Australian clients of Edinburgh Escorts

Ungodly manners and church cafes

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Old nutter

Have I told you that University of Edinburgh believes firmly in private enterprise and supports small local businesses where possible? I think I have, but I can repeat it again and again as it’s still true.

The client that UoE shared with me today is a typical representative of those who inhabit every dusty library and laboratory: matted grey hair, bushy beard, slightly disturbing expression in the eyes behind thick lenses. They are the living proof of “the more you learn, the less you know”. These people doubt life, Universe and everything. They doubt themselves even more than the aforementioned 3 objects of doubt together (if right now you’re thinking: “But what about Daniel? You wrote…”, then let me tell you that the grey hair, the beard, the disturbing expression and the glasses were there. Daniel was also full of doubt. Still is. But on top of all that he was full of Australian charisma and gallant charm, and these 2 things beat royal flush and pretty much anything else except maybe .44 Magnum).

The result of self-doubt is inability to be efficient in a woman’s company. You wouldn’t believe how many men don’t know how to communicate with a woman, and I don’t mean the battle of the sexes, I’m talking about the basic things! They will tell the truth when a woman is obviously asking for a lie, will talk when they need to kiss or will try to kiss when a little chat is expected. And this is what sex workers are there for (and not only what you thought we were there for) – educating clients. Different clients, different needs, different curriculum. Some need to be educated about STIs, others want to be shown how to pleasure a woman, yet others have to be told how to treat a woman with respect and of course there are those who, whether they know it or not, need to be taught to communicate with the fair sex (I don’t mean mothers, sisters and daughters, although these relationships can also be improved if you follow a few very simple rules).

The title of this entry was suggested by the client in question; I’m trying to imagine what a client would have to do for me to think of him in these terms, and it looks like my imagination is away at the moment. Old? It depends on how old you think old is. My nephew thinks I’m ancient. Nutter? And who isn’t? Besides, it looks like he came on one of his good days. But that’s what a lot of men (and probably women, too) tend to think: sex is for the young and beautiful only, and you have to be nuts to pay for it. Old nutters, however, are a great working material. They may be taller than me, older than me and have more degrees than me, but there will still be a few things I could teach them (again – no, not only what you thought these things were).

With the nutter in question we don’t do too much; it’s the first time I see him and I wouldn’t want him to think: “I’m not nuts enough to come back here”. Besides, he says he “doesn’t do it that often”*  and I’m inclined to believe him. But with the date being so typical, I just had to make a little list of the mistakes men make and tips on what to do instead. The Return of the Old Nutter can be found here.

*If only I was given a pound every time I hear it! And 2 pounds for every “I’ve never done this before”. I wouldn’t have to work at all. There was once a bloke who came to see me for the SECOND time and still said the same thing on the phone: he hadn’t done it before.

On minds, mistresses and beanies

And we’re back to K the Aussie. Last time you heard about him, he brought me a present. I saw him again after that, which was when he asked me to make a beanie for him: Scottish summer being colder than Australian winter, he’s not feeling at home in Edinburgh.This time he’s taking me to a show. Well, not quite. I’m taking him to my favourite show and he pays for it. After that we walk to our usual place for dinner.

In the restaurant, we talk about this and that and somehow all the talk leads to my asking: “What do you mean you can’t control it? Who’s the master of your mind?” K doesn’t even need to think it over. “My mind doesn’t have a master. Or a mistress”. For a few seconds he’s silent, as if listening to his mind deep within. “But it does have kids playing in the backyard”.

I am not qualified to comment on such a bend of consciousness, but in K’s defence I should add that there’s also an uncle who, not living on the premises, passes by from time to time and checks on the kids.

Dinner over, we go to mine. K is (again!) not in shape to stay, but the beanie needs to be tried on. If I could just film his face when he sees the beanie and put this short video on my website under the title “A client looking at me”, I wouldn’t have to advertise myself at all for years to come, or display any photos.

