Got a particular breed up here in Aberdeen that keeps me in Jimmy Choos and decent whisky. The oil industry contractors. They roll through with corporate credit cards that could choke a horse and zero interest in small talk.
Most of them fly in from Aberdeen airport looking like they've not seen daylight in six weeks. Roughnecks from the North Sea rigs. Pale as milk, hungry for something that isn't institutional catering. They book two hours but we both know they really want company more than anything else.
Last week had a BP engineer who'd been offshore 56 days straight. Looked like he'd forgotten how conversations work. Just wanted someone to listen while he described pipeline maintenance and how bloody cold the North Sea gets. I've heard it all before but I nod. These men aren't buying sex. They're buying a moment where someone actually gives a damn.
The money's good. Better than good. An oil contract means they're spending company funds like water. I'm not complaining. Aberdeen's economy runs on this exact transaction - bodies and barrels, human connection and hydrocarbon extraction.
Sometimes I wonder if they even see me. Or just another service, like the helicopter that ferries them between platforms and shore.