Going for gold

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

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

and, finally, the floor.

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

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

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

Edinburgh escorts

It’s in the detail

I met HB in September. It was a curious date but you’ll hear more later. It was obvious that he looked forward to it. He dressed up (because my blog says I like a well-dressed man), he invested heavily in chocolate (because my blog mentions chocolate and so do I), and he clearly spent some time reading my blog – the telltale signs of a detail fetishist. I’ve already described a few of these here, I just didn’t describe them in detail. Now is a good time.


This type of detail fetish is quite common is certain circles. The Nutter. Being a researcher, he had an eye for detail. And this eye was always open. Everything he saw was filed away neatly between his braincells, evidence was presented, conclusions were drawn, summary was printed in triplicate for each relevant department and the research abstracts were made available to me on request. He gave me the most intimate present I have ever received. A shirt. How is a shirt intimate? It was a shirt in my size, of my favourite shirt brand, with my favourite type of cuff, in a colour I often choose myself. None of these parameters were ever discussed. Moreover, when I asked “But why a shirt?” he said something that never occurred even to me. Because I’m a shirt-wearer. When I thought I was dressed, he thought of the patterns that made this type of behaviour different from that of specimens of corresponding gender, age and occupation. I freaked out, went and bought 2 sweaters. Half a year after we’d parted ways I had to admit that he was right. I’m a shirt-wearer.


Walter has a heart for detail. He may be unable to recall what I wore for our last date, but he always knows how I’m going to react to something before I decide if I even want to react. Walter made it clear from the start that much as he enjoys the carnal part of our relationship, its less physical aspect is at least equally important to him; but it was our (almost) totally social date that made me see the bigger picture. During lunch we talked about the potential sequel to my video. A few days before that a client had shown me a video of a London lady which I, of course, shared with Walter. Unfortunately, the video isn’t there anymore, but it was a minute long shot of a provocatively dressed woman, tracing the outline of her hips, showing some skin above the stocking and then playing with her cleavage. The film was really well made, sufficiently tasteful, revealing and yet preserving the lady’s anonymity. I liked it, but I simply could not imagine having one of these myself. The inner resistance to it was puzzling to me until Walter shrugged and simply said, ‘This isn’t you. The London woman is playing with the viewer, showing off her assets. You don’t do this. You express your sexuality naturally: the way you move, the way you smile… To show how sexy you are, a film needs to show you doing everyday things.’

Ah, to have spent years selling your sexuality and have a man tell you how you best express it…


This last variation of detail fetish is most probably a by-product of a long unhappy relationship, although I can personally attest that certain occupations can also influence its development. It doesn’t come naturally to HB, it stems from his desire to please – a natural desire, but because his natural abilities to fulfil it have never been appreciated and therefore cultivated, he developed a mind for detail. Once an object is chosen, he takes it upon himself to read every scrap of information that can be found. Every e-mail. Every tweet. Every blog entry. Even I haven’t read them all. He’s done it twice. What he can’t find information about, he asks. And he listens. I commented on a beautiful fan in a shop window and I received it a few days later. I mentioned that I particularly like a specific gluten-free snack, and now I’m given it every time I see him (yes, I always think of Pavlov’s dog, too). The most memorable experience HB provided me with was finding lambs for me after I said I’d always wanted to see lambs up close – you’ll have to wait for the details, I’m afraid. Of course I’m pleased, but I’m also touched. I’ve been blessed with wonderful people for clients and the fact that some of them go out of their way to please me is nothing short of miraculous. I must have done something seriously good in my past lives.

Edinburgh escorts

My restaurant business

It’s odd but this part of London I have not visited before. From the cab window I can see little boats and large willow trees, bridges above the canal and ducks in the water; everything in Little Venice looks cute and laziness-inducing even in the hail – up until the moment I suddenly think “And how is this different from the Water of Leith?”

I’ve lived in Edinburgh long enough to be unable to enjoy London again.

By the time I check in and unpack, the raging torrent outside turns into an ordinary rain and then disappears altogether; the sky is bright and clear blue and my mood is better. I put on my new grey jumper and set off to explore.

I walk down the path along the water for quite a while before I suddenly realise I’m in Paddington. By now it’s well past 6 so I pick a restaurant for an early dinner.

In front of me, a couple of empty tables away, a man is sitting on his own, nose in a newspaper, picking at something on a plate with his fork now and again. He raises his eyes from his paper and instead of looking at his fork he looks at me. I acknowledge his gaze. Half a salad later I catch his eyes on me again. I look back. He smiles. Must be the new jumper. I smile back. With pleasure.

He looks like someone who would work in Central London and live in Watford with a wife, 2 kids and a dog. Only he’s clearly just finished work and instead of rushing home for dinner he’s idly reading a newspaper in a restaurant and making eyes at a strange woman. Either not married or something is rotten in the state of Watford. His plate is long empty and he’s still there, looking at his newspaper.