Most of the time K’s face is not very expressive. He has a permanent half-smile stuck on his mouth and an all-over user-friendly disposition (when I say “Sit! and point at the sofa, he replies “Woof!” and sits down where told. If he had a tail, he’d wag it every time he sees me). But the simple beanie did something I don’t think I’ve ever done to his face. It all lights up, eyes sparkling in disbelief, skin shining, all his face a smile. Fifty years ago he’d jump for joy and clap his hands. He takes the beanie carefully in his hands, turning it this way and that, and says: “Oh I’ll look snappy!”

For years I’ve been making stuff for friends and family. The most I ever get in return is “It’s so nice! What an intricate pattern! Thank you. By the way, did you see XYZ recently? I ran into her last week and she said…” K’s beanie is one of the simplest things I ever had to knit. I mean, it’s a men’s beanie, how complicated do they come? But he, a client, shows more appreciation than all my “loved ones” together. Looks like I need to re-evaluate my relationship with my family.

Unfortunately, K doesn’t get to look snappy straight away: the beanie is too tight (some brainy kids he’s got in the backyard) and I’d need to re-make it. He leaves. He’s ordered to spend the next day in bed (by his doctor, not by me) so I wish him a good lie-in and express my regret that, unlike me, he’s not paid for being horizontal.

– I’ve never seen you horizontal. You’re so active I’m envious.

And he leaves and leaves me wondering. Really?

Even more Aussies

You’d think I’ve written enough about Aussies here. I agree, but guess what: Aussies seem to like me.

The phone conversation with Tony is excruciatingly long and painful. First he pisses me off by saying he’d like a booking in half an hour. Then he pisses me off even more when I say that the minimum notice is 2 hours as it says on my website, and he replies that he hasn’t seen it. I tell him I prefer dealing with people who know what they are getting themselves into, rather than someone who has no clue what I look like. I’m not nice when I’m pissed off. In an even tone, Tony goes to explain that he didn’t see my website because he has limited Internet access, but he saw my profile on a directory, there were a few photos and a description which he read. To myself, I’m wondering if the photos were really mine and who wrote that description*, but the directory is not Tony’s fault so I don’t say this out loud.

To cut it short, I reject the booking 4 times during this conversation, but Tony in an even and polite manner wins me over eventually. I’m quite surprised. First of all, at myself. If I reject a proposed booking, there’s a reason for it. Insisting on it will not change this reason but will add to it, not because I’m one of those stubborn, contradictory people (which I am), but because not taking no for an answer and pushing for what you want is the definition of rape. I’m not in a hurry to see anyone who tries to rape me over the phone. Secondly, I’m surprised at Tony. Usually, after my second no, I’m told that I’m too picky for someone who sells her [insert the misogynistic synonym of your choice for female reproductive organs]. But Tony wasn’t insistent. And he was polite to a fault where I was being difficult and not nice at all – and he still wanted to see me! So at the end I was curious to meet this rare specimen.

Tony has two questions straight away: my origin and my occupation. Let’s leave the origin issue for later. I don’t quite get it why clients ask me what I do for a living. Isn’t it obvious? Or do I look like I can’t possibly make enough through this job? So I tell Tony I’m a zoo keeper. We discuss the details of my newly acquired profession and end up having a laugh.

Tony’s visit to the UK is a short one, and 3 days later he texts me from London to ask if I could recommend a lady for him to see while he’s there. It’s a tricky question. It’s been 3 years since I left London and the sex work scene changes very quickly, especially in large cities. And while your barber can send you to his old barber friend in London, in prostitution we don’t recommend each other to clients. Simply because it can ruin your relationship with the client in question, not to mention your colleague. But since I’m not likely to see Tony again, I text him about 2 close friends I have in London, relationship with whom can’t be influenced by something so trivial as a man. One of them is from ABC, the other one is from XYZ.

