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.

Newcastle

The first stop of my long October tour was Newcastle for a day. This day was spent with the Mariner. The original Master Plan was a tour of Geordieland in the afternoon, but when I arrived it was raining and somehow we just ended up staying in my hotel room. We left in the early evening for a dinner and then to see “Oliver!” and not only because a visit to the theatre is always nice but because I needed something fresh after my overdose of The Phantom of the Opera.

Food, glorious food! Hot sausage and mustard!

is nowhere as sexy as

Darkness stirs and wakes imagination

but by then I was so tired of humming the Phantom’s tunes I was ready to hum anything. A food theme is an additional bonus: how can you not love food?

The show was everything I expected and even more considering Brian Conley as Fagin – what an utterly loveable mean old Jew! Moreover, I suddenly saw his “Reviewing the Situation” in a new light: if you listen to it closely, it can easily be a sex worker’s song. Fagin ponders over all those questions that sooner or later come to those who choose sex work as a career. Is it possible to do sex work “all your life” or is settling down with a spouse a better option? For reasons Fagin describes so eloquently, marriage isn’t a good idea (and even worse for a prostitute: why do I want to give away something that I’m used to be paid for?) Then there is the option of performing “an honest job” and again, the arguments against it are totally true – an honest job is a dismal flop next to prostitution. So what happens when you’re seventy? Like thieves, prostitutes have no-one to rely on: throughout the song, family is hard to keep, friends are hard to make, colleagues are hard to trust, society is indifferent when not hostile. If you listen carefully, Fagin finds no solution: he’d love to not have to be a thief anymore, but it’s his best option since he has to fend for himself. “I’m a bad ‘un and a bad ‘un I shall stay” is what he arrives to. It’s a rather sad song, taken as comic if you don’t concern yourself with the character’s troubles. Mind you, the character of Fagin in the musical is very different to the one in the book.

Yes, I loved the thief, but I deeply resented the prostitute – Nancy. Clearly not because of competition. This “tart with a heart” archetype is so insulting to common sense that it’s not even ironic. Writers and other “creative” people around the world, from bible to the most recent TV series, have been dehumanising, objectifying and pimping (i.e. getting a profit from using) prostitutes by creating this one rare whore who is occasionally capable of showing some humanity (as opposed to the mainstream whore who has never even heard the term). She is usually there to highlight the purity and morality of a “real” woman in the story and to make the reader go “aww, look at this hooker, she’s trying to be human! How sweet, poor silly thing!” So when at the start of the show the Mariner leaned to me and whispered: “Remember what happened to Nancy?” I said I didn’t. First of all, it’s a really creepy question to ask someone in Nancy’s occupation, and secondly, you don’t need to remember. Nancy’s a hooker. Hookers get murdered, especially the ones with a heart. This most likely comes from the contradiction between her job and her human nature: tart with a heart’s existence upsets the balance of society by showing that prostitutes are actually women (yes, I know sex workers can be male and transgender, but the society prefers to stay unaware). The society can’t possibly be forced to choose between

  • prostitutes are human like other women and are therefore equal members of society and deserve rights like others, and
  • all women aren’t human.

And so, the hooker has to die.

Yes, prostitution can be rather isolating. Which is where me and the Mariner found each other, because being a sailor is also very isolating, although for different reasons. Society never considers prostitutes’ feelings, but it doesn’t bother much with seamen’s either. It hadn’t occurred to me until I met the Mariner. As a seafarer, you spend most of your life on a ship in the tight company of people (mostly men with an occasional woman here and there nowadays) who often don’t even speak your language. So you either make friends with them or with Facebook profiles – if you’re in luck and your ship provides you with Internet connection. If you have friends or family “ashore”, being with them comes down to looking at their photo when calling them. So even though for different reasons, it’s the same social isolation as with sex workers, with the same outcome: family is hard to keep, friends are hard to make. To top it all, you live at work (kinda like living in a brothel. Shudder) so while you’re on the ship, you work. As in, no 9 to 5, no week-ends, no bank holidays, no going to the local with your mates. You actually work most of the time you’re at work. I’d kill myself.

Guess where!

Over the years my clients took me to many different places. There was, however, one which I have never been invited to. Nor was it a place that I ever hoped to be invited to.

In early July a new gentleman joined my tight circle of benefactors – a tall and quiet seafarer (another tick in my uniform list) who comes to Edinburgh every time he’s back in UK. So I’ll see him 2-3 times in the span of 10 days or so and then he’s gone seafaring for a month or however long. If ever I get into a relationship, it’ll have to be with a sailor: a partner who’s never there is the perfect catch.

