Farewell, January

The Jewel DVD is now available for sale. It includes both the theatrical version and the Director’s cut (subtitles are available in English, French, German and Latin), Director’s commentary, interview with the cast, still shots and of course bloopers.

Seriously now. Both films are now available to watch: the short version for those in a hurry and the long version for those who want to know more. As some of you have guessed already, there’s a monthly poll (survey this time) dealing with this. Please make a couple of minutes and answer these 4 short and simple questions – it will help me no end! It’s your opinion that influences what you see on my site (although of course my opinion always outweighs yours) so you may as well express it.

And many thanks again to everyone who e-mailed me with feedback, especially to those who did it without being prompted – it means a lot to me, and these unexpected mails are incredibly sweet.

There will be a couple of posts out of chronological order (I need to account for the charity work in December and other little bits and bobs), I’ll put up a little note as promised. Also, just as in January, I’ll be away a lot in the coming few weeks (passing through London so watch the Tours page for dates), and if I don’t answer my mobile – e-mail me.

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It’s a video!

As you may have noticed, my blog’s been looking abandoned for the past 3 weeks, but it was not in vain! If you remember, I promised the site update and half an hour ago I saw its final version. At last!

As some of you already know, it’s a video. It took a lot of time, effort and dedication (especially from the director), and the 3 weeks following Christmas were the busiest and hardest for me with regards to this project, and it wouldn’t have happened so fast if not the director’s enthusiasm and the help I received from some of you faithful readers. I would especially like to thank John, whose comments on the rough versions of the video were so helpful and encouraging. And, of course, the director – none of it would have happened without him!

And so, look out for it! I’ll put up another note here, but it will ideally happen at the start of next week. There are 2 versions, one will be on the main site, the other – here on the blog.

Thank you so much for your patience. Now that I have my life back, the usual blog routine (or the lack of it) will resume.

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Farewell, December

The charity work is done, although I’m sorry to report that the result was far below the figures of last year. This was due to my going away and then having to take a few days off for various unexpected reasons (and then, when being available, just not being in the mood). Wikipedia got the promised £20 and ECP would have had their cheque regardless, but Children’s Villages and Women’s Aid got very modest donations, but hey, at least they got something!

The brighter side of December is that I am now officially 30 and the website will be updated to reflect this as soon as I can be bothered.

Many thanks to all the wonderful men who chose me to give a few hours of their life to in 2011.

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Animal Planet: the A to Z of client species found in Edinburgh

The Americans – these come with a hard impermeable shell that they will open up if consider the surrounding environment friendly. The content of the shell varies from individual to individual. The Americans don’t do well in captivity or on their own, they tend to live and migrate in small packs, even when on business. This might be due to the fact that American folklore is very rich with menacing tales of the end of the world, when their natural habitat as it is will cease to exist unless they are all saved by one American, usually known as “the hero” (the only exception is the series of tales where the world was saved by a German lesbian, usually respectfully referred to as “die Hard”). These fear and distrust over the generations found their natural way out in evolution of the protective shell mentioned above.

The Arabs – religiously clean, personal grooming includes fur intolerance. Young unmated individuals may differ greatly from mature mated ones. The Arabs are reportedly polygynous; when mating outside their natural environment, tend to show preference for copulation with only one female. In return for her favours they religiously follow the prescribed rules of keeping the females satisfied: supporting the female financially, taking her shopping, then to a restaurant, then to the bedroom. It is thus seen as taking on a short-term wife rather than cheating.

The Aussies – think well of themselves and rightly so. For mating rituals always show up well-groomed and well-dressed. In contacts seem to prefer quality to quantity. Exhibit a good sense of style, hygiene and humour. Genetically courteous. Unanimously list religious upbringing as enemy no 1.

The English – easy to spot even out of their natural habitat due to their inbred tendency to form queues where more than one specimen is involved. A few subspecies are recognised (although all show a high degree of individual variability) distinguished by location, attitude to females, mating rituals and view of self. By most part, however, see themselves as sexually attractive just by being male and therefore are not well-trained in the arts of personal grooming and dressing. The ones who left their natural environment and were accepted by other species copy successfully the other species’ ways of grooming, dressing and polite interaction.

