Jewel, a private companion

a non-Scottish lady in Edinburgh and beyond

Very old “friend”

If you remember, last week brought two old friends. One of them you’ve just heard about, now is the other one’s turn. This “friend” I saw a couple of times over a year ago, so “very” refers to his age rather than to the time that passed since our last date. I open the door and recognise the man who sells sperm for a living (I’ll just keep you guessing here).

I’m not telling you this to show how good my memory is, although my memory does seem to have been a sort of leitmotif in the last few posts. Most of the time I can’t even recall what I did last night. But I’ll always remember whom I did. A good waitress may not know your name but will always know your favourite dish. A good bartender will always know what you usually drink. Sure enough, for that they need to serve you that dish and that drink a few times, but let’s face it – they have far more customers than me and they don’t have sex with (most of) them.

So yes, committing a little knowledge about your clients to memory is just natural. If it’s a regular, I’ll know his birthday, the names of his kids, his favourite drink, his plans for the week-end, the name of the girl he was in love with in high school and pretty much anything else that he may bother to tell me. If it’s someone I see once a year or so, I may confuse if he’s from Alabama or from Arizona (it’s all the same, no?) but my memory will still keep the basic information – his job and his sexual preferences. And you don’t come across a sperm-seller every week. Well, I don’t. If you’re a sperm-buyer, you may meet them by a dozen. It’s not such a rare occupation apparently. But…

But this time R surprised me by asking if I have a strap-on. This wasn’t in his sexual preferences a year ago. Makes you curious about what happened during this year that I haven’t seen him, doesn’t it? Another thing I find rather curious is that older clients tend to be more open-minded than the younger ones. Younger people somehow tend to think that pegging is gay. In fact, I remember a 30-year-old man who once got in touch with me asking for a strap-on because he wanted to explore his bi side. I know! Anyone with a little logic will see that having sex with me, however unconventional it may seem to you, is simply exploring your backside and no other sides, but somehow a lot of men seem to miss the point.

Anyway, I introduced R to my strap-on and the three of us enjoyed ourselves. And, seeing that R had so much fun, I found it natural to ask why he hadn’t bought a strap-on for his wife yet.

- Oh no, I wouldn’t! We haven’t had sex in years!

I try not to roll my eyes. If only I had a pound for every client who has no sex with his wife! So I insist:

- But this is different! She may very well be bored senseless with the idea of having sex with you after all these years, but it doesn’t mean she will not want to put on a strap-on and make you pay for all the years of senselessly boring sex!

- You know what, you might be right, it’s different! – I can see it in his eyes that it struck a cord with him, but they soon turn dull again as he goes on, – Who am I kidding? It’s not going to happen.

He’s right. It will never happen if you don’t do anything for it to happen.

The Brits can be surprisingly inhibited when it comes to sex and relationships. They can marry someone, live with this someone and have children with them but sex, or feelings or sexual needs will never be discussed. They may live under the same roof as a family for decades, never really knowing each other. But what do you expect from a nation where generation after generation the Queen has been the sex symbol to fantasise about for both spouses? And it doesn’t matter that the two of them have unfulfilled lives. After all, they are in the same boat as the Queen! In fact, the following day after this date with R I got a call from a man who was also looking for a strap-on (with a woman on the other end of it) and a similar conversation ensued: he hadn’t had sex with his wife for over 15 years (this is happening over the phone so Jewel rolls eyes to her heart’s content), but was always interested in exploring his sexuality further. He ended up cancelling the booking because he didn’t want to cheat. At this point I felt safe to ask why he didn’t discuss his fantasies with his wife. The usual answer – what if she thinks he’s a pervert? Well, first of all, what if she doesn’t? But if she does – what do you have to lose except an unhappy marriage and an unfulfilled life? Because if you don’t talk to your wife – it’s not something you have to keep to yourself for a week or a month. You keep it to yourself until death do you part. You know what, I have just realised why the older clients are so adventurous. It’s not because they are more open-minded than the younger ones, it’s because they’re more desperate as they’ve been married for longer.

 

 

Old “friend” – Part 2

Continued from Part 1.

