It's a small word afterall

Goodness me.

The following classified advert appears in the back of one of those tatty but free gay magazines that clubs in Soho use to cover the floor of the toilets cubicles with...

(Please mind the filthy language.)

"West Hampstead, open door ANONYMOUS suck/fuck - 7 days + 7 nights. £30, come in and unload anonymously.
Groups welcome.
All you have to do is just walk in, UNZIP and UNLOAD.
No Strings/VERY Discreet.... No chat needed / required.
Door open 7DAYS...1.30PM TIL 5PM and then again 7NIGHTS..8.00.PM TIL 8AM NEXT MORNING
***(NIGHT SESSIONS DONE IN NEAR DARKNESS SO EVEN MORE ANONYMOUS!)***
Rubbers/Lube/Poppers always here for use, so all you need to do is just bring yourself!
Please call or text XXXX XXX XXX.
***JUST £30***....Sessions last til you cum!"

The advert has a link to a Gaydar profile which you're welcome to go and look for.

I did because I live in West Hampstead.

Holy moly! The unlock and unload house is down the bloody road from me!

Yes of course I walked to the address tonight to try and guess which flat it was. I'm presuming it's the one without the lights on?

But then how the hell does it work?

If it's anonymous and in darkness where the hell do you put the £30?

Perhaps you ring the bell, whisper the password and his doddery old mum buzzes you in. She's obviously Welsh.

In the hallway she's sat behind a trestle table with a light on, in a floral hat with a petty cash box.

"That's thurty pounds dear and will you be wantin' to toss one off quick or the full service, bummen included?"

She holds her hat and turns around to shout down the corridor, "Dennis - I've got a bloke here, wants the lot. Full bummen cock action!"

Turning back and smiling, "if you just want to take a seat, he'll be with you shortly."

A few chairs are lined against one of the walls of the room.

On one side there's a potted fern with only one leaf and a pile of dog-eared and out-of-date Marie Claire magazines - the ones the nearby hairdressers threw out.

There's a knock from the room down the corrider. "Oh, no", says mum, "that's just Dennis - he needs more towels. Poor dear, his knees are shot to shit you know..."

"Coming dear", she says as she gets up and waddles off to get some freshly laundered linen.

Sometimes when the trade is a little slow mum takes a cigarette, her copy of OK! and some Mint Viscounts to go to sit on the step for a quick fag break.

Maybe Dennis comes out to join her, though I imagine he takes his kit off beforehand.

It's not really something you want the neighbours to see, do you?

Gossip will travel...

Truthfully though, it's probably nothing like this.

I reckon inside there's some rather odd gentleman in a leather harness, crouched on the floor in a darkened room that stinks of body fluids and his balding hair matted with spunk.

For £30? Good god, no thank you. You'd have to pay me a hellava lot more than that to go and find out.

I'm inquisitive but not that inquisitive.

I think I'm going to spend the evening watching Disney movies.