Edinburgh Escorts lingerie

Heavy petting in Glasgow

On the morning of my birthday I wake up in Glasgow. Not the place where I would usually want to spend such a day, but this time it’s worth it. I don’t remember the morning. Most probably it passed by in the shadow of the great expectations I had for the evening.

I meet Walter at 5pm in Buchanan Street, outside House of Fraser. We are going shopping! At least he thinks we are.

Shopping was his idea. The e-mail detailing the Master Plan for the day mentioned shoes, handbags, shoes, clothes, shoes, jewellery, shoes, books, shoes, and oh, did he forget shoes? And while he was being very generous, it can be difficult for a man to guess a woman’s needs, so I had to hint that a pair of shoes would be really nice.

This isn’t the first time I go shopping with Walter. We also went shopping for lingerie once, but this doesn’t count because it was a new experience for both of us. Shoe shopping, on the other hand, is quite ordinary. I don’t know how he usually does it, here’s how I do it. I need a pair of winter boots. I go online. Find the website of the shop I have in mind. Look at all the boots they have. Do they have something in black, with a round toe, 3 inch heel, leather, below ankle and with a concealed zip? No? Next website then! So when we meet and walk into a shop, all I need is to find the shoes I chose the night before and try them on. Walter, do you like them? Great, we’re done then! Now let’s go do something fun! If it’s not clear, shopping is an action, not a pastime. I think Walter was disappointed.

We have a drink at the bar of my hotel. I puzzle the bartender with my request for a non-alcoholic cocktail (come on, I’m allowed to let my hair down on my birthday! It can’t be sparkling water every day of the year)  – they don’t have these on the menu.

‘Would you like Safe Sex on the Beach?’

‘Oh yes, I’m all for safe sex!’

Walter chuckles quietly.

And then, with pleasantries out of the way, it’s time to do what we’ve been looking forward to for a while. Walter pays quickly, we make for the lifts, I pinch his bum impatiently as we wait, doors open, we rush in, kiss passionately until the doors open again and we are in the swimming pool. It’s an ordinary hotel swimming pool: small, simple, mostly empty. When I come out of the change room, Walter is already there. The first thing he says is that my swim suit is classy. Not the sort of word you usually apply to a swim suit, and not the sort of word I’ve heard from Walter before, so I take it as a compliment. He gives my swimming attire another good look and points at the sign with the pool rules:

No running

No diving

No pushing

No screaming

No smoking

No heavy petting

Walter is a very law abiding citizen. During our multiple adventures I couldn’t make him climb a fence with me, and he wouldn’t stay in an empty ladies bathroom to wait for me. So I’m glad I made him break at least this one rule. Oh alright, so he didn’t need to be forced into it, but he still wouldn’t have engaged in this prohibited activity without me: heavy petting on your own is called something else. I am also glad I got to see him swim. It was almost as good as watching him drive. Most people do different things in the same manner. Walter has a separate personality for a lot of activities. Driving Walter (especially in his road-rage mode) never fails to amuse me, same as disgusted Walter; swimming Walter is a joy to watch, loving Walter is a pleasure to do, and filming Walter is someone I haven’t figured out yet. And now you probably wonder which one of us in on medication.

We then have a lovely dinner at a place called Kama Sutra, and spend some time practicing – not at the place. We practice some more in the morning, and then he has to go. Glasgow immediately loses whatever appeal it had the day before. A wonderful birthday nevertheless.

A damsel in distress

If you remember, in Part 3 of my London visit I went to Praed Street clinic. That was a Monday. Friday of the same week, sleeping sweetly in my Edinburgh bed, I am woken up at dawn by a phone call.

– Jane?

– Merrr?

– Jane, this is Andrea from St Mary’s hospital.

– Wherrr?

– I’m calling about the results of your latest test.

– Oh?

– Please don’t worry, but…

(Funny how you always get a panic attack when they tell you not to worry. Suddenly I am wide awake)

– … one of your test results is inconclusive.

She goes into long explanations of why this could have happened and what it might mean, but, being in panic, I only get this much: an inconclusive test result means that I either have it or not. They test each swab twice. My first test for throat gonorrhoea was positive but the confirmative test of the same swab was negative. I need to take this test again.