Anyway, he comes to Edinburgh, we spend a day together and after dinner we go to Waverley where I kiss him good-bye and he takes the last train to… Newcastle. In case you don’t know, I worked there for a year. Why he had to wait until I move to Edinburgh is a mystery. There will be more posts about him, so I need to come up with a good code name for him to go by. The obvious “The Geordie” is already taken. Calling him Popeye is not fair on Popeye. And naturally I’m not calling him by his name. Not here. Let’s settle for “The Mariner” for now, and if anyone has other suggestions (the Mariner included) – I’m happy to consider them.

The first few dates were rather difficult, with him keeping quiet and me trying to figure out how to get him talking (it’s still not easy but we’re doing much better now). Gradually I got to know about him and his interests, and guess what, he quite fancies pandas! Not exactly in the way he fancies me but it’s a start and an idea for the next date.

So this is where we go – to the zoo. It may not sound like the most romantic place in Edinburgh but by now I (and hopefully you, too) have learnt that it’s not the place that makes your date great, it’s who you’re there with. We arrive in time for our appointment with pandas (yeah, did you know you need to book an audience with them?), it lasts about 10 minutes. The first 2 minutes are enough for me to understand that no matter what else we see in the zoo today, nothing can be more boring than pandas. Funny they are thought of as bears. Crashing boars would suit them much better.

These fluffies sleep 16 hours a day. If you are lucky to catch them awake, they are busy looking at a wall – this is what the female panda was doing. Well, at least she was up, unlike her mate. No style, no fun, no personality. Don’t waste your time on pandas. Out of all things overrated, very few are as high as them.

But then we left the pandarium and the fun started together with the rain. We saw penguins (these are full of personality but it seems to be a b!tchy one), koalas (these were also asleep but even the way they sleep is fun, just look!),Independent Edinburgh escorts pigmy hippos, llamas (when it’s raining, there’s no difference between a wet sheep and a wet llama), a tiger and a black leopard, pink flamingos (I was supremely disappointed. They may look exotic and graceful from a distance, but up close they are just medium-sized chickens on awkwardly long legs. Not to mention that they smell funny), sea eagle and sea lion. The meerkats stayed in because of the rain so we didn’t get to see them. Nor kune kune pigs: they were too far to walk to for a rainy day. And yes, the image of these little cuties is not what I would usually go for, but I’m a woman, and sometimes a woman is allowed to be girlie.Edinburgh escorts

Most of our zoo time was spent next to the cages with monkeys, and yes, it was only because of me. The Mariner, I think, got rather bored (or tired?) with them. But how is this possible? They are so full of life, energy and cheek! I could stand and watch them all day! They are so different to how they are usually shown in cartoons! They can professionally peel and eat a banana in 7 seconds: they don’t even chew it. Also, I somehow always thought monkeys were vegetarian. I mean, they are not predators and therefore have to be vegetarian (“bad hunter” is the definition of “a vegetarian”), right? Not exactly: some of them eat locusts and every second of it is as revolting as you can imagine it to be. You’d think locusts are dry and crunchy – wrong again! They are surprisingly stretchy and chewy. And juicy. I’ll stop right here.

I know you want to know, so no, he didn’t buy me an ice-cream. And yes, it was my first ever visit to the zoo. And it was fun!

London

Euston, Thursday 28th June, midday

A text from H(ugh): “Jewel, Midnight Tango on at the Playhouse on Saturday 7.30. Will you be back from London in time?”

Does he need to ask? I walk to Kings Cross to change my train ticket so I could arrive to Edinburgh earlier than planned to be in time for the show.

Kings Cross, Friday 29th June, 7pm

I’m having dinner in a gay restaurant (it’s a largish restaurant, it’s literally across the road from 2 main railway stations, it’s Friday night and there’s me, 11 other customers altogether (all male) and 4 male staff. Gay is the only explanation). My phone rings.  It’s the client I’m seeing in Edinburgh on Sunday for lunch and lust making his introductory call.

– And by the way, Jewel, it’s tomorrow you’re travelling back, isn’t it? Have you heard of the train disruptions? I don’t know the details but because of the bad weather in Scotland some trains have been cancelled.

Well, it was bound to happen. There hasn’t been good weather in Scotland since last Christmas. Still, my dinner over, I go across the road to Kings Cross station. A very disinterested young lady in the information booth tells me she hasn’t heard of any disruptions of East Coast services. She looks like a highly unreliable source of information but the only one, so I walk back to my hotel in Euston.