Tony: Thanks Jewel, not really into those bloodlines! Am still wondering about yours – perhaps you will tell me more about that one day.

Jewel: Perhaps I will tell you one day, only what if I’m from ABC or XYZ (which, frankly, I can very easily be)?

Tony: Beauty such as that possessed by you soars above all mortal blood!

How can one not love Aussies? They will always find a way to get away with it.

*Not every ad of mine that you come across is written by me or even requested. One of recently-built directories advertises me as a Scottish pornstar. Another one claims I offer Aromatherapy oil massage and Tantric sex.

Farewell, July

This month seems to have been rather Australian. At last, all posts are there except Act 2 – I’m not promising anything here, but if I do decide to publish it after all, I’ll put up a note.

There’s a new page here – Monthly Poll, everyone is welcome to add their voice to the current one. You don’t have to be a client for that, but you do need to be a reader. Every poll (whenever I do have something to ask) will be there for a month exactly, from the 1st till the 30th/ 31st.

The current poll is NOT about so called field reports as some assume. I’d never publish anything of the sort here. What I do with/to a client is between me and him/her only and is nobody’s business, except, of course, when I publish it online for everyone to read. But I don’t see why I have to be the one to do all this hard work (it really isn’t that easy, you know). Besides, the clients then tell me how exciting it is to read the post about them and see the date through my eyes. So I think I’m missing on these feelings because I’ve never seen a date with myself through a client’s eyes. Well, once, when Walter e-mailed me with details, and it was fun.

Anyway, let’s see what we have here on August 31. It’s only one vote per IP address, so if your home computer says that your vote has already been counted, your wife or son have done it for you.

And have a look at August offers – the incall flats are for tourists again, so incalls are limited, but outcalls are cheaper, so don’t miss your chance!

The most bizarre date, Act 5

Continued from Act 4. Or did you really think it was over? Yeah, right.

Just as he said, Daniel called the night before his flight back home. Jewel was, erm, unable to answer the phone and he left a voicemail: “Hi, Daniel here as promised. Just to say thank you for the great time. It was wonderful to have met you… Come to think of it, would you like to come round tonight?”

Don’t you just like spontaneous men?

This time it really is a quiet evening together. Daniel is sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, I’m lying on it facing him. There’s a bowl of cherries on the bed between us. In between kisses and cherries, Daniel is hard at work: he’s telling me in detail how great I am. Told you he was a charmer. He has a knack for paying compliments: he seems to know exactly what the woman in front of him is proud of and what makes her different from others, and he compliments exactly that.

And here we come to a point where I need to explain something. I recognise a good compliment when I’m paid one, but I myself am not that good when it comes to complimenting people. Rather bad, in fact. It doesn’t matter how much good stuff you tell me about me, the best you are likely to hear back is: “Yeah, I know (because, frankly, I do), glad you noticed though. You’re not bad either”. The “I know” part is not something I do on purpose. It just comes out. Sometimes I can control it and sometimes I can’t. I remember Mr French telling me how attractive he thought I was and there I am, biting my tongue and saying nothing. So after 10 seconds of silence he says

-Yes, I know you know.

-But I didn’t say anything!

-You thought it so loudly I could hear it.

Well, when a man is right, a man is right. As for “you’re not bad either” part, it’s slightly more complicated. Generally speaking, the fact that you pay me is not something that has a lot of influence on how our date goes, but here I’m at a crossroads: I can compliment you and

1. at best, make you wonder if I said it because you paid me or because I really meant it, or

2. at worst, make us both feel unbelievably stupid. Imagine: you’re with a lady, you undress each other and the she goes: “Oh my god, it’s so big!” Even before you ask yourself whether it’s your spare tyre or a creepy crawly on the wall right behind you that the sex worker refers to, wouldn’t you just laugh out loud? I would.

or I can say nothing – which is what I usually choose to do. Besides, I’m sure that if I’m really enjoying your company, you’ll see it.