I hang up and lie for a while looking at the ceiling. It feels surreal. Everyone knows that condoms don’t provide a 100% protection from anything, so this one time in 7 years is, I suppose, good enough. Hold on, it’s not like I have it for certain! Besides, if this really is the case, how did I manage to get it in the throat but nowhere else? How long will the treatment take? And then I’ll have to take another test, and wait for its results, hopefully negative then, so how long will I have to be off altogether? Hold on, it’s not like I have it for certain! I don’t have to be off. It’s only my throat that’s off limits. Gonorrhoea sits deep in the throat so I’m unlikely to pass it to anyone unless they lick my tonsils and I am yet to get a client with such a fetish. The rest of my body is disease-free although of course this isn’t how clients will feel about it. It’s getting in touch with clients I saw recently that I need to be worried about. Hold on, it’s not like I have it for certain!

And so, after a miserable week-end, on Monday morning I go to Edinburgh GUM clinic. I hate this place. The walk-in clinic is open 8.30 – 10am. If you show up at 9.15, you are told that the clinic is already full and you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Unless you’re a hooker with gonorrhoea, in which case they’ll kindly squeeze you in as an extra patient. EXTRA patient! In a walk-in clinic!

I get to see a nurse. I tell her why I’m there. She goes. I wait. A doctor comes. I tell him why I’m there. He takes a throat swab and goes. I wait. Second nurse comes, with a Petri dish for another swab. This one is for cultures, so they could determine what antibiotics will work better. Then I wait again. Third nurse comes, with a syringe and a pack of pills. She tells me what the treatment involves; details aside, it’s a heavy-duty course of antibiotics. She rips the syringe open and starts filling it.

– Hold on, have you already received my test results? Even the cultures?

– No, of course not, they’ll be ready next week.

– So why do you think I need the treatment?

– Well, er, because… You know, to save time.

– Would you take this amount of medication for no reason?

– Er…

– When I have the test results, I’ll take it. Or not.

I leave. I feel sicker than ever. A whole week to wait for the results.

Incidentally, that was the week when Walter could visit Edinburgh. And I couldn’t see him! Well, I could, but without kissing this is a waste of my time and his money and kissing he wasn’t comfortable with in my ambiguous condition. He comes anyway – to show his support in more than just e-mail.

We start with a lunch. We’ve a lot to talk about, mostly his plans for my next video. Then Walter wants to go to the cinema. I don’t. Guess who wins! It’s not that I dislike cinema. It’s that I love Walter. And in the cinema we’ll be watching a film, not spending time together. So instead we have a hot chocolate and do what we always wanted to do but were afraid of: shopping for lingerie. In a little boutique in West End I introduce us as Mary and Alfred Hotchpotch (his nome-de-videocamera), he sits down on the sofa with a cup of tea and I disappear in the change rooms. Some time later he joins me there.

Out of the boutique, I take him for a walk in Dean village, we have another hot chocolate and then go home where I change into my new lingerie, he wipes his saliva with his sleeve and we go out for dinner. A beautiful day and we didn’t even kiss! Oh alright, we did. More than once. Mostly in the change room. And also after dinner when it was time for him to go to the railway station. A beautiful day nevertheless.

The following morning I get another call. All results are negative. The crappiest week of my working life over nothing. Well, I have some lingerie to show for it. Quite literally! Walter took a couple of pictures!

February in London, Part 1

February seems to have brought out the creme de la scum that was dormant throughout the winter. I had people calling to ask how much I charge, people showing up without bothering to ask how much I charge, and – the highlight! – a young man who, when I eventually pointed out that he still hadn’t given me the money, said that it was because I hadn’t yet undressed to show him what he was paying for. I took sadistic pleasure in showing the door to him free of charge.

But somehow all this was insignificant in view of my coming date with The Old Nutter. The Master Plan involved a dinner date on Sunday night and a gallery visit on Monday morning which is tantalising as it is, but the whole affair was spiced by the presence of another woman! And before you drool all over your keyboard – it’s not what you think! The woman wasn’t there to take part, she was there to take photos. Again, stop drooling, it’s not what you think.

