The sex talk

If you’re in Edinburgh (and even if you’re not), you may be aware of Belinda Brooks-Gordon‘s talk on sex work as part of Edinburgh Sceptics: on the Fringe of Reason. While personally I like her works a lot (most probably because they make sense and don’t tell me I need to be saved), I felt little inclined to go to the event. Who would you expect to see there? That’s right, those who are curious about prostitution and prostitutes. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, but I’d like to avoid it in public.

I had a booking on the day, and I really don’t know how it happened but when I arrived to the client’s place, I suddenly thought: “Damn, Belinda’s in Edinburgh and I’m not even making an effort to see her! When is the next time I’ll have a chance?” Funny how I only started thinking about it the last minute. So there I am, asking my client to go to the talk with me.

Did he agree? Of course he didn’t, most probably for the reason I gave above. But he let me leave earlier and I was just in time for the talk and even had a spare minute to sexually harass a poor Edinburgh Sceptic who was giving out leaflets to the people queueing for the show (no drama, by the way, just a little chat which he himself initiated, but he looked slightly red in the face and a lady of fixed-rate virtue from Glasgow, who was queueing with me, said I got him flustered). There’s no way I could be a spy: I’ll blow my cover within the first 15 minutes. Just the day before the talk I pinched a bum on a performer in Royal Mile. As in really pinched. In public. It was a fine piece of arse and I wanted to show my appreciation of it in a way a man should understand.

Anyway, we got inside and I was so glad I came! It was one of the most informative and comprehensive talks about the political side of my profession, well-structured, well-presented and, of course, well received by the audience. At the end there was time for questions, and a woman in one of the front rows raised a hand. She started her question with “I’m a sex worker in…” and I have no clue what her question was about because I didn’t hear any of it, I was too stunned. It was the second time I saw a woman publicly announcing she was a prostitute; and each time they make me question myself: would I be able to do it? If I were, how would it feel? It’s all good telling myself and clients that I’m proud of my job, but would I say the same in a large room full of strangers? Well, I’d do it if I had to, but would I do it if I didn’t? And more importantly, would I still feel proud? I know the stigma is there, but just how much influence does it have over me? Magdalene survivors are still ashamed of their past and they did nothing wrong. So how would I feel if I were to come out of my closet in public?

Belinda agreed to meet Scot-PEP afterwards so the Glasgow lady and I stayed and joined the 2 men from Scot-PEP. So did the young woman who stunned me so. I told her about it and she just shrugged her shoulders.

I will never understand the British habit of pubbing. When civilised people in civilised countries want to discuss something in informal settings, they’ll meet at a bar, or a cafe, or a restaurant, sit down, get a drink and chat. When the Brits have something to talk about, they stand in a busy pub (right under the speaker blaring out Alice Cooper and Rammstein) and shout at each other with an occasional spitspray. They seem to enjoy it though: an hour with Belinda passed very quickly and it was time for Scot-PEP gentlemen to leave.

As soon as our male companions were gone, an interesting thing happened: men lined up behind Belinda’s back. Here’s how it looked: there’s Belinda the Blonde Bombshell who’s just given a talk on harlotry, there’s the self-proclaimed sex worker standing right next to her, and 2 more “gals” (me and the Glasgow lady). We’ve been standing there for over an hour and no-one seemed interested, and only now, like flies on honey, they surrounded Belinda asking her sex work questions that even the bartender could answer. All across their faces was stamped “I want a closer look at them hookers”. We left straight away. Want to have a closer look at a hooker? Call, come and pay her.

The lovely video below shows why it’s not always pleasant to have prostitution-curious people around you.

Professional identity crisis or how to piss off a woman

First of all, 2 posts out of sequence: here and here. And now to the point.

Last week I saw a client who I meant to write about. He had a hand fetish (which I found very touching) and a bunch of other weird likes, so the date was fun and went quite well.

