escorts in Edinburgh

Some of the things that enhance my life

I really don’t understand the appeal of cooking. Eating, however… Eating is a totally different business. If you want me as your girlfriend, all you need to do is promise to cook for me or take me out for meals till death do us part. Or till I grow up and learn to cook for myself, whichever happens first. Don’t give me that look! Which part of my pretty-for-pay site made me appear picky when it comes to men? Anyway, there’s a specific cookbook that I need (don’t ask. Seriously, just don’t ask) so I’m now visiting all the second-hand book shops* in Edinburgh. Today I went to my favourite one, and asked the shop assistant to direct me to the cookery section. A few turns and narrow passages later he left me in front of 4 shelves overloaded with books. For a gastrosexual like me, this is what purgatory looks like. But years of sex work do teach you to find pleasure in the least likely places.

An hour later, as I passed the shop assistant on my way out, he asked if I found what I was looking for.
– No, but I organised your cookery section. You now have wine and other drink books on the top shelf, the second one is for regional cuisine, the third one for all other cookbooks, and the last one is for baking, desserts and books that are about food but contain no recipes. And the two stacks of books on the floor are those that belong to other sections, mostly golf and architecture – one has to wonder… But they are for you to sort out!Edinburgh escorts
– Um… Thanks…

I walked out of the shop with a satisfying feeling of time well spent. CDO can be time consuming, but it gives you an eye for detail and brings the beauty of order to your life.

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* I love books. Not as much as I love eating, but they are still dear to me. Unlike food though, I prefer my books pre-used: trees were killed to make them. I also try not to own books; a good book is a feeling, not an object, and you can’t own a feeling. A bad book – why would you want to own that? So once I’m done with a book, more often than not it goes back into circulation. Yet I have a shelf of books I received from my clients. These are memories more than they are feelings, and some memories are worth keeping.

Tales of Stupidity: MEN

This is the second part of the tales. The first one, dedicated to women, is here.

He’s coming to Edinburgh for a week-end and we arrange to meet for a dinner on Sunday night.

On Sunday morning, however, instead of a confirmation e-mail I receive a cancellation one. It comes with a story: on Thursday night, when he’d landed in Edinburgh, he met a lovely girl at the airport (let’s say she was German) who also had just arrived to Edinburgh for the week-end. He got her number and texted her* the next day but never heard back. And then on Saturday he ran into her while sightseeing; it turned out that the settings of her German mobile wouldn’t allow her to text him back on his French number while in Scotland, that’s why she didn’t reply. She now agreed to have dinner with him on Sunday night, so he has to cancel our date.

Yes, of course I giggled a little and even said “Oh, honey!” but my reply read along the lines of “good luck! Hope you get what you’re after”. He immediately e-mailed back saying that he wasn’t after anything, he simply really liked the girl and wanted to make friends. I do wonder why he said it. His mother may have bought it. But me?

Here’s a woman’s take on this story.

Imagine you’re the German girl. At the airport you meet a bloke and you give him your number. You receive a message from him the following day and…

And if you really like the bloke and really think there might be something there, what do you do if your phone inexplicably tells you that you can’t reply his message? Exactly! You call him. If you can’t call him from your mobile, then you call him from your hotel room phone or from a payphone. Because if you really want to see him again, you only have these 2 days in Edinburgh for it.

Edinburgh escortsIf, however, you only gave him your number because he was sweet and you didn’t want to upset him, you ignore his text and get on with your short holiday. And when by some super-unlucky chance you run into him when sight-seeing, what do you do? That’s right! You concoct this story of how you couldn’t get back to him. Because even if you’re German, it’s still impolite to say something like “Yeah, I think I got something from you yesterday, but I couldn’t be bothered to read it and deleted it straight away”.

And now imagine you’re the French man. You have a sexy date arranged for Sunday night. Then on Saturday you meet a lovely German girl who agrees to have dinner with you on Sunday. Here are your options:

  • You can meet your lady of fixed-rate virtue and have sex – guaranteed. Or
  • You can meet your German girl and, with luck, you can have sex for free – no guarantee though. Or
  • You can lie to yourself that you’re not interested in sex at all: the German girl is only a friend and you cancel your date (sex guaranteed) to spend a sexless evening with her.

But we already know that the German girl isn’t going to be enthusiastic about sex**. So the inevitable happens: at 10pm on Sunday night the poor young man, having stopped lying to himself, calls his lady of fixed-rate virtue to ask if she’s still free and willing to see him after all.

