The dangers of tanning

Something interesting is happening in my work, and it started last week with this new client. He was suntanned. I don’t mean bright red and covered in blisters, I mean even medium-brown shade all over. I honestly don’t have an excuse other than it’s October and I’ve been having sex with pasty gringos since I moved to Scotland 7 forevers ago. He also looked smitten silly, but that’t not my excuse, that’s his decision. We were meant to have drinks or whatever the plan was, but I stood up and went to his room and he followed. I pushed him onto the bed, sat on top of him and, speaking as slowly as I could manage at the moment, made it clear that he was suntanned and I was premenstrual and he’d get his pampering later or possibly even elsewhere, because I had better use for him right then. If he minded, he wasn’t fast or loud enough.

This honestly isn’t how I work. I have megabytes of WordPress content which shows my work style as pretty much the opposite of pouncing on smitten men and taking them prisoner. I usually tiptoe gently around them and make sure we do everything at the speed they are comfortable with. That was the first foray into paid sex for him, and likely the last one, because, going by his pre-meeting communication, he was looking for a different sort of experience, the tiptoeing thing. And if I am totally honest, I’m not even too sure about what we did. All I know is that I left that hotel eventually and it was still October outside, and for a change I didn’t care. One thing I remember relatively clear about the whole date is him talking about the standards I seem to have for clients, and at the time I thought, ‘Not right now!’

I’ve been told many times things like “your site makes you look like an arrogant bitch while you’re actually a nice person”, and “you enjoy challenging men, don’t you?” and lots of similar things. And today (I think I’m getting to the point of this blog) I received this mail from a client-to-be:

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And when a man is right (rarely), a man is right. I do have expectations, and I do make them clear, but all my expectations are basically summed up by “don’t be a dick”. And frankly, if you find this challenging, then thank you for not meeting me. What the suntanned man brought up in me, and what the client-to-be is saying – and what I am finally getting thanks to them! – is that I want adult stuff. Client-to-be phrases it as “sex between equals” but let’s be fair, I will always be a little more equal than you, so sex between adults is what I really always wanted in my work. And I do get adult clients, but then I also get these men who are regular clients, good clients, but not actually adult in the end, and the “relationship” ends because they can’t handle the emotions brought up by my presence. I think 3 of these are mentioned in the blog, and 3 more happened since that I just couldn’t be bothered to write about. Even though the people are different and the issues are diverse, to me it feels repetitive. These relationships were what I enjoyed most about my work, but I think this is now changing.

Do you know what I want? I want a man who can take his heart, fold it into origami orchid, put it into my hand on top of the cash and say that it’s mine for the night and he’ll be man enough in the morning to not blame me for his decisions. Like I said, adult stuff.

I think the bottom line here is that while I will still be working with disabled people (and I have been questioning this aspect of my work as well recently) and with young (and old) people who need experience – because I don’t think I can make myself become less caring – I am done with the educaring aspect of my work otherwise. I am retiring as a companion, which has been my tag line and identity for the last 6 years. I am now a lady of pleasure. Maybe even your lady of pleasure, if you’re not a dick. I am not yet sure what the difference is  – at least not in words – but I feel it growing inside and I quite like this feeling. This is going to be exciting!

Going for gold

Have you ever wondered how much damage 100 ml of lukewarm hot chocolate can cause? Well, I’m about to tell you anyway. And yes, exactly 100 ml. It was a small, 200 ml cup that was half full/ empty (pick what resonates best with you). And so, without further ado, this small amount of sticky liquid went over

  • a chair (upholstered)
  • a footrest (upholstered)
  • a blanket
  • a pile of books
  • an airer with freshly done laundry
  • a radiator
  • a wall

and, finally, the floor.

But you know what remained dry and clean? Me. Why can’t I just pour everything down my chest as normal people do? No, gosh, why limit myself?! Let’s splash it over 5 square metres of vertical and horizontal surface!