The French may vary wildly in their appearance but the behavioral traits that set them apart from other species are unmistakable. They are the only species that really know how to enjoy life and themselves, even within the settings of Scotland. Adults train the young to appreciate good food, good wine and good time for yourself, sometimes even at the expense of training in personal grooming. They willingly acknowledge this about themselves but are not in a hurry to change the behavioral pattern: so much good food, so many good females, so little time for silly necessities!

The Italians – not enough data gathered to provide a reliable description, most probably because located so far north, Edinburgh does not provide this species with favourable conditions for mating. The only confirmed fact is that the myth of hot Italian lovers is a myth. The research continues and volunteers are welcome.

The Kiwis – quite rare here but the ones spotted are reportedly similar in behaviour to the Aussies although differ from them in appearance – they can be careless dressers. It’s unclear whether this is characteristic of the species or is done by relocated individuals to fit in with the local fauna. More research is needed.

The Scandinavians (Norwegian species, the Dutch and the Swedes) – being the northern species, cultivation of body hair is a distinguishing trait, although some individuals are known to have experimented in that field. The absence of smooth body surface is successfully compensated by sweet personality, unassuming attitude and genuine ardour when the possibility for mating arises. However, when the possibility turns into certainty, some Scandinavians show strong tendency for timidity when vis-a-vis with a female. This might be due to the irrational Scandinavian belief that females of the species should not want to mate, and if they say they do – they are clearly confused and need professional help.

The Scots used to form an independent species, but not for long and were never good at it. They were glad to be assimilated by the English, and now, with the same well-documented use of a large variety of polite words, are practically identical. Until the late Pleistocene, were characterised by wearing skirts – a highly distinctive trait, and a very efficient way for males to attract the opposite sex. Nowadays, in line with the English culture, efforts to attract the females are seen as a sign of weakness. The Scots, however, preserved their historic admiration for females and give the lead in the mating rituals to them which, according to Freud, may be due to “skirt envy” and an innate guilt complex rooted in abandoning the skirt tradition.

The Welsh – this mythical species has long been the object of wonder: although everything points to its existence at least at some point in time, no specimen has been captured alive so far. A few individuals are reported to have been suspected of being Welsh, but there was no way to prove it as due to the lack of evidence the existing description of the Welsh and their behaviour is highly unreliable. Consequently, the rumour of a modern country populated with the Welsh has no grounds, although of course a place like that could have existed in antiquity. Theories vary from the ones that suggest that the Welsh died out because they were so few and far between that meeting for procreation was virtually impossible to the ones that stipulate that the Welsh actually reproduced asexually by budding and went extinct because seriously, who can survive without sex? Excavation continues.

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My sweet Stirling adventure

There is no “Welcome to Stirling” sign. Whether it got blown away during the hurricane or covered in snow that followed the hurricane – I don’t know. Or maybe people of Stirling see no reason/ no suitable weather conditions to waste money on such a sign. Walter meets me on the platform, takes my suitcase and we head for the hotel.

In my room, Walter surprises me with a box of chocolates and a little something that, thanks to its transparency and area of coverage, should be described as ethereal rather than material, but is, nevertheless, called the jewel knicker (no prizes for guessing why he wanted me to have it). The knicker itself is barely visible but the jewel is there (in Newcastle I had a client who used to kiss his way down my stomach and say: “And here’s my little jewel!” Once he even clapped his hands. I’d be lying there looking at the ceiling and thinking: “I really need to change my name!”) and this jewel is set in just the right place and it does not freak me out. We set off to explore all the possible ways of using it.

A couple of hours later we go downstairs for a dinner, and then Walter is gone. I return to my room to find the barely touched box of chocolates. I’m so stuffed and tired that the box goes into my suitcase straight away.

In the morning I move into another room in the same hotel (for reasons only known to the management), fix my hair and meet another client, W. (First of all, isn’t it great that Walter has a name! Secondly, Walter and W live pretty much next door to each other (Oh I’d love to see their faces as they read this! Will they be able to leave home without looking over their shoulder now?) in a place which is so far away from Edinburgh that it’s only fair for me to make an effort to meet them half way at least once). Believe it or not, W also shows up with a box of chocolates. But somehow, although I know that he loves them even more than me (read it whichever way you like, it’s still true), two hours later, when he leaves, the box is still full. And it’s a large box!