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* Don’t. DON’T ever text the woman whose number you just got. Apart from the fact that it’s just plain bad manners (and she will be right to ignore your message), you run the risk of not knowing if your text was delivered, if it was delivered to the right person, or if the woman it was intended for is actually happy to hear from you.

** Actually, no, we don’t know that the German girl refused to have sex with him. Maybe the dinner was so good that she agreed. In which case his call to me later only proves the old axiom that if you want something done well, either do it yourself, or pay a professional.

And yes, it’s the same image for entries for men as well as women.

New Year resolution

First of all, there are new clients introduced here and here. And I’ll start straight away with the conversation I had with one of them, as it made a lasting impression. We were discussing Prince’s needs and I tried to explain that while I’m good at some things, I’m definitely not perfect at everything that he may fancy, so

As I tried to explain last night, my forte is in building a relationship with clients, not in steamy sex where even neighbours have a cigarette. If you are looking for kinky sex, I’m not the best option for you: I am not kinky by nature, and I tend to be turned on by a client’s personality (where it’s present) rather than by sex itself, but I am good at teaching people things and providing feedback.

I expected anything but this in response:

The neighbour would have a subtle, knowing smile and a Gauloise!

Edinburgh escortsPrince has the talent of giving most vivid imagery in simple words. Now and again I can see Jean Marais in his hotel room in the Negresco, lighting up and shaking his head slightly to the sounds coming from behind a wall.

This New Year I spent with a client. I don’t think the neighbours were inclined to smoke: they must have been exhausted. So I’ll concentrate on other things. We were in the city centre for the fireworks over the castle. There was quite a crowd. At midnight, when the fireworks started, a small group of German tourists in front of us cheered loudly, interhugged and interkissed, and then moved further to congratulate everyone around. We happened to be the closest to them. They took turns to shake my client’s hand and then everyone wanted to kiss me on the cheek while screaming “Happy New Year!”

I felt like these strangers were invading my personal space. I gave a polite smile, I stretched my hand as far out as possible to shake theirs, and all this time I secretly hated myself. These people wanted to share their joy with me and to wish me happiness, and I, in a sudden fit of britishness, couldn’t even thank them properly for it. A few years ago I had been this person to wish a happy year to every stranger. This is how it should be! What’s happened to me?

Meanwhile, the fireworks were over and reminded me that everything comes to an end one day. It made me see that I’m going through the best time of my life so far. Sooner or later things will change and my life will become different. I always knew I’d been lucky to get into this job, but as years go I feel more and more appreciative. I get to make the world better. How many people can say the same about their jobs? Fair enough, I will never save the rain forests, and poverty will still be around once I retire, but I change the world one person at a time. I change some clients’ moods and other clients’ lives. I am constantly touched by how grateful and trusting my clients are. They let me into their open arms and their lives and allow me to add their personal experiences to my “pool of male consciousness”. Whatever happens later, this knowledge is always with me and I can go on helping people even when I can’t sell sex anymore. And all because my clients let me, a stranger, come close. So the new year resolution is to drop this British nonsense and hug strangers whenever appropriate.

News of the world

Scotland

Edinburgh City Council consultation on sauna licensing is still open. The consultation takes form of a monkey survey so please fill it in when you have 42 seconds to spare. In a nutshell, the Council suggests they stop licensing saunas as public entertainment venues. This way, the saunas will lose the protection of the Council and will be left to Police Scotland to raid and close as they please (and we already know that harassing vulnerable women pleases Police Scotland no end: the removed article told the story of 5 police officers showing up at a sauna to close it down and taking women’s names and addresses until a call from the Council confirmed that the sauna wasn’t supposed to be closed down at all). This will mean the end of Edinburgh saunas and end of safe work spaces for sex workers.

Northern Ireland

The Assembly published the submissions to The Human Trafficking and Exploitation Bill I mentioned earlier. There are only about 130 and some are simply brilliant, but I’d like to link to this one. Even if you’re lord Morrow and believe that prostitution = trafficking = paedophilia =  rape = porn = any-other-unmentionable-evil, you still want to distance yourself from nuts like this. You wonder how he sleeps at night, being a man and all.

And many thanks to all those who responded to this consultation.

In Jewel’s world

New entries very well out of time line here and here. Also, please see my December offers and the details of London visit.