Thirty five minutes of blotting, wiping, rubbing, wringing, mopping and cleaning. I now need to re-do the laundry, have the blanket dry cleaned, and consider re-upholstering the chair and burning the books. Psychological damage: immeasurable.

Everything now gives off a whiff of thick, sickly sweet smell. Think I’ll go for a walk. And hope that I don’t trip and break my neck.

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As you are probably NOT aware, the responses to our consultation on decriminalisation of sex work in Scotland have been published a week ago. Endless source of entertainment and inspiration. Of course I had to read them, and of course some of them are thought provoking. So here are my thoughts.

Revd Lindsey Sanderson (13)


So what’s Revd Sanderson’s point? That alcoholics should be prevented from being in the company of each other? Or that people with history of childhood abuse should not be legally entitled to work collectively? You’d think that in the remaining 2 paragraphs of the answer to this question Revd Sanderson will answer the question, but no. We have to assume that Revd Sanderson means that since all hookers are forced into hookery, it’s best we keep them isolated. If all these forced hookers start meeting each other and share their experiences and find out they are not alone, and – god forbid! – meet a hooker who isn’t forced and offers to help… That’ll be the end of so many careers!

Dr Tom Sissons (106)


Been there, had that, really pleased that instead of me highlighting it and being ignored there’s a trusted professional whose word may be believed – saying that same thing.

Valerie Kerr (192)


Mrs Kerr makes some valid points, but, as she stresses, this Bill will never be able to save all these desperately vulnerable people, so let’s just forget it all and not even try.

Tom Manganiello (100)


A good point that would never have occurred to me as I’m far more concerned with my own health. It’s heart warming to see “married men will cheat, we can’t stop them so let’s make sure everyone is safe in the process” as opposed to the usual “married men will cheat, we can’t stop them so let’s try to stop them”.

Donald Fleming (184)


So a pair of brothers applied for a licence for a legal business. They were screened, met all the requirements, opened their business and provided safe working places to a number of people. Their business did well and they expanded it, providing more people with work and income. They pay taxes and have not been taken to court for exploitation or labour rights violations, otherwise you’d have pointed it out. You also say they have 18 million GBP each, either from this business or from any other venture they might be running alongside it. What exactly is your beef with this?

Also, could someone look up the percentage of fast food industry that McDonald’s “owns” in Wellington? Just out of interest.

The Very Reverend Kelvin Holdsworth (122)


Thank you, The Very Reverend. You deserve your title. I am thoroughly impressed.

Michael B (177)


The most obvious thing to note is that slashing a “girl” with any sharp object on any grounds was illegal at the time of the incident that Michael B describes, is illegal as I type this sentence, and isn’t proposed to become legal by Miss Urquhart’s Bill or any other Bill I can think of. Moreover, Miss Urquhart explicitly asked (question 8) if there should be a statutory right for sex workers to refuse sexual services.

And I can’t help but point out the fact that Miss Urquhart, not (allegedly) having been in sexual relations with unknown persons possibly under the influence, is seen as unfit to suggest laws on sex work. Michael B, however, not having had such sexual experience either, and – seemingly – not having read Miss Urquhart’s proposals, knows exactly what should be done. I want to believe that Michael B is a gay transgender person of colour.

On the fun side, let us all hope that Michael B and his colleagues were employed to do nothing of importance and precision, because they sure spent too much of their paid time hooker watching, which probably wasn’t in their job description. My personal experience says that people who spent 8 minutes in a sex worker’s room are as likely to be clients as food delivery people. If they are clients, they are unlikely to have treated the lady in “the dreadful way”. With only 8 minutes to knock on the door, negotiate the service, pay for it, receive it and drop off the food, you need to be good at multitasking to squeeze in some abuse. 8 minutes is enough to slash someone with a knife, but this isn’t a definition of “client”. This is a definition of a physical assault and grievous bodily harm. And apart from this, all “abuse” Michael B “witnessed” was women making money to pay bills and feed their kids. She had 8 clients in an hour? Good for her. I’d like to know where she advertises.