You most probably forgot by now but this lady, Dana, was mentioned here before. Dana is a photographer who finished a project on victims of sex trafficking a few years ago (here is the project and you can listen to her interview explaining the stories behind the images and her work) which helped her see the difference between women who are forced and women who choose prostitution as work. So now she is working on a project about women who chose sex trade, our work and our selves.

We’ve been in touch all this time but somehow things just didn’t work to our advantage until now. The date with The Old Nutter was booked well in advance and Dana happened to be free on that day which was more than we’d had before but why not take it further? I texted The Old Nutter saying that I had a very indecent proposal and it would be great if he could call to discuss it. He duly did and, to my great surprise, he easily agreed to take part in the project. Just like that. I still can’t believe that.

Dana arrived 3 hours before the start of my date. The idea is to present the public with images of a woman who is cheerfully getting ready to sell herself. Don’t know about Dana, for me it was exciting.

Getting ready for a date is that part of my work that not all clients are aware of. Some men assume that we wake up all made up and dressed up, and spend the day playing with our mobiles in expectation of their call. Thankfully, my clients know better. But even those who get in touch days and weeks in advance still don’t know what getting ready to see them is about. There is this popular belief that the process of dressing up for a booking is this magical transformation from an ordinary woman into a working one. Now you’re yourself, and the next moment you put on your working clothes and suddenly you’re this embodiment of sexuality. Well, I don’t know. I can understand why some women would choose to feel this way. It probably helps to keep your work life separate from your private life through different sets of clothes and an established routine for a metamorphosis there and back again. Personally, I find this too complicated. Besides, I don’t feel to be a different person when I’m with a client. The clothes I wear for work are the same clothes I wear for myself. My wardrobe is limited even from a man’s point of view: just as with clients, I’d rather have a few quality pieces than a lot of stuff but nothing to wear. So getting ready for work is simply a very long and boring process of scrubbing up, at the end of which my eyelashes are slightly longer and my legs are slightly smoother than they would be otherwise.

This is why I was so excited to have Dana there. First time in my career I had someone to help me choose what shirt to wear with this skirt and what lingerie would look better under it. She took a few pictures of me in the shower, shaving my legs and scrubbing my back. Then in front of a mirror, with powder puffs and mascara. Then by the wardrobe, getting dressed. All this time we were chatting, her asking questions about my work and me explaining things and rolling eyes here and there.

– You look almost like an executive.

– What do you mean – “almost”?

– You need one of those briefcases.

– I see (slowly, mentally noting to self to buy one).


– I look at you and I can understand, but then I think of the women I see in the streets in Kings Cross and they look so different… and I wonder…

– If I were to stand in Kings Cross dressed like this, how much business do you think I would get?

– I see (slowly).

Eventually I am ready and we set off to The Old Nutter’s hotel. Continued in Part 2.

Farewell, 2012

I thought I owe discontented readers a brief summary on the year that passed and updates since then.

First of all, if you’ve seen me in the past half a year, you most probably noticed it, but it has only recently become official: the Cup finals saw Jewel beaten by Hormones. The latter now take the cup to Premier League with 34D (on average. If you remember how brassieres work, 32DD=34D=36C) where Jewel only boasted 34C previously. So if you’re stuck with a present for Women’s Day, here’s a fresh idea. Thong size hasn’t changed and remains 10-12 or M.

My website has been updated to reflect the change in my fees, my age and size and my availability. Yes, incalls in Edinburgh (for those I haven’t met before) are only available with a day’s notice (but preferably a week) and £50 deposit to secure a hotel room where I could receive you. Bear in mind that it won’t be Ritz because I don’t work just for the pleasure of paying for hotels. To the people I’ve had the joy of meeting this doesn’t apply: I will always be happy to make an exception.

