There's a certain type of client you get in Aberdeen that's pure product of the North Sea oil industry. Massive wages, minimal social skills, and an expense account that could sink a small country. I've been working these streets long enough to know exactly what an offshore worker looks like before he even opens his mouth.
They come back from two weeks on a platform and they're desperate. Not just for company, but for something that feels like luxury. Doesn't matter if they're a roughneck or a senior engineer. Money burns a hole in their pocket faster than the flare stacks burn gas.
Last week I had a client who'd just come off a rotation. Rolex that probably cost more than my annual earnings, Hugo Boss suit that looked like it'd been bought in a panic at Aberdeen airport duty free. He wanted two hours that felt like a performance of wealth. Champagne. Five star hotel room. The whole routine.
What they're really buying isn't just physical intimacy. It's performance. A sense that all those weeks of isolation, all that hard physical labour, means something. That they can buy a slice of glamour in a grey city where the wind comes in sideways and the granite looks like it's permanently wet.
Oil patch boys. You couldn't make them up if you tried.