Hairy clients of Edinburgh Escorts

Friends with a prostitute

I was touched by Walter‘s e-mail where he said he was sad for me that Mr French had left as I obviously liked him a lot. I think the first thing I learnt in prostitution is that men come and go while my savings account stays (which, frankly, would be good for all women to learn) but it doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate these men while they are around – this is the second thing I’ve learnt. The client – prostitute relationship may be paid for, but it’s still a relationship.

The night was rather cold for 2 September. The fact that I stood motionless wasn’t helping. The noisy crowd around me smelt of beer and cigarettes. The fireworks were totally worth it.

Independent Edinburgh escorts

The following day, 3 September, was beautiful: sky so clear and blue I suddenly realised that I hadn’t seen sky for a very long while now. And it was hot. Really hot. I’d say hotter than any other day this year. I went for a very long walk, keeping my camera eye on the sky. The walk took me past H(ugh)‘s home, not on purpose but simply because there are lovely views in that part of Edinburgh and he just happens to live there. Of course I thought of him.

Last time I saw him we had dinner at a Spanish restaurant, watched a film cuddled up together on his sofa and then I, abiding by the international rules and regulations of romantic dating, asked him for a pair of scissors and, in his words, invaded his (now former) privacy. The way I see it, just because his privacy hasn’t been invaded in the last 70 years, it doesn’t mean he should die not having seen what his privacy actually looks like. And the fact that his privacy harbours more hair than his scalp, face and ears together is the last straw. Anyway, that was mid-July, and I haven’t heard from him since except for an e-mail a few days ago, the subject line screaming “Hot balls!!!” Apparently, if you remove a thick and long natural covering, it gets hotter, not cooler. I’m not a physicist, so I’m not going to occupy my pretty little head with this nonsense.

About 20 minutes later as I’m walking home, my phone rings and – that’s right! – it’s H(ugh). Well, if he noticed the slight change in his balls’ temperature after my professional help (free of charge, by the way!), it’s only natural that now his balls will sniff me out within a mile and cower in fear. Yet he’s still willing to see me, yes, tonight if I’ve no other plans. He calls to book a table at a fancy restaurant close by and even checks with them that they have gluten-free stuff on the menu. Aww.

During the dinner he tells me how much he enjoyed the festival, the shows he went to see, such a pity he had to do it on his own. Under the table, I pretend to try to kick him and he moves his legs out of my reach quickly. The conversation moves to the end of the festival and the fireworks the night before. He tells me he had 2 tickets but couldn’t get anyone to go with him so went on his own.

This time I really kick him. Twice. And I make sure it’s hard. He winces and reaches to his shin under the table. Good. Now, if he gets 2 tickets somewhere, he’ll think of me, at least for as long as his shin hurts. The e-mail I receive after this date says that apart from the bruised shin and ego he’s now absolutely fine and it may seem daft, but he thinks of us as friends.

Whatever the society thinks of my profession, it’s far more honest than a lot of marriages out there. A client can have sex with his wife – for free. He can pick up someone at a bar – for very little. He can even go to see another lady (and if it’s in Edinburgh, chances are she’ll be charging less than me. I’ve looked around recently and it seems that I’m the most expensive prostitute here, which is sad, but hey, my parents can be proud!). Yet with all these choices he prefers to pay up to see me. I’d say it looks like he really wants my company. Likewise, when I agree to see him, he knows it’s because I really want to see him, not because he’s paying. After all, everyone pays. It’s up to me whom I choose to accept payment from and you can guess I’m rather picky. In marriages people can (and do) manipulate each other through finances, sex, feelings and kids. When my clients and I get together, it’s because we really want to see each other.

On cats and dogs – part 2

While everyone knows that all men are dogs, some men are more dogs than others. This is what this post is about. Cats were mentioned in Part 1.

Mr French. He’s only an inch taller than me, with small hands, small feet and a body that you could also call smallish if it didn’t have his personality attached. Teamed with the personality, his body takes inexplicably more space than it physically needs. He looks large and heavy-boned even though it’s not the case. And you always know when he’s in the room. It’s like visiting a dog-owner’s home. You don’t need to see the dog, you just know there is one in this house.

He starts every date by marking his territory. He enters the incall flat, goes straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge to put a bottle of wine to cool, opens the cupboards looking for glasses and plates for the snacks he brought. Once the food is sorted, he goes to the bathroom to wash his hands. He then returns to the living room, walks around it, fiddles with things and eventually settles down on the sofa – now, with every corner marked, he can relax. And yes, he’s the only one I know who opens a fridge that’s not his and feels at home after that. For the majority of people it’s the other way round.

