It had started out as a way to make money. No decent jobs in South Park were hiring, especially not to a foreigner, and he had no way of traveling to any of the neighboring towns; he didn't own a vehicle and couldn't afford to spend money, even a few coins, on bus fair twice a day. He needed every bit of his money to pay for his rent, bills, and the little amount of food that he bought. He was almost eighteen; soon enough he would no longer be considered a ward of the state, and he would have to pay his own way—so he took the only job left to him.
Prostitution had never been something that he had considered for himself when he was a child. It was a shameful way to make a living, and he was sure that his parents, bless their souls, were rolling around in their graves. When he lived in Britain, he had planned on becoming a simple black smith; he was, after all, a black smith's apprentice. After moving to the states, his goals became higher; a doctor would be suitable, he had thought, since he enjoyed helping people. His dreams no longer mattered though; his grades were good, but they weren't good enough for a scholarship, and there was no way that he could afford medical school on his own.
Despite the future weighing heavily on his mind, Pip still found ways to keep himself cheerful. He had always been an optimist, and he managed to find a few bright sides to his career choice—the first—and obvious—choice being the money. Because he had no pimp, it made finding johns a bit harder, but it also helped him—he didn't have to share his income with anyone.
The second sunny spot in the dark cloud that he called work was something that he was truly ashamed of; he enjoyed it. He had started out fearing what he had to do, dreading it more than he had ever dreaded anything else in his life. He'd lie awake at night and picture faceless men standing over him, defiling him, dirtying him, hurting him. His first time didn't go quite the way that he had pictured it, thank Heavens, but because it went so well, he craved more of it—which, he supposed, was a good thing since he'd have to do it so often in the future.
It wasn't so much the sex that he craved—though he feared the situation as a whole, despite it not actually being about the sex, was making him an addict—as it was the contact gained during the act. He knew that he was pathetic. He knew that being lonely was no excuse to enjoy whoring yourself out.
Phillip Pirrup was attention starved though—he couldn't even remember the last time that he had been hugged, though he supposed it had been by Joe or his parents—and if he made money while making the ache in his chest go away—if he could make the loneliness eating away at him every single day go away—for even a little bit, he would do it. He just had to keep being cheerful, remember that he was doing what he had to do, and hope that someone would save him like Julia Roberts was saved in that "Pretty Woman" movie that he once saw.
Phillip Pirrup would be the best prostitute that South Park had ever seen. He would make sure of it.