We left off at the point where I take Colin to the bedroom, didn’t we? There he told me a wonderful story (we did other things there as well, but those are none of your business) about his trip to the States with a bunch of his mates. Naturally, I’m not going to embarrass him and tell you that they went to San Francisco. No, instead let’s imagine they went to Las Vegas – it’s neutral enough and believable enough. So he tells me how one evening they ended up in a night club and some of his mates got to chat to really attractive girls. When the girls agreed to go to their hotel for, errm, a coffee, the blokes thought they really pulled. Can you imagine their disappointment when, once in the room, the attractive ladies started talking business! Can you imagine how hard I laughed! When was the last time an average Scot pulled anything in the States except for his own equipment? I’m not trying to be mean to Scots – they are great people. I wouldn’t live in Scotland if I thought otherwise. But until such pleasures of civilization as razors are available for sale here (together with a manual), Scots have little opportunity to pull attractive urbane ladies who are not familiar with Scottish culture of body negligence.

Again, it’s not that bad all over Scotland, there are some cosmopolitan people even here, but the general attitude of Scots to shaving is not that shaving is good or shaving is bad. It’s more of: what? Shaving? It took me about a year to make Walter* start shaving. Now he does it all the time because, as he confided in me the other day, it looks like his wife quite likes it. But of course she does! First time in decades of marriage she was able to actually see her husband and what do you know! He’s not that bad-looking at all! So the last time I saw him I touched (again) on the state of his nails. Reaction:

- What, manicure? No! This is girlie!

Well, at least he knows it’s called manicure. But he’d rather scratch me non-stop for 3 hours and apologise for it again and again than get a little emery board and file the sharp corners of his nail-cutter-chopped nails that keep catching my skin (and my stockings, my lingerie and my clothes) – doesn’t sound sensual, does it? Feels even less so. I’m sure at some point I’ll get him round to this: after all, it’s not like I insist on French manicure, I ask for basic sensible things. I grew up with a father who used to have his hands manicured every week while he was still in business (and no, it wasn’t the line of business the Scots would immediately assume) and the image of a man who wants to make a good impression but can’t be bothered to take care of some basic things doesn’t sit well with me.

Anyway, back to Colin who started it all. Now you can imagine how I taunted him back when he was hairy bloke no 2. Naturally, it’s not going to go away just because he’s moved to number 4. But he doesn’t know about it yet. Right now we’re still cuddling in bed and he says suddenly:

- You know, Jewel, Colin’s not my name. I’m actually <real name>.

And while I silently go first “aww” with a smile and then “me-e-en” with a sigh, he goes on:

- I’ve no clue why I said I was Colin when I first came to see you. I only know one Colin and I don’t even like the man.

To “Colin’s” credit, at least he was consistent. I’ve seen men who come as Davids on Monday and then show up again on Thursday as Ians. Whom do they do it for? Not me – I can’t care less for what your name is. If you tell me your name is Reed-That-Bends, I’ll call you Reed-That-Bends. I’m not fussy. If you introduce yourself as Andrew but in your hotel you are checked in as John, I’ll still call you Andrew because this is what you wanted. The name that you tell me is the name you’ll hear. But do you want to hear the name of the man you don’t even like when you’re cuddling a woman you’ve just had sex with?

*If you are new on this blog, Walter is a regular client who’s been mentioned here a million times but I don’t think there is an entry dedicated to him personally so I can’t even link his name to a post that would explain who he is. Maybe I should come up with one at last.

Old “friend” – Part 1

This week brought back two old “friends”. Let’s start with the first one, Colin, whom I’ve seen a few times. In fact, quite a few times. But not in the settings that you as a reader are used to imagine.

Up until 2 years ago I visited Edinburgh from time to time – for the Fringe and, of course, while looking for a place to live when I decided to move to Edinburgh. During these trips I advertised in Daily Sport – the fastest (even if not the easiest) way to generate a few clients a day to cover the expenses of your trip, festival tickets and the real estate agent’s fee.

If you don’t know what Daily Sport was 3 years ago (it’s changed now, I hear, but not necessarily for the better) – it’s a highly unpleasant newspaper with about 400-500 ads for “services” all over the UK. An ad consists of a lady’s name, her location and her phone number – nothing else. This ad cost £30 a day (and this is when pimping is illegal in the UK). As you can guess, this newspaper does not provide you with upscale clientele. The average client it gives you is looking for a quick fix at 60 quid for 30 minutes. So this was what I offered.