This is my first time in Stirling, so I pop a few chocolates into my handbag and jump in the cab that takes me to Stirling castle. I’m just in time for the last guided tour, and I’m the only one there. The first 15 minutes are disconcertingly intimate, with the (male) guide asking me all sorts of personal questions, until two (male) American tourists join us and start doing it for him. Isn’t it funny how by replying “I’d rather not say” you provoke even more questions? The guide professionally explains it to them that Mary prefers keeping herself to herself and at last the tour starts.

The tour over, there’s still time to explore the rest of the castle and we go in opposite directions. But on the relatively large castle grounds it’s impossible to lose two American men. I give up eventually and we walk together which is great, because when at 5pm the castle is closed and we’re outside, I realise that I’m in a bit of a trouble. I am on top of some hill, most probably miles away from civilization, it’s darker than in the Middle Ages, I didn’t take the business card of the cabbie who’d given me a lift here and apart from the two Americans there’s no-one around to ask for the number of a local cab service. In fact, I’m desperate enough to ask for directions to the nearest bus stop (and for instructions on how to use buses in Scotland) but the large square in front of the castle is empty except for me, the Americans and their car.

The Americans offer me a lift. My mother would go grey at the thought that I can get in a car with two strangers. Their wives would go grey at the thought that their husbands are not even half as gay as they would like them to be at that moment. I go grey at the thought of a possibility of a bus and searching for it in the dark. In high heels. Besides, the Americans are harmless, so they clear the back seat for me and Larry starts the engine while Jerry turns to me:

- Look, Mary, we opened this box but only had one chocolate each and now that we need to get on the plane, would you like to keep it?

And he passes me a box of chocolates. The first chocolate I don’t even chew; it meets my “you’ve got to be kidding, guys” on its way out and both stay firmly inside.

My saviours are only passing Stirling on their way to Edinburgh airport to catch a late flight to London. They don’t know this place at all, and the first ten minutes are spent driving up and down dark narrow and winding cobbled streets looking for any sign at all. Eventually, luck brings a passer-by who’s not particularly sure of his own whereabouts but nevertheless points in a vague direction and soon we find ourselves on a motorway with signs for both Stirling and Edinburgh. If not the 2 boxes of chocolates left in my suitcase in the hotel, I’d have gone with the Americans all the way to Edinburgh. With the chocolates in mind, I ask Larry to drop me off anywhere that resembles this village’s green. 10 more minutes and we hit a place with street lights and people. The guys drive off and I go in search of a taxi rank.

Early next morning a train brings me back to Waverley with 3 opened chocolate boxes in suitcase and a firm desire to never leave Edinburgh again. At least not this year.

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Jewel’s preferences when it comes to hotels and restaurants

So what sort of places do I prefer? Let’s start with hotels.

First of all, some people may find it hard to believe that clients will worry about their chosen sex worker not liking the hotel they want to be visited in. But it’s true: men will be men and it’s important for them that their partner finds the surroundings suitable and feels comfortable there, whether this partner is paid or not. Some men also like to impress – nothing wrong with that. After all, women do use make-up.

Edinburgh offers a great choice of hotels to suit all sizes, tastes, demands and purses. My favourite are the ones with a double bed in the room. Not having to share the bathroom with the football team in the room next door is a bonus. If you don’t believe me, consider this: you are in a hotel room. How attractive would you find a woman who is in the room with you, over 16, naked, and, on top of that, does not actively push you away? The answer for 90% of heterosexual males is EXTREMELY (5% – “How do I detach myself from this hemodialisys machine/ Will she notice if I reach for my crutches?” and the rest are in coma and not aware of the naked woman’s presence). I’m sure that by now the image of a naked woman has blocked all other thoughts in your mind, including those of the hotels. It’s obviously not the same for me as a woman and a sex worker, but the idea is there. I’m not going to your hotel to write a google review about it. I’m going there to meet you. And great people can be found in all sorts of places. As long as you treat me the way I deserve, I couldn’t care less if it’s a luxury hotel or a hostel. By the way, yes, I visited a client in a hostel and it was so good that I even posted it here on the blog. I didn’t mention that it was a hostel because it was irrelevant.

Back to my preferences. Hotel rooms with a single bed are not in the list of my favourites, but a single bed is always preferred to a settee. I once saw a client in his parents’ home and we didn’t go further than the sofa in the living room. While I understand him (having sex in your parents’ bed, doesn’t matter whom with, is just wrong. No-one has sex in parents’ beds. Not even parents), I still believe (I said it before and I stand by my words) that a woman needs a reason while a man needs a place so it’s the man’s responsibility to provide it. The woman will then gladly come up with a reason. And if, like me, you think that quality outweighs speed, then you’ll agree that there is nothing wrong with a settee as long as you’re not limited by it. I mentioned the lawyer from the North of Scotland here before. Last time I saw him, we went from the settee to the dining table and then to the bedroom. That was a very memorable, errrm… hotel room.