He stands up eventually, picks up his raincoat and briefcase, and waves good-bye to me. I wave back. He leaves.

What an English way to go. Sometimes I wonder how this nation still reproduces. You see a woman, you show your interest, the woman reciprocates – what do you do? You leave! Why not come up to the woman and tell her that her smile made your dinner and that you’d like to buy her a hot chocolate*. Or at least pay for her salad. Ah, romance is dead…

Independent Edinburgh escortsBack in Edinburgh, a few days later, I’m having lunch at my favourite restaurant. The waiter, who had previously endeared himself so much by totally looking at my bum, brings me a hot chocolate. In the centre of the thick cinnamon-sprinkled froth I can see a little, uneven heart-shaped opening. Clearly custom-made, not a result of a mould or some froth-arranging device. An analogue of waving at me? Or just re-creation of something memorable?

* I sometimes have a feeling men don’t understand the concept of offering a drink to a woman. By buying her a drink you buy her time. If she accepts your offer, she agrees to give you her attention for as long as the drink lasts. This drink should be enough for both of you to decide if another drink is a good idea or if you’d like to move on. See, nothing scary! Yes, you two enter into a sort of social contract but it’s not a commitment to spend the rest of your lives together. Not even an obligation to exchange phone numbers. Just an opportunity to get to know each other a little to decide if it’s worth it.


As you no doubt have noticed, I’ve been very quiet lately. August is a mad time anyway, plus I’ve been working on a personal problem so I didn’t have that much time left. I am sorry about any disappointment caused and I will try to resume the semblance of regularity on this blog. To make up for my online absence, I looked at some of the old drafts and here‘s a new old entry for your amusement.

The Jewel box

The first time P got in touch, I told him off and didn’t hear back for a long time. What happened? As always, I asked what sort of experience he was looking for. He said all he wanted was a touch of class but so far he’d only been disappointed by the women he saw. And true to myself, I told him that if a man is disappointed with a sex worker, it’s his own fault. Let’s be honest, it takes two to tango, be it bad or good. Men tend to assume that if they pick a woman with the right bra size or the right accent or the right price – it’ll be good. The reality is that you are going to have sex with this woman, not with her bra size or her accent. If you did not enjoy it – you didn’t choose the right woman or didn’t make it clear to her what you were looking for. Communication is everything: sex workers are not mind readers.

Which reminds me of one young man who was trying so hard not to be shy that it was obvious that I was his first lady of fixed-rate virtue, so I sat him down on the sofa, climbed on top and explained the rules:

– Rule number one. If you don’t enjoy what we’re doing – you tell me. Ok?

– <emphatic nod> Ok.

– Good. <kiss> If you do enjoy what we’re doing – you tell me. Ok?

– <emphatic nod> Ok.

– Good. <kiss> And if you want to change what we’re doing – what do you do?

– I’m a farmer. <Jewel slides down on the sofa in a fit of laughter>

And back to P. As you can guess, we meet eventually. He shows up on time with the bribe in hand – a cup of hot chocolate which I requested as a token of his appreciation for my waking up at a ridiculous hour to see him at 10am.  He says he was so taken with my bus ads (have you seen them? A few bus routes in Edinburgh promise you a heavenly ride straight to “The Jewel”. Unfortunately, my website URL is too long to fit into the destination box on the bus foreheads) that he couldn’t resist buying some of my produce – and he hands me “The Jewel Box”. This I haven’t seen yet: a little square blue and pink box of chocolates with my name on it!

We end up in the bedroom where things unfold smoothly, but P keeps a little distance. You can see he’s enjoying himself, but he doesn’t allow himself to relax and open up fully. Oh well, you can lead a client to bed but you can’t make him buy the dream.

I sometimes wonder why men do it – avoid intimacy. Fair enough, there are men who are not looking for intimacy, but these don’t usually want to meet me. Those who become my clients are usually men who want a little more than sex. Obviously, a close connection doesn’t happen straight away. Newcomers, like the farmer above, open up quicker (literally on my 3rd sentence), probably because of the negative experiences and misconceptions they haven’t yet amassed. Others take a little longer. Yet, if we leave out those whom, for various reasons, I fail to establish a connection with and those who open up sooner or later, we’re left with about 10-15 percent of my clients who seem to be happy in my company and make an effort to help me enjoy theirs, but somehow I can see that they are not all there with me. Here’s the little list of reasons that I think they go by, but please correct me if it’s wrong or incomplete. Some clients keep the distance because:

  • They think it’s wrong to enjoy paid sex fully: ridiculous, I know, but I have also met sex workers who think it’s wrong to enjoy paid sex;
  • They don’t want to get emotionally attached to their chosen sex worker: I’ve been told quite a few times (BY MEN!) that for men it’s much easier to fall in love than it is for women (and the cursed love has already cost me a few very good clients over the years);
  • They don’t know how to be intimate with a stranger (which is a weak argument for when they see you a few times and you’re not a stranger anymore);
  • I’m not trustworthy enough for them to open up. Oh well.