Not Hamish

I’ve already mentioned HB to you – here – but he deserves a proper introduction.

A good way to describe HB is to compare him to Prince. The two men have a lot in common, but their approach to things is very different. In the regal paradigm of naming, HB’s title would be “King”. Where Prince glides through life with ease, grace and an air of insouciance, everything about HB is heavy, hard, solid, dead serious and set in stone. He even looks this way. The kingly image on the right is HB to a T – less high heels, stockings and raven locks, obviously. If he were to take on responsibility for an empire, every last stray dog in the realm could depend on him, but the place wouldn’t be fun. Edinburgh escorts' clientsFor the first half a year I was absolutely sure he has no sense of humour. The first time I saw him laugh was in February, during our Cornwall holiday. We were up early in the morning to be on time for Eden Project. I was still fumbling in my clothes, half asleep and grumpy, when he walked into the bedroom, all dressed, bright and breezy, with a smile on his face. ‘Oh stop smiling, it’s inappropriate before 10 am!’ I grumped*. And yes, he laughed – inappropriately, as you understand.

Our first date was quite late in the evening with no chance of a dinner out, so we’d agreed that we’d cook something. There was a small kitchen in his temporary Edinburgh home, I brought some vegetables, we made a salad and sat down to eat. All the while he was acting like this is completely normal. I’m not saying it’s not normal: people making a meal and eating together is one of the first things that made us different from animals, nothing is more normal than this. But when it comes to sex work, it’s not the sort of stuff you engage in on the first date. Most of my first dates are spent trying to reassure clients and make them feel comfortable around me, cooking only happened twice. I suppose it’s one of those things that people usually do in their family circle, and sharing it with a stranger is weird – far more weird than having sex with that stranger. But it wasn’t the last time HB showed that his line between personal from public isn’t that well-defined. The time when I had to explain it to him why it’s not ok to walk in on someone in the bathroom – even if you’ve already seen this person naked and even had sex with them – is proof enough.

And you probably want to know what HB stands for. Not Hamish Buccleugh or other hard to pronounce Scottish name. In fact, it’s not a name at all, but he does sign his e-mails as HB closer to our coming dates. Everything is simple. He got this nickname during our second date. It was a crispy cold November afternoon; I texted to let him know that I’m in a cab and should be there in 10 minutes.

HB: I’m waiting outside for you.

Jewel: Go inside, you’ll freeze your balls off!

HB: My balls are hot!! I want to greet you when you arrive.

Jewel: Well hello, Hot Balls!

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* A totally valid claim.

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.

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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.

Dauphins, divine heroes and decorations

There aren’t enough letters in the English alphabet. Well, enough for the language but not for me. It’s not that I ran out of letters to mark clients by (which, in turn, is not because I have had fewer clients than there are letters in the English alphabet), the problem here is that there aren’t many male names that would start with Z or X or Q. On the other hand, the amount of Daniels, Deans, Donalds, Darrens, Dominics, Douglases… Don’t even start me on Davids and dicks. So this one will be called Prince, and not just because of his princely name. His features, his figure, his bearing, his manners, his voice, his words – everything about him exudes composed and dignified refinement. Not the affected sort, but the one that shows breeding and innate elegance. Composed and dignified refinement comes off him in generous waves and engulfs you until you feel you’re soaking it in through your pores. Yet he’s so light-hearted, easy and romantic that, regardless of his age and royal mien, king is not his title. If there were a stereotype of a retired dauphin, this man would be its embodiment.

On our first date he impressed me with a line of presents. The biggest surprise was not in the presents but in how they were presented. The flowers, the box, the envelope were all done in the same colour scheme and were accompanied with a hard copy of a poem dedicated to me. I love clients with good taste. I always take them as a compliment.

The second date we started at the National Gallery. It was enjoyable because we soon agreed that most classical figure painting can be divided into 2 categories: religious motifs and wanking material. Sometimes these categories overlap.

Edinburgh escorts

Look at this painting. What purpose does it serve? It’s clearly not there to remind you of the pain Jesus went through to save the human kind. So it’s for decoration purposes only. And since throughout most of history women were decorative objects rather than agents, what image is better placed to be decorative than that of a woman? However, if all you really wanted was to decorate a wall, does the woman have to be naked? Probably not.