The “Dirty Old Man of the Year” award goes to Donny for our 2nd date. In his very late 70s, Donny is my oldest client at the moment. So on that second date I arrived thinking that I know what to expect. However, as he helped me take off my coat and I took a seat, Donny proceeded to walking around the room, looking madly at the walls and muttering under his breath:

– Suck it! Yes, that’s what I need! Suck it…

Now, if you’ve never met a lady of ill repute personally, it’s generally accepted to assume that we are different from an average woman out there and therefore have tastes that differ. The truth is, all women are different and I can only speak for myself. So here’s the short list of things that I have been told and found a turn on:

  • Meeting you has been the highlight of my time in Edinburgh (the Old Nutter)
  • Faberge eggs are expensive […] for they are exceptional, exquisite, special and of great value. I feel this [about] you (John)
  • I play accordion (as I said, all women are different and some may seem downright weird but you wouldn’t be surprised if you knew my tastes in music) (Alex)
  • I wasn’t actually looking for sex when I came across your website but I was so intrigued and impressed that I decided to try (Donald the Third – yep, I’ve now met 3 Donalds!)

As you can see, “Suck it!” is not in the list. And it doesn’t go well with Donny’s very old school charm. So I was understandably confused but decided to give him the benefit of doubt and asked if he’s the genuine dirty old man or he’s just having a bad day. Turns out he was looking for a socket to plug in his little music playing device.

The last client of the year, on 29 Dec was G, previously known as S the Old Nutter so I suggest he remains the Old Nutter for ease of referral and fun, not because it becomes him. I’ve seen him twice before, in September 2011 and then 12 months later in September 2012. This third date on the 29th was not only out of schedule (I thought September was his sexy month), it also seemed to be the turning point when from a service provider I turned into a person he could talk to. It’s not like he hadn’t talked to me before, it’s that some people take time to open up and tell you things they never thought they would. The lawyer from the North of Scotland whom I see slightly more regularly than once a year (who, incidentally, is the author of one of the hot pick-up lines above) is a very good example. Each date starts with a chat in a bar where he tells me about his practice (and I try to avoid telling him about mine) and we discuss amusing court cases but it’s only the last 2 dates that he started talking to me in bed, too. Men can be so touching! And it’s not what they say, it’s how they say it. Anyway, now that the Old Nutter left Edinburgh, I thought I wouldn’t see him again, but guess what? Just wait till February updates! (now online as Part 1 and Part 2.)

Also, March tours and offers are on.

Seduction, Act 2

Continued from Act 1.

I meet Walter in an Indian restaurant across the road from the theatre. At the table, we discuss the pleasures of oral sex. If right now you suddenly have doubts about having recently decided to get in touch with me to take me out for a meal, you are wrong but I understand. My aloo sag arrives and I try to tempt Walter with a little piece of it. He doesn’t like sharing food but he doesn’t like saying no to me either so the lesser of evils is chosen and I generously cover a little piece of potato with the spicy sauce and send it down his oesophagus. He says it tastes great. As I continue my lecture on cunnilingus, I have to use the stuff on the table (plates and utensils) to explain what the internal part of clitoris looks like. This draws Walter’s attention to my plate and he sees

– Cauliflower! This is cauliflower!

– Yes, it is, why?

– How can you eat it, it’s disgusting!

– You had a bit of it off my fork 5 minutes ago and you said you liked it. You did, didn’t you?

– It was cauliflower?! (some shock, doubt and mental turmoil) Yes, I did.

– Would you like some more?


– But you liked it the first time. Why say no to a bit of something you liked? Please?

So I generously cover another bit of potato with the spicy sauce and he swallows it.

– So? Is this cauliflower disgusting?

– No, but it doesn’t mean I’ll ever eat it again!

Just as any other reader, this is the first time Walter reads about my dirty tasty lies. Oh well. He wasn’t going to eat cauliflower anyway, whether I tell him the truth or not.

At 7.30 we make our way to the Playhouse and for the second time in a span of a week I enjoy “The Phantom of the Opera”. Walter, believe it or not, enjoys it, too! I wasn’t sure about it really until during the break when he turned to me excitedly and said: “Incredible! Did you see how they use the light!” Men will be men, I suppose, until they invest into becoming a woman. I have to admit, however, that everything about this new production (including the use of light) was quite impressive indeed.

It’s about 10pm when he sex trafficks me in his car to his hotel where he exercises even more violence against women by presenting me with a very thick envelope. I run the bath and we fool around a little, running around the room until he catches me, throws me on the bed and rips my lingerie off. This is the most playful I’ve seen him in years and if I’m honest, it was very endearing. The bathtub is now full and we dive in.