We all fall for different things. Some people are attracted by what they see, others – by what they hear. Personally, I fall for how people express themselves. For Mr French it’s smells. Throughout our very first date he went on and on about how beautifully I smell. At first I just shrugged it off, but then I realised it was very important to him – not the way a woman looks or acts but the way she smells. And it’s deeper than perfume.

For me, it was a whole new world. I was most probably zinc deficient in childhood: my sense of smell is non-existent. I need to be looking at the toast I’m burning to smell something burnt. I won’t know what a client smells like until I can taste his aftershave on my lips. Needless to say, I never know if I’m wearing too much perfume or way too much perfume. And so, smells not being a part of my reality, I found it difficult to understand what the attraction was for Mr French – I’ve no clue what I smell like! But I knew that when he helped me put on my coat, he was sniffing the back of my neck. When he helped me take off my lingerie, it also went past his nose. With time, I just accepted it. But on the second date I had to ask:

– Are you sniffing me again?

– Sniffing? I’m like a dog, aren’t I?

There you go, he said it himself. Dogs mostly sniff and lick each other. Yep, he is just like a dog.

He’s not light and leggy, made for speed like most hunting breeds. He’s a working dog, heavy and broad. He could be a Greater Swiss Mountain dog if they came in black and were fluffy. Or he could be a Newfoundland if they at least pretended to have a backbone and tried to look like they are bold and daring. Being hairy as he is (the only hairless spot is his back. His rear view is that of a satyr with a missing tail) only increases the similarity. Once I even got to see it. Here’s how it happened.

We were in a restaurant when I asked if having a bath together would be too French for him.

– No, – he said. – Sounds fun, let’s try this.

So when we got to the flat, I ran a bath and turned away to wash off my make-up (to avoid having it run down my face when we’re in the bathtub). I heard his bare feet on the bathroom tiles behind me, then the water splashing as he stepped in the tub. I dried my face, turned round and…

Sitting in the bathtub facing me was a large black woolly dog. It looked rather pathetic as wet dogs tend to do. It had sad eyes, and its muzzle seemed strangely red in the steamy air rising from the tub. The dog lifted its front paw and splashed the water discontentedly.

– It’s too hot! – whined the dog in a familiar French accent. The vision disappeared. The memory of wet Mr French, all red in the face, sitting in a tub of hot water will stay with me forever.

Unfortunately, this is the last post dedicated to Mr French. Fortunately, this means that a very good regular client position is now available. Please send your applications to jewel@scotlandmail.com

Old “friend” – Part 2

Continued from Part 1.

We left off at the point where I take Colin to the bedroom, didn’t we? There he told me a wonderful story (we did other things there as well, but those are none of your business) about his trip to the States with a bunch of his mates. Naturally, I’m not going to embarrass him and tell you that they went to San Francisco. No, instead let’s imagine they went to Las Vegas – it’s neutral enough and believable enough. So he tells me how one evening they ended up in a night club and some of his mates got to chat to really attractive girls. When the girls agreed to go to their hotel for, errm, a coffee, the blokes thought they really pulled. Can you imagine their disappointment when, once in the room, the attractive ladies started talking business! Can you imagine how hard I laughed! When was the last time an average Scot pulled anything in the States except for his own equipment? I’m not trying to be mean to Scots – they are great people. I wouldn’t live in Scotland if I thought otherwise. But until such pleasures of civilization as razors are available for sale here (together with a manual), Scots have little opportunity to pull attractive urbane ladies who are not familiar with Scottish culture of body negligence.

Again, it’s not that bad all over Scotland, there are some cosmopolitan people even here, but the general attitude of Scots to shaving is not that shaving is good or shaving is bad. It’s more of: what? Shaving? It took me about a year to make Walter* start shaving. Now he does it all the time because, as he confided in me the other day, it looks like his wife quite likes it. But of course she does! First time in decades of marriage she was able to actually see her husband and what do you know! He’s not that bad-looking at all! So the last time I saw him I touched (again) on the state of his nails. Reaction:

– What, manicure? No! This is girlie!