And in case it’s not obvious, these aren’t just objective images of nude women. They didn’t have Playboy in those days, they had something better: a bunch of tireless blokes who instead of photoshop used their imagination to create something iconic yet ubersexy. Because from an aesthetic point of view that booty ain’t no accident. And if you still feel it doesn’t inspire any wanking in you, consider this. From the Middle Ages till fin de siècle (and even nowadays in case or Ireland) most married men of middle class never saw a naked woman live. Everything to do with procreation happened in the dark, under the sheets, and a good wife would still have at least 6 items of clothing on. If I were one of those men and I got to put this on one of my walls, I’d wank like there’s no tomorrow. Because what we miss in porn nowadays is its user’s imagination.

Edinburgh escortsLook at this beauty. You can choose to be her lover, or one of the young voyeurs, or join them for a threesome, or you could prefer to go for the bloke. And whatever point of view you take, from there on your imagination will provide you with everything you need, including the finer details of your imaginary lover’s body that are not visible on the painting. In case you’re interested, this is Heracles and Omphale, or just another proof that even mythology in art was a cover up for high quality porn. I mean, think of everything Heracles is famous for. Of course, mostly it’s his farming labours (Cretan bull, mares of Thrace, Erymanthian boar, the Hesperides’ apples, Geryon’s cattle, Augean stables) but he also had a brief career as a sperm donor for the 50 children he fathered with 50 sisters. And of all these deeds you choose to paint the moment when he makes out with his wife?

And the apotheosis of wanking material: all sorts of genders in all sorts of races and all sorts of sizes. By a Scottish painter. You can tells Scots have little to do on those long winter nights.

Edinburgh escorts

You can also tell the second date was quite successful after we left the Gallery.

J or The Fortunes of Vice

In some inexplicable way our demonstration on Friday reminded me of her. She had the name of one of the infamous sisters from Marquis de Sade’s writings. I’ll call her J. Edinburgh escorts

I met J in the early summer of 200X. I had just joined a little agency run by an old gentleman. That evening I was sent to Savoy. I was told there would be 2 clients and one other lady. A man opened the door of a little suite and I joined the company in the sitting room.

My client went to sit down on a sofa, I sat next to him. The other man was sitting on a chair opposite us and she was on another chair, three quarters to him, I couldn’t see her face. She was wearing a plain black shift dress and low-heeled square-toed black shoes. Her hair was dark, very short and curly – the hair that I would have if I ever allowed myself to have it cut above my shoulders. She turned to me and stretched her hand.

‘I’m J,’ she said, and smiled.

‘I’m J,’ I replied and touched her hand.

I showed off my new shoes; I bought them the day before, they were made of fabric that was identical in colour and pattern to the bright summer dress I was wearing. My client, the host, served drinks, there were snacks, the men were talkative and funny and soon the conversation was flowing. J spoke little and always very softly; to hear her, everyone had to go silent. I thought it was a great trick.

After a while, the clients went to another room for a quick chat and we were left alone. J turned to me. Her eyes were blue. This is the closest I’ve ever been to falling in love. I looked at her.

‘I love your hair,’ I said and my throat went dry.

‘I love your shoes,’ she replied. And smiled.

The men came back and she left with her client. I ended up staying with mine for the whole night and didn’t get to see J for almost 2 weeks.

Next time it was a little hotel in Park Lane. I had met that client before, when he went on and on about how he would like to see me with a woman. This time I expected to hear it again because this talk seemed to be his favourite fantasy, but it turned out he decided to put his money where his mouth was (erm, yes, both puns). I walked into the room and J was sitting there on the bed, in her black shift dress and square-toed shoes. A couple of months later the old man who ran the agency would tell me that J asked him for that. Her lips and skin were soft and cool. She did everything slowly and quietly, concentrating fully on what she was doing.

She was kneeling between my legs as I stretched out on the bed. With her finger she traced the outline of my thigh. Then she squeezed it.

‘This is amazing. You’re thin and at the same time so fleshy. So succulent.’

Charles, the client, first got bored, then jealous. Men with this fantasy sometime don’t realise that watching 2 women together means you’re left on your own. He asked J to leave and I stayed for another half an hour. When I walked out of the hotel, J was waiting outside in a cab. I came up and opened the cab door.

