In part three of his new column, our anonymous scribe recalls why he won’t be visiting a whorehouse anytime soon…

Before you set off for university, someone should sit you down and really make that you're fully aware of the opportunities that will be presented to you there. And they should specifically hammer it home that under no circumstances should you have a girlfriend at university. Without the benefit of this advice, I stoically put up with three years of further education in a relationship, limiting my sexual expression to increasingly deviant practices with my girlfriend and hour upon hour of "revision time" spent fantasizing about illicit threesomes with studious looking girls in seldom visited corners of the library.

I was all set to embark on my uni career as a single man when my cheat of a recently ex-girlfriend, by a combination of black magic and the expert use of her pelvic floor muscle, had managed to convince me to give her another chance. Like the prize chump I was, as soon as she returned from her gap year and tabled the motion of us getting back together - and when I say tabled, I mean lying back on my kitchen table, pulling her knickers to the side and greedily stuffing me inside - I took her back, shortsightedly thinking about my dick's short-term satisfaction rather than planning for the feeding frenzy it could have had if I were a lone-wolf prowling the fertile plains of the university campus.

So, unsurprisingly, it wasn't long before the girlfriend sex and the furious wanking were no longer enough and I inevitably overcompensated - by fucking a whore.

Obviously prostitution hasn't generally got a glamorous reputation, but if you've ever set off on the adventure of doing it with a pro, you'll be aware of the distant hope that you'll end up with an exotic Russian high-class escort or Sophie Anderton or something. Sadly, with a budget of £55, the chances of scooping a leggy model are slim to say the least. The chances of getting someone who's even slim are pretty slim.

Sat with my two co-conspirators in the brothel's waiting room, the bank notes were getting hot in our grubby mitts as we wondered what services this 'massage parlour', as it described itself, would offer. The only muscles we were thinking of working on were our love muscles.

What happened next threw us. In through the multi-coloured strip curtain walked a larger-than-you-would-have-hoped older-than-you-would-have-hoped brunette who introduced herself as Christina before growling, "OK boys, who's first?"

Do you opt for the first one thinking she might be the best of a bad bunch or take your chances? What if this one was all there was and we'd have to take it in turns? Sloppy thirds! (Probably actually sloppy twenty-thirds!) Obviously thinking this exact thought, Sean piped up gingerly and followed her through the curtain. Chris and I exchanged pained grimaces and silently prayed for something better. Next out was a hispanic beauty called Nadia who could barely get a word out before we both dived at her, almost knocking her over in our haste to get there first. As Chris was closest, he managed to edge me out and swanned through the door, mouthing ”loser” at me as he went. I fell back into my seat and pleaded with the gods: "PLEASE DON'T LET MINE BE A FISH WIFE!"

When “Lucie” appeared I breathed a sigh of relief. She was no Nadia but she was like an angel compared to the troll Sean went with. Feeling nervous and not knowing what to say, I pulled out my standard taxi driver chat as we walked upstairs: "So, have you been busy tonight?" "Err, yeah." With a cabbie, this banter merely passes the time but with a prostitute it gives a horribly graphic picture of what these woman actually do for a living – meaningless shag after meaningless shag. Spreading a threadbare towel over the sheets from a disconcertingly large pile in the corner, she told me to get undressed and switched on the TV as she left the room. Looking at my surroundings I took in the full squalor of the place: sweaty 70s wallpaper, knackered TV playing foreign porn, overly springy bed - god knows how much aggressive pumping that poor bed must have seen. Reluctantly pulling my clothes off and sitting naked with the condom in my hand, I tried to strike as natural a pose as one can when sat naked in a strange room holding a johnny.