Euston, Saturday 30th June, 6.08am

“This is so exciting!” – a text from J, the client who’s already on the train to Euston to see me at 7am before work. I open one eye, read the text, roll the eye and text back “You can say that again!” Drop the offending beeping device on the floor by my bed, bury my face in the pillow and give myself 10 more minutes.

Do you know how long an average healthy and youngish person needs to get a good night’s sleep? Just 10 more minutes.

Euston, Saturday 30th June, 7am

J is outside my hotel with a cup of hot chocolate for me. I’m running around my room in panic, still only partially dressed, shoe in one hand, mascara in another, trail of loose powder on the carpet behind me.

Euston, Saturday 30th June, 9am

I’m drinking the cold hot chocolate from the paper cup courtesy of J when an e-mail from Walter arrives: if, as my site says, I’m going back to Edinburgh this week-end, I’d better take a plane because of the severe disruptions to East Coast services. I’m not even seeing him this week-end, yet he bothered to check things out and e-mail me!

This is the second warning, and much as I hate browsing Internet on my mobile I do that, just to see that according to East Coast website very few London trains make it past Newcastle to Edinburgh, and those that do, run up to 90 minutes late. I’ve H(ugh) waiting for me with tickets outside the Playhouse at 7. I love tango. I love my clients. I love being paid. I hate being late for dates because of East Coast. Besides, H(ugh) always insists on giving me a lift home. Here’s his chance.

“Morning, H(ugh). East Coast trains being more unreliable than always, how do you feel about picking me up in Newcastle to give me a lift home?”

“Jewel, my dear, you are one of the few friends I would do this for! When are you due to arrive in Newcastle?”

Aww. I still have this text. I’d print it out and frame it if I could. Yep, I’m that sad. I e-mail Walter to thank him for the warning and to express my surprise at how much my clients seem to care. His reply arrives almost immediately: “you’re like L’Oreal – you’re worth it”. Another aww.

Euston, Saturday 30th June, 10.30am

I meet Dana Popa in the lobby of my hotel. Dana is a photographer working on a project which I hope to be part of. The aim of the project is to show women who happen to be sex-workers. I like the way it’s put. After all, I never think of myself as a sex-worker. This word may bless me with a certain lifestyle but it does not define me. First and foremost, I am a woman. I am also a daughter, a sister, a friend, and then a prostitute. Dana tells me about her project. I tell her about my clients (because that’s the thing on my mind), how unbearably sweet they are. Typical girlie chat.

Kings Cross, Saturday, 30th June, midday

I get on the train. Luckily, it takes me all the way to Edinburgh so H(ugh) doesn’t have to go to Newcastle to pick me up. He picks me up from Waverley though.

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.

My sweet Stirling adventure

There is no “Welcome to Stirling” sign. Whether it got blown away during the hurricane or covered in snow that followed the hurricane – I don’t know. Or maybe people of Stirling see no reason/ no suitable weather conditions to waste money on such a sign. Walter meets me on the platform, takes my suitcase and we head for the hotel.

In my room, Walter surprises me with a box of chocolates and a little something that, thanks to its transparency and area of coverage, should be described as ethereal rather than material, but is, nevertheless, called the jewel knicker (no prizes for guessing why he wanted me to have it). The knicker itself is barely visible but the jewel is there (in Newcastle I had a client who used to kiss his way down my stomach and say: “And here’s my little jewel!” Once he even clapped his hands. I’d be lying there looking at the ceiling and thinking: “I really need to change my name!”) and this jewel is set in just the right place and it does not freak me out. We set off to explore all the possible ways of using it.

A couple of hours later we go downstairs for a dinner, and then Walter is gone. I return to my room to find the barely touched box of chocolates. I’m so stuffed and tired that the box goes into my suitcase straight away.

In the morning I move into another room in the same hotel (for reasons only known to the management), fix my hair and meet another client, W. (First of all, isn’t it great that Walter has a name! Secondly, Walter and W live pretty much next door to each other (Oh I’d love to see their faces as they read this! Will they be able to leave home without looking over their shoulder now?) in a place which is so far away from Edinburgh that it’s only fair for me to make an effort to meet them half way at least once). Believe it or not, W also shows up with a box of chocolates. But somehow, although I know that he loves them even more than me (read it whichever way you like, it’s still true), two hours later, when he leaves, the box is still full. And it’s a large box!