Tonight he calls me again and we have a lovely chat with a laugh as he invites me to come over. I have a shower, shave, do deodorants-body lotions-perfumes, put on my make up, straighten my hair, get dressed, pack the bag, choose the shoes, call the cab and go all the way across Edinburgh. I’m saying all this partly to remind men that it takes time and effort to get ready to see them, that if they want a woman “right now”, they’ll have to take the one who’s already standing outside their hotel/ home, but also to explain why I get so pissed off later.

I arrive to his home and knock on the door. He opens it just a little, eyes me up and down through the crack and smiles. 2-3 seconds that would be acceptable for this pass very quickly and turn into half a minute. Eventually he opens the door, I step inside and, still keeping the door open, he says: “Here’s your money, I’d like to pay straight away”. On the table right by the door lies a wad of notes.

If his neighbours were in, they definitely heard it. I wonder if he did it for me, for himself or for the neighbours. I ignore the money and point at the door, meaning both the eye-up and the fact that he makes our relationship public: “What was that for?”

“Oh, just to throw you off”, he smiles. Well, he succeeded. I decide to ignore it because it’s impossible to tell if he’s drunk or just trying to be funny.

– You smell really nice, – he goes on.

– I do, – I agree. – Unlike some people here.

He’s wearing the clothes I saw him in last week. If he had a shower today, that was over 12 hours ago as it’s already quite late. I understand that not everyone has my standards and I don’t want to seem harsh, so I smile and tickle his side to make my remark seem friendlier. He closes the door, turns and goes down the corridor. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to wait or follow him, so I choose to wait: it’s not my home and I don’t want to walk around in case I end up in places not meant for strangers. I pick up the money, count it, put it in my handbag. Wait. He doesn’t come back so eventually I go down the dark corridor after him and find him in a sitting room on the sofa in front of TV. I sit down next to him.

He points at the TV and tells me it’s the last day of the Olympics. I express genuine surprise, he laughs. Long pause, while he looks at the TV and I look at him. He asks if I’d like a drink.

-Yes, a glass of sparkling water would be nice, just as I said on the phone.

– I couldn’t be bothered, you’ll have to take something else.

I look hard at him although I don’t mind it this much if I’m honest; I understand that he doesn’t HAVE TO bother. Anyhow, we’ve already wasted a lot of time and he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to start the booking. He keeps on smiling but does not act welcoming at all.

– Ok, so how about you go have a shower and wash your face so we could…

– No.

– Think again.

– No, these are my terms. If you’re not happy, you can leave – you’ve got your money now.

I get up, take the money out of my handbag, keep £40 to cover the cab fare to his place and back, and put the rest on the sofa seat. Turn round and walk out.

The first 10 minutes of the way back I’m fuming: I’ve just wasted over 2 hours of my life on a jerk. Then I start feeling miserable and guilty, which is a natural reaction for a woman in a patriarchal society when she’s been treated unfairly. I do know, however, that I could have acted in a different, less reactional and more professional manner. The man is clearly unhappy about something going on in his life and he’s going the self-harm way, pushing people away. What he wanted was to spend time in front of TV, watching the closing ceremony and not feeling lonely. And I would have been really happy to help him if he didn’t act like a jerk. But I should have told him this, I’m sure he’d reconsider a shower if he saw that people care. And my trouble is that I really do care. Took me 30 years to realise it, and only thanks to Walter who’s been opening my eyes to this fact booking after booking. I’m in prostitution because I genuinely enjoy helping people. And I always thought I was in it for the money. Oh well, guess I’ll just have to live with this.

I ask the cabbie to drop me off at the city centre: I don’t want to go home with all these negative feelings inside.


  1. See August offers before I forget to mention them again.
  2. The new poll is here. Every vote counts (literally) and is very appreciated. Have fun.
  3. As you may have noticed by now, I’m not into social networks, but now that I’ve played with Twitter for a while, it turns out to be if not fun, then at least useful. So feel free to follow my tweets (or click the blue thingy in the bottom right corner of the blog header) but don’t expect much: they are neither personal nor sexual. My tweets are there to let you know that a new blog entry was published, not much else.
  4. A new blog entry was published (check out my tweets!) out of sequence. And there will be a few more after that. In June and July my “get-up-and-go” has got up and gone, mostly thanks to the seasonal depression, but now that the festival is on, the inspiration is back so I’m working on my blog again and, as always, I’ve a few things to say on how the world should be run.

