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:

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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!

Some of the things that enhance my life

I really don’t understand the appeal of cooking. Eating, however… Eating is a totally different business. If you want me as your girlfriend, all you need to do is promise to cook for me or take me out for meals till death do us part. Or till I grow up and learn to cook for myself, whichever happens first. Don’t give me that look! Which part of my pretty-for-pay site made me appear picky when it comes to men? Anyway, there’s a specific cookbook that I need (don’t ask. Seriously, just don’t ask) so I’m now visiting all the second-hand book shops* in Edinburgh. Today I went to my favourite one, and asked the shop assistant to direct me to the cookery section. A few turns and narrow passages later he left me in front of 4 shelves overloaded with books. For a gastrosexual like me, this is what purgatory looks like. But years of sex work do teach you to find pleasure in the least likely places.

An hour later, as I passed the shop assistant on my way out, he asked if I found what I was looking for.
– No, but I organised your cookery section. You now have wine and other drink books on the top shelf, the second one is for regional cuisine, the third one for all other cookbooks, and the last one is for baking, desserts and books that are about food but contain no recipes. And the two stacks of books on the floor are those that belong to other sections, mostly golf and architecture – one has to wonder… But they are for you to sort out!Edinburgh escorts
– Um… Thanks…

I walked out of the shop with a satisfying feeling of time well spent. CDO can be time consuming, but it gives you an eye for detail and brings the beauty of order to your life.


* I love books. Not as much as I love eating, but they are still dear to me. Unlike food though, I prefer my books pre-used: trees were killed to make them. I also try not to own books; a good book is a feeling, not an object, and you can’t own a feeling. A bad book – why would you want to own that? So once I’m done with a book, more often than not it goes back into circulation. Yet I have a shelf of books I received from my clients. These are memories more than they are feelings, and some memories are worth keeping.

The but

Yes, there’s only one letter t in that but.

As part of my investigations into a potential client’s needs, I received this:

I don’t want to give a typical male sob story so hope this doesn’t come across like that. I’ve been married a long time and our life is good – apart from the sex […] and it leaves me unfulfilled.

And it really is a typical male story (I disagree with sob), at least from my professional point of view. All my married clients use the same words: “our relationship is good, but (insert the but of your choice: but there is no sex, but the sex we have is very basic, but my partner doesn’t want me, but I don’t get the intimacy I need, etc) and I feel unfulfilled”. Will I appear radical by saying that goodbut actually means bad? Because goodbut doesn’t mean good. You’d never say “The weather is good but it’s raining”. You say “Damn, the weather is horrid again”. When you buy something from Amazon and it doesn’t do what it’s meant to do, you don’t post a positive review of “It’s good but it doesn’t work”. No, you return the item! Acknowledging that the relationship actually isn’t good is a good start. We don’t have this problem with things: if it’s broken – we see it, if we don’t like it – we say so. But when it comes to relationships, it’s never broken/ of poor quality/ unsatisfactory – no, it’s good. But.

First of all, we need to blame the parents. For the obvious reasons. If they only provided us with the goodbut relationship model, then a goodbut relationship is all we’ll be looking for. Secondly, we need to blame the parents for the less obvious reasons: for not bringing us up with the feeling of self-worth that would prevent us from settling for goodbut relationships.

More than anyone else, however, the responsible party is us. We don’t often enough get into a relationship with the awareness of our reasons for it – because this is the standard against which the success of something is measured. If you buy a violin because you want to make music, a crack in its body will spoil your plans. But the same violin will be a boon if all you want is to annoy the hell out of your neighbours. So if you don’t know what is important to you in a relationship, how can you tell if it’s working for you? Especially in a culture which is big on telling you what your relationship should be like. If you got into a relationship because you didn’t want to be lonely, and now you have a beautiful home, an attractive partner and a bunch of kids but you’re still lonely – it’s not working that well for you, is it?Edinburgh escorts

The truth is, among the billions of people on this planet there will always be others who have the same need (or lack thereof) for sex as you, the same life goals as you, the same attitudes to relationships as you. But we settle for whoever comes first and don’t give ourselves time to find someone who meets the needs that are important to us. And because a relationship is forever – nobody doubts this axiom, I hope – we find ourselves living unfulfilled lives, forever. Because god forbid you voice your worries to your partner, or worse, start working on having your needs met and getting some happiness in this life. And I don’t mean sex. I am talking about any aspect of a relationship that is important to you personally and in which your needs aren’t met. A relationship is there to enrich your life, not to turn it into a mind-numbingly boring descent into death.

All that said, I’m not in a relationship myself, so ignore me. The reason I’m not in a relationship though is this poem by Omar Khayyám:

You better starve, than eat whatever
And better be alone, than with whoever.

This isn’t the first time I tell people how to live their lives. Here is another possible reason of unfulfilling relationships, and ways of dealing with them.


In other news, there’s a blog entry out of timeline here, and I’m off to England in a few days. St Valentine’s in Cambridge will be exciting! Come be mine!

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”.

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.


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.