This is my first time in Stirling, so I pop a few chocolates into my handbag and jump in the cab that takes me to Stirling castle. I’m just in time for the last guided tour, and I’m the only one there. The first 15 minutes are disconcertingly intimate, with the (male) guide asking me all sorts of personal questions, until two (male) American tourists join us and start doing it for him. Isn’t it funny how by replying “I’d rather not say” you provoke even more questions? The guide professionally explains it to them that Mary prefers keeping herself to herself and at last the tour starts.

The tour over, there’s still time to explore the rest of the castle and we go in opposite directions. But on the relatively large castle grounds it’s impossible to lose two American men. I give up eventually and we walk together which is great, because when at 5pm the castle is closed and we’re outside, I realise that I’m in a bit of a trouble. I am on top of some hill, most probably miles away from civilization, it’s darker than in the Middle Ages, I didn’t take the business card of the cabbie who’d given me a lift here and apart from the two Americans there’s no-one around to ask for the number of a local cab service. In fact, I’m desperate enough to ask for directions to the nearest bus stop (and for instructions on how to use buses in Scotland) but the large square in front of the castle is empty except for me, the Americans and their car.

The Americans offer me a lift. My mother would go grey at the thought that I can get in a car with two strangers. Their wives would go grey at the thought that their husbands are not even half as gay as they would like them to be at that moment. I go grey at the thought of a possibility of a bus and searching for it in the dark. In high heels. Besides, the Americans are harmless, so they clear the back seat for me and Larry starts the engine while Jerry turns to me:

– Look, Mary, we opened this box but only had one chocolate each and now that we need to get on the plane, would you like to keep it?

And he passes me a box of chocolates. The first chocolate I don’t even chew; it meets my “you’ve got to be kidding, guys” on its way out and both stay firmly inside.

My saviours are only passing Stirling on their way to Edinburgh airport to catch a late flight to London. They don’t know this place at all, and the first ten minutes are spent driving up and down dark narrow and winding cobbled streets looking for any sign at all. Eventually, luck brings a passer-by who’s not particularly sure of his own whereabouts but nevertheless points in a vague direction and soon we find ourselves on a motorway with signs for both Stirling and Edinburgh. If not the 2 boxes of chocolates left in my suitcase in the hotel, I’d have gone with the Americans all the way to Edinburgh. With the chocolates in mind, I ask Larry to drop me off anywhere that resembles this village’s green. 10 more minutes and we hit a place with street lights and people. The guys drive off and I go in search of a taxi rank.

Early next morning a train brings me back to Waverley with 3 opened chocolate boxes in suitcase and a firm desire to never leave Edinburgh again. At least not this year.

The true face of every profession

I’ll start from far away. In Newcastle I used to see a man who played rugby professionally until he left it and acquired a highly intellectual occupation. He was (I am very sad to repeat that he was) 6’3″ x 5’3″ x 4’3″(chest level). He spoke queen’s English and had impeccable manners and gestures. His favourite item was a pink frilly robe (size 24) with the writing on the back saying “Bad bad naughty disobedient little girl”. He looked so cute in it!

Anyway, one day I buzz him in, he comes up and says there’s a bailiff-looking man at the front door – is everything ok or do I want any help? I get curious. What does a typical bailiff look like? The only one I’ve ever met was a bubbly blond of my height but with more curves – we briefly worked together. Besides, I don’t think it’s fair. How come you can say “he looks like a bailiff” or “she looks like a prostitute” and everyone immediately has some sort of image in mind. What about “he looks like a nurse” or “she looks like a sculptor”?

– That man looks like a thug.

I look at him silently. Every second Geordie looks like a thug (especially when talking) and most of them are sweethearts. He goes on to describe the poor passer-by: “He is about as tall as… well, me, with a large frame like… like mine… and with a face like…” He cringes, looking for a suitable word and I helpfully suggest: “Like yours?” Priceless facial expression.

And now that we’ve established that thugs look like bailiffs and bailiffs look like rugby players, you can imagine GR who, incidentally, also plays rugby. He opens the door and I enter his hotel room. He’s young and seems to be excitedly restless.

-It’s the first time I called someone like you.

-Well then, let’s make sure it’s the last one. (As greater the actor – as longer the pause.* GR’s confused face) Don’t you know we’re bad women and your mother would disapprove?

He’s difficult to read and does not react to things the way I’d expect. I put it down to being anxious about his first time. As I count the money, he asks if I would like to stay longer – things get funnier by the minute. I’ve only just walked in, and you already know you’d like more time with me? I reply that I’ll see.