Farewell, July!

And welcome August, my favourite time of the Edinburgh year! You aren’t likely to be sunnier, but the festivals make you a far happier time. I’m so excited I’m not even trying to hide it! And today (1st August) I’ve already seen my first show!

The weather poll is now closed (together with any hopes for summer this year) and the results can be viewed here. The 5 “other” replies that you can’t see in the results table are:

1. I’m in the USA. The big problems are the high temperatures and the wildfires. Hands up everyone who’d rather be there than in Scotland!

2. A spotted blue sky today. This makes me happy but still need to see Jewel. I have a strong feeling this must be John and he has my e-mail address so what’s the problem? But if I’m wrong and this is a john’s comment, not John’s, my contact details are here.

3. In Edinburgh, Tuesday morning, I could see my breath at 8.45 am. In JULY! I KNOW! <gone to inflict self-harm >

4. I’m NOT Jewel, and I’ve also been taking the weather personally since 17th May. We should found a club (MI – Meteorologically Insulted. Or FFS – Fight For the Sun) and file a class action, People of Scotland vs The Weather.

5. I’m a duck. Rain is 

Edinburgh Escorts Jewelundervalued. Great comment, yet I have a feeling that if we were to get a real duck’s point of view on the subject, most Mallards, Mandarins and Buffleheads out there would agree that this year is rather uncomfortably wet even for them. I discovered a mouldy patch in my left underarm yesterday morning. Surely even ducks are getting fed up with it by now.

Many thanks to everyone who took part in the poll. And there were lots of voters too, compared to previous polls! The weather is obviously on everybody’s mind. The August poll will deal with the festival – what else? It’ll be on the poll page in a couple of days when everyone’s had a look at the weather poll results.

There have been a few posts published under the sticky “Current Poll” entry (which is now deleted), feel free to enjoy them if you haven’t done so yet. And while you’re at it, enjoy this miserable duck, too.

Edinburgh Escorts Gallery


Euston, Thursday 28th June, midday

A text from H(ugh): “Jewel, Midnight Tango on at the Playhouse on Saturday 7.30. Will you be back from London in time?”

Does he need to ask? I walk to Kings Cross to change my train ticket so I could arrive to Edinburgh earlier than planned to be in time for the show.

Kings Cross, Friday 29th June, 7pm

I’m having dinner in a gay restaurant (it’s a largish restaurant, it’s literally across the road from 2 main railway stations, it’s Friday night and there’s me, 11 other customers altogether (all male) and 4 male staff. Gay is the only explanation). My phone rings.  It’s the client I’m seeing in Edinburgh on Sunday for lunch and lust making his introductory call.

– And by the way, Jewel, it’s tomorrow you’re travelling back, isn’t it? Have you heard of the train disruptions? I don’t know the details but because of the bad weather in Scotland some trains have been cancelled.

Well, it was bound to happen. There hasn’t been good weather in Scotland since last Christmas. Still, my dinner over, I go across the road to Kings Cross station. A very disinterested young lady in the information booth tells me she hasn’t heard of any disruptions of East Coast services. She looks like a highly unreliable source of information but the only one, so I walk back to my hotel in Euston.

Euston, Saturday 30th June, 6.08am

“This is so exciting!” – a text from J, the client who’s already on the train to Euston to see me at 7am before work. I open one eye, read the text, roll the eye and text back “You can say that again!” Drop the offending beeping device on the floor by my bed, bury my face in the pillow and give myself 10 more minutes.

Do you know how long an average healthy and youngish person needs to get a good night’s sleep? Just 10 more minutes.

