Dauphins, divine heroes and decorations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

J or The Fortunes of Vice

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

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

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

‘I’m J,’ she said, and smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violet laughed.

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!

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.

A difference in perception

This post starts with a call. An ordinary call with an ordinary introduction:

John: Hello Jewel, I’m John.

Jewel: <to herself> Of course you are, honey. <to John> Aha.

John: I know. I should be able to come up with a better name, the trouble is, I really am John. I saw you a while ago, and it was so terribly good…

Jewel: Huh?

Huh explained: someone calls and claims to have seen me, and it was TERRIBLY good but I have no recollection of it. That’s unusual. Even though frankly the unlucky name doesn’t help, I usually have no trouble remembering having seen someone. After all, I didn’t pass him by in the street, I had sex with him – terribly good, apparently. How can I forget that?

John goes on to describe what we did (still no help. I mean, doesn’t every john get to do pretty much the same thing?) and the apartment where I allegedly saw him and although things do match up and he does sound like someone I’d have agreed to see, I still do not recall any John that I could have seen at the place he describes. I’ll let you in on a secret. While there are a lot of Johns out there, most of them feel conscious (for different reasons) about their name when calling a lady of fixed-rate virtue and will introduce themselves as… David. Yes, that’s the name that’s used most by johns in Scotland, at least in my experience. I have trouble recalling this John because the name is actually relatively rare and I haven’t seen any Johns in a very long while now. If he were David, I’d have the same trouble because the name is too common. I wish men had more imagination. Any sex worker will be happy to see Melvin, Eugene, Rudyard and Wilberforce. Because when this Wilberforce calls you 2 years later, you’ll still know exactly who he is and recall easily what he enjoyed. And if you don’t want an odd name, what happened to the Scottish names? How come I’ve only ever seen Hamish once? And he wasn’t even Scottish! And the only Donald I’ve had sex with was (no, not a duck) Canadian! I’ll give £20 discount to the first Angus, Dougal and Malcolm who come along (providing they are Scottish, sound like people I’d like to see and have a photo ID on them)!*

Anyway, back to John. We go on to arrange the time and place, I hung up, call to book the flat and then it hits me. Of course I know this John! It was early spring, both of us wore weird leather jackets (unforgettable coincidence) and he told me the most hilarious story of hitch hiking in his youth and having to fend off numerous amorous advances from older men. And after that he went on to give me a lecture on orgasmology (yes, to listen to him, you’d think it’s a science). But I didn’t remember that booking as terribly good. It went well. Very well. But by the end of that date John did not look or act like he’d been to heaven and back, and there was no thank you text afterwords, so I assumed that this john will not be coming back.

Turns out he had a totally different view on that booking. He did not remind me of the stories he’d told me: he didn’t think they had deserved a place in my memory while for me they were the major reference point. And he really enjoyed our time together, so I misread him to a degree. It feels good to be wrong sometimes.

*Will now go and update Offers page.

Clients sans frontieres – 1

A Saudi client. A man from the country where women are legally banned from driving, living on their own and marrying of their free will, and where prostitution is punishable by flogging. You’d think this man should have a certain attitude. No. As it happens, national borders have nothing to do with how most men feel when next to a woman. A little unsure, a little reserved, a little quiet and very anxious. The fact that they still want to go through these feelings says something else: national borders have nothing to do with how much men want women.

In the restaurant, after a lot of hesitation, he orders a glass of wine: he is serious about letting his hair down. He asks for another one before he even finished the first. I’m curious.

– Is it good? Do you like it?

– No.

– ???

– Well… It’s wine!

As we (I mostly, to be precise) chat over dinner, he manages to relax. He even touches my hand. In his hotel room, he needs a little encouragement first, but just as any other man of any other nationality, once he sees the woman’s enjoying herself, he gets more confident and active.

He asks if he can see me again. It melts the knickers off me when they ask if I’d want to see them again. That’s an average violent perpetrator to you. So how can he find me?

– My phone number will still be on my website. All you need to do is try and recall what my name was and then google it.

– But it might be up to a year before I’m back to UK again!

I try to explain the concept of a brand to him. Does he know what M&S is? No. So I go global. Bill Gates is not going to wake up one fine morning and think: “Right, from now on it’s going to be Maxihard”.* It’s the same with me on a (far) lesser scale, and unless Saudi legislation comes to Scotland, I’ll still be Jewel and I’ll still be in Edinburgh. He’s not convinced (I suppose flogging does help working women move around their country much faster than it happens in the UK) but he makes a note of my e-mail address.

* Well, he may not mind it being maxihard at all, but I’m not sure he’d want to make it public.

How to jewel a client – a manual

This was a special booking indeed, mostly because I enjoy these bookings but also because they are not as frequent as I’d like them to be – a strap-on booking. There was a string of them in July but I haven’t had a lot of pleasure since so I’ve been really looking forward to this one since Monday when I got the call.

The door was opened by a man who can only be described as cute. He was totally at ease, not anxious or nervous as most, and funny, so I could skip the “help the client relax” part and go straight to the point – which he was very happy about. And so we got busy. Then we got busy a little more. And then came the moment when I could at last get my hands on his cute little bottom.

Not everything went as I planned, but when he was done and crawled, panting, back to the centre of the bed, he looked quite pleased, and his “Oh god, I’ve been jewelled!” sent me laughing. He joined in. We cuddled. I think I managed to fool him into relaxing because it was all over. Yeah, right! I’ve got this bum all to myself and only have one go? No, my mind was firmly set on jewelling him again. I like leaving bums a little sore. This way (as I’ve been told a few times) you’ll be sitting in a meeting the following day and the soreness will remind you of how great the night before was. And the meeting is not so boring any more. I can see how this bit of being naughty can make your day.

So I reached to squeeze that bum to make my intentions clear, and we got ready for another jewelling session, but eventually had to settle down for a prostate massage. I don’t know if you noticed how anything to do with your prostate gland leads to volcano eruption. This is why I love hotels so much – I don’t have to wash the bedlinen and curtains after that or clean the floor. I can just leave. Which I did after we cuddled a little more and he was looking happy and sleepy. I turned the lights off, kissed him good night and closed the door behind me. Having given someone a little happy memory felt great.

That which we call a rose…

I’m calling a hotel to be put through to Mr ABC in room XYZ – to check if he’s there. The receptionist asks for my name. There are two names I use for curious people (receptionists, street fundraisers, nosy clients, beauticians) – Jane Austen and Mary Shelley. That night it was Mrs Shelley’s turn.

Half an hour later I knock on the door. The client: “Mary, can I call you by your real name? Jewel doesn’t sound right.”

You can call me David if it helps you, I couldn’t care less, but this man was one of those people that you instantly fall in love with – deeply – and it would hurt you physically to upset them, so yes, of course you can call me Mary.

But if Jewel doesn’t sound right, I don’t see how calling me by MY name would be different. I have hippie parents. Introducing myself usually goes along these lines:

– What’s your name?

– I’m XYZ.

– I can see that. No, really, what’s your name?

Anyway, ten minutes later this loveable man is sitting on a sofa, I’m sitting on top of him. The last thing I expected to hear was “It’s just like in a dentist’s chair!”

Either I was that bad, or his dentist is REALLY good.