J shared a squat in Baker Street with half a dozen other people. When she wasn’t working, she was up all night smoking hash and drawing horoscope charts for political events or daydreaming of the Vestals dancing around the sacred fire. Hedonism wasn’t her hobby, it was her way of living. She liked that I was so determined, she said I added structure to her life. She brought chaos into mine. Her company was a pleasure but I could never know when I would have it again. Eventually I left the agency and soon after that I moved to Newcastle. J was unwilling to keep in touch. Or incapable of it.

When I moved to Edinburgh, I came across her photos on a website of a little parlour in south west London. The rota said she was there every Saturday. A year later her photos were removed.

Last summer, walking along Princes Street, Violet and I passed a girl dressed up as air hostess giving out leaflets. She was about my height, slim, with blue eyes and fair skin. I came up and asked for a leaflet.

‘What do you need it for?’ asked Violet when I caught up with her.

‘I don’t need it. The girl was pretty.’

Violet laughed.

Edinburgh, Friday 19 July, 3pm outside the Scottish Parliament

Most of the text below was shamelessly stolen from ICRSE press-release. If you’ve seen it before, skip to the end. For more information on the protest in the city close to you please go to

 http://jasmineanddora.wordpress.com/

Recent murders and violent attacks on sex workers spark an unprecedented wave of international action calling for an end to stigma and criminalisation. Once again SCOT-PEP and SWOU come together in Scotland to unite people protesting against systems worldwide that fail to protect sex workers from discrimination, violence and murder.

Last week, with one day apart, 2 sex workers were brutally murdered. On Tuesday, Dora, a trans woman and sex worker in Kusadasi, Aydin in Turkey was stabbed by a client. On Thursday, Jasmine, a mother of two children and a sex worker, was also stabbed – by her ex-husband. Those two tragic deaths should be a wake-up call for all of us: human rights defenders, feminists, LGBT activists, policy makers and anyone who refuses a world where people – because they are selling sexual services – are seen as less worthy of human dignity and respect and therefore more likely to be seen as unfit mothers by the state, or to be the victims of brutal and heinous crimes.

Red Umbrella Sexual Health and Human Rights Association in Turkey wrote: “Violence against trans sex workers in different forms has been a common and widespread reality in Turkey. The overall reported incidents of trans sex workers murders has been 31 between 2008 – 2012 in Turkey, constituting the highest number in Council of Europe states. Another case that we have experienced this week was the violent attack of another trans sex worker from Ankara – Ela – who was shot by gun from her arm by one of her clients and she may lose the functioning of right arm. The Turkish Government must take every necessary step to ensure trans sex workers from violence”.

Rose Alliance, a sex worker organisation where Jasmine was on the Board wrote: “Our board member, fierce activist and friend Petite Jasmine got brutally murdered yesterday (11 July 2013). Several years ago she lost custody of her children as she was considered to be an unfit parent due to being a sex worker. The children were placed with their father regardless of him being abusive towards Jasmine. They told her she didn’t know what was good for her and that she was “romanticizing” prostitution, they said she lacked insight and didn’t realise sex work was a form of self-harm. He threatened and stalked her on numerous occasions; she was never offered any protection. She fought the system through four trials and had finally started seeing her children again. Yesterday the father of her children killed her. She always said “Even if I can’t get my kids back I will make sure this never happens to any other sex worker”. We will continue her fight. Justice for Jasmine!”

Sweden, with its reputation of gender equality, transparent government and respect for minorities, is also known for passing the 1999 law that criminalises the clients of sex workers. In considering all sex workers as victims and all clients as abusers, the Swedish state denies agency of women selling sexual services. This paternalistic approach, aggressively promoted to other countries as “protecting women” actually led to an attitude that infantilises women and discredits their choices and experiences, and has led to the violation of the human rights of women. Women caught selling sex are seen as unfit mothers and subsequently have their children forcibly taken away from them, are denied housing and disregarded as victims of false consciousness and male violence, an approach that fundamentally denies their agency and their own articulation of their experiences.

[800x600] ICRSE Protest July 19th

The story of Dora, a transgender sex worker in Turkey was a different setting however noticeably still connected in that stigma and discrimination played a huge part in the impunity with which her attacker would murder her. More conservative than Sweden and with a noticeably poor record on human rights, gender equality and respect of minorities, Turkey is also failing to protect sex workers from violence. Though prostitution is not illegal in Turkey when operated from brothels (one by one shut down by the government to satisfy public morality, and by consequence, leaving more women to work, unsafely, in the streets) the stigma faced by trans women is so high that very few found ways of making a living other than through sex work.