If right now you’re thinking “why should I be paying her £200 for what other people get for £60!” – think again. Having been “on the game” for 6 years now, I worked in all possible modes and at all possible rates and believe me – there is a difference. Different rates provide you with different experiences. None of them is better or worse, it all depends on what you are looking for. From the point of view of a sex worker, what client are you more likely to give more attention to? The one who pays £60 or the one who pays £200? That’s right. One of them you will want to come back for more. The other one is easily expendable. One pays enough to make sure he’s the only one for the day. The other one has to queue. Here is how an ordinary £60 booking goes:

4pm. Will never skip lunch because of work again (promised religiously to self every day)! I really need to have something to eat when this one is gone. If he leaves by 4.15, I’ll have just enough time for a quick shower and a super quick snack before the next one at 4.30. Hope the next one is a little late – an apple is not going to be enough for me right now. I should have bought some chocolate last night. I wonder if this new bar I saw is as good as it looks! Jesus, will he finish at all today?! I should probably suggest changing the position. Sh!t, what did he say his name was?

- Honey, would you like to go on top now?

4.15 (smoothing out the bed sheets while the client is getting dressed) Was it Monday or Tuesday I changed the sheets last? Ah, who cares, it looks ok, I’ll give it another day.

4.20 (closing the door) Sod the shower, I MUST have something to eat NOW!

And pretty much any post on this blog tells you how an average £200+ date goes so I won’t repeat that but I’ll say this again – neither way is better or worse. It’s up to each sex worker what they feel comfortable providing (not everyone wants/ has the ability to connect with the client and not all sex workers want a long-term relationship with clients as it can be very demanding and difficult emotionally) and it’s up to each client what they want to pay for (good sex is different things to different people).

And now back to Colin. Daily Sport was how I saw him first and after several bookings I even started recognising him. Mentally I referred to him as “hairy bloke no 2″ (mind you, it was 3 years ago and he has moved down to no 4 since. The first position is still occupied by the Geordie, the second place now belongs to the Italian virgin and the third is reserved for Mr French – not that there is a competition of any sorts going on) and had a lot of fun taunting him with it.

With Daily Sport days long gone as I settled in one place, you can imagine my surprise when the person who showed up at the time and location agreed for a date turned out to be my hairy bloke number 2! It is not too hard to find me if you want it – I’ve always worked with the same name and phone number, whatever city, rate or affiliation; but it’s the first time when someone I saw for £60 decided that the “new and improved” deal is worth it. Personally, I totally think it is, but of course I’m curious as to what made him think this way.

- Dunno. You were so sensual and intimidating. Remember the last time when…

Colin goes on to describe what I did last time I saw him and I nod like I remember. What I’m really thinking about is “intimidating”. It’s not the first time I’m told I am and for the life of me I don’t know what they mean or how I manage to give this impression. You’d think that people will want to avoid things that intimidate them but men keep coming back: I guess there’s intimidating and intimidating. So I take Colin to the bedroom and intimidate the hell out of him.

Part 2 to follow.

Weird compliment vs real compliment

- Good evening, Jewel, my name’s H. I’ve seen you once three years ago or so, I think. Are you free tomorrow night for a meal together?

What wouldn’t you do out of curiosity! Of course I show up the following night at the restaurant for a gluten-free (yep, still!) dinner. H stands up from the table to meet me and I recognise him. It hasn’t been three years. It’s been exactly 2. Last time I saw him was also around the Women’s day – I was just back from London where ECP celebrated it with a march. That time he was in Edinburgh for a rugby game. This I remember so well because I told him how sad it was (which probably accounts for why it took him 2 years to call me again): one of the most beautiful cities on earth (not to mention home to one of the most attractive women on earth) and he’s only here for a rugby game! Across the table he smiles at me and says that he’s going for a rugby game tomorrow. Men… I ask if he still lives in X where he was from. I remember it well because 2 years ago he told me that one of the very well established ladies in London was also from X which he figured out from her accent when he met her (yes, this is exactly why I will never tell anything personal to clients – because you never know whom they will (unwittingly) pass this information on to. This is not the first time I get to hear the personal details of other sex workers’ lives – and not all sex workers will treat my secrets with confidentiality!) and he smiles again – no, he now lives in Edinburgh.

He holds my hand as we chat.

- Have you ever been complimented on your hand-holding skills, Jewel?

