The dangers of tanning

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

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

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

Edinburgh escorts

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

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

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

Seduction, Act 1

If you remember, last time you heard about H(ugh), he owed me one. Or, at least, I made him feel like he owed me. Big time. So by the end of that dinner, still rubbing his shin, he said that next time there’s a show I’d like to see, I just need to e-mail him the link to it. It sounded like a very fair offer to me. So one would assume that when 2 weeks later “The Phantom of the Opera” came to town, I wouldn’t have to think. Yet I did. Here’s why.

I love this musical. I saw it a couple of times in London a few years ago. The book isn’t bad either. People can argue all they want about the score, to me personally all this is irrelevant. What matters is that it’s a story with a point, and the show the performers put up is only slightly short of sensational. The catchy tunes are a great help. What attracts me most is that the main character, the Phantom, is your typical disabled client. Well, I’ll take the “typical” back because not all my disabled clients go round murdering people, and he’s not in the least a client, but this is exactly the point. While the Phantom might have been evil from the start, I do believe that the inability to express himself sexually (especially with the woman he was in love with) did play a part there. Sexual frustration can be a powerful thing, especially in someone who has never had any physical contact with anyone. The Phantom’s genius, charisma and refinement were all limited by his disfigurement. Apart from his music he had no life outside his body. In my opinion, however, if he were a little less refined and a little more confident, he could go and find une (deux?) fille do joie and feel much more joyeux about himself and the world around, and then maybe other characters wouldn’t have to die. But then there would have been no story and no musical, which I love and wanted to see again, so what was I waiting for?

You see, going there with H(ugh) was easy. I e-mail him the link, he buys the tickets, we meet at the theatre and hold hands. Where’s the fun? Not until after the musical (and yes, it was). H(ugh) would be happy to see the Phantom. What I really wanted was to make Walter want to see it. Walter’s problem is his taste in music, which makes him dislike musicals. I can try and explain that regardless of its name, a musical isn’t about music, there’s more to it than that, but someone who’s never seen one isn’t likely to take my word for it. So…

So I played dirty. I e-mailed H(ugh) with 2 links, giving him a little choice just in case; he chose the Phantom. I also e-mailed Walter giving him 5 options for what we could do during our coming date, with the instructions below to choose option number 1.  To my surprise (and probably his, too), he acted like a clever man should: he chose what the woman said he should choose. That’s right, you’ll hear about my second Edinburgh viewing of the Phantom in the next post!

As for the first time, we met at another fancy restaurant to start with (H(ugh) clearly likes them), where he first accused me of having a brass neck and then was forced to acknowledge it’s the most adorable art item in brass that he’d ever seen. Turns out, he forgot about his show offer. So guess what – he still owes me big time. I’m also getting a feeling here that he quite enjoys this. I was surprised to discover that H(ugh) isn’t actually as confident when it comes to seducing women as I first thought he was!

Seduction. My favourite aria is “The Point of No Return”. It’s dark, sultry, heady, slow at first, gradually speeding up to reach its climax… and stopping just a breath away to put it off until later in the musical. Just think through the lyrics: it’s Victorian sex book undiluted. Pornaria, if you please. It is also double-layered: the musical characters, Christine and the Phantom, are on stage playing a couple who are just about to fornicate. Not much there: two people get together willingly with a shared goal in mind. However, both Christine and the Phantom have their own motives while playing the bland couple – now this is seduction as nature intended! Make the other person see the world through your eyes for a short while, gently persuade them that your goal is their goal, that they would enjoy working towards that goal together with you. Somehow seduction is usually seen as deception, the victim of seduction being fooled. But it seems to me that the best way to seduce is to be honest: how can you make someone believe something you don’t believe yourself?

Act 2 is here.

My blind date

Thanks to the law and the stigma sex work is not the least stressful one – but you already know this, I’m sure. However, thanks to the law and the stigma, it can be just as hard for a client as it is for an average sex worker. And for some clients it takes balls – many more balls than nature intended – to visit a lady. For example, the client that this post is dedicated to (yes, I know that realistically speaking all posts here are dedicated to me, but I’m sure you can forgive my occasional flaws here and there. Besides, self-adoration is not a flaw, it’s a lifestyle).

Anyway, for blind people it’s hard. Yes, the client in question is blind. I’m not saying it’s easy for someone who has fewer legs than balls, but these men can at least see where they are going (or where their wheelchair is pushed). A blind client can’t. And yes, I know that it’s not only the lady of fixed-rate virtue that they can’t see, it’s everything, everything you can think of – they can’t see it. And they get by so what’s this post about?