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…


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.

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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.

Ye gods and little fishes

The limerick of the day:

When money is buying affection,

there’s no guarantee of erection.

But Jewel, we know,

will set us aglow,

and without any chance of dejection.

As you probably know, last week there was a debate on prostitution. The leaflet said it was Rhoda Grant (MSP) and Richard Lucas (some obscure personage of some obscure christian movement in Scotland) VS Laura Lee (sex workers’ rights campaigner) and Douglas Fox (IUSW representative).

The debate was held in a hotel across the road from the Parliament; one has to wonder if this location was chosen intentionally. I was a little late, sat there for about an hour and left early when Rhoda was speaking. Outside the meeting room, I got the mobile out of my handbag and dialled a number.

– Are you done? – asked H(ugh).

– I left early, – I said. – Shall I come round then?

– Sure, see you in a minute.

I put the phone back into my handbag and go to the lifts. 30 seconds later he opens the door, I step in and he gives me a kiss. I get home really late.

The following afternoon Walter comes to pick me up for lunch. At the restaurant, our drinks served, he asks:

– So, how was it?

– Boring. I left early.

– Not the feedback I expected! And what’s this Rhoda like?

– Well, she’s like… How do I put it into words? She’s a little… A lot, actually… I don’t know… She’s like a fish.

– Out of water?

No, it’s not that. It took me a while to figure out why it was exactly a fish that came to mind, but now I know. When you look at a pretty little gold fish in a tank, opening its mouth and making little air bubbles, you get the same level of passion and interest. And the same amount of information. The only time she came up with something fresh was when Douglas asked how the legislation will be enforced and what sort of evidence the police will look for. She admitted that the women would have to be tracked down (all hail decriminalisation a la Grant!) and as for evidence, well, the police would come up with something. That was the point where I got bored.

Walter went to pay the bill and, waiting for him, I looked around the restaurant. 3 tables away from me Douglas Fox was chatting to a woman who was scribbling his words down. I waved at him. He gave me a blank stare. Oh well. Walter returned, I told him about Douglas and we marvelled at the coincidence. Although frankly, considering how many beliefs Douglas and I share, it wasn’t a surprise at all that we ended up in the same restaurant. We got up to leave and as Walter opened the door for me, he whispered: “He looked at your bum!”

– Errm… Douglas??? What, is there a stain on my dress?

I turn round trying to look at my own bum. Walter rolls eyes, probably the first time in the years I’ve known him:

– The waiter! He totally looked at your bum!

Once inside, we have a shower and move on to the bed. There Walter picks me up (naturally, I scream and demand that he puts me back down), kisses me and throws me on the bed. What’s it all about? If you remember, some time ago Walter pulled that trick off the first time and although it was a little different to actual throwing, it was rather exciting. And this time it’s even better. The bed creaks, as if to complain; clumsily, on all fours over the duvet I make my way back to the floor and demand (again! Some women just won’t give you a break, will they?) that he throws me again. He does as told and jumps after me.

I haven’t said it before on the blog, but Walter is one of those clients who turns my job from a nice pastime into a rewarding endeavour, a hard task that’s totally worth taking. For a very long time our relationship was a teacher-student one, with him asking questions and me doing my best to explain things I’d never even tried putting into words before. When I met him, he had very little (and mostly negative) experience of sex. But he was eager to learn, with a clear goal he set himself from the start. I’ll never forget the kiss he stole while we were waiting to be seated in a restaurant on one of our first dates. Such a small thing but it was a big step for him at the time. And, step by step, he is now at the stage where he knows how to make love to a woman, he knows how to take the lead and he feels comfortable with it. I don’t think he thought it was possible 2 years ago. And all this time he’s been unwittingly teaching me back things that I lack: humility, open mind, putting trust into people. Prostitution is a nationwide educational programme focussed on safe sex and personal growth. You should be investing into it, not criminalising it.

And in case you’re interested, here‘s (much) more about the debate from Douglas Fox and the article about each panelist by the lady-scribbler in the restaurant.

Competition – updated AGAIN

For the long-awaited Limericks Competition go to the Monthly Poll page. Please excuse its appearance: limericks were only allowed as one line text by the format of the poll. I tried other versions of polls, other providers of poll service, html tags and even tried uploading the limericks as an image, and I’m afraid that what you see there is the best-looking and least-complicated option. If you know the secret to how to break each option in the poll into individual lines – please please tell me.

I would like to thank everyone who contributed to the contest, you did me proud. 

The limericks you see in the poll are only about a half of everything that I received. Some people sent only one or two, others sent a dozen, and although there were so many brilliant ones, I felt that to make the competition a little fair (and to help the reader get to the end of the competition list) I should limit the amount of entries by one person to 3. It was hard to choose just 3 from, say, 8 great verses, and it’s harder still to keep the remainder to myself (apart from the very personal one. These are between me and the author only, I’m afraid), so the limericks that aren’t in the competition will be published later. Maybe I should release them one a day? That’ll last till the end of the competition.