The can of whipped cream that Walter hid by the bathtub was not much of a surprise: Walter and sweet edible things go hand in hand. The real surprise was the fact that it worked! Almost 3 years ago a client wanted to play with cream so I got a can. It was the first time for him (and for me) and he was very curious. We tried very hard for about 20 seconds and then silently but mutually agreed to forget about it. I never saw him again and never used cream after that. Pity, because as I now know, that first time we didn’t use it the right way. The cream isn’t for eating! I mean, you can eat (lick, slurp, etc) it, too, but it’s not its main use! And it’s far better used in the bathroom than in the bedroom where we end up when we run out of cream. It’s quite early in the morning when I finally leave Walter alone and move into my separate bed.

A few hours later we stop pretending that we’re both sleeping. I rarely sleep during overnights because of unfamiliar surroundings, don’t know what was Walter’s problem. It’s still dark so we try talking to each other across the room from our separate beds. Does anyone know why and how being in the dark makes mature adults turn to whisper even when no-one around is asleep? It feels like little girls in the dormitory at night so I give up on sleep and sneak back into his bed.

At 10 I finally switch off. I don’t notice him getting up, making tea, pottering around, packing his suitcase, opening his laptop to send me a thank you mail and getting back under the duvet with me. He wakes me up eventually and cuddles some more, until the absolutely last minute when we totally have to get up if he is to be on time for his plane.

Walter gets off at the airport and I wave my hand as the cab rides off. Within seconds, a text from him arrives: “Miss you”. I get his present – “Maskerade”, Terry Pratchett’s spoof of “The Phantom of the Opera” – out of my handbag and open the book, hoping to divert my mind from the sudden feeling of loneliness. This ride home feels much longer than the actual 20 minutes.

Farewell, September

It was a lovely enough (for Scotland) Saturday morning. Oh alright, make it early afternoon. Week-end is the time to care for work-related clothing, so I had just done the laundry: silk and lace knickers were hanging off the door knobs while the airer was full of… anyway, it was full. I just sat down to look again at the gift card I got the previous day – a voucher for a couple of hours worth of body treatments at one of the top (read “ridiculously expensive and even more appealing for that”) spas in Edinburgh – and to figure out when I can spare half a day for this trip to heaven when my personal phone started ringing.

My friend on the other line (let’s call her MSH, and yes, it does stand for something) was somewhere very noisy but she didn’t say where and I didn’t care to ask. The beginning was innocent enough, we both happened to be fine thank you, and both seemed to be enjoying the week-end so far. She then went on to ask what my plans were. My plans were to call the spa to book the treatments and then to update my blog and look into advertising for my tour, so I told her I was thinking of doing some grocery shopping and then packing my bag for the visit to Glasgow on Monday. I really don’t know why I mentioned Glasgow. It just came out of my mouth as a better alternative to selling sex in Oxford.

– Oh, – said MSH, – I didn’t realise you were going away! I’m just at Waverley and I was hoping to spend a few days with you.

I didn’t drop my mobile in surprise but I was very close to it. I looked around my flat, my mind registering all those things that my friend should not see under any circumstances. The 37 pairs of shoes by the door. The array of Thank You cards from clients on the mantelpiece. A few dozens of condoms on the sofa: they have just arrived in the mail, I needed to sort them out by size, type and material they are made of and re-stock the condom bag that I take to work. The stack of books by my bed – research on sex work that I had just received and needed to go through. The lingerie and other work clothing that I had just put to dry. And don’t even start me on the bathroom and browsing history on my laptop. And now I only had about half an hour to somehow hide it all. I also had to find a place to hide it all: these things are part of my everyday life, they aren’t meant to be hidden so it’s not like I have an extra wardrobe where they usually go.

25 minutes later, when MSH rang the bell, I was slightly out of breath but happy with the results of my clean-up. As she walked in and gave me a hug, everything seemed normal. She opened her luggage to take a few things out and thankfully she didn’t have anything that would need to go in the wardrobe: I’m sure things would come pouring out of it cartoon-style if I attempted to open it now. I made her a cup of tea and she sat down so we could discuss our plans for the week-end together. This is when it happened.

We noticed the beautiful cream and gold card on top of the papers on my desk at the same time. I mentally bit my own bum as she reached for it.