Euston, Saturday 30th June, 7am

J is outside my hotel with a cup of hot chocolate for me. I’m running around my room in panic, still only partially dressed, shoe in one hand, mascara in another, trail of loose powder on the carpet behind me.

Euston, Saturday 30th June, 9am

I’m drinking the cold hot chocolate from the paper cup courtesy of J when an e-mail from Walter arrives: if, as my site says, I’m going back to Edinburgh this week-end, I’d better take a plane because of the severe disruptions to East Coast services. I’m not even seeing him this week-end, yet he bothered to check things out and e-mail me!

This is the second warning, and much as I hate browsing Internet on my mobile I do that, just to see that according to East Coast website very few London trains make it past Newcastle to Edinburgh, and those that do, run up to 90 minutes late. I’ve H(ugh) waiting for me with tickets outside the Playhouse at 7. I love tango. I love my clients. I love being paid. I hate being late for dates because of East Coast. Besides, H(ugh) always insists on giving me a lift home. Here’s his chance.

“Morning, H(ugh). East Coast trains being more unreliable than always, how do you feel about picking me up in Newcastle to give me a lift home?”

“Jewel, my dear, you are one of the few friends I would do this for! When are you due to arrive in Newcastle?”

Aww. I still have this text. I’d print it out and frame it if I could. Yep, I’m that sad. I e-mail Walter to thank him for the warning and to express my surprise at how much my clients seem to care. His reply arrives almost immediately: “you’re like L’Oreal – you’re worth it”. Another aww.

Euston, Saturday 30th June, 10.30am

I meet Dana Popa in the lobby of my hotel. Dana is a photographer working on a project which I hope to be part of. The aim of the project is to show women who happen to be sex-workers. I like the way it’s put. After all, I never think of myself as a sex-worker. This word may bless me with a certain lifestyle but it does not define me. First and foremost, I am a woman. I am also a daughter, a sister, a friend, and then a prostitute. Dana tells me about her project. I tell her about my clients (because that’s the thing on my mind), how unbearably sweet they are. Typical girlie chat.

Kings Cross, Saturday, 30th June, midday

I get on the train. Luckily, it takes me all the way to Edinburgh so H(ugh) doesn’t have to go to Newcastle to pick me up. He picks me up from Waverley though.

Prostitute, dissected: Fig. 2

Continued from Fig. 1.

Anyone growing up in a Western society is brought up to think that prostitution is horrible. But when I started my job, I discovered the reality is far from that, and definitely more complex, especially because there are two (at least) parties involved. I knew my side of the deal, but my clients’ side was a mystery at first, with plenty of material to work on – if you are interested. And I was.

Many clients think they pay for sex, but more often than not they pay for a dream. Once they bought it, all I have to do is listen and learn (I’m a great believer in learning from the mistakes others made without having to make them myself), and then I try to arrange the received information neatly into some sort of system. And from time to time there will be a client like John – usually a professional client who has seen many sex workers – who tries to file his experience into folders. My male analogue.

So why did you start this job?

At least he acknowledged that it’s a job, although this then makes the question redundant. Why do we all start this or that job? Because those of us who are not listed in Forbes have to actually go out and make money.

The right question is why I stayed. I tried starting a “decent life with an honest job”. The problem with these two is not only long working hours and peanuts in return, but also lack of motivation. See, when you work 9 to 5, you’ll be paid at the end of the month. Some see it as security – something good. But no matter how well you work, you’ll receive the same amount of peanuts at the end of each month. Does this make you work harder? Don’t know about others, but HELL NO is my answer. In my current career I do my bloody best to make sure I’ve done a good job. It starts with advertising and usually doesn’t finish when I close a client’s hotel room door as I leave – because I’ve just worked very hard to make sure he wants to see me again, so I do my best to commit this date to memory. Because if I don’t do my best at any stage, then I don’t get paid (in colourful pieces of paper, by the way, not in monkey food or spare change).