Well, at least he knows it’s called manicure. But he’d rather scratch me non-stop for 3 hours and apologise for it again and again than get a little emery board and file the sharp corners of his nail-cutter-chopped nails that keep catching my skin (and my stockings, my lingerie and my clothes) – doesn’t sound sensual, does it? Feels even less so. I’m sure at some point I’ll get him round to this: after all, it’s not like I insist on French manicure, I ask for basic sensible things. I grew up with a father who used to have his hands manicured every week while he was still in business (and no, it wasn’t the line of business the Scots would immediately assume) and the image of a man who wants to make a good impression but can’t be bothered to take care of some basic things doesn’t sit well with me.

Anyway, back to Colin who started it all. Now you can imagine how I taunted him back when he was hairy bloke no 2. Naturally, it’s not going to go away just because he’s moved to number 4. But he doesn’t know about it yet. Right now we’re still cuddling in bed and he says suddenly:

– You know, Jewel, Colin’s not my name. I’m actually <real name>.

And while I silently go first “aww” with a smile and then “me-e-en” with a sigh, he goes on:

– I’ve no clue why I said I was Colin when I first came to see you. I only know one Colin and I don’t even like the man.

To “Colin’s” credit, at least he was consistent. I’ve seen men who come as Davids on Monday and then show up again on Thursday as Ians. Whom do they do it for? Not me – I can’t care less for what your name is. If you tell me your name is Reed-That-Bends, I’ll call you Reed-That-Bends. I’m not fussy. If you introduce yourself as Andrew but in your hotel you are checked in as John, I’ll still call you Andrew because this is what you wanted. The name that you tell me is the name you’ll hear. But do you want to hear the name of the man you don’t even like when you’re cuddling a woman you’ve just had sex with?

*If you are new on this blog, Walter is a regular client who’s been mentioned here a million times but I don’t think there is an entry dedicated to him personally so I can’t even link his name to a post that would explain who he is. Maybe I should come up with one at last.

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.

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.

A yeti of my own

An American client. My cab drives up to the hotel and I recognise him in the man of stately appearance waiting outside. It’s raining, and he makes a few steps towards me with open arms. A little hug, a little kiss, and we walk inside.

Pouring me a glass of sparkling water, he says he has a present of some sort for me.

– It’s not much but I thought you might want to see this, – and he hands me his camera. It takes me a while to understand what the man on the photo has to do with this booking. You know how men in movies use facial hair to change their appearance and still you always know it’s them and you can’t believe film characters can’t see it. In real life, however, the transformation is shocking. The bearded man on the photo looks nothing like the man with a clean shave in front of me. He says he wanted to get rid of the beard anyway, our date was just the much needed nudge, and I have to hope it’s true, because there are limits to sacrifices that I’m ready to accept.

He puts the camera back on the table and accidentally knocks down my glass. The sound of breaking glass and the shards on the floor prompt another transformation: he loses his dignified looks and all of a sudden turns into a gawky teenager who knows he is gawky and is feeling rather self-conscious about it. And as smithereens are removed, I set on bringing him back to his confident self and reach for a kiss.

I undo his shirt buttons and feel compelled to ask:

– Some good Scottish genes there, eh?

– Yes… How did you guess?

I didn’t have to guess. The Scottish genes are looking right at me. It’s a typically Scottish thing to save on winter clothes by cultivating a thick natural covering. We continue step by step, and when at last I’m helping him take off his trousers, I notice something that strikes me as so surprisingly noticeable that I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before.

– What shoe size are you?

– I’m not good at European sizes, why?

Why? Because anything that’s more than twice the size of my shoe is not a shoe anymore but a canoe. I still can’t believe they were not in the way for him when he walked. He smiles at my surprise and asks with a wink if I know what they say about men with big feet.

If like me, you’ve never before heard anything about men with big feet*, let’s face it, you don’t need a degree in divination to figure this out in the circumstances described. So the only excuse I can find for my stupidity is the acute stress reaction caused by the sight of his canoes. And instead of playing along I ask (totally genuinely):

– No, what is it? They smell more?

It’s just logical. The larger the skin surface, the more pores. Mr Bigfoot is squeaky clean and smelling fresher than a daisy, but before my words brought back the gawky teenager, I jump on the bed and pull him towards me.

Somewhere between this moment and the end of the date another transformation takes place, and now he’s a passionate lover who’s about to say good-bye to the object of his desire. We walk across the hotel lobby in silence. It’s still raining, and my cab is already outside. Mr Bigfoot presses me in his arms and we kiss. When he lets me go, I head for the cab but my hand is still in his: a little pull and I step back into his arms and we kiss again. I get into the cab eventually and the elderly cabbie goes aww.