I tell you what. Think of the first time you ever visited a sex worker. Say, you found this lady online. You scrutinised her website, looked (and then looked again) at her photos, compared her to other ladies in the area, agonised a little, called her, arranged to meet and set off. While she most probably sounded lovely on the phone, I’m sure that the first time you were on your way to see her, you were thinking all of those horrible things that TV, newspapers and punter forums make you believe:

  • The photos are not hers
  • The photos are hers but they were taken 20 years ago
  • It wasn’t her you spoke to. The woman you’ll meet won’t speak a word of English
  • On top of not speaking English, she will be trafficked and forced
  • Or worse, she won’t be forced, she’ll be a junkie trying to make enough dosh for the next dose before the withdrawal symptoms kick in
  • There will be a sleazy pimp – cum – drug-dealer there who will take your money and then wait by the bedroom door
  • There will be recording equipment in the bedroom so later the sleazy man can blackmail you
  • You will be lucky to be given a bedroom there. Chances are, the bedroom will have been taken by someone who came earlier and you’ll have to do with the toilet/kitchen
  • It will all take place in a dirty sh!thole
  • You won’t get any sex at all. You’ll just be robbed and beaten up by the sleazy pimp/ jealous boyfriend/ police.

And millions other ridiculous thoughts that your brain-washed imagination can come up with* when you’re going to a place you’ve never been before to meet someone you’ve never met before for an activity you’ve never engaged in before. It’s scary, and first-time clients who have ever watched TV have all the rights to be nervous.

However, when you come to her door, you see that it’s an ordinary house in an ordinary neighbourhood, everything looks clean and decent – the opposite of the den of sin on the outskirts of Gomorrah that you’ve pictured. You come inside a clean little living room with pink curtains and meet a lovely smiling lady whose photos you’ve seen on the site. There may be a quiet maid there for the lady’s safety but there are no pimps, no drugs, no jealous boyfriends in the vicinity, no visible recording equipment and no apparent danger to your health or life. Do you feel better? You sure do. The lady is very inviting and once in the bedroom, you forget about your silly worries.

And now imagine that with all these worries in your mind you get to the place and you can’t see all the reassuring details I’ve just described. Not because they are not there but because you can’t see them. There is no way for you to make sure that you’re alone with the lady, that there’s no recording equipment in the bedroom, that there’s no threat to your life, health or wallet. Worse still, imagine that something there really isn’t to your liking or you simply changed your mind. If you’re disabled, you can’t even leave quickly on your own. Once you’re there, you have to trust that the lady will take care of you. Can you imagine it now how hard it is for disabled people to summon up the courage to meet sex workers? And how much easier it could be if they didn’t have to hide this visit from their carers or family? If a carer helped a disabled client to get to the place instead of the client having to take a train and then a cab and then trust that the lady will pick him up and help him get inside? Or if parents of the disabled client agreed for the session to take place in their home instead of forcing the client to travel god knows where in secret to have a go at something other people take for granted, the parents included?

I once saw a nurse getting ready to help a paralysed person have a shower. She put on rubber gloves and went to help the patient change. Can you imagine a life where people put on rubber gloves before touching you somewhere other than your hand?

* These are first-time client fears only (the recording equipment being the most common and the most fetching one) and in no way do they represent the real state of affairs. We only record and watch the first dozen clients, after that it gets kinda boring.

Go figure

After all these years, when you think you’ve seen it all, someone comes along to prove you wrong. It started with an e-mail…

“…I am inexperienced when it comes to anything feminine (Hmm, can’t think of that many men who aren’t…). For example I know that you say on your web page about flattery going a long way with you, but seriously, if I attempted this it would come out as groveling (Oh yes please! I was born for it!). It could have something to do with my being on the autistic spectrum…” (I’d say things like that have something to do with being male, but ignore me.)

The author of this e-mail happened to be a tall good-looking man, and I happened to be his first woman. I felt like I was taking advantage of him.

Half an hour later he was already kissing like he never had to learn and compliments were coming out of him non-stop: my skin is so smooth, my hair is so nice, my fingernails are so beautiful, and, of course, “this shape here” is to die for. Now, I’m used to men talking to my bum rather than me and I know you can still wave good-bye to it when I’ve already turned round the corner, but I don’t think my bum has had so much attention since I was potty-trained. He couldn’t take his hands off it.

This booking made me think. He is a perfect boyfriend material and has never been in a relationship. What do women want?

Bunnies, balls and boxers

Happy Easter to those concerned and best wishes to everyone else.

Talking of Christian celebrations, I’ve this story “of a Christmas card received from Mr and Mrs Ball when I was a kid which they had signed (honest!) with “Best Wishes from the Balls”. Life was simpler and more innocent back then” (courtesy of P).

I saw this American bloke (hot and hairy. Why? Why? Isn’t it Scots’ prerogative?) recently who told me a moving story – how every boy is given a pair of boxers with stars and stripes design (cotton ones, unfortunately, not silk) at birth and he had his own carefully preserved but didn’t want to flaunt them. Actually, for our encounter he only wore stripes, no stars… still, something to giggle about. I mean, you know he was having a laugh, but had he actually worn stars and stripes, I’d have probably left, that’d be too creepy.

And generally speaking, it was an interesting week. At the start of it I saw someone with one leg (and one artifitial one) and someone on crutches (and morphine!) at the end of it – and I think I was lucky. They both had a great sense of humour and were really lovely people so I had a great time and a good laugh and learnt a few things. Hopefully, they did, too.