My memory helpfully gives me the list of the weirdest compliments: my eyebrows, my teeth, my biceps, my eyebrows again. No, hand-holding hasn’t yet been mentioned. My memory dutifully files it under “weird compliments”. Meanwhile, H can’t let go of my hand:

- It’s so soft, so encouraging, so stimulating.

- Should I maybe shake your hand?

- Not, not here, – he throws a quick glance at the people around us. – Later, when we’re alone.

When he tells me about his week-end plans – the rugby game in the morning and the ballet in the evening – I smack my own forehead in disappointment: I saw the poster for the Nutcracker and made a mental note of the dates, but, since it wasn’t work, my memory didn’t treat the entered data as important. Seeing my dismay, H asks if I would consider going to the ballet with him – if he can still get a ticket, of course.

If I believed everything men say, I wouldn’t be so decadently happy in Edinburgh right now. Instead, I would be a single mother of three in a council flat in Dagenham or Peckham. Or worse, I’d be a married mother of three in a council flat in Dagenham or Peckham. So I tell H it would be lovely if he could get another ticket – and firmly forget about it.

Much later, as we’re lying in bed, he’s looking for the way to express how he’s feeling. According to him, there should be a large neon sign outside reading “For the time of your life come here” (so far so good and no-one’s sponsored the erection (of it) yet). 72-year-old men can be incredibly sweet, that’s what makes them such great clients.

And, believe it or not, first thing the following morning H calls me to say that he swapped his ticket for 2 seats together. Isn’t life full of wonders! I meet him outside the Playhouse at 7.30.

I will never understand it why people think that ballet is boring. Fair enough, there are no car chases and x-rated scenes there, but where else will you get a chance to ogle a bunch of men in very tight tights for a nominal fee of £25-50 per 1.5 hours? Ballet is fun! The only upsetting thing about it is that, as with all western performing arts, ballet dancers have to face the audience when in fact it’s the view from the back that is particularly attractive. I especially liked the army of mice – grey tights overcome red and white ones by a mile when it comes to showing the shape. Even H didn’t nod off as he said he usually does.

The ballet over, we go for a drink, and over his cup of hot chocolate H ruminates whether having a little more time of his life is a good idea for tonight. After 10 minutes of hard thinking he asks if I come across a lot of men who take more than a few minutes to decide if they want to share more than a hot chocolate with me.

- Few minutes! How about the few years it took you to give me a call again!

Eventually, we put the time of his life until the following night. He promptly shows up and, as I count the money, there’s an extra hundred – for the ballet. It’s especially sweet because it wasn’t asked for. I always knew I was great in bed: I can sleep for days. Now I know I’m just as great out of it: I really am a good companion.

Farewell, February

Sorry about the break, I really am. I’ve been busy with the main site’s updates (if you haven’t seen it yet, go and have a look now! You may have to refresh your screen) but feel free to be upset anyway.

The results of the video survey

were very positive. 18 respondents altogether, of them at least 3 were female.

Question 1: Did you like the videos?

Needless to say, everyone said yes. 5 comments were added, mostly along the lines of “Great idea!”

Question 2: Which one do you prefer?

  • The long one – 11 votes
  • The short one – 2 votes
  • Both are ok – 5 votes

6 comments here: 2 in favour of subtitles, 2 almost identical (longer video = more Jewel), 1 respondent said that the length was irrelevant as long as he could see me there as this brings back the memories, and 1 respondent mentioned that being a female, she did not appreciate the dressing scenes that much and this defined her preference for the shorter video (which I agree with. The stockings scene makes me think of grocery shopping, partly because this is what I usually think of when putting on stockings).

Question 3: Videos or photos? (one respondent skipped this question)

  • A video is more informative – 14 votes
  • Either is fine – 1 vote
  • Photos, please – 0 votes
  • Other options – 2 (both saying that these are different things and there’s no general answer to this question, one of the respondents further stating that what really worked for him was the blog – Aww! Now I feel so bad about taking a break!)

5 comments here: almost every comment says that there’s more personality in a video, one going further to note that unlike with photos, in a video you can’t alter the image or show the object only from an angle that gives a better impression. The same respondent finished his comment with “more people should follow in your footsteps”.

EDINBURGH HOOKER – MODERN TIME ROLE MODEL

I always knew I’d make the headlines. While personally I agree that if there were more people like me around, the world would be a much better place, I also keep it in mind that the competition would skyrocket.

Question 4: Suggestions for the next film.