And the reward is not only financial. My emotional satisfaction is just as important, and in no other job (and I’ve had a lot of these since I started working at 16) have I been made to feel so appreciated and indispensable. Not to mention so beautiful. Prostitution rules.

How important is sex outside the relationship?

I can’t even, honestly. Let’s say it should be “How important is a relationship?” Well, not that much, otherwise I’d be sure to buy myself a couple of these. And since I’m not in a relationship, any sex I have is just sex. But if I WERE in a relationship, we’d be talking about 2 different types of sex:

  • Sex I have at work. This sex is very important. Not because it’s sex or because it’s outside the relationship, but because it’s my job, it made me who I am, and provides me with a lot of potential for personal and financial growth. Without it I’d be a different person.
  • Actual sex outside the imagined relationship. This most probably wouldn’t happen. Not because I get enough sex at work, but because thanks to my work I’m clever enough to not tie myself to a partner who makes me want to have sex outside the relationship. And if I were to end up in such a relationship (everything is temporary, including the Sun, people change and so do relationships), I wouldn’t hesitate to leave it. A hooker is the last person to stick around a useless partner because she has nowhere else to go.

You like challenging men, don’t you?

Well this is fresh. I suppose I love giving some of my clients a hard time – those who I think can take it – and John got his fair share. But he also commented on my website being challenging, and I’ve never thought of it in this light. When I put my site together, my aim was to make sure it attracts the type of client I’m interested in, who also finds my personality attractive. If you think this is challenging…

Client, dissected: Fig. 1

Just as it says on my website, when you get in touch to arrange a date, I ask you questions. I want to know what sort of date you are looking for, what you would like to do during the booking and what you expect to achieve through it. That’s why I prefer people getting in touch via e-mail: depending on your desires, there may be a lot to discuss and I find that men open up easier in a mail than over the phone. Yet (and I’m giving you very rough statistics here) 70% of men who get in touch want… hold on a minute, there’s enough material here for a separate post, so let’s leave it for now and get to the point.

Jewel : Yes, I can do Xday. What sort of booking are you looking for? What would you like to do?

John: <loud and clear, in a confident manner> I want a massage, and then oral and straight sex.

This John is obviously a sauna type – a man who frequents saunas. Massage + oral + sex = the typical sauna “service”. Nothing wrong with that. It’s a lucky man who can go to a sauna every week. I wish I could do it. I would do with a massage. However, I find sauna types very difficult to work with even if what they want is so simple and straightforward: massage, oral, sex. Doesn’t get simpler than this, does it?

I believe in the pleasure of shared experience. I enjoy establishing a connection with my clients, I take sadistic delight in first making them ask for permission to undress me, and then in looking at their faces as they do it, a rainbow of emotions running over them, from “is this all really mine now?” to “oh jesus…” followed by a long mental black out where you can hear the wind blowing. Then, if it’s a new client, there’s this whole chapter dedicated to exploration, as we use our hands, fingers and lips to find out what works, and, again, their face as they look in my eyes at the moment of discovery: a bit incredulous, a bit self-conscious, very excited. And you can imagine the rest. What pleases me most is that all this time I can see myself through their eyes and I quite like what I see.

When a sauna type walks in, he goes straight to the bedroom, undresses and lies down on the bed, back up. The first time it happened, I was standing there in the bedroom doorway thinking “What the heck am I supposed to do with his back???” Massage. I know it now. But I didn’t figure it out then because you see, I don’t do massage. The only massage that takes place on a date with me is the one you decide to give me (and as I said above, I could do with one right now. Any takers?), and I can also do a little massage on those very rare occasions when I’m bored stiff and can’t think of anything else to do with the client in front of me. And, you’re guessing it right, these very rare occasions were mostly with the sauna types, because they are not looking for a shared experience. There’s no connection with them. How can I build one with someone who turns his back to me on the second minute of our date? They want something clinical which I don’t find pleasurable. I’m not saying it’s wrong or bad, many people sell, buy and enjoy it, it’s just not something that turns me on. I can do it when I fail to interest a client in a slightly different experience, I just don’t enjoy it. And when I don’t enjoy my work, it naturally becomes “hard” work and the client becomes “difficult”. Whatever your occupation, I’m sure you have days like this as well.

