An Oxford Whore

In my gown and mortar-board--the ones I’d

worn to receive my PhD--very high heels and

nothing else, I bent over to show

tonight’s patron the part of me

without brains as this one was an

arse-bandit for whom I was

well-prepared and there was a

particular problem in astrophysics I could

ponder until he was ensconced and I could

enjoy, though it amused me that

while I saw the stars he

plundered where there was no sun.

There was not much call for

cosmologists in the current climate and the

conundra of the current account

foxed even my mathematical mates now

counting chips at McDonald’s, so

why not sell my body whilst it was

still mine to sell?

Logic is much misunderstood and the

logic of prostitution more so but

do we need the dismal science to

elucidate the obvious?

Men will pay when women provide and

Oxford is full of clever, desperate men:

my mind is still mine, galaxies still

spin across it, and besides,

someone has to make the

spires dream and

stay erect.