I’m used to having the upper hand in the speed with which things unfold (rather literally) and in what we do. GR just grabs me and starts pulling my clothes off. He stops when I protest saying it’s not romantic at all. And just as I think I made my point clear, he pushes me so that fall down on the bed. Tangled in the duvet and the remainder of my clothes, I fumble my way back to the solid ground and by this time I’m fuming.

– You don’t do this!

– No? – He looks surprised.

– NO! I do this!

And I do my best to push him. He falls down on the bed where the duvet still bears my shape. I’m sure he just played along but it’s a good sign. I climb up and sit on top of him. In a few words I explain that this is not the way to treat a woman and I will not be staying longer as he’s asked. He suddenly looks very apologetic: “But I’m so horny and you’re so lush!” Jesus, some men really need to try and learn to masturbate! This will do a lot of good to a lot of people. But while I’m there I might as well do it for him.

And as his tension is gone, from a wild dog that doesn’t know how to fawn without biting you he turns into a playful pet puppy that nuzzles up to you one minute and jumps happily around the next. He’s teasing me, kissing everywhere but on the lips – when did he pick up that I love kissing so much? His eyes shine, his smile sparkles in the dim light of the room, like someone plugged in his mains and it transformed him into a man that I totally fancy.

What’s there to add? I stayed longer – with pleasure! We went downstairs together and he waited with me for the cab to arrive. Well, maybe just one more thing: dear reader, if you haven’t done so yet, go play with yourself. It’s good for you.

* S Maugham

Jewel’s splitting hairs

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

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

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

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

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

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

The return of the farmer

Another great week in my life. I now have one more writer, one more farmer and one more virgin to add to my extensive list.

Farmers invading my blog is an interesting thing. This one is the fourth. Out of other three, two show up rather regularly, and considering the fact that it’s quite a drive for them, I see it as more than just endearing. Now add to this a strong muscly body that knows how to work long and hard and you’ll see why I’m so totally smitten. I’m trying to figure out how they find me but to no avail. A dozen posts ago I did contemplate advertising on a weather forecast website, not seriously at the time, but if this is what brings farmers in, I’m starting to consider it now. I can clearly picture my own photo under a header ” Scottish Farmers Choose”. Or would a laconic “Farmers’ Choice” be better? I wouldn’t mind at all taking part payment in fresh produce (oh, did I tell you about a baker I used to see in Newcastle? He would always bring me some bread! At 4 bloody AM!) but it’s not fair on those who deal with livestock as I’m a vegetarian.

And if you think I’m making fun of farmers and their work here – I’m sorry it looks this way, it’s absolutely not so: they are great clients (as I’ve said more than once on this blog) and I’m the biggest fan of their market in Edinburgh!

As for the writers I’ve seen, it always makes for a good conversation, and then I get home and start leafing through books. This time it’s R L Stevenson.

And, of course, the weather. Last night it snowed. Edinburgh is magically beautiful. I made 3 snowpersons: 2 of them (one large, the other small and shapely) hold hands below my window. The third one (a tiny thing) decorates the postbox on the corner.

Love it!

It’s been a great week for me, one of those weeks that remind me how much fun this job is. I got to meet some interesting people, I got to go to some nice places, I got a pair of shoes (it’s not even funny anymore, is it?), I got to jump in a cab for a 70 miles trip at a short notice – to be honest, I didn’t realise it would be 70 miles till the cabbie told me. Had I known this, I’d have refused the booking (good job I didn’t, the trip was worth it). It’s not the distance (I once got in a cab at 1 am to go from Newcastle to Derby and back, but that was not for work so doesn’t count), I don’t mind going outside Edinburgh for work, I go to London just for a night from time to time, but I’m not the sort of person to act on the spur of the moment, I’d rather these trips were well planned in advance. So I’m proud to see I’m able to work out of my comfort zone.

And then I came across this little video and although the end of it is so typically American, I loved it. All the things these sex workers mention – working hours that suit you, working in a mode that you are comfortable with, working as little or as much as you feel like, being able to choose who you see – yes, I love this job. Nothing compares to a cup of hot chocolate (with 3 marshmallows and cinnamon), but the satisfaction of a job well done comes pretty close. And yes, in this business you do get to experience this. It doesn’t happen all the time, with some people it’s just work – you do your best and leave, but with others it just clicks and you know you’ve made someone happy (not necessarily through sex).