* Whatever they say about men with big feet is not true. Basic anatomy shows (and Leonardo da Vinci illustrates) that the length of foot is equal to the length of forearm, not other body parts, and even then it all depends on your race and how average you are. My personal experience says that feet, while an important part of a human body, do not play a major role in satisfying sexual practices unless these have to do with a foot fetish, but how many women out there will worship a man’s feet? Please…

Twice the fun

This is one of those very rare posts where Jewel meets a couple. Let’s call them Heidi and Dieter.

First time Dieter got in touch with me in June. He told me they’ve already had experience of involving other people into their sex life (while visiting Amsterdam. Classic!) and he was thinking of a repeat because Heidi seemed to enjoy herself that first time. He went on to describe Heidi as this gorgeous woman (always makes me smile. If Heidi exists, she’s gorgeous simply because he’s her husband. What husband would dare to describe her otherwise if he still hoped for sex now and then? And if she doesn’t exist, every Dieter has to go into details of her beauty for the sole purpose of self-gratification. So Heidi has no choice but to be a head-turner) and himself as “a grizzly bear”. I replied saying that a call from Heidi was what it takes for me to say yes. Strangely enough, the next e-mail was to cancel the previous arrangements as “their” trip had to be postponed. But of course!

Still, in August I get another e-mail from Dieter saying that they might be in Edinburgh for the festival. I ask for a call from Heidi. No call comes, but an e-mail saying that this didn’t work out either. Surprise!

And then in October out of the blue I get a call from a lady who says her name is Heidi! Would you believe that? Everything is arranged and shaky in the knees I set off for their hotel.

We meet at the bar. Turns out, Heidi really is gorgeous. And Dieter really is a grizzly bear, but who cares? Heidi is gorgeous and she doesn’t seem to like me that much! She offers me a chocolate and, full of hope, I move closer but it looks like she didn’t notice. No, we didn’t get to share the chocolate. My high hopes and spirits hit the bar floor with a crash.

You see, I love women. Stating the obvious, I know. Who doesn’t? It’s logical, isn’t it? Women are so much more attractive to look at, so much more pleasant to touch! They are smooth, soft, graceful and smell nice (as opposed to men who are hairy, rough, awkward and, errm, manly). They fill you with desire to kiss and caress and pleasure (so yep, I totally understand how a man feels when looking at me). But I don’t get to do it (them?) often enough. So here is my chance in a very long while and Heidi doesn’t seem to fancy me!

We move on to their room where I try to initiate a kiss but it doesn’t seem to help. She prefers to stay in a chair and watch me and Dieter. Oh well. He helps me undress, things take the usual route from there until suddenly Heidi joins in! Oh, the joy of touching a woman! She’s tentative at first, but not for long, and soon we’re all busy.

Being with a woman is so different. First of all, she asks questions that are different from the usual routine men go through. She’s obviously curious about my job, wants to know how it works, what it involves. Do I have any tricks up my sleeve, any particular moves? How difficult is it to please every man? What am I asked for most often? How do I feel about it?

Secondly, I realise I need to be slightly more self-conscious than I usually am – simply because there’s someone here who can see and feel through my eyes and skin. Like when Heidi says she likes the look of Dieter’s face in my bum and I laugh. She turns to me: “That was a knowing laugh, wasn’t it?” No man would ever figure this out!

As I’m getting dressed, I watch them cuddled up on the bed in the soft light of table lamp. They look so cute and touching together – the sight that was worth working for.

The 2011 season is now open, or one more hairy post

I have now seen the hairiest bum ever. Nothing else you can show me will surprise me now. It all started with a… coffee.

You know how you’ve a rule of, say, always paying with cash instead of your joint account credit card at lap dancing venues for security reasons. Well, I’ve this rule of rejecting purely social bookings. For the same reason. I also have another rule – to always go by my gut feeling. If a potential client sounds fine and everything seems to be ok, but my gut is not happy – I won’t take this booking. Whether it’s something my conscious mind missed but my subconscious picked up on or simply something I’ve eaten is irrelevant. Better safe than sorry is every lady’s motto.

And then one day I receive this e-mail request for a coffee together and my stomach is very quiet about it. This e-mail was from an Italian man who, at 30-something, was still a virgin and wanted to see if he’d be comfortable enough in my company to try more than sitting close to me at a table. I ended up breaking my own rule against social bookings. My lame excuse to myself is curiosity. Has anyone else ever seen an Italian man who’s still a virgin past the age of 14? Besides, I’ve a soft spot for both Italians and virgins.