Some men do it professionally

I have a recent addition to my client collection. I’ll call him Prop for now. He spent the last 30 years of his life playing rugby. And you now think you know why he’s Prop. You don’t. Read on. Do you really expect me to be that predictable?

The first time I saw Prop, I noticed he had a habit of touching himself. A common habit in married people. But the majority quickly quit when presented with something else to touch. Not Prop. I introduced the rule straight away: if you touch yourself, you then either use the other hand to touch me with, or you wash your hands. Prop wasn’t entirely happy with that. Few people are ambidextrous. Ambidexterity is encouraged in many sports and arts, but sex work is never mentioned for this talent. The need for safety quickly teaches you to use one hand for your clients and the other one for yourself. Clients – obviously – rarely develop this skill, you’ll use your dominant hand to touch anything. Which means that on our second date Prop still touches himself and then reaches for me with the same hand.

Jewel: You just touched yourself! Go wash your hands!

Prop: I didn’t! It’s unfair!

Jewel: <silently points her index finger in the direction of the bathroom>

Prop: <glowers, growls, gets up, goes to the bathroom>

Fifteen minutes later, Prop touches himself and reaches for me with the same hand.

Jewel: You just touched yourself! Go wash your hands!

Prop: Did I? When? I would have noticed!

Jewel points her finger.

Prop gets up and goes to the bathroom.

You probably think I enjoy it. I don’t, actually. The constant interruption doesn’t make my job easier, and the constant need to be alert means I can’t relax.

Fifteen minutes later – yes, you know what’s coming! – he touches himself, then reaches for me and… smacks himself in the forehead. ‘I fecking touched myself! Did you see it?’ He sighs, gets up and goes to the bathroom.

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A card I received from one of my clients

I love these little moments of sudden self awareness. I often wonder how many things about myself I’m not aware of.

And if you are still curious, here’s the promised revelation.

Jewel: (who up until 2 minutes ago used to think that the game they sometimes show in American films is rugby. Who’d think it’s foot-ball? They carry the ball!) So what’s the main skill in rugby then?

Prop: (rather amused by now) It depends on your position in the game.

Jewel: There are positions there???

Prop: Of course. First, there’s, erm, a hooker, it’s the person who, well, hooks. Hooks the ball. Next to the hooker there are props. They support the hooker. Then there are…

Jewel: Was that your position? Prop?

Prop: No.

Jewel: But you do such a good job of supporting the hooker!

Some of the things that enhance my life

I really don’t understand the appeal of cooking. Eating, however… Eating is a totally different business. If you want me as your girlfriend, all you need to do is promise to cook for me or take me out for meals till death do us part. Or till I grow up and learn to cook for myself, whichever happens first. Don’t give me that look! Which part of my pretty-for-pay site made me appear picky when it comes to men? Anyway, there’s a specific cookbook that I need (don’t ask. Seriously, just don’t ask) so I’m now visiting all the second-hand book shops* in Edinburgh. Today I went to my favourite one, and asked the shop assistant to direct me to the cookery section. A few turns and narrow passages later he left me in front of 4 shelves overloaded with books. For a gastrosexual like me, this is what purgatory looks like. But years of sex work do teach you to find pleasure in the least likely places.

An hour later, as I passed the shop assistant on my way out, he asked if I found what I was looking for.
– No, but I organised your cookery section. You now have wine and other drink books on the top shelf, the second one is for regional cuisine, the third one for all other cookbooks, and the last one is for baking, desserts and books that are about food but contain no recipes. And the two stacks of books on the floor are those that belong to other sections, mostly golf and architecture – one has to wonder… But they are for you to sort out!Edinburgh escorts
– Um… Thanks…

I walked out of the shop with a satisfying feeling of time well spent. CDO can be time consuming, but it gives you an eye for detail and brings the beauty of order to your life.


