Warning, any similarity to persons alive or dead is probably unavoidable so I changed the names of the racist bastards just in case.

Bridie sat quietly in Dr Reilly’s surgery trying to take in what he was saying.

“Are you saying that I have the Aids?” she asked.

“No, to be sure you have the HIV but that don’t mean you going to get the Aids,” he explained.

“So what shall I have to do Doctor?” she asked awkwardly.

“Well to be sure you shouldn’t be screwing any decent Irish lads bareback,” he said,.

“But me Da won’t work and me Ma has eight kids at home to feed, I’m the only earner!” she protested, “I need every cent I can get.”

The doctor sighed “Now I know you get an extra few bob but you could be killing of them so you must stop.”

“And if I can’t afford to?” she asked.

“Then I’ll get the guards on to you, three years for prostitution is the usual,” he said, “Mind you there is another way, I have a contact in England who can help.”

“Is it a clinic?” she asked.

“Lord no its a brothel,” he laughed, “But you won’t infect any good god fearing Catholics over there will you?”

“I suppose not,” Bridie agreed.

Three weeks later and Bridie was standing in the rain outside Boots the Chemist in Rochdale. Her hair was soaked, her coat was heavy with damp and her bare legs were a mass of goose bumps. Her short skirt and tiny thong offered no protection to her shaved pubes from the cold breeze.

A man approached, “Looking for business?” she asked sweetly.

“Fuck off you whore,” he replied.

“Fifty quid, you can do bareback if you like,” she said quietly, “Business is awful tonight.”

“Twenty,” he countered. She should have offered forty and agreed on thirty except she was cold.

“Twenty, you want to come upstairs?” she asked.

He looked confused, “To my flat?” she added.

He nodded. She unlocked the door and showed him in. The narrow staircase needed decorating, the place stank of cigarettes, unwashed bodies and disinfectant.

Her room was first on the left. Just a bed with a stained mattress and chest of draws and a TV. An old electric heater provided warmth and a singe lightbulb illumination.

The guy was Asian, Bangladeshi probably, a Bungla. He wasted no time. He dropped his pants pushed Bridie’s thong aside and rammed his cock deep inside her.

The warmth felt good on Bridie’s skin. Six inches of warm throbbing cock filled her, aroused her. She felt wanted and needed.

“Slow down big boy,” she husked as the guy humped away urgently, “You paid for half an hour.”

It took seventy two seconds.