– So beautiful, what is it?

The most expensive gift MSH ever got from her husband was a blender (he can be incredibly romantic for a Brit) but from the look of the gift card even she could tell it was worth more than a tenner. She opened it.

– Oh how lovely! And it says “With thanks” here! Who is it from?

– Erm… it’s…

– It must be from a man! Come on, tell me! I didn’t realise you were seeing someone! Why do your friends always find out last?

– You don’t… See, the thing is…

– Wait, is this what you’re going to Glasgow for? I’m sure it is, why else would you go to Glasgow but for a man!

– Yes! Yes, that’s right! I’m going to Glasgow to see the man who gave me this gift card!

Why am I telling you all this? Because people don’t always realise that living 2 lives is not easy, especially when you have to hide the one that you prefer. In a month or so I’ll have to think up a reason why things didn’t work out with “the man in Glasgow” (his accent should be reason enough, I’m thinking) and for a few months after that I’ll be subject to lengthy talks about how I’m not getting younger, how it’s impossible to find a decent man, how all men are bastards and how difficult it must be for a woman on her own.

Which leads us up nicely to this charming video:

Christian’s blog is now in my Blogroll, hope you enjoy it. Could you also please take part in the new Poll, it would take you less than a minute and would help me a lot. Other than that, there’s an entry out of sequence and please remember that I’m down south for 10 days in October.

Safety-in-numbers syndrome

It’s about 7.30 when I come out of X hotel, turn round the corner, cross the road and go to the taxi rank at the bottom of the street. On the way I pass a restaurant where I once had dinner, also on my way from X hotel. Establishing a bit of a tradition is always nice, besides, I’m tired and hungry, so I open the restaurant door.

The waiter who takes me to the table smiles and says it’s great to see me again. Well, it’s one good waiter because I can’t recall seeing him here last time. He leaves me with the menu; I get my diary out of my handbag and look up the previous date at X hotel. About 40 days since I was here first time. Yes, a good waiter indeed. I then place my order, he smiles again and says:

– The same as last time, eh?

– Do you remember all your customers so well?

– No, not all of them, – he winks at me, turns round and goes to the bar, leaving me sitting motionlessly at the table, looking intently at the pattern on the table cloth. His wink reminded me of what happened here last time – which I totally forgot about. Men only have 2 faults: all they say and all they do. About 40 days ago…

…I entered that restaurant for the first time. I sat down, studied the menu, ordered something which the waiter remembers and I don’t, got up and went to the bathroom. In the cubicle, I took off my dress, opened my handbag, fished out my bra, put it on (yes, sometimes I leave hotels in a bit of a hurry), then the dress, and went out. On the way back to my seat I had to pass a group of men – all in their 40s, professionals in smart casual, loud, animated and in high spirits – sitting at a long table. As I was passing by, one of them, who was sitting with his back to me, turned around and looked at me. Not just a casual quick look, but an invasive long eye contact. I gave the same back. As I passed their table, all the men laughed loudly. I ignored them. Kids will be kids.

An hour later, I asked for the bill and went to the bathroom again, this time to actually use it. The men were still there, and on my way back to the main room the man did the same: went out of his way to turn round and stare me in the eye. As I pass them, they laugh again. And again other customers look at me with curiosity.

My problem is that I really don’t bear fools easily. They only act this way because I’m on my own (can you imagine them laughing at me if I were accompanied by a man?) and because there are 12 of them. I pay the bill and instead of heading for the doors I go in the opposite direction.

As I come up to the man who gave me the look, the whole group goes quiet. The man understands that something’s going on and turns round. The twelve of them are now looking at me in complete silence. He is sitting, so if I am to stand straight, I get the dominant position. But if I go down to his level (literally, not metaphorically), I get an advantage. So I smile, make one last step to the back of his chair and bend down slightly. Now my lips are close to his left ear and his nose is almost touching my cleavage. I regret having bothered to put on that bra, but too late now. “Hi,” – I say in his ear.

There was a number of things I thought he might do, but I would never have predicted this: he audibly swallowed, like they do in cartoons. Did you know it was possible at all in real life? He didn’t say hi. He just nodded. So I went on:

– I’ve a feeling there’s something you may want to tell me.

