Clients of Edinburgh Escorts

The dangers of tanning

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

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

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

Edinburgh escorts

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

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

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

Thoughts

As you are probably NOT aware, the responses to our consultation on decriminalisation of sex work in Scotland have been published a week ago. Endless source of entertainment and inspiration. Of course I had to read them, and of course some of them are thought provoking. So here are my thoughts.

Revd Lindsey Sanderson (13)

13

So what’s Revd Sanderson’s point? That alcoholics should be prevented from being in the company of each other? Or that people with history of childhood abuse should not be legally entitled to work collectively? You’d think that in the remaining 2 paragraphs of the answer to this question Revd Sanderson will answer the question, but no. We have to assume that Revd Sanderson means that since all hookers are forced into hookery, it’s best we keep them isolated. If all these forced hookers start meeting each other and share their experiences and find out they are not alone, and – god forbid! – meet a hooker who isn’t forced and offers to help… That’ll be the end of so many careers!

Dr Tom Sissons (106)

106

Been there, had that, really pleased that instead of me highlighting it and being ignored there’s a trusted professional whose word may be believed – saying that same thing.

Valerie Kerr (192)

192

Mrs Kerr makes some valid points, but, as she stresses, this Bill will never be able to save all these desperately vulnerable people, so let’s just forget it all and not even try.

Tom Manganiello (100)

100

A good point that would never have occurred to me as I’m far more concerned with my own health. It’s heart warming to see “married men will cheat, we can’t stop them so let’s make sure everyone is safe in the process” as opposed to the usual “married men will cheat, we can’t stop them so let’s try to stop them”.

Donald Fleming (184)

184

So a pair of brothers applied for a licence for a legal business. They were screened, met all the requirements, opened their business and provided safe working places to a number of people. Their business did well and they expanded it, providing more people with work and income. They pay taxes and have not been taken to court for exploitation or labour rights violations, otherwise you’d have pointed it out. You also say they have 18 million GBP each, either from this business or from any other venture they might be running alongside it. What exactly is your beef with this?

Also, could someone look up the percentage of fast food industry that McDonald’s “owns” in Wellington? Just out of interest.

The Very Reverend Kelvin Holdsworth (122)

122

Thank you, The Very Reverend. You deserve your title. I am thoroughly impressed.

Michael B (177)

177

The most obvious thing to note is that slashing a “girl” with any sharp object on any grounds was illegal at the time of the incident that Michael B describes, is illegal as I type this sentence, and isn’t proposed to become legal by Miss Urquhart’s Bill or any other Bill I can think of. Moreover, Miss Urquhart explicitly asked (question 8) if there should be a statutory right for sex workers to refuse sexual services.

And I can’t help but point out the fact that Miss Urquhart, not (allegedly) having been in sexual relations with unknown persons possibly under the influence, is seen as unfit to suggest laws on sex work. Michael B, however, not having had such sexual experience either, and – seemingly – not having read Miss Urquhart’s proposals, knows exactly what should be done. I want to believe that Michael B is a gay transgender person of colour.

On the fun side, let us all hope that Michael B and his colleagues were employed to do nothing of importance and precision, because they sure spent too much of their paid time hooker watching, which probably wasn’t in their job description. My personal experience says that people who spent 8 minutes in a sex worker’s room are as likely to be clients as food delivery people. If they are clients, they are unlikely to have treated the lady in “the dreadful way”. With only 8 minutes to knock on the door, negotiate the service, pay for it, receive it and drop off the food, you need to be good at multitasking to squeeze in some abuse. 8 minutes is enough to slash someone with a knife, but this isn’t a definition of “client”. This is a definition of a physical assault and grievous bodily harm. And apart from this, all “abuse” Michael B “witnessed” was women making money to pay bills and feed their kids. She had 8 clients in an hour? Good for her. I’d like to know where she advertises.

Some men do it professionally

I have a recent addition to my client collection. I’ll call him Prop for now. He spent the last 30 years of his life playing rugby. And you now think you know why he’s Prop. You don’t. Read on. Do you really expect me to be that predictable?

The first time I saw Prop, I noticed he had a habit of touching himself. A common habit in married people. But the majority quickly quit when presented with something else to touch. Not Prop. I introduced the rule straight away: if you touch yourself, you then either use the other hand to touch me with, or you wash your hands. Prop wasn’t entirely happy with that. Few people are ambidextrous. Ambidexterity is encouraged in many sports and arts, but sex work is never mentioned for this talent. The need for safety quickly teaches you to use one hand for your clients and the other one for yourself. Clients – obviously – rarely develop this skill, you’ll use your dominant hand to touch anything. Which means that on our second date Prop still touches himself and then reaches for me with the same hand.