Thankfully, sauna types go to saunas and I see them extremely rarely, I think there’s only been 3 in all my time in Edinburgh so far. Other than his apparent love for clinical sex, there’s no reason to reject John so I take the booking. The day comes, John arrives, and from the first second it’s obvious that I was wrong. He smiles, we kiss and chat a little, I tell him about my sauna mistake and he tries to look offended: I didn’t realise there is a separate stigma for brothel-lovers. Doesn’t this colourful assortment of stigmas gladden your heart!  But neither is he my “typical” client, ready to fall in love for an hour and buy the dream. No, he’s my male analogue. Are you intrigued? Good, because you’ll now have to wait till Fig. 2.

It’s raining men, Part 1

– Hiya, I’ve me mate here with me, would you like to come round tonight?

– Are you two bisexual?

– What?

– Will you two engage with each other?

– Hell, no!

– In that case I’m not interested, thank you.

One of the (many) things I haven’t done yet in my sexy career is a booking with two men. There are obvious reasons for it. To begins with, it’s not safe. With one man, should the bad come to the worst, I can always try to reason: after all, men have balls. And I have knees. I don’t see this argument working with two men though; I do have two knees, but it’s impossible to use them simultaneously.

Another good reason to avoid bookings like this is that I find the idea of two heterosexual men boring so I’m simply not interested. Why do you think football is boring? Because there are TWENTY blokes running after ONE ball. Very few of them get to play with the ball and only for a very short period of time. But if each of them had a ball of his own, he could play with it all he wants, dedicating all his attention to his ball. Or better still, the twenty of them could get rid of the stupid ball and play with each other – this game would be a pleasure to watch, no? But if there’s only one ball and they don’t play with each other, it’s a mean game and at the end of it some are happy and some are not. I don’t do unhappy. Either all are happy or I’m not interested. Yet, there is first time for everything. Yes, I have eventually been invited to meet 2 bisexual men!

Lucky Escorts in Edinburgh
-It’s raining men.

I meet them at a hotel outside Edinburgh. M opens the door. He’s the client. He’s in his 50s, with greying hair and back problems. All I can see at the first glance is that he’s the quiet type. Later I find out that he doesn’t speak much and smiles even less than that, but every time he does it feels like adding marshmallows to my hot chocolate.

M invites me to the room where Elliot (some very hard facts can be seen on the page that opens so if you’re an abolitionist, you may be offended by seeing how many people live fulfilled happy lives while you’re being miserable in your search of a way to control them and their bodies) is waiting. Elliot is my colleague, a gentleman of fixed-rate virtue. He looks nothing like a gentleman though. In 15-20 years he’ll grow to become one, right now he’s a boy. He looks barely 20 although when he speaks you realise he’s older. He has a beautiful body (just look at the photos), and I can think of a lot of men (and some women) who’d kill a baby seal with their bare hands for a bum like his. But his real selling feature is not on the pictures – it’s his face. Not because he’s so photogenic (although I’m sure he is), not because of his rosy lips and cheeks, but because of his facial expression. He tries to go for the naughty boy look but you can see he’s actually shy (either that or he’s really good at what he does). And this mix of emotions topped with a charming smile and the aforementioned rosy lips and cheeks looks very attractive indeed.

They are both dressed when I come in (which I appreciate a lot. Meeting your lady in a bathrobe or even less is not exactly chic) but they obviously did it in a hurry. M is in chinos, his shirt undone; Elliot clearly only just pulled his jeans on. There’s a gap between his belt and his stomach, I look there and giggle. He nearly blushes.