  • Show how sex workers operate – 10 votes (I’m sure some respondents just mistook this option for a polite way of saying “where’s the action???”)
  • Make it longer with more details – 5 votes (this must be just my dirty mind but details of what? Of the action? I should have had better phrased options – these are notes to self, by the way)
  • Provide more wanking material – 3 votes. Now this is unmistakable. The only consolation is that, judging by the comments, the respondents were not serious about it.
  • Choose better music/ Make it 3D/ Keep it short – 2 votes each
  • Lose the subtitles – 0 votes!
  • Other options – 2. Comments – 9.

Here it’s hard to come up with a system as all comments are so diverse and often completely opposite. Some say that it’s possible to show more without it becoming sordid (as the director put it, an average 12-rated movie is daring in comparison to my videos), others say it’s just fine the way it is, and yet others actually criticize the video for showing too much and remind me that “less is more”. Seriously, what’s a girl to do in a situation like this? That’s right – do as you always did: sod the public and please yourself (again, it’s a note to self, not a call for action to the reader. I’d be out of work if all readers here started pleasing themselves).

Some comments do deserve a little attention though.

“Sit back, let this ride for a while, and then get Almodovar to do your next film”. I can totally see myself in the role of a nun who solicits matadors right outside the nunnery and, once the victim is in my cell, I knock them out with the help of spiked gazpacho and stab them (the bodies are then kept in the fridge in the closed down restaurant next door) – all this is to relieve the pain and grief I’m in ever since my matador lover (played, of course, by Antonio Banderas) left me for a transvestite actor. At the same time, I am haunted by the ghost of my mother (either Carmen Maura or Marisa Paredes, I haven’t made up my mind yet) who is not happy because Banderas was her lover first. Hopefully, Penelope Cruz agrees to take on the role of a street walker who I have to fight for the spot outside the nunnery but eventually we fall in love and leave for El Salvador. X-rated. How can one not love Almodovar!

Another comment: “Show more romance… Have Jewel serve the gentleman the wine (Jewel does not serve gentlemen. It’s the gentleman’s responsibility… to pour wine. And do the rest) by candle light. Perhaps flirt… show Jewel sipping wine (Jewel does not do wine), showing some “leg”, undressing slowly (Jewel does not undress herself unless she’s by herself). Perhaps the more upscale the video than the better clientele?”

The last sentence is completely true and this comment really made me think hard. The idea is tempting, but here are my conclusions:

  1. Scotland and Upscale being on the opposite end of the scale, I’ll have to look for another job.
  2. Showing an upscale client in my video could potentially scare off all my farmers and virgins and I don’t want this to happen! Not only because I’ll be missing them, but also because I believe that
  3. everyone has the right of access to good sex, not just the upscale clients.

And the king of comments (unfortunately, you’ll only see the end of it): “give us (men) more cheek and hard time, we like it really”. He totally nailed it. Forget Mars and Venus. Give a man a hard time and he’ll be yours forever. Took me a few years to figure this out. Where was this respondent in 2006???

Chaleur de ma vie

And so, the day has arrived. This time Mr French wanted to go to the cinema. On the way there, we talk about the beauty of polyandry. Oh all right! I talk of the beauty of polyandry and Mr French cringes slightly. He does try to mention the beauty of polygyny but has to keep it to himself eventually.

As with anything else, what we watch is up to me. I choose “The Artist” and get ready for the reaction along the lines of “Woman, are you making me read again?!” (last time you heard about Mr French, I made him watch a 6-hour-long play with supertitles) but instead he seems to be quite pleased. I don’t think I’ll ever have my revenge with this one, he’s pleased no matter what I do.

If you’ve seen “The Artist”, you’ll recall the moment when George, having just been fired, runs into Peppy, whose star is rising. She has 2 men accompanying her. She stops to chat with George and gives him her number, pleading him to call. He points at her 2 companions who are waiting patiently close by. “Toys” , she explains with a smile. “She’s just like you”, – Mr French whispers in my ear. How can you not love a man who knows his place!

We get back to the flat and, erm… read poetry. In case you are smiling knowingly to yourself – yes, we really do read some poetry. The previous date Mr French complained that he hadn’t read anything in a while, so this time I have a little book by Jacques Prevert for him. I ask him to read for me: it’s so seldom that I hear his French! At first, he seems reluctant, but soon he’s leafing through the book, looking for the next poem to french out. Still, delightful as Prevert can be, we soon leave the book and go to the bedroom to make some poetry of our own.