Restaurants. I like those where they serve food. And while haute cuisine is interesting to look at and of course I’ll eat it even if it has a couple of Michelin stars to it and a long name with lots of French derivatives, I have to admit that I’m a no meat and two veg person, i.e. a vegetarian who can’t cook and is therefore grateful when given something that’s not raw. Do you remember that moment when Arthur Dent returned to his home on Earth? He opened his fridge and found a piece of something green and fluffy there. He put it on a plate and watched it closely for a few minutes. Having made sure it doesn’t move, he ate it. That’s me. This is not to say that I intentionally wait until edible things turn their chemical energy into kinetic (although I do have an orange that dates back to before I moved into my current home. For the first 8 months it was temporary but now it’s a scientific experiment – how long does it take before something hatches out of it? Unfortunately, the orange wasn’t organic and a year and a half later it still looks like an ordinary orange, at least on the outside*) but my religion teaches that food is a blessing (and when it’s cooked for you – doubly so) and deserves thanks no matter what form it comes in.

Sorry, I had to explain my relationship with food to make my restaurant preferences clear. Besides, with more than one person at the table, the company accounts for at least half of the pleasure received from the meal. The best food will turn sour in sour company. So we are back to where we started: it’s up to you, the client, if I like the restaurant, the meal and the hotel.

Summary: while clothes make the man, it’s the man who makes the hotel room. And I’m happy to eat anything as long as it doesn’t have a face and is already cooked for my convenience. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Yep. Looks like I’m a cheap date.

* Completely true, from the first word within the parentheses to the last one.

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Farewell, November

First of all, all November posts are now in place. I am sorry it took me so long this month: I worked a lot, was away a lot, spent a lot of days (too many if you ask me) nursing a toothache (but the good news is that all the 32 are still there) and on top of that worked on an update for my site which will hopefully be there by the end of January. And will hopefully be liked by you. Last year it was new photos, this year it’s something slightly different.

Secondly, December “offers” and days off are now on Offers and Tours pages respectively. These are taking place whether I publish information about them or not, but I believe that clients have the right to be informed, and better late than never.

Now, the results of November “poll”. Not much, just as I expected: I know that clicking options you like is much easier than coming up with your own answer. So the question brought 2 results only. One in the form of a comment by Walter, the other was made in person by T.

Walter’s comment is spot on. Sometimes even I can’t find the new posts. Unfortunately, seeing as my creative process is too creative to go by the calendar, I can’t promise to publish entries on dates they are written – this way you will end up having Part 2 of something and no Part 1 for the next 3 weeks. There are a few things you can do to make sure you don’t miss updates. You can subscribe to RSS feeds (right column, For those in the know section) or use Google reader – both notify you every time an entry is published. If you can’t be bothered with all this, there’s another way: in “Old Stuff” select the month you’re interested in, and you’ll be given the list of entries for that time. Or use the calendar if it’s the current month you want to know about. If you’re interested in comments, the latest ones appear at the top of “Your Opinion” list, and there’s also comments RSS.

I realise that I’m not being very helpful here. Walter commented on a specific issue and all I’ve done so far was to give you a few tips on how to work around it, but the issue is still there. I can put up a little sticky note every time I publish an entry out of ordinary people’s time flow. The little sticky note will be at the very top of the home page and so easily noticeable to all. I’m not sure how long I should leave these notes for as I guess you don’t check my blog every day, but let’s assume a week is enough.

The suggestion made in person referred to the Etiquette page which I promised years ago (literally) but never delivered. I won’t promise this time but I’ll do my best. After all, I’m personally interested in educating people about how to treat sex workers. And yes, a client’s memory can be better than mine.

And of course many thanks to T and Walter for their help and suggestions. Don’t you just adore dedicated clients!

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There is no place like Glasgow

I get off the train and follow the signs for taxi rank. It’s outside, it’s raining, there’s a queue and no cabs. A large sign reads “Welcome to Glasgow Queen Street Station”.