Jewel: You just touched yourself! Go wash your hands!

Prop: I didn’t! It’s unfair!

Jewel: <silently points her index finger in the direction of the bathroom>

Prop: <glowers, growls, gets up, goes to the bathroom>

Fifteen minutes later, Prop touches himself and reaches for me with the same hand.

Jewel: You just touched yourself! Go wash your hands!

Prop: Did I? When? I would have noticed!

Jewel points her finger.

Prop gets up and goes to the bathroom.

You probably think I enjoy it. I don’t, actually. The constant interruption doesn’t make my job easier, and the constant need to be alert means I can’t relax.

Fifteen minutes later – yes, you know what’s coming! – he touches himself, then reaches for me and… smacks himself in the forehead. ‘I fecking touched myself! Did you see it?’ He sighs, gets up and goes to the bathroom.

Edinburgh escorts
A card I received from one of my clients

I love these little moments of sudden self awareness. I often wonder how many things about myself I’m not aware of.

And if you are still curious, here’s the promised revelation.

Jewel: (who up until 2 minutes ago used to think that the game they sometimes show in American films is rugby. Who’d think it’s foot-ball? They carry the ball!) So what’s the main skill in rugby then?

Prop: (rather amused by now) It depends on your position in the game.

Jewel: There are positions there???

Prop: Of course. First, there’s, erm, a hooker, it’s the person who, well, hooks. Hooks the ball. Next to the hooker there are props. They support the hooker. Then there are…

Jewel: Was that your position? Prop?

Prop: No.

Jewel: But you do such a good job of supporting the hooker!

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.

__________

* 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.

Tales of Stupidity: WOMEN

I’ve a collection of special stories – Tales of Stupidity. All the stuff that my civilian friends do under the impression that they improve or create a relationship. I’ve done some idiotic things too, but unfortunately not too many as my work soon provided me with enough experience to avoid silly mistakes. Some of these stories are sad, like a married woman getting pregnant after a one night stand with a sportsperson she had been a big fan of. He took off the condom without telling her. And some stories are silly. So I thought I’d share some of them just for the fun of it. I’ll also tell you about stupid things men do, but ladies first.

I have this friend (let’s call her Friend) who has recently started dating online. She’s a lovely woman in her late thirties, with a mature mind and a responsible attitude. She is happily divorced and works for a major bank (so no bimbo). She registered with a paid dating site: she reasoned that men who pay for membership will be serious in their intentions. So she came across a male member there (let’s call him X) whom she liked, and it appeared to be mutual. Besides, he worked in the bank across the road, so after a few e-mails and a couple of phone conversations they finally met for a dinner. This is what she tells me:

Friend: He picked me up after work and took me to a little restaurant nearby. We spent 3 hours there, just talking! Why do they say online dating doesn’t work? I had so much fun!

Jewel: (yawning) Aha.

Friend: He’s never been married, but he had 2 relationships, both lasted about 10 years; now that he’s 40, he’s ready to find someone to spend the rest of his life with. I told him I was planning to move outside London because it’s better for children to grow up and he thinks it’s a great idea! He even suggested XYZ area because he already has some family living there! [15 minute long monologue about all the ideas and values that X seems to share with her.]

Jewel nods (off) silently.

Friend: So we shared the dessert and he asked if we could go to mine! Can you imagine!

Jewel: (putting the book away) I know! The cheek!

Friend: But you know I couldn’t take him to mine (luckily for her, she really couldn’t that week) and we couldn’t go to his because I wasn’t really ready to meet his parents yet, besides it was too late in the day for it.

Jewel: He told you he lived with his parents???

Friend: Yes, and because there was nowhere to go, we had sex in his car.

Jewel silently picks up her mandible from her lap – the unlikely bodypart meeting facilitated by the word “car”.

Friend: And it’s been 2 days now and he still hasn’t called!

Jewel: Well, if I were him, I wouldn’t call you either.

Friend: Why do you say this? (pause) You think I acted like a prostitute?

Edinburgh escortsShe could have used so many other words. But she chose “prostitute”. And I haven’t met a single prostitute who’d have sex with a man in a car for a promise to bring up children together in XYZ area. So I reassured her that at this rate she will never come even close to a prostitute, and pointed out that a 40-year-old banker who still lives with his parents is either not worth meeting, or is lying to conceal a wife and kids in XYZ area.