It’s almost 10 when I get out of the shower and see Mr French getting dressed. Does he want a shower before we go? “It’s a French restaurant”, he shrugs, “there’s no need”. Sometimes I do wonder if he’s being funny or if he’s being French.

I watch him eat. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen eating snails, oysters, scallops, mussels and other creepy slippery invertebrates. Yet I enjoy the sight. I’m sure you know by now that I like men with a passion in their lives. It can be anything from collecting the models of planes to feeding penguins – I don’t care as long as it’s something he takes pleasure in. Mr French has a few hobbies that make him forget the time and, along with seeing me, eating is one of them.

Don’t confuse eating with food, they are totally different. Food is my hobby. I love food in any way, shape and form. If it’s not nailed to the wall – I’ll eat it. Eating is different. Unlike me, Mr French enjoys the process, not the object. He may not be the most elegant eater, but he’s a joy to watch because he does it with appetite – not for the food he’s eating but for the pleasure he receives from eating it.

En masse, the Brits deny themselves the pleasure of pleasure. It’s a cultural thing. They eat to quell hunger, they drink to get drunk, they wear clothes to be dressed, they work to make money, they have sex to reach orgasm. They do these things for their final purpose, not for the pleasure of doing them. Mr French is the complete opposite. He’s so French it makes me envious. But right now I’m looking at him eating – it turns me on.

- Stop staring at me.

- I can’t.

- When we get back to the flat, I’ll take you to the bedroom, undress you, put you on the bed and stare at you.

- Promise?

- Oh yeah!

- Eat faster then.

For the main course the chef made a tart for me – gluten free. It’s basically the tart’s filling on a plate without the tart itself. If anything, it’s only better for it. When the manager comes round to make sure I’m ok and sees the plate, he says the chef will be happy to see this – he likes it when plates arrive back empty (my plate couldn’t have been cleaner even if I’d licked it). Needless to say, I immediately want to thank the chef for all his effort personally, and the manager takes me to the kitchen. When I return, Mr French makes a jealous face: I left the table to speak to another man without even excusing myself, not to mention asking if he minds it. We both know he’s fine with this (does he have a choice?) but it’s still fun, so we discuss the chef over the dessert, and leave.

Back at the flat, he takes me to the bedroom, undresses me, puts me on the bed and… stares at me? Yeah, right!

The price of healthy living

My new year resolution was no wheat. And where possible, I decided to abstain from all gluten (and in case you are wondering, so far so good). This means I have to visit health food stores much more often than before.

Have you ever wondered why health food stores are packed with ugly, unhealthy looking people? I didn’t notice this before, only now that I’m a regular there. And all of them are women. You walk round this shop and wonder if you missed the sign on the front door that says “NO DOGS OR MEN”. As for the women, I’m not exactly sure what’s wrong with them. No matter what weight, shape, colour or age, a woman will be beautiful if she wants to be beautiful. But the health food store customers look like the healthy food sucked all the life out of them. Or maybe it’s just me. I enjoy watching women, the way they move, the way they talk (Scottish accent is NOT sexy. It may be cute, it may be funny, in its extreme forms it may even hypnotise you, but it is not sexy), their facial expressions, their shape… But in my local health food store I keep my eyes on the shelves.

Anyway, to the point. This time I go past the health food store to the French restaurant where I need to book a table for the coming date with Mr French. I think we’ve been to pretty much all French restaurants in Edinburgh by now, and as I’ve noticed, French cuisine is not vegetarian-friendly. That’s why, considering my new dietary requirements, I preferred booking a table in person rather than by phone, but only got to go to this part of town today. Needless to say, on the night like the one in question the restaurant is already fully booked. The helpful maitre d’hotel gives me 10pm as the only available slot.

- Great, thank you. Make it in the name of Mr French and here’s his phone number. Also, do you have anything vegetarian on the menu?

- Yes, Mrs French, we do, one vegetarian starter and one main course.

I open my mouth to say that Mr French is not that rich, but our relationship is none of the staff’s business, so instead I ask him if it’s possible to have these 2 dishes wheat-free as I’m allergic to it. He checks it with the chef and marks our table booking as the special one.

I go home. I can hardly wait. Most of my bookings are special.

My only vice, or food, glorious food!

