take your talent and bring it back to Oxford where I made sure you were treated with the respect that you deserve xxx

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