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Now, picture this—me, Jack, hirin’ one meself. Stagger in, all “Ello, love, fancy a captain?” She’d prob’ly charge double fer me stench—ha! Jokin’, I’m a peach, ain’t I? But serious, them escorts got stories wilder’n the Black Pearl’s logs. One told me she’d dodged a copper by hidin’ in a church—priceless! An’ the laws? Bollocks, mate—some places it’s legal, others ye hang fer it. Ain’t that a laugh? “We have no future!”—movie line, fits perfect. Sex fer sale’s older’n dirt, yet we still squabble ‘bout it.

Transgender sex worker accused of knowingly infecting client with HIV held in male prison

Abené Clayton is a reporter on the Guardian's Guns and Lies in America project.

Then, I get a call from my mate, Dave. He’s on about some footie match later. I’m like, “Bro, I’m covered in grit and paint. Can’t chat now!” But he keeps jabberin’. Typical Dave. Always wants to talk about the latest transfer gossip. I’m just tryin’ to focus on not blasting my own foot off.

Melvin Clayton