I’ll start from afar but not as far as last century, don’t worry. Around 6 years ago I met a woman who was also a beginner in sex trade. I was a poor student jumping from one temporary job to another, struggling to make enough to buy a travel card for the next day so I could attend my classes (and more often than not, ending up borrowing my bus fare from flatmates). She had just finished her education – she was homeless, jobless, with thousands of debt, and, when she joined the agency I met her through, only a hundred quid in her pocket. A couple of months later, as we were chatting, she asked me:

- So what is it for you? Now that you don’t have to worry about your bus fare for tomorrow, now that you know that each week you will have a few pounds left for yourself, what do you use this money for? What’s your vice?

For her, it was cabs. For me, it was food.

As many other things, this one was rooted in the childhood. My mother never cooked. She used to say she had better things to do than slaving away in the kitchen. She chose to do the better things and had someone else do the slaving for her. So our fridge was always full of delicious stuff that I never saw being made. Up to the age of 22 the only cooking I did was adding milk to my cereal. Sorry, cooking coloured boiled water (tea in layman’s terms) also counts. Naturally, I took it for granted.

When I was around 14, my eyes were forced open to what cooking actually meant. My maternal grandmother loved it (even I wonder whom my mother got her progressive views from) and I remember a feast she once organised for the extended family. I was called in to do my part. For three days non-stop my grandmother only left the kitchen to sleep. This was when I realised how much effort and time cooking required. I suddenly saw kitchen for what it is – a branch of Hell Ltd. Forget cooking for a party. Think of cooking for yourself. You spend at least an hour peeling, chopping, grating, frying, boiling and mixing. Another half hour will be spent washing up pots and pans and plates and spoons. Add 10 minutes for serving and cleaning the table. Then you eat everything up in 10 minutes and some time later (hold your breath!) IT ALL GOES DOWN THE LOO. To sum it up, if you still don’t see the point: 2 hours of your life, 2 hours that you will never have back to re-live in a better, more useful way, will be washed down the toilet. And you are not even paid for this time! I suppose it’s all fine if you enjoy cooking, but what if you don’t?

So when at 22 I was finally given the independence I’d been fighting for for years (not all parents are happy to see their children go) and  found myself living on my own and in London, I had to face a choice:

  • I could hire a cook,
  • I could eat out 14 times a week,
  • or I could learn to cook.

The only financially acceptable option for me was to cook. Talk of getting what you asked for. I took up cooking with the enthusiasm we all have for things we are clueless about. If anyone is interested, I could come up with “How I learnt to cook” post. You’ll pee yourself laughing at my expense. The result of my efforts was by most part still flushed down the loo, only without having passed my digestive tract as nature intended. Moreover, at that time I was so stupid and inexperienced, it didn’t even cross my mind that I could get a boyfriend and thus have someone cooking for me in exchange for sex.

So what do you think happened when I became involved in the sex industry? Yes, that’s right. At last I had a few pounds a week left for myself and I could EAT! And my 2-year-long abstinence from food helped me realise how much I loved it. I love food from the bottom of my stomach. In fact, food and I, we have a very healthy relationship – food loves me back. It satisfies me, it pleasures me, it never disagrees with me. We’re inseparable. We’ll die together on the same day.

6 years down the line, sex trade gave me many things that I’m grateful for:

  • Opportunity to be independent financially, emotionally and otherwise
  • Variety of sex that mere mortals only dream of
  • Countless ways of self-expression
  • Respect and adoration of men
  • New shoes now and then

and I could go on and on. But being able to afford to eat what, when and how I please without having to waste my life on cooking is priceless. I can afford to do my food shopping every day – not once a week or a month. How can I buy food for a month if I don’t know what I will want to eat tomorrow? I can afford to buy organic food, as fresh as you can possibly find in a city. I can afford to not own a fridge or a freezer – if it needs to be stored in a fridge, it’s not fresh. And, best of all, I can afford to eat out every time I can’t be bothered with food shopping. Life is beautiful.