There is this type of cabs, not the traditional LTI hackney carriage but an MPV type with sliding doors and steps – hate ‘em. I can never open the door, and even if I do, I can’t slam it hard enough to close it behind me. The cabbie eventually gets bored and comes out to open the door for me. I climb inside and he shuts the door. How do they do it so easily?

- West Regent Street, please.

- But it’s just round the corner! Can’t you walk?

I look at him in disbelief – no, not only because of the broad Glaswegian accent which is puzzling enough in its own – and then turn to look at the welcome to Glasgow sign again. I’m not sure how to explain it to a Glaswegian cab driver why someone may want to have a ride. Eventually I reply that it’s raining so I can’t walk.

- Don’t you have an umbrella?

How do I tell him now that I did not take an umbrella because I knew I’d take a cab? There should be a law in this country that forbids cab drivers to talk with passengers without their explicit permission. Talkative cabbies are a pain. It’s nobody’s business where I’m going, what I’m going there for and why so late and without an umbrella. Their job is to look at the road and drive as best they can. My job is to clutch at my handbag, close my eyes and pray. Why don’t we both do just that? In silence?

It takes him 10 minutes and 4 extra turns to arrive at the place round the corner. I had a look at the map before I set off, but I don’t tell him that I’m not after a tour of Glasgow (partly because it’s rude to interrupt people). I get out of the cab and slam the sliding door so hard I can almost hear the windscreen cracking in half. I guess one needs to be constantly fuming to work with these doors.

G is waiting for me outside. We kiss and he asks if the journey went well. He’s probably just being polite and I only have one chance to make a good first impression, but I can’t help it:

- I just got told off by a cabbie for taking a cab! (G looks at me with alarm. He’s not Glaswegian either, otherwise he probably wouldn’t be surprised.) On the other hand, he approved your choice of the restaurant [in quite a few words]. He said it’s one of the best places in Glasgow.

G is visibly pleased. We kiss again, then again, and then eventually go inside. He’s far less nervous than I thought he would be.

G e-mailed me about 10 days in advance. I haven’t had e-mails like this from Brits before. If he didn’t say he was English, I’d assume he is American: lots of personal details including the company he works for, height, weight and the team he supports.  He then called as arranged for a little chat and you could tell he was quite nervous. It gets worse the night before, when he calls again to confirm the choice of restaurant and my arrival time. He sounds like a 17-year-old before his first date: he’s excited, a little scared, a little anxious and very eager. He’s worried that I might not like the restaurant or the hotel.* Aww… The restaurant was really good, by the way, mostly because the staff were Australian and, unlike the cabbie, familiar with the definition of customer service: they didn’t try to tell us off for having come to the restaurant to eat.

The hotel is decorated with a large Christmas tree in the lobby (already?) and cute little rudolphs and snowpersons everywhere. I pinch one of the red noses. G opens the room door. We enter and kiss, his hand sliding under my coat. He tells me it’s a very cheeky cheek.

The last train back to Edinburgh leaves at 23.30. G goes to the station with me to make sure I leave get on the train safely. I go aww all the way to Edinburgh.

* I need to expand on what sort of hotels and restaurants I prefer. Next post probably.

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Mas semper in merda, tantum refert quam alta*

Guess who’s been back! John the john! His confirmation text in the morning arrives in Latin. Why? Well, why not? The previous date we did discuss Latin, so it’s a nice way to let me know he remembers it. Nicer still is the text. It’s obviously not online-translator manufactured. It’s beautifully written and well structured. And before you start thinking things there – no, I don’t speak Latin. Who does? I don’t cook either, but I can still appreciate someone else’s skills.

The text was only the beginning. Later, in person, John really goes for it. This is the first time in my life (and chances are – the last one) when a man tries to seduce me by quoting from Peter Rabbit in Latin. Does it sound sad to you? If yes, then wait! It gets sadder still – this seduction trick actually works. If right now you’re thinking that there’s no way someone can ever understand women, well, you’re right. The trouble with women is that, unlike men, they are all different. That’s why I find men so easy to deal with but get totally lost when facing a woman (although lack of experience in dealing with them is also a factor).

He says this time he had a quick look at my blog and although he does find it amusing, there’s only one thing that he agrees with – the fact that women are so much more attractive than men. As we keep on talking about it, he asks a question that would earn him a slap from some women – why do some lesbians fall for the butch-type? If you like a woman who looks like a man, talks like a man, moves like a man, acts like a man and dresses like one – why not just choose a man? What’s the difference?