* I love books. Not as much as I love eating, but they are still dear to me. Unlike food though, I prefer my books pre-used: trees were killed to make them. I also try not to own books; a good book is a feeling, not an object, and you can’t own a feeling. A bad book – why would you want to own that? So once I’m done with a book, more often than not it goes back into circulation. Yet I have a shelf of books I received from my clients. These are memories more than they are feelings, and some memories are worth keeping.

The but

Yes, there’s only one letter t in that but.

As part of my investigations into a potential client’s needs, I received this:

I don’t want to give a typical male sob story so hope this doesn’t come across like that. I’ve been married a long time and our life is good – apart from the sex […] and it leaves me unfulfilled.

And it really is a typical male story (I disagree with sob), at least from my professional point of view. All my married clients use the same words: “our relationship is good, but (insert the but of your choice: but there is no sex, but the sex we have is very basic, but my partner doesn’t want me, but I don’t get the intimacy I need, etc) and I feel unfulfilled”. Will I appear radical by saying that goodbut actually means bad? Because goodbut doesn’t mean good. You’d never say “The weather is good but it’s raining”. You say “Damn, the weather is horrid again”. When you buy something from Amazon and it doesn’t do what it’s meant to do, you don’t post a positive review of “It’s good but it doesn’t work”. No, you return the item! Acknowledging that the relationship actually isn’t good is a good start. We don’t have this problem with things: if it’s broken – we see it, if we don’t like it – we say so. But when it comes to relationships, it’s never broken/ of poor quality/ unsatisfactory – no, it’s good. But.

First of all, we need to blame the parents. For the obvious reasons. If they only provided us with the goodbut relationship model, then a goodbut relationship is all we’ll be looking for. Secondly, we need to blame the parents for the less obvious reasons: for not bringing us up with the feeling of self-worth that would prevent us from settling for goodbut relationships.

More than anyone else, however, the responsible party is us. We don’t often enough get into a relationship with the awareness of our reasons for it – because this is the standard against which the success of something is measured. If you buy a violin because you want to make music, a crack in its body will spoil your plans. But the same violin will be a boon if all you want is to annoy the hell out of your neighbours. So if you don’t know what is important to you in a relationship, how can you tell if it’s working for you? Especially in a culture which is big on telling you what your relationship should be like. If you got into a relationship because you didn’t want to be lonely, and now you have a beautiful home, an attractive partner and a bunch of kids but you’re still lonely – it’s not working that well for you, is it?Edinburgh escorts

The truth is, among the billions of people on this planet there will always be others who have the same need (or lack thereof) for sex as you, the same life goals as you, the same attitudes to relationships as you. But we settle for whoever comes first and don’t give ourselves time to find someone who meets the needs that are important to us. And because a relationship is forever – nobody doubts this axiom, I hope – we find ourselves living unfulfilled lives, forever. Because god forbid you voice your worries to your partner, or worse, start working on having your needs met and getting some happiness in this life. And I don’t mean sex. I am talking about any aspect of a relationship that is important to you personally and in which your needs aren’t met. A relationship is there to enrich your life, not to turn it into a mind-numbingly boring descent into death.

All that said, I’m not in a relationship myself, so ignore me. The reason I’m not in a relationship though is this poem by Omar Khayyám:

You better starve, than eat whatever
And better be alone, than with whoever.

This isn’t the first time I tell people how to live their lives. Here is another possible reason of unfulfilling relationships, and ways of dealing with them.


In other news, there’s a blog entry out of timeline here, and I’m off to England in a few days. St Valentine’s in Cambridge will be exciting! Come be mine!


This morning Twitter told me a woman called Stoya disclosed her rape publicly.

I don’t know who Stoya is, and while I felt sorry that this happened to her (I also felt sorry about all the sh!t she was going to get from the public disclosure) to be honest, this is the sort of news you hear a few times a day. Someone somewhere is always raped. I’m saying this not to minimise the case but to explain why I simply went and had breakfast. Because there was nothing else I could do. Later on, however, I went back on Twitter and came across this. Edinburgh escortsNeedless to say the original tweet had been removed by the time I got to see the screenshot, but somehow, sadly, it’s not too difficult to believe it was published. This is how I found out Stoya is a sex worker. And as the day went by, the hateful words grew on me.