10 things you wouldn’t guess about Jewel as a sex worker

  1. I am very religious.
  2. I wear lipstick only twice a year, for the client with a lipstick fetish. The next lipstick date is in April.
  3. I love my clients.
  4. I don’t do addictive substances. Not even coffee. I claim “addictive” as my nature and I’m not prepared to let anything else with the same title onto my pedestal.
  5. I haven’t got a single miniskirt.
  6. I eat like a horse. You don’t get a bum like mine through willpower alone, it takes a lot of eating to sustain it.
  7. I discovered my sexuality through sex work.
  8. Higher education is something I’ve done a couple of times and can see myself doing again.
  9. I don’t know how to use sex toys on myself (although I’m sure I’ll figure it out if I fiddle with one of them long enough) and I don’t have any for myself – so don’t ask. The day when I come home from work and want to play with a vibrator will be the day I quit sex trade. As for during work – if I have a man in my bed, what do I want a vibrator for?
  10. Polyandry is the way. Although this much you could have guessed.

Ungodly manners and church cafes

I am woken up practically right after dawn (it’s February, remember?) by the sound of a male voice swearing close by. I’ve never been married so I’m not used to this sort of wake up call. As my brain gradually gets all my senses working, I realise that in fact it’s more than one man, at least two. Now this is interesting. I don’t recall having invited a bunch of Scots to swear outside my bedroom window at this ungodly hour in this ungodly manner. I turn round, cover my head with the duvet and pray for all men to disappear off the face of the earth until I really am ready to wake up. Don’t know about the majority, but the individuals outside my window are still there 15 minutes later when I realise there’s no way I can go back to sleep with this noise. I get up. The men don’t know it yet, but they’re in trouble.

I have a shower, get dressed, blow dry my hair, have breakfast and the men are still there, I can hear them. Eventually, I go to draw the curtains open. My front door opens to a metre or so of paved path that leads to the gate in the little fence. The gate is open, someone’s dirty jacket is thrown over it. My tiny front yard is a mess. There are three men there, two burly blokes and a skinny young one. It looks like Edinburgh council decided at last to deal with the crater in the pavement right outside my gate – the one that should have been dealt with when the Second World War was over. Some of the broken paving stones are already removed, their remains are thrown around nicely in my front yard. It rained the night before, the men are all covered in dirt; my paved path, the fence, the gate all have the mud smeared evenly on them. And if this is not enough, two of the men are smoking. And they don’t strike me as the sort of men who’d bring an ashtray with them.

Trying not to shout yet, I storm out of the door. Open the shed, get the broom, slam the tiny shed door so hard the flimsy shed nearly topples over, and charge the enemy. They are still clueless. One of the bigger blokes waves his hand reassuringly at me as I approach, a cigarette pressed between his fingers.

- Don’t bother cleaning up yet, we’ll be back again tomorrow to finish the work.

WHAT!

Remember my jewel knickers? I can bet them safely that this man only showers once a week. On Saturdays. Because on any other day of the week it is pointless – he’ll be going to work again the following day, no?

I get as close to him as his cigarette smoke allows me and, slowly and patiently, give him my point of view.

- Unlike you, I live here, including today. So I want YOU to clean up all this mess before you leave today. Everything, especially this sh!t.

I point at the cigarette butts on the ground and shove him the broom.

Back inside, I try to calm down but fail. I can still hear the men talking to each other, although not as loudly as before. I look out of the window. The skinny boy is crouching on the ground, picking up the cigarette butts. That’s how I like ‘em – on their knees. Realising I won’t be able to get anything done if I stay at home, I throw my laptop into my handbag, put my coat on and leave. I notice that the parts of the broken paving stones are now piled up in one corner. As I pass the men on my way out, I ask the bulky one, who seems to be the leader of the pack, what time they are going to finish. He says, around 3. I reply that I’ll be back by 2.30 then.

I go to my favourite cafe. This cafe is part of a church building, which means that the prices are fair and the room is usually empty – perfect for working. I once brought K the Aussie there. He stopped just outside the front door and asked:

- You do realise it’s a church cafe, don’t you?

- Yes, so what? I don’t care what the owners believe as long as the tea they serve is hot.

- Well, don’t know about you but I probably shouldn’t be here. I’ve done some things in my life, you know… Including women…

Hmm, wonder if this is the reason the cafe is usually empty. It’s sometimes hard to say if K the Aussie is serious or not. He entered the cafe though. And nothing happened to him.

The following day the men finish early. The “leader” knocks on my door asking to fill some dirty green container with water so they could rinse the mud off the fence and the gate. They even splash the water across my paved path to clean it up, too. Is it really clean? Of course it’s not. But at least they made an effort, it’s good enough a start for them.