Where do I start? Let’s assume right now (regardless of your sex and sexuality) that you are a man who only likes women. So if one day you meet a man who looks like a woman, talks like a woman, moves like a woman, acts like a woman and dresses like one – would you fall for him? (In reality – most probably yes until you find out he’s a man. But right now) I can see you cringing: how can you fall for a man? And you would expect other men to understand you here without having to explain why you don’t want a man. However, when a woman does the same (i.e. still chooses a woman over a man) everyone is perplexed and starts looking for some deep psychological explanation. Am I the only one thinking that it’s insulting?

So I turn our conversation back to John’s relationship with men – this has been the running joke since our first date: he has numerous stories of men hitting on him. When will he at last give in and give men a chance? (To be honest, I enjoy teasing him with it because I love his reaction. He’s always very respectful when talking about gay men. It’s refreshing.) He replies that it’s not likely to happen because he doesn’t find men attractive.

- I know they are not attractive, but so what? You’ll get used to it.

He smiles, so I go for the killer:

- I did.

And smile back. But just a little. Ah, revenge can be so sweet!

It says on my site that my motto is “Keep ‘em guessing”. This is because while they are guessing – they are thinking about you.

* Men are always in shit, it’s the depth that matters

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A yeti of my own

An American client. My cab drives up to the hotel and I recognise him in the man of stately appearance waiting outside. It’s raining, and he makes a few steps towards me with open arms. A little hug, a little kiss, and we walk inside.

Pouring me a glass of sparkling water, he says he has a present of some sort for me.

- It’s not much but I thought you might want to see this, – and he hands me his camera. It takes me a while to understand what the man on the photo has to do with this booking. You know how men in movies use facial hair to change their appearance and still you always know it’s them and you can’t believe film characters can’t see it. In real life, however, the transformation is shocking. The bearded man on the photo looks nothing like the man with a clean shave in front of me. He says he wanted to get rid of the beard anyway, our date was just the much needed nudge, and I have to hope it’s true, because there are limits to sacrifices that I’m ready to accept.

He puts the camera back on the table and accidentally knocks down my glass. The sound of breaking glass and the shards on the floor prompt another transformation: he loses his dignified looks and all of a sudden turns into a gawky teenager who knows he is gawky and is feeling rather self-conscious about it. And as smithereens are removed, I set on bringing him back to his confident self and reach for a kiss.

I undo his shirt buttons and feel compelled to ask:

- Some good Scottish genes there, eh?

- Yes… How did you guess?

I didn’t have to guess. The Scottish genes are looking right at me. It’s a typically Scottish thing to save on winter clothes by cultivating a thick natural covering. We continue step by step, and when at last I’m helping him take off his trousers, I notice something that strikes me as so surprisingly noticeable that I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before.

- What shoe size are you?

- I’m not good at European sizes, why?

Why? Because anything that’s more than twice the size of my shoe is not a shoe anymore but a canoe. I still can’t believe they were not in the way for him when he walked. He smiles at my surprise and asks with a wink if I know what they say about men with big feet.

If like me, you’ve never before heard anything about men with big feet*, let’s face it, you don’t need a degree in divination to figure this out in the circumstances described. So the only excuse I can find for my stupidity is the acute stress reaction caused by the sight of his canoes. And instead of playing along I ask (totally genuinely):

- No, what is it? They smell more?

It’s just logical. The larger the skin surface, the more pores. Mr Bigfoot is squeaky clean and smelling fresher than a daisy, but before my words brought back the gawky teenager, I jump on the bed and pull him towards me.

Somewhere between this moment and the end of the date another transformation takes place, and now he’s a passionate lover who’s about to say good-bye to the object of his desire. We walk across the hotel lobby in silence. It’s still raining, and my cab is already outside. Mr Bigfoot presses me in his arms and we kiss. When he lets me go, I head for the cab but my hand is still in his: a little pull and I step back into his arms and we kiss again. I get into the cab eventually and the elderly cabbie goes aww.

* Whatever they say about men with big feet is not true. Basic anatomy shows (and Leonardo da Vinci illustrates) that the length of foot is equal to the length of forearm, not other body parts, and even then it all depends on your race and how average you are. My personal experience says that feet, while an important part of a human body, do not play a major role in satisfying sexual practices unless these have to do with a foot fetish, but how many women out there will worship a man’s feet? Please…

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