You see someone say they were raped. If you really don’t care that much – do as I did, go have something to eat. Why take the time out of your life to blame this person for getting raped? Unless you really, REALLY hate this person and you’re so happy it happened to them you just can’t contain this feeling anymore.

Because this is what Ms Ditum does. A woman says “I was raped” and you respond “Well, most porn is rape anyway, no?” Since when is it feminist to put a victim’s job and your ideology before the actual assault?

I’ve been through a lot of shit in my current job. But the worst of it was when I went to police to report that one man who, if he attacked someone more fragile than me, could really ruin lives. And they told me, ‘It’s a dangerous job, what did you expect?’ And much as it hurts, this is just “when you watch porn, you don’t know if you’re watching rape” rephrased.

It’s people like you, Ms Ditum, who allow and encourage police to treat us this way. It’s not some patriarchy. It’s real people who have power to change things, who go round shouting about how hard they work to change things, but actually don’t – they are the ones who I feel are responsible.

You are worse than police, Ms Ditum. Police are cunts, but at least they never pretend that they care for my wellbeing. You, however, position yourself as someone who cares for women’s rights. Stoya is a woman. I am a woman. Thousands of sex workers are women. You are one big fat lie.

Solidarity with Stoya and all sex workers who have been, are and will be raped and then blamed and dismissed by the ditums of feminism.

A quick update

First of all, in November Scottish Opera brings Carmen to Edinburgh, and I would very much like to see it. Anyone wants to take me there? Anyone?

Secondly, there’s a new poll on the page that’s been empty for a very long time. Your opinion, as always, is important.

Involuntary memory

You know how Proust goes on and on about recollections of the past that are triggered by simple things in your everyday life, like a taste or a smell? Or maybe knickers?

Edinburgh escort's knickers
Exhibit A

I recently got myself a pair of red silk French knickers – exhibit A. In case you wonder what they look like in real life, think boxer shorts but red, silk, sexy and evocative of the words “drawers” and “Edwardian”. I didn’t go out of my way to find them, I just came across them online one night and thought ‘may as well. Together with that black lace thong’. They arrived, I put them on, looked in the mirror, and the memory took me back a decade or so.

I was 22 – the “poor student” years I mentioned a few times here. I made friends with Allie, a beautiful blond girl of my age and one-of-a-kind personality. Allie worked as a stripper. She shared a small flat in Pimlico with 2 of her colleagues.

One Saturday afternoon we wanted to go to a gallery together, and she said I could come to pick her up. I found the door and rang the bell. For a while, nothing happened, and then the lock clicked, a sleepy-looking girl appeared and welcomed me in. She was tall, slim and busty, with masses of long fair hair, slightly tangled from sleep. She was wearing blue silk French knickers and fake eyelashes. Some glitter was smudged over her shoulder.

‘Are you for Allie? She’s in the bathroom,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. The fake eyelashes didn’t mind in the least. ‘Want to come in?’

Unsure of what I may see if I venture further from the door, I declined. The sight in front of me was enough.

‘I’ll wait with you then, I need to pee,’ said the girl and leaned on a wall. She rubbed her eyes again, looked at her hands, saw the nail polish on one of her nails was chipped, and started picking on it.

‘Allie! Out!’ she hollered 2 minutes later without warning. I jumped, and someone deep inside the flat snored in disgruntlement. There was no sign of Allie, so the girl started chatting to me. I don’t remember what about. I remember looking at her lips as a way to avoid looking at her breasts.

I had never seen other women’s breasts before. I mean I had, like in a gym change room or on TV, but those breasts were never so real, close and, well, available to look at. I was fascinated. Thinking of it now, this was probably the moment my attraction to women found itself deep inside my ovaries. I’d only just discovered sex, as you know, didn’t know much about it and, frankly, didn’t realise it was possible to have it with people of other than opposite sex. No, I wasn’t naive, just disinterested in sexual matters and thus mostly uninformed.