He calls from the airport early in the morning to say good-bye. It’s just a quick chat, we thank each other, I wish him a safe journey, and he’s gone. I spend the whole day thinking yearningly about how much fun it would have been to make Daniel give me something to write about for Acts 6-10.

The most bizarre date, Act 4 – updated

I made a mistake. I published Act 1 straight away and then for a long time I didn’t have a chance to finish and polish Act 2 (dinner) and Act 3 (censored). Meanwhile, I got all those e-mails from people (clients and non-clients alike) that read along the lines of “the bizarre sequel is eagerly awaited!”, “when is Act 2 released? Can I get a preview?”, “I really liked the piece on Daniel”, etc. And an e-mail from Daniel which could be interpreted as he wasn’t very keen on making his private stuff public. It could, of course, be interpreted as he was playing shy to get more publicity. And so, with the burden of all this demand on my shoulders, I came to realise that Act 2 will never live up to your (by now) inflated expectations. This is how we make it straight to Act 4.

Previously on The Most Bizarre Date:

Act 1 (Prehistory) where Jewel meets Daniel and his temporary landlord.

Act 2 (The Controlled Use of Fire, Invention of the Wheel, and Other Hi-Tech Devices) where Jewel is deemed ravishing.

Act 3 (Back to the Caves) where Jewel gets ravished, not that it’s any of your business.

Daniel was only in Edinburgh for a week so our second date a few days later was to be the last one. We were supposed to meet at his for a quiet evening together. I don’t think anything goes as it’s supposed to with Daniel, and less often still does it go quietly (argh, isn’t it a pity you missed Act 2!). 2 hours before the date Daniel calls and asks if I’d like to go to the theatre. The last time I said no to a theatre ticket was never, and 2 hours later we meet outside the Playhouse for, believe it or not, Buddy Holly. It’s not something I’d ever choose to see for myself, which is a pity, because I enjoyed the show enormously, with the wonderful actors, inspiring music, Daniel’s hand on my knee and our little chat about erections, stallions and Freud.

Back at his, we end up in front of the mirror by the front door. My bra comes off, I turn my back to Daniel so he could untie my knickers and reach for the nearest place to put my bra on – the knob. All of a sudden the sight of my bra hanging down from the door handle (and what did you think?) puts him in the mood for ravishing again and for a while we are lost to the world. He later explains that for him it was reminiscent of a newlyweds’ hotel room. How would I know? I played a supporting role at the only wedding I’ve ever been to, not the lead. But it was great to have done something which, in Daniel’s brain, now links our time together with something utterly romantic, even if it happened inadvertently.

If there is one thing you need to know about Daniel it’s that he is a charmer. By nature. Most men understand that if you pay a sex worker, you get sex. If you treat a sex worker with respect, you get good sex. But if you are prepared to play your part and provide your chosen sex worker with BFE*, the date can be unforgettable. It takes two to tango.

It being our last date, I have a present for him. No, not something you have your GP dealing with afterwards, but a little something to keep him warm in Antarctica. Wrong again, it’s not rolled up for your convenience and wrapped in foil. I get a present in return (which is strange because I already got one from him in Act 3, but you wouldn’t know, would you?). While I’m in the bathroom, he goes around the flat picking up my clothes and lays them out on the bed for me. He goes with me downstairs, opens the cab door for me and says he’ll call to say good-bye the night before he leaves.

Continued in Act 5.

*BFE – boyfriend experience. I disagree with giving intimacy a fancy name of GFE (because, to be honest, the real GFE that my long-forgotten boyfriends used to get from me was lousy. I mean, how can you sleep with one and the same man for WHOLE 3 MONTHS IN A ROW and still be able to pretend that you enjoy it? When you pay me, you get a far better deal, as with anything you have to pay for) but right now it succinctly describes the attitude I’m talking about.