And only at the end of our date, when we’re cuddling in bed, something happens to P and the no-intimacy switch goes off in him. Now he’s being his real self: it’s in his eyes, his tone of voice, in the way he suddenly wants to express how he’s feeling. He sits up, I wrap my legs around him, and he starts gliding his hands over my body. It only lasts a few minutes and then he’s back to his formal mode of interaction.

When a client opens up – it is so touching, even if it’s only for a few minutes. Totally worth working for.

Old “friend” – Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 2 to follow.

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.

The French Kiss

He’s French. He’s lived in Scotland for so long you’d think he’s Scottish, but some things you just can’t hide, and it’s not only the nose I’m talking about. On the phone, he says he doesn’t like to rush and a couple of hours would be ideal for him. I suggest he brings along some chocolate: kissing with a mouthful of chocolate can be an incredibly erotic experience (to quote one of my chocolate-loving clients) but it takes time, so I save it for those who like it slow.

He comes laden with chocolate but somehow slow doesn’t happen. I remember opening the door to let him in, but the next thing I know – we’re in the bedroom and his face with a mischievous sparkle in the eye disappears somewhere below my rib cage.

We’ve all heard that French men are great lovers. I’ve seen a few, and I was not impressed. That’s not to say they were useless, far from it (in fact, one of them was very adventurous), but they didn’t strike me as so far above the norm as to give life to this general statement. Well let me tell you, I now know who’s to blame for this stereotype – those few blokes who do it for the whole nation.

It turns out that he’s rather surprised, too. Later, as we’re lying on messy sheets, our clothes strewn around, and he’s cuddling me, playing affectionately with my hair, he asks if I really do this job. At first, I don’t understand the question, but as it sinks in, I’m in two minds: should I laugh or should I cry? Why is it so hard for men to believe that a woman can genuinely enjoy sex with them simply because it is her job?

The following morning the thank you text arrives, telling me he can still feel my smell on his body. This text from a Scot would only trigger one reply: “Have you considered a shower?” But the French obviously have a way with English language, and my precise reaction is “Aww…”

Exactly a week later he’s back. This time we’re celebrating a work contract. The plan is champagne and nibbles at the flat, restaurant, and then back to the flat. He arrives with a sack of goodies like Santa. Out comes champagne for him, chocolates for me, a box with those little crunchy savoury biscuits covered with cheese and herbs. “So you like chocolate-flavoured kisses? – he asks and puts a biscuit in his mouth. – How about a cheesy kiss instead?” The first cheesy kiss is not a success because I can’t stop laughing, but we help ourselves to a few more of these and they get better*. So much better, in fact, that an hour later we’re almost late for the restaurant. I stuff my bum into my jeans as he opens the front door – the cab’s already outside. The nibbles are left unpacked. It looks like the only thing we can do together is the sort of thing that you can’t do when you’re apart. At the expense of being cheesy: it seems to be all-consuming.

We spend three hours in the restaurant. His excuse is simple: “I’m French. I love my food.” My excuse is simple – I’m watching him. The restaurant staff’s excuse is rather complicated: they are busy pretending how busy they are while not serving anyone. I want a couple of those lovely pearly shells that his food is served on**. He wraps them in a tissue for me. I put them in my handbag. Our waitress gives us a look.

Sensuality is an interesting thing. Male sensuality more so, because it is usually thought of as less overt than female. Food is a sensual pleasure – if you know what you are doing. I’m starting to think that there is a direct correlation between how a man holds a fork and how he holds a woman. Back in the flat, we start right by the door.

The thank you text the next day says that I seem to have taken it all out of him. Who’s to blame? He didn’t mind giving it at all.

*A few more bookings with him and I will develop a food fetish.

**These are now proudly displayed on my bookshelf, clean and smell-free.

Good things

They come to those who wait. Today’s been a proof.

Let’s start with I (bold as opposed to me). I got in touch with me a month ago. We arranged a date that I had to cancel with a short notice. Though the circumstances of cancellation were out of my control, I felt rather guilty and did not expect I to ever call again. He did. Another booking was arranged, and nothing short of apocalypse would have made me cancel this time.

D. D called on Monday and wanted to see me on the same day as I. Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of 2 bookings in one day, but D sounded like a lot of fun (I’ve a thing for Highlands-ish accents) and there was a good few hours in between the dates, so I agreed.