All this is rather hard for me. When I meet a client, I focus my attention on him. When I meet a couple, I concentrate on the woman: the man will be fine just by looking at us. But what’s a girl to do with a couple of men? I could give my attention to M because he’s paying, but this is unfair on Elliot because a. it may look like I’m stealing his client (he’s been seeing M for a year) and b. I’m paid to see both of them so Elliot is also my client even though he’s not the one who pays me. I end up kissing them both, flirting a little and deciding to leave it up to them. They asked me to come, let them deal with my presence.

You can see they are feeling awkward, too. They start discussing things, referring to me in the third person. I put it down to feeling awkward rather than being impolite, tell them to mind their language – there’s a lady present! – and (sod it all!) grab M and start undressing him. Elliot’s a professional, he’ll find his way around.

Naked men and their atavisms

– Hi Jewel. My name’s G. I saw you last year, and I was wondering if I could see you again tomorrow.

Hmm. I’ve only ever seen 2 Gs in my time in Edinburgh and it’s neither of them: the accent doesn’t match up. But I’m human and therefore prone to forget.

I open the door and he walks in. A very attractive man in his late 50s. Clean shave, stylish haircut, sexy glasses, very well dressed in a trendy jacket and good shoes. He looks vaguely familiar, like someone I may have seen on TV or a book cover. But for all I know, I have not met him before.

I take him to the living room, offer a drink, start a little chat – all these things I usually do. Meanwhile my brain is working overtime: he found the flat so he must have been here before. He acts like he knows me so it must have been me he was here with. But who on earth is he? Maybe I’ll recognise him when he’s naked.

If you’re laughing – don’t. First of all, a lot of the time my clients are naked. This is how I’ll remember them. Secondly, I have no memory for faces. When a client leaves, I can tell you what sort of person he is and what sort of lover he is, but if you show me 10 mug shots of white middle-aged men, I won’t be able to point the one who’s just left unless facial hair is involved. And I’m not exaggerating. Last week I ran into George from Scot-PEP. He was parking his car, I was rushing by – Walter was waiting. If George hadn’t looked and smiled at me, I wouldn’t have noticed him at all: men who don’t pay don’t exist. But he did, so I looked back, acknowledged the fact that I’d met this man before (and he’d obviously met me) and proceeded to trying to picture him naked. Your mind is dirty. I have sex with naked men most days of the month. I don’t have the need to fantasise about it. I was simply trying to figure out who he was. By the time I realised I’d never seen him naked in the first place, I already turned round the corner.

So all this is running through my mind while I’m chatting with G until he mentions something about our previous date and I go:

– Oh yes, I remember you telling me this!

It’s a lie. I do remember someone telling me this, but not him. Anyway, something to work with. Any other memories linked with this? Oh yes!

– You also told me that about your parents, didn’t you?

– Hmm, looks like I did.

This has another memory attached to it and soon I recall the booking with that someone who told me all that. NO WAY!

– But your name wasn’t G! It was…

– It was S, yes, it’s my middle name.

Still, NO WAY! I remember S – the old nutter – like it was yesterday and G must be his twin from the parallel universe where men have sense of style and follow fashion. Where is his grey matted hair and thick-rimmed glasses? The bushy beard is also gone, together with his shyness and awkwardness. He looks so happy, healthy and confident! Some things stayed the same though. I make myself comfortable in his lap, kiss him, tell him how attractive he looks this time and ask if it’s because he made an extra effort for me today. He thinks for a second and

– No, not really.

If there had been a desk close by, I’d have been sure to hit my head emphatically against its surface to get my point across. In the absence of a desk, I have to roll my eyes. Seriously?! Here is the list of tips The Old Nutter inspired last time. Please read it again if you’re a man because it looks like men have short memory. And the tip that’s not included there: if your woman sees that you’ve made an effort, the right answer is “Yes, honey, I have”. Whether you actually made the effort or not and if you know at all what she’s talking about is irrelevant. Considering how many men out there struggle to make their women see how much effort they put into their relationship, you should feel lucky to have it noticed.

Rant aside, it’s a pleasure to see how S turned into G, even if only physically. Just makes me wonder what prompted the change.

If you would like to know how things developed with the Nutter, here’s our next date.