Kemal Ordek, chair of Red Umbrella Sexual Health and Human Rights Association said, “Discrimination against trans women in education and employment sectors is widespread. Many trans women end up in doing sex work under risky environments. Sex work is regulated in Turkey in a manner which paves the way to criminalise those unregistered sex workers – even though the laws does not require so – as any step taken in relation to sex work is criminalised under the Turkish Penal Code. The police are generally one of the perpetrators of violence, pushing sex workers under more risky environments where they are more open to violence from people posing as clients or gangs. The 31 reported murders of trans women in Turkey in the last five years is likely to be far lower than the real number.”

In response to these murders and continual violence, and in memory of Jasmine and Dora, sex workers and allies across the world have mobilised to create a mass spontaneous international day of action and memorial. In London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Berlin, Paris, Madrid, Rome, Lisbon, Helsinki, Canberra, Sydney, Vancouver, Chicago, Los Angeles, in Turkey and in Sweden – a total of over 30 cities over three continents – sex workers will gather outside the embassies of the Swedish and Turkish governments, or in other public places to protest what has been called the state-condoned murders of Jasmine, Dora, and so many others. Enough sex workers have suffered or died because of stigma and criminalisation. We demand change!

Shame on Turkey! Shame on Sweden!

Shame on laws that place vulnerable people in danger of violence!

Violence against sex workers must stop.

If you are in Scotland and you care, please come and join us. Please wear black. Please bring your friends. Please wear sunglasses, wigs or masks if you want to protect your identity. In Edinburgh. In Glasgow. Please be there with us and for us.

The rocky road to not being a virgin

Remember my Bambi client? Well guess what, I saw him again! And then again! He still has his animal magnetism (that of a baby deer) and not a hint at facial hair. Some men are just born lucky.

In the first entry about him, if you remember, I said I hoped he’d get a girlfriend and live happily ever after. This isn’t because I believe that I or other sex workers aren’t good enough, it’s because I think that at 18 he’d better go out and meet girls and learn to build relationships with them and save the money he’s only just started earning for something like a car or whatever boys want these days. And this is exactly what I told him in April, the second time he got in touch with me. My only excuse is that I was on medication, off sick. Because when he replied my e-mail saying that he agreed with me on all points, he was not trying to substitute or escape a meaningful relationship by seeing me, and he made sure he saved a little each month, it was quite embarrassing.

As a sex worker, I get upset when people who know nothing about my life or my work (like Rhoda Grant et al) tell me what’s best for me and explain why what I want to do is wrong. So who am I to decide what’s best for B? I don’t know the first thing about his experience of the opposite sex (well that’s a lie, the only thing I know about his experience with the opposite sex is exactly the first one because I was present) or his life, or his finances. Who am I to tell him how to spend his money? The state thinks he’s adult enough to drive, vote, drink alcohol and have sex and I’m not his parent to have an opinion here. B didn’t seem to be surprised or upset by what I said but felt I had to apologise.

Hi B,

I must apologise. My previous e-mail was disgustingly patronising and it looked like I was treating you if not as a child, then at least as a not-so-mature youngster. I thought of all the virgin clients I had (this is well over 20) and of them only 3 I saw once. The rest I saw at least twice and sometimes 3-4 times. Nothing sets you apart except your age so I think it’s high time I stopped mollycoddling you and let you make decisions based on what you want rather than on what I think is best for you. So I am sorry and I’ll be happy to see you again whenever you are ready.

So in May, when I thought I was well enough, B came to Edinburgh again. I won’t go into details of that date, but somewhere in the middle of it, when things were going really well, I said “oh, excuse me a minute, will you”, then went to the bathroom and threw up. I did feck up a few dates over the years by various stupid things (that’s right, I make sure it’s not on my blog). This, however, was in a league of its own. I was certain B wouldn’t be back, and the 2 thoughts that made it all better were:

  • I didn’t expect to see him again anyway
  • Now he knows what it’s like to pick up a woman in a bar on a Friday night

So you can imagine my surprise when a couple of months later he was back. There was one skill in particular that he wanted to polish, and one experience he wanted to report – that of meeting a girl in a bar. By the sound of it, it was the girl who picked him up, not the other way round, but I’m still very pleased for him. There’s no knowing if I’ll ever see him again but I’m sure he’ll be just fine, he’s a quick learner.