Royal Women's Early Early

It was there in those two mid-eighties years — '85 and '86 — that Ben and I were first shown the artificial lights. It took us about ten minutes to fully adjust and set up our brothel in a seldom used janitor's closet, after which we went about acquiring willing flesh — whether they be staff or patients — until we had a sizable line-up at our disposal. Our star pupil was a buxom young nurse named Sally, who had immigrated from New Zealand with considerably high-hopes but ended up as a disillusioned nurse after failing to sell her beat-poetry cassettes. She was much in demand from the middle-aged male doctors, and was soon dubbed "Substitute Sally" by her co-workers.

There are many advantages of setting up a brothel in a hospital. Firstly, there are a slew of on-hand treatments if one the employees contracts anything; and secondly, this situation can be avoided by sifting through the clients' files beforehand. All in all, it's probably the most ideal place for this sort of business. Our shrewdness in those early days can't be undervalued.

As is the norm, we soon had to expand our humble closet to include a couple of medical labs and a storage room, which we transformed into a sensual love nest by way of candles and fluffy heart-shaped pillows. Our staff, too, grew substantially thanks to an influx of influenza, and by August '86, we had a total of 65 workers working beneath us and our clients. In short, life was good.

The money that consistently rolled past our noses saw us indulging in grand material excess — we were quite young, after all. Ben, for instance, purchased a 1940's Buick and an island in the Caribbean, while I poured my earnings into elaborate dinner wear and impractically-designed architectural nightmares strewn haphazardly along the Great Ocean Road. But for all this luxury and high-society living, I'm glad to say that we never fell into the trappings of drug-addiction and male nymphomania (the latter could be attributed to our pre-pubescent state). We were just clean-cut kids who dreamed of 9 to 5 existences in suburban picket-fence houses with homemaking wives and sporting children.

Inevitably, our business was brought to a close by our mothers' strange desire to have us living in their houses, but our hearts were no longer in it anyway, so we obliged. Taking our small fortunes with us and stuffing them 'neath our respective mattresses, we spent the next 12 odd years apart living the quiet domestic offspring lifestyle, until fate threw us together once again at high school.

Now, as I near my first double-decade, an old feeling has awaken inside me. We were fools for ever giving up that life. I only hope you feel the same way and have not been corrupted by the sciences. So how about it, Ben?