The Italian Job

As with most things sinful, the beginning was rather innocent. The client, let’s (aptly) call him The Italian, e-mailed me in April. A very short message: do you speak Italian? I told him the truth. I understand Italian and can write reasonably well (with Google translate opened in the next tab) on conversational level but speak – not so much: nowhere to practice in Scotland. Nevertheless, he got back to me asking for a booking at the end of May. I agreed. Little did I know of exactly how much fun I signed up for.

End of May arrived, and so did The Italian. In the morning, when he texted to confirm the afternoon booking, he asked if I have any friends for the 2 friends he came to Edinburgh with, preferably Italian-speaking ones. This idea (entertained by many punters) that all hookers know each other is really irritating. I wanted to reply that sure, I’ll take my friends out of the draw and blow them up, shouldn’t take me more than 15 minutes with a good pump. But language barrier is a pain, so I ended up saying that it’s not my responsibility  to arrange his friends’ sex life. Nor is it his. If they want to get laid, the least they could do is try to find someone for it, like he did.

Yet, when I met The Italian, I understood how difficult it must be to find an escort in Edinburgh if you don’t speak or read a word of English. He must have been lucky to come across me. His friends were less fortunate, poor sods. So when the booking was over, I moved from the bed to the desk and The Italian switched on his laptop. This is how for the second time in my life I started looking for a prostitute.

After about half an hour of hard work we short listed three and a half ladies (initially it was 4 but read on) all of whom had Italian as their nationality. Out of these, 3 women did not speak a word of Italian, and the 4th was Spanish and she did speak some Italian, but after a brief conversation with her he hung up the phone.

– It’s a man!

– Don’t be silly, of course it’s a woman!

– Did you hear this voice? (I did, and well, as I said, we short listed 3.5 ladies)

– But she’s Spanish, what do you expect? She can’t help it!

– If it’s not a man, then a transsexual!

I didn’t manage to persuade him to give this lady a chance so we went on with the search. At some point he started looking keenly at me and eventually asked if I’m free this week-end at all. Maybe I could take care of his friends?

I panicked.

For two reasons.

First of all, his friends were Italian. My experience with Italian clients is mixed but mostly unpleasant. Not negative: they have never been violent, abusive or rude to either me or any other sex worker I know of. But the majority of Italian clients IN MY EXPERIENCE seem to be under the impression that sex work isn’t about human interaction. They don’t care much for sharing the pleasure, they don’t want to chat or kiss. All they want is get it over with and get out. While clients like this exist all over the globe, Italy seems to be the only country supplying them TO ME in abundance, and with only 20% of all my Italian clients being human in the bedroom, the trend is easy to notice. It may of course be a cultural difference or a difference in perception, but I have a strong feeling that this is how Italian sex workers operate (willingly or not) so Italian clients follow the rules they are accustomed to.

Secondly, his friends were his friends. While I’m sure that some of the clients I’ve had over the years knew each other, and some of them I even knew for sure to be friends or colleagues, I have never yet had clients who would know when and where I was engaged with their friends. Call me bourgeois (because a moralist I am not by definition) but this feels slutty to me, almost like sleeping with a football team. And I take pride in being a sex worker, not a slut (no offence to sluts. I am sure that a football team can provide a very rewarding experience).

And so, in panic I googled escort agencies in Edinburgh. I never thought I’d call an agency, and it wasn’t the most satisfying experience, but having spoken to 3 receptionists, I had to give up.

My Italian improved enormously during that week-end. The Italian no 2 was a sweetheart of a client while The Italian no 3 was a typical Italian one. I asked no 2 if he’d ever seen a lady of fixed-rate virtue before and no, he hadn’t. Same as my Italian virgin (who hadn’t seen any lady at all). They make up the 20% mentioned above. To sum it up:

  1. There aren’t enough Italian-speaking escorts in Edinburgh (yep, I enjoyed inserting the link) and
  2. Educating clients is often overlooked in sex work but is, in fact, very important.