Today eventually arrived. By 10am I had 2 texts: a confirmation from I and a cancellation from D. Just when I thought that things are as they were meant to be, I get an impromptu call from J. Now J is a long story.

J first contacted me 10 months ago (I told you it was a long story) when I was on tour in London. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out that time. We then tried again half a year later when he was in Glasgow, and again it didn’t happen. I’m not a fatalist, but certain things just make you think, don’t they? J, obviously, was feeling the same way, and the third time round he decided to just call me on the day instead of e-mailing a week in advance. The trouble was with the time – he wanted the slot I had reserved for I. As we were both intent on making things happen at last, it took us a few changes (to my dinner plans and to J’s drinking arrangements mainly) to reach a compromise. And then I rushed to shower.

Some time later I was sitting next to I, unwrapping a wonderfully scented present. It’s a pity men don’t know the pleasure of being given girlie gifts. Another pleasure was to look at I‘s bum: for someone over 60 (I still think he made it up) he has a bum in its prime – not a day older than 40.

A short while later I was opening the box of chocolates J brought me for dinner. Aren’t men sweet?! When I think of T Godman &Co calling my work a paid rape, I want to repeat after a salty Disney cartoon character who said: “Man, if this is torture, then chain me to the wall!”

As it happens (rather often) in this line of work, my day was not what I had thought it would be but, even chocolates and presents aside, it was so much better than I could have imagined! These gentlemen made my week. Meeting them was totally worth the wait in both cases. I just hope they feel the same way.

As for D, I have a feeling it’s another wait for something great.

While she was away

My poor darling laptop was away for repairs – this should explain the silence on my blog – and did I miss her! Yes, it’s her. I’m quite sure my laptop is female, how else would you explain her mood swings, temper, mind of her own and ability to multitask but no drive to work late at night or early in the morning? Not to mention the special kinship we’ve developed over the past year – I don’t think such deep understanding would be possible with a man. How can men and women understand each other if they want totally different things? Men want women and women want men. There’s barely enough space for negotiating the terms there, forget understanding.

Anyway, a lot has happened while she was away. Mainly, the Fringe started. The traffic tripled but the weather suddenly got so much better. I don’t know if these 3 facts are connected.

Also, I received a present. This is not big news on its own as over the years I have been given all sorts of presents by all sorts of gentlemen: flowers, chocolates, lingerie, stockings, shoes, clothes, scarves, perfumes, body lotions – naturally. Also, an ironing board (nice, huh? But seriously, I asked for it. Not in the sense “I was asking for it”, I simply needed one so I asked), a few furniture pieces, a vase, some jewellery (part of it I sadly lost), a hammer (I won’t go into detail. It’ll take a separate post to explain this but in short – no, I wasn’t asking for it), a trip (only one, but yahoo!), a fridge magnet (lovingly cherished as the giver is no more) and other various bits and pieces. I have a collection of Birthday, Christmas and Thank You cards, too. And now I have a ticket to a show. Oh no, I’ve had tickets before, but they always came with some company attached to them. This ticket comes on its own. Just for me. The giver said that he’d enjoyed the show and he thought the way I was (or at least as my blog portrays me) I should love it, too. Well, I have yet to see, but isn’t it sweet? Aww…

And sorry I’m not giving the show details here, but I’m not sure if its organisers would want this sort of advertisement, and if they did – well, I rarely do things that I’m not paid for.

A few more things:

My apologies to everyone whose e-mails were replied too late.

The date for my short Falkirk tour is Sun 22 Aug.

Love it!

It’s been a great week for me, one of those weeks that remind me how much fun this job is. I got to meet some interesting people, I got to go to some nice places, I got a pair of shoes (it’s not even funny anymore, is it?), I got to jump in a cab for a 70 miles trip at a short notice – to be honest, I didn’t realise it would be 70 miles till the cabbie told me. Had I known this, I’d have refused the booking (good job I didn’t, the trip was worth it). It’s not the distance (I once got in a cab at 1 am to go from Newcastle to Derby and back, but that was not for work so doesn’t count), I don’t mind going outside Edinburgh for work, I go to London just for a night from time to time, but I’m not the sort of person to act on the spur of the moment, I’d rather these trips were well planned in advance. So I’m proud to see I’m able to work out of my comfort zone.

And then I came across this little video and although the end of it is so typically American, I loved it. All the things these sex workers mention – working hours that suit you, working in a mode that you are comfortable with, working as little or as much as you feel like, being able to choose who you see – yes, I love this job. Nothing compares to a cup of hot chocolate (with 3 marshmallows and cinnamon), but the satisfaction of a job well done comes pretty close. And yes, in this business you do get to experience this. It doesn’t happen all the time, with some people it’s just work – you do your best and leave, but with others it just clicks and you know you’ve made someone happy (not necessarily through sex).