The most bizarre date, Act 1 – Prehistory

I got to his temporary home in Edinburgh later than planned (because of yet another break-down in communication, but you haven’t heard of the previous one yet) and was immediately buzzed in. I pushed the door and faced miles and miles of stairs. He’d said his flat was at the very top, so I braced myself up for the ascension and set off. Some time later I started contemplating taking my heels off. Then I felt dizzy. Then I regretted having left my oxygen mask at home. Then, just about when I decided to stop for a while, put up a tent, get the fire burning and make dinner, there was commotion right below the skies, with bangs and a male shouting “Sh!t! Sh!t! F@ck!” and all of a sudden I was full of energy on my way down: the way up didn’t seem a healthy alternative anymore. But then a voice from above asked if I was Jewel. I froze in my tracks and looked up. Just a glance at me is enough to see that I’m Jewel (or so I was lead to believe) and there was no denying the obvious since he was looking down at me from the height of the top floor. This is how I met Daniel.

Daniel is Australian. I’ve had enough experience with Aussies to now expect anything but the ordinary, but Daniel took it to a whole new level. First, something was wrong with the e-mails and my replies were not going through. You can all see Daniel’s attempts to get in touch on Tours page. But when the date was arranged and the day arrived, the events got curiouser and curiouser.

So he locked himself out. He decided to be a gentleman and go and meet his lady on her hard journey. At least this is what he says. I think he just got bored while waiting for me. A gust of wind from an open window slammed the door shut and there he was, standing in the stairwell with only his mobile in his hand. On the plus side, he was dressed. The minuses were numerous: he felt stupid, lost and homeless, and the presence of a woman did not make it all better. He was apologising and swearing simultaneously. I don’t know what his mother would do, but I kissed him on the cheek, pointed at the mobile in his hand and told him to call the landlord.

The 45 minutes of waiting that followed can only be described as one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. There I was, in an empty stairwell with a very stressed and agitated stranger, but calming him down was much easier than I’d imagine. I decided to start a light-hearted conversation and asked what brought him to Edinburgh. I’d heard all sorts of replies before, but not this: he was involved in environmental research in Antarctica and he came to attend the symposium on Antarctic sciences that was being held in Edinburgh. Needless to say, my next question was: “Anta… where? What sort of research?” And Daniel started talking.

Just like you, the only thing I know about Antarctica is its location on the map, but Daniel made the complicated research sound simple. And not only did he know what he was talking about, he was also enjoying it. Enjoying the research, enjoying himself as a part of it, enjoying sharing it with me. It was in his gestures, the speed of his speech, his words, his face. Men are beautiful when they are sharing the passion of their life with you. They are even more beautiful if what they enjoy so much is what they do for a living. Even if of all he was saying I could only understand “Blah-blah-blah”, in my eyes at that moment he’d still be the most attractive man under the sun.

He is telling me about the laws of the universe, the hardships of life in Antarctica, the vastness and emptiness of its space, the hundreds of centuries old ice samples that are extracted from immeasurable depths of this underwater continent, and all I really want to know is if anyone ever tasted it. Does it taste different to what you get from the freezer? I’m not the one to be hard on myself so I come up with all sorts of excuses: I’m just a woman, I’m not a scientist, we’re all human, etc. There were, of course, other questions I asked (better ones, I hope) and Daniel answered. But not this one. He told me what it looks like, he told me how it was formed, he told me about its chemical constituents, but he didn’t tell me what it tastes like. It’s still on my mind. It’s all ferns and dinosaurs and primeval snowflakes and prehistoric raindrops that the weight of time compressed into a clear and cold compound, but mostly it’s thousands and thousands years of human-free history. How can you not want to taste it?

But then the landlord with a spare key arrived and the magic evaporated – just like the snow that can turn into gas in the strong cold wind without passing the water stage. The landlord opened the door, gave me a look (they always know, the landlords), left at the promise of a bottle of whisky, and our date started at last.

Continued in Act 4.