– I… er… Maybe… Could we go outside for this?

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

– You mean you can make fun of a woman in front of your friends, but you can’t give your apologies to her in front of them?

Suddenly all his friends, who have been listening attentively, turn away and start talking to each other. Whether that was to give us privacy or to avoid embarrassment – I don’t know. He keeps on stammering, his eyes running from my cleavage to his hands and back:

– Apologies? I… I didn’t mean to… It’s your dress!

– My dress?

– Yes, your dress! It’s a very beautiful dress!

– So you saw me passing by and you turned to your friends to tell them that you liked my dress?

– Er… Yes, I’m sorry.

I’m not at all sure he’s feeling sorry about making fun of a woman, but I can tell he’s sorry he came to this place, and he’s sorry he tried so hard to show off in front of his friends who have now deserted him completely. That’s good enough for me: if he doesn’t do it again when with his friends, he’s highly unlikely to do it when on his own. I can tell he’d make a very good client: a man with his mates and the same man alone with a woman are often entirely different people. I straighten up and head for the door. No-one’s laughing this time. Outside, I get a cab and go home, and the following day the waiter is the only one to remember the incident: the man, I’m sure, is trying hard to forget it.

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

The bra and what have you (in it)

We all know that most of our opinions and views are formed in our childhood, but we rarely remember how or when. In a lot of cases this is because there was no exact moment, but constant repetition of words or actions of people who surrounded us when we were little. However, I remember the exact moment when my views on women’s breasts were set.

My parents came home from a business dinner and I could hear them talking in the living room:

Mother: Boring as always! Everyone is so predictable. A always does this, B always says that, and C, as always, had one glass too many and spent the whole evening looking at Mrs X’s chest again.

Father: In his defence, Mrs X has a lot to look at. (Too much, if you ask me. I still remember Mrs X and believe me, at times it was hard to see her face behind her curves.)

Mother: Oh absolutely! But isn’t large chest on a woman like beer? You may very well like it, but you should be ashamed to admit it!

So I spent most of my teenage years praying that my breasts don’t grow (and it looks like god exists after all) and holding a low opinion of beer. If I’m totally honest, I still don’t think well of beer (probably because, unlike delectable female breasts, my parents mentioned beer more than once in my presence) while my view on breasts changed over the years. I still believe that I was blessed with just the right size for me: it’s easy to find beautiful lingerie, it’s not painful to go jogging, there are plenty of fitting tops and dresses to buy and my bra straps don’t cut into my shoulders. Not to mention that I don’t have to carry a couple of extra kilos around all day long for the rest of my life. But I don’t subscribe to the view that it’s shameful to look at these extra kilos on those who have them. By now you should know I find women fascinating and looking at them, breasts or no breasts, is a pleasure. This is why I don’t understand why some men try to put a label on this pleasure, namely, a bra size, especially if they can’t even read the said label. The most ridiculous bra conversation I’ve ever had:

Caller: What bra cup are you, C or D?

Jewel (alerted of the coming surprise by the scarcity of suggested choices to respond with): Do you know the difference?

Caller: Of course I do! C ones are ok and D ones are saggy. You’d better be C.

I’ve met a lot of men (as you can guess), and most of them thought that the size of the cup defines the size of the breast which I can understand to a degree. But thinking that the cup size describes the shape of the breast is kinda sad even by male standards. The saddest thing of all, however, is the fact that men love breasts so much and give so much importance to them but can’t be bothered to find out more about them. How many of you know what bra size your wife wears? And then you go and complain that she doesn’t wear anything nice for you (guess how many times I heard that)! Do you even know how much good quality lingerie costs? Your woman already spends enough on shampoos, body lotions, face creams, make-up, perfume and hairdresser (all those things that men never spend their salary on) so if you want her to have some lovely lingerie – go and buy it for her. You’ll get to learn a lot in the process and you’ll understand your wife better after that. Not to mention that you’ll be able to see her in something attractive.