At the time, I thought it was her lifestyle: you know, sleeping till midday, being beautiful and wearing silk bloomers. But now I know the lifestyle wasn’t the real attraction factor. I have it now – I’ve got the underwear to show for it! – and I’m nowhere near less attracted to the girl as I remember her. It was her utter naturalness, and femininity, and those breasts. And, of course, the ease/ mental disorder with which she opened doors to strangers without bothering to cover up.

And yes, starting with Proust gives me a touch of chic, but the truth is, as a teenager, I opened Swann’s Way, read greedily a few pages, said ‘oh what bollocks!’ and never went back to it. Maybe the translation wasn’t too good. But at the time I couldn’t read the original. Still can’t. Not Proust. I don’t know the French for “bollocks”.

Tales of Stupidity: MEN

This is the second part of the tales. The first one, dedicated to women, is here.

He’s coming to Edinburgh for a week-end and we arrange to meet for a dinner on Sunday night.

On Sunday morning, however, instead of a confirmation e-mail I receive a cancellation one. It comes with a story: on Thursday night, when he’d landed in Edinburgh, he met a lovely girl at the airport (let’s say she was German) who also had just arrived to Edinburgh for the week-end. He got her number and texted her* the next day but never heard back. And then on Saturday he ran into her while sightseeing; it turned out that the settings of her German mobile wouldn’t allow her to text him back on his French number while in Scotland, that’s why she didn’t reply. She now agreed to have dinner with him on Sunday night, so he has to cancel our date.

Yes, of course I giggled a little and even said “Oh, honey!” but my reply read along the lines of “good luck! Hope you get what you’re after”. He immediately e-mailed back saying that he wasn’t after anything, he simply really liked the girl and wanted to make friends. I do wonder why he said it. His mother may have bought it. But me?

Here’s a woman’s take on this story.

Imagine you’re the German girl. At the airport you meet a bloke and you give him your number. You receive a message from him the following day and…

And if you really like the bloke and really think there might be something there, what do you do if your phone inexplicably tells you that you can’t reply his message? Exactly! You call him. If you can’t call him from your mobile, then you call him from your hotel room phone or from a payphone. Because if you really want to see him again, you only have these 2 days in Edinburgh for it.

Edinburgh escortsIf, however, you only gave him your number because he was sweet and you didn’t want to upset him, you ignore his text and get on with your short holiday. And when by some super-unlucky chance you run into him when sight-seeing, what do you do? That’s right! You concoct this story of how you couldn’t get back to him. Because even if you’re German, it’s still impolite to say something like “Yeah, I think I got something from you yesterday, but I couldn’t be bothered to read it and deleted it straight away”.

And now imagine you’re the French man. You have a sexy date arranged for Sunday night. Then on Saturday you meet a lovely German girl who agrees to have dinner with you on Sunday. Here are your options:

  • You can meet your lady of fixed-rate virtue and have sex – guaranteed. Or
  • You can meet your German girl and, with luck, you can have sex for free – no guarantee though. Or
  • You can lie to yourself that you’re not interested in sex at all: the German girl is only a friend and you cancel your date (sex guaranteed) to spend a sexless evening with her.

But we already know that the German girl isn’t going to be enthusiastic about sex**. So the inevitable happens: at 10pm on Sunday night the poor young man, having stopped lying to himself, calls his lady of fixed-rate virtue to ask if she’s still free and willing to see him after all.


* Don’t. DON’T ever text the woman whose number you just got. Apart from the fact that it’s just plain bad manners (and she will be right to ignore your message), you run the risk of not knowing if your text was delivered, if it was delivered to the right person, or if the woman it was intended for is actually happy to hear from you.

** Actually, no, we don’t know that the German girl refused to have sex with him. Maybe the dinner was so good that she agreed. In which case his call to me later only proves the old axiom that if you want something done well, either do it yourself, or pay a professional.

And yes, it’s the same image for entries for men as well as women.