And so we met, had a little chat about politics, religion, history, geography and linguistics (yep, this is exactly what we talked about. No innuendos, no flirting, no planning the following booking: not only because I don’t do it, but also because he, obviously, doesn’t do it either) and then I went back home. It felt strange to me, as if I haven’t done my job properly. We exchanged a few more e-mails but nothing followed. I thought it was for the best. I’d rather he was totally ready for it. Or he could find someone else he felt better with.

A few weeks passed and there was another e-mail from him (words “The Deed” in the title) asking for a booking. Telling me that there’s probably something wrong with him, but my blog attracts him more than my photos. Everything’s arranged, and eventually the day arrives.

A little chat on the sofa. He’s trying to look confident and succeeds until I reach to kiss him. Eyes so big and scared, I’d have laughed, had I not known he’s serious. He turns away.

– I thought you didn’t kiss!

– (to myself) Whose blog have you been reading?

– (to him) Don’t you want to kiss me? (putting it this way usually works a treat)

It still takes a while before he kisses me rather than lets me kiss him, but we get there.

His body is beautiful, albeit barely visible. His chest is covered with what he calls his own carpet (more like a Flokati rug judging by its size and thickness). At least he waxes his back (otherwise he looks like a werewolf – his own words!), and his bum deserves a separate post here. Remember the Geordie I told you about? This bum leaves him well behind. It’s not fluffy, not even hairy. It’s furry. The hair curls in tight little spirals. Adorable. Even more adorable was the trim in the right place. Done, as I could guess, just for me. How sweet is that!

We have a proper tutorial with an obligatory lesson on how to pleasure a woman. He seems to enjoy it. I consider it finished when he starts taking initiative – if he’s comfortable enough to do it, he’s learnt all he needs. The rest is the question of experience. He leaves looking so comfortable, relaxed and confident that I feel like I’ve done a great job. Breaking a rule was worth it after all.

This was the first virgin this year. The season is now open.

Jewel’s splitting hairs

I am quite often asked “So do you (not) like hairy men then?” I guess it’s caused by the few remarks I made here on the relationship Scots have with body hair. I usually laugh it off to avoid giving my answer. In all honesty, as long as the missing link in front of me is not my husband, I couldn’t care less. I’ll just make the best of whatever I’m presented with.

I came across the hairiest man in my life while in Newcastle. You’d think a Geordie can’t beat a Scot, but that one could beat a yeti. His neck, shoulders, back, bum, feet, hands – everything – was covered like he lived in Eden before Eve showed up only his Eden was up in Iceland by some divine joke. The only hair-free spot on his body was, of course, his scalp. There was not a single hair above his unibrow. Balder than my knee.

He was also the one who enjoyed having a bath together. The first time I got out of the bathtub and handed him a towel, I (genuinely) asked if he wanted a hairdryer, too. Thankfully, he laughed. He also helped me pick his hairs off my body where I couldn’t reach. He was the sweetest Geordie I’ve met. Every time he left and I started cleaning (unclogging the bathtub drain, hoovering the bedroom and sweeping the bathroom – his hair was ubiquitous!) I promised myself that next time I would definitely charge him an extra tenner for this! And then next time I heard his voice on the phone asking how I’d been and if he may come around, I’d melt and tell myself that it was not fair to charge him extra for something he didn’t mean to cause.

And so, answering the question at the beginning – no, I’d never marry anything like that. I’d rather get a dog and then keep it outside. But this, of course, is an extreme case. Most other cases are easily manageable. And this is where we come to another question I am also asked sometimes: “Why doesn’t (or how can I make) my wife give me *a stupid name for a sexual activity*?” Can you guess the answer that will be right in a lot of cases? Yes! Because she can’t be bothered to look for it! And I’m not talking sizes. I’m talking about the fact that a lot of men keep their privates as well hidden as possible. Looking like you haven’t properly evolved is one thing, and some women might even find it a turn on, but what you have to offer to your wife should be visible to begin with, not to mention easily accessible. This isn’t about me, I don’t mind looking for stuff – I’m paid for it. But your wife makes an effort to look good for you and I think she deserves the same back. Trust me, a good shave makes things much more attractive. And hey, it even looks longer!

Or at least trim it, you know. She’ll still be pleased.

Clients of Edinburgh escorts
This is just a random dude. For illustration purposes. Because this amount of body hair is hard to imagine.