So if you are still wondering what the cup size stands for after all, here’s the revelation: the cup size is simply the difference between the measurement of a woman’s torso over its fullest part (usually nipples) and the circumference of her chest under her bust. Which means that bras in sizes 32D and 38A will have cups of the same physical size. Shocking, isn’t it? A man is used to thinking that D is large and A is not. Rubbish. A woman with a smaller chest circumference of 32 inches will need a larger cup letter even though her bust is average in size. And a woman with a larger frame (38 inches in circumference) but the same volume of breasts as the first one will only need A cup because the difference between the measurements of her chest and her bust will be smaller. Thus 32D cups are actually 5 sizes smaller than 42D cups. And the cup size in 32D, 34C, 36B and 38A is one and the same pretty average breast size. My size. I wear 34C or 36B depending on the brand (in some brands of lingerie the bands are tighter than in others).

To sum it up: the question “what cup size are you?” does not make sense if you don’t know the woman’s band size. And beer still smells cheap.

Sex. You either have it or talk about it. You can’t do both.

Long ago, one of my first clients, a journalist, asked me if I had a friend who knows about my job and whom I can talk with. I looked at him with large innocent eyes:

– What’s there to talk about?

This was partly because I really didn’t want to talk to him about my job and other clients as he was trying to initiate, but mostly because there really isn’t much to talk about. Not with someone who’s not a sex worker. That client (and I’m sure there are others like him) clearly had this fantasy of a bunch of hookers talking sex and dirty stuff. In reality, when I meet with other sex workers, sex is the last thing we talk about. When journalists get together to talk about work, how likely are they to discuss the news? Hardly. They will probably talk about different ways of presenting news, importance of some events over others, their interest and knowledge of one particular subject – I really have no clue what journalists would do when they get together to talk about work, but I’m pretty sure it’s not

– I’ve just seen the mayor and he has this NEWS! Can you imagine it – NEWS this interesting! And wait till you hear the details! You know how some mayors have good NEWS but no clue what to do with it? Boy, did this one know what he was doing!

– Oh I interviewed a mayor yesterday and he had some NEWS too, but it took me ages to get him talking and his NEWS was nowhere this interesting! Do tell me more! Exactly how interesting was this NEWS?

And just like journalists, when we get together, we discuss safety at work, marketing and media, different ways of presentation, secrets of creating a certain look or atmosphere, importance of some events over others, our interest and knowledge of one particular subject which we specialise in, etc. We may share experience of working with a particular type of client, give advice or ask for it, tell others about something new we came across that can help in our work – so much interesting stuff to talk about! Men and sex are the last things on our minds!

And it’s the same with my non-working friends. They don’t know about my work so we rarely discuss men or sex. From their point of view, what use is asking for an opinion and help of someone who’s never been in a relationship? What can she possibly know about relationships? On my side, I will try to avoid talking about men because I disagree with most things that my non-working friends believe to be true. I may give advice if they ask for it (although by now they’ve learnt not to because my sense of humour is far better developed than my sense or compassion) but I will never ask for their opinion because what use is advice of a woman who’s only ever had sex with 3 partners (all of whom were not the type I’d ever have sex with even if they paid me) and who knows nothing about men? For example:

A non-working friend in distress: [a 30 minutes long soliloquy which can be summoned by] My husband stopped having sex with me. What do I do?

Another non-working friend: Try to spend more time together. Spend the evenings home, cook him a nice dinner, light candles, make him talk to you, discuss your relationship. Or his work – maybe there’s something going on at his work? And buy some sexy lingerie.

Jewel: Get a new hobby. Or revive an old one. You danced before marriage, didn’t you? Start dancing again. Go out more, make new friends, have fun! And don’t waste your money on lingerie – the only woman who buys her own lingerie is a single one.

Maybe things can really be improved by stuffing your husband with a home-cooked meal and forcing him to talk about how he’s feeling and what he’s going through at work – I don’t know much about relationships. I know about men and if you want a man’s interest, you need to be interesting. A wife who’s always in the kitchen is not interesting. A wife who has a life outside the marriage will keep his thoughts going:

– She took up pottery. Why would she do it? Did she meet someone there? Honey, how did your class go? So you had fun, did you… She’s hot, of course other men will want to flirt with her! Listen, how about I join you next time, I’m really curious to see how pottery can be fun. And hey, maybe we could pop to a shop on the way back and get you something… you know… so you could have fun at home, too. With me.