For me the real issue here is neither the parents nor the lie. I’ve had sex with 50-year-olds who spend all their holidays at their parents’, and I’ve had (bags of) sex with married men. They showed more respect for me, a prostitute, than X ever had for Friend. None of them even dreamt of suggesting their car. If they couldn’t invite me to theirs, they either rented a hotel room, or paid me to do so. And it’s not even the car sex. I won’t be seen dead having sex in a car, but it doesn’t mean I judge others for doing it. I don’t care where you do it and with whom, as long as you enjoy it, use a condom and make sure your morning-after expectations match the occasion.

To be fair, he e-mailed her eventually to say “sorry, but I’m sure you noticed there was no spark”.

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.

Drawbacks of education

Let’s start with this mail I received.

—– Original Message —–

Sent: 12/24/13 12:16 PM

Subject: Jewel

Jewel,

You are lovely and smart women.  Just from your web page I can see you are more then just lovely women.  Your web sites shows you have a education to go with that hot body.   Wish I know you when I had my visit with a women who does your job.  I bet it would have been much better with you then with her.

name

Sent from Some Mail Agent

————————————————————-
Sent: ‎Thursday‎, ‎December‎ ‎26‎, ‎2013 ‎11‎:‎11‎ ‎AM

Subject: Re: Jewel

Name,

Thank you for your mail, it’s kind of you to write to tell me you were attracted by my website.

If you don’t mind, I was hoping to explain that previous poor experience of commercial sex isn’t a fault of the woman you’d chosen. After all, it was YOU who chose her. Education isn’t in our job description: you employ us to have sex with you, not to teach your kids. If your chosen lady had sex with you – she did her job. If you were not happy with it – it’s your fault.  It was up to you to do a proper search, to compare different websites, to get in touch with a few shortlisted women and see which one of them met all your needs. And it was up to you to be clear about what you want. If a client doesn’t tell me what he is looking for, I can’t guess it – I’m not a mind reader. It’s only if you take time to think about your ideal date and then tell me the details that I can either create this ideal date for you or tell you that I can’t help you. If I don’t know what you want, worse still, if you yourself don’t know what you want – it’s only through good luck that our date can be satisfactory to both parties.

So with the experience you now have, next time you’ll do better.

Yours,

Jewel

————————————————————-

—– Original Message —–

Sent: 12/27/13 09:29 AM

Subject: Re: Jewel

thank you for answering by email.  It got me thinking about the experience.   When I had it, I was young and sure what I wanted.  I think I just wanted sex, not a lasting memory.   Now that I older I do know what I would like.   An experience that when I am  90 years old it still brings back a Great memory.   I did not tell the women what I want so yes it was my fault not hers.   I am sure if I was to meet and have a experience it would much better than my first.

Your website is not write by a sex worker but some one with a great education.  Your blog is written very well and your points in the blog are very good.

name

Sent from Some Mail Agent

————————————————————-

It’s a no win situation. If you’re illiterate, you’re either a victim of economic coercion (i.e. 99% of Earth population) or too stupid to make the right (i.e. approved by society) choice. If you appear to be educated, you’re a fake (most probably a pimp posing as a hooker to promote sex workers’ rights for the opportunity to pimp them some more). Fair enough, this isn’t what the author of the mail meant, he was simply trying to pay me a compliment by denigrating my job and my colleagues. I can’t really blame him for this attitude, the society is to blame. If a greengrocer or a cab driver blogged about their jobs and their clients in a way that people found interesting, how many would say “nah, too well-written for a cabbie/ banana seller”? Few. Because the society doesn’t know about these people, what lead them to their job choices and what they did before. How many studies show the level of education of people in these 2 professions? Similarly, few people know about prostitution, but suddenly everyone knows what sort of person can become a prostitute.

In other news, there are more well-written blogs out of timeline here and here. The first one is the graphic entry I promised a while ago. In Walter’s words,

On a scale of one to deeply shocked, I’m still firmly at one!

So ok, it wasn’t deeply shocking. It wasn’t meant to be. It just deals with the topic I usually avoid here – sex. I have to admit, writing about sex in a non-sexy way wasn’t hard, the hard part was to decide to write about it in the first place:  no-one likes clichés and what’s more cliché than a hooker producing wanking material? Next thing I know, I’ll be blamed for faking it. However, if you think there’s an entry on this blog that has more sex in it than this one – surprise me and send me the link.

As for the second new entry, it’s full of photos. Enjoy. On second thoughts – don’t. It most certainly wasn’t designed to be that entry with even more sex in it.

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!

_____________

* A totally valid claim.

It’s in the detail

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

Body

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

Soul

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

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

Mind

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

Edinburgh escorts

My restaurant business

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.