Votes: from 1 June to 30 June, the entries are listed in random order, you can choose up to 2 limericks (simply because it would be hard to pick just one), 1 vote per IP address. I know it’s not too hard to vote from work and then from home, but I hope that voters will try to be fair. I won’t be casting mine: I’m a bit of a biased party here. Also, of all the limericks I received one stood out to me as an immediate winner. I did not include it in the competition because, as I said, this one already won my heart:

There is nothing about Jewel I would alter –

Nor would Mariner, Leonard, or Walter.

We all worship her,

She’s our shining star,

And her loveliness will never falter.  

Most limericks in the competition touch on my work in one way or another, and the affection between some of the lines is obvious. But this one is so special to me because it brings up the side of my work I enjoy most – my clients – not as faceless “them” or even “us”; it shows that all of my clients are individuals, very different people, yet they have something in common: their good taste (and not what you thought it was). And their fondness for me. The author has not featured on this blog yet although it’s been over half a year now since I first saw him. I hope to finish his entry soon. He’ll go by the code name of The Scot.

And the prize, of course. Since no-one made a suggestion in this respect, let’s stick with the dinner with the winner*. I’ll be giving away 2 of these: one to the actual winner and one to The Scot. Unless, of course, The Scot’s other limerick wins; I haven’t yet decided what to do in this situation. But I never thought I’m so bloody generous anyway.

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*THE SMALL PRINT: a dinner with the winner is a dinner date between the person whose limerick gains most votes (The Winner) and Jewel (that’s me!) that includes at least 1 hour of private time for outcalls, or 2 hours (plus deposit) for incalls which is charged as per usual; the dinner at a place of the winner’s choice (his kitchen is just as good a place if he thinks he can cook and can manage something gluten-free) will be provided by the winner, with Jewel contributing her time (around 2 hours) free of charge in recognition of his literary achievements. This generous offer expires on the day Jewel decides to retire.

Friends with a prostitute

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prostitute, dissected: Fig. 2

Continued from Fig. 1.

Anyone growing up in a Western society is brought up to think that prostitution is horrible. But when I started my job, I discovered the reality is far from that, and definitely more complex, especially because there are two (at least) parties involved. I knew my side of the deal, but my clients’ side was a mystery at first, with plenty of material to work on – if you are interested. And I was.

Many clients think they pay for sex, but more often than not they pay for a dream. Once they bought it, all I have to do is listen and learn (I’m a great believer in learning from the mistakes others made without having to make them myself), and then I try to arrange the received information neatly into some sort of system. And from time to time there will be a client like John – usually a professional client who has seen many sex workers – who tries to file his experience into folders. My male analogue.

So why did you start this job?

At least he acknowledged that it’s a job, although this then makes the question redundant. Why do we all start this or that job? Because those of us who are not listed in Forbes have to actually go out and make money.

The right question is why I stayed. I tried starting a “decent life with an honest job”. The problem with these two is not only long working hours and peanuts in return, but also lack of motivation. See, when you work 9 to 5, you’ll be paid at the end of the month. Some see it as security – something good. But no matter how well you work, you’ll receive the same amount of peanuts at the end of each month. Does this make you work harder? Don’t know about others, but HELL NO is my answer. In my current career I do my bloody best to make sure I’ve done a good job. It starts with advertising and usually doesn’t finish when I close a client’s hotel room door as I leave – because I’ve just worked very hard to make sure he wants to see me again, so I do my best to commit this date to memory. Because if I don’t do my best at any stage, then I don’t get paid (in colourful pieces of paper, by the way, not in monkey food or spare change).

And the reward is not only financial. My emotional satisfaction is just as important, and in no other job (and I’ve had a lot of these since I started working at 16) have I been made to feel so appreciated and indispensable. Not to mention so beautiful. Prostitution rules.

How important is sex outside the relationship?

I can’t even, honestly. Let’s say it should be “How important is a relationship?” Well, not that much, otherwise I’d be sure to buy myself a couple of these. And since I’m not in a relationship, any sex I have is just sex. But if I WERE in a relationship, we’d be talking about 2 different types of sex:

  • Sex I have at work. This sex is very important. Not because it’s sex or because it’s outside the relationship, but because it’s my job, it made me who I am, and provides me with a lot of potential for personal and financial growth. Without it I’d be a different person.
  • Actual sex outside the imagined relationship. This most probably wouldn’t happen. Not because I get enough sex at work, but because thanks to my work I’m clever enough to not tie myself to a partner who makes me want to have sex outside the relationship. And if I were to end up in such a relationship (everything is temporary, including the Sun, people change and so do relationships), I wouldn’t hesitate to leave it. A hooker is the last person to stick around a useless partner because she has nowhere else to go.

You like challenging men, don’t you?

Well this is fresh. I suppose I love giving some of my clients a hard time – those who I think can take it – and John got his fair share. But he also commented on my website being challenging, and I’ve never thought of it in this light. When I put my site together, my aim was to make sure it attracts the type of client I’m interested in, who also finds my personality attractive. If you think this is challenging…