The dangers of tanning

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

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

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

Edinburgh escorts

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

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

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

Some men do it professionally

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

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

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

Prop: I didn’t! It’s unfair!

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

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

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

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

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

Jewel points her finger.

Prop gets up and goes to the bathroom.

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

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

Edinburgh escorts
A card I received from one of my clients

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

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

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

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

Jewel: There are positions there???

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

Jewel: Was that your position? Prop?

Prop: No.

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

Heavy petting in Glasgow

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

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

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

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

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

‘Would you like Safe Sex on the Beach?’

‘Oh yes, I’m all for safe sex!’

Walter chuckles quietly.

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

No running

No diving

No pushing

No screaming

No smoking

No heavy petting

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

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

My restaurant business

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


As you no doubt have noticed, I’ve been very quiet lately. August is a mad time anyway, plus I’ve been working on a personal problem so I didn’t have that much time left. I am sorry about any disappointment caused and I will try to resume the semblance of regularity on this blog. To make up for my online absence, I looked at some of the old drafts and here‘s a new old entry for your amusement.

Operation Windermere, or Sex with a Woman

Continued from Part 1 where I warned you that it was going to get graphic, so brace yourself.

If you’ve met me or read my blog enough, you know that I have “one a day” rule which I only broke a few times. But I don’t think I ever explained where it comes from. The weird reason for the weird rule is that my body usually produces one orgasm a day. Therefore, if I demand an orgasm from each client, it’s unfair on whoever didn’t turn up first. Or, from a client’s perspective, if everyone pays the same, it’s unfair that the first client gets more for his money than those after him.

If you’re thinking ‘her clients must be clueless’, you’re wrong, but let me leave this point for later. If, on the other hand, you’re thinking “ah, another boring story of how women have it harder than men (ahem)’, this isn’t the case either. Other women may have 25 orgasms a day, I don’t care: when it’s quality against quantity, you know what I go for.

Unlike a lot of civilian women (and men), I get to have sex most days of a year and with different partners. This provides me with a lot of things, and knowledge of my own body is one of them. I know what works, I know what doesn’t, I know what may work in certain circumstances, I know how to create them and I know how to use the tools I’m given to my advantage. Orgasm for me is not something that happens when the stars are in the right alignment. It’s something I can time to a minute.

The real reason it’s one a day is because, as I said, I have them most days of a year. My body just needs rest between them. And when it gets sufficient rest (like when I’m off work, for example), it’s capable of more.

If you still don’t know why I’m talking about it and where the Nutter fits in, then let me remind you that I was off sick all April. The Nutter was the only client that month. So when about midnight he looked deep into my eyes and asked ‘Why is it that when I give 2 orgasms to any other woman, they are 3 weeks apart?’ I had to catch my breath before I could answer. And here we come to the question of clueless men.

The one and only problem with women – for women themselves as well as for men – is that they don’t come with directions for use. So if you don’t explore your self (and your body) – you don’t know. And not everyone bothers to explore. I have met women who genuinely believed that a man will automatically know how to pleasure them as soon as they meet. Imagine everybody’s disappointment when it doesn’t happen. But what’s the logic behind this? If you start a new job, you’re given training even if you’ve done this before – simply because each workplace has its own little rules and ways of doing things. So when a new person is introduced to your body, you can give them the training, or you can wait till they figure out on their own how things work. This is particularly ridiculous when you yourself don’t know how things work for you or when you can’t be open enough to provide some feedback, even if in the form of ‘Cold. Cold. Ok, getting warmer’. So yes, most men will be clueless until you give them a clue or two. And in my experience, men are more than happy to follow instructions. On the first date. It’s quite heart-warming how on the second date they don’t need your instructions anymore because they remember your basics; just some fine-tuning here and there.

I have to say that the same applies to men in equal measure. A lot of them have no clue about what their body reacts best to and where it is most sensitive. My most sensitive body part is my wallet – just so you know. Nothing turns me on more than having that filled.

So we had this eye-opening conversation with the Nutter about the importance of being open in bed, and went to sleep. In the morning he drove me all the way back to Edinburgh because the idea of me being travel-sick again wasn’t fun. And also because it gave us a few more hours together. And I hate to have to say this again, but this is the last entry about the Nutter. It looks like good things come to an end just like anything else. However, I quite enjoy the fact that this regular client vacancy was very quickly filled.

It’s raining men, Part 1

– Hiya, I’ve me mate here with me, would you like to come round tonight?

– Are you two bisexual?

– What?

– Will you two engage with each other?

– Hell, no!

– In that case I’m not interested, thank you.

One of the (many) things I haven’t done yet in my sexy career is a booking with two men. There are obvious reasons for it. To begins with, it’s not safe. With one man, should the bad come to the worst, I can always try to reason: after all, men have balls. And I have knees. I don’t see this argument working with two men though; I do have two knees, but it’s impossible to use them simultaneously.

Another good reason to avoid bookings like this is that I find the idea of two heterosexual men boring so I’m simply not interested. Why do you think football is boring? Because there are TWENTY blokes running after ONE ball. Very few of them get to play with the ball and only for a very short period of time. But if each of them had a ball of his own, he could play with it all he wants, dedicating all his attention to his ball. Or better still, the twenty of them could get rid of the stupid ball and play with each other – this game would be a pleasure to watch, no? But if there’s only one ball and they don’t play with each other, it’s a mean game and at the end of it some are happy and some are not. I don’t do unhappy. Either all are happy or I’m not interested. Yet, there is first time for everything. Yes, I have eventually been invited to meet 2 bisexual men!

Lucky Escorts in Edinburgh
-It’s raining men.

I meet them at a hotel outside Edinburgh. M opens the door. He’s the client. He’s in his 50s, with greying hair and back problems. All I can see at the first glance is that he’s the quiet type. Later I find out that he doesn’t speak much and smiles even less than that, but every time he does it feels like adding marshmallows to my hot chocolate.

M invites me to the room where Elliot (some very hard facts can be seen on the page that opens so if you’re an abolitionist, you may be offended by seeing how many people live fulfilled happy lives while you’re being miserable in your search of a way to control them and their bodies) is waiting. Elliot is my colleague, a gentleman of fixed-rate virtue. He looks nothing like a gentleman though. In 15-20 years he’ll grow to become one, right now he’s a boy. He looks barely 20 although when he speaks you realise he’s older. He has a beautiful body (just look at the photos), and I can think of a lot of men (and some women) who’d kill a baby seal with their bare hands for a bum like his. But his real selling feature is not on the pictures – it’s his face. Not because he’s so photogenic (although I’m sure he is), not because of his rosy lips and cheeks, but because of his facial expression. He tries to go for the naughty boy look but you can see he’s actually shy (either that or he’s really good at what he does). And this mix of emotions topped with a charming smile and the aforementioned rosy lips and cheeks looks very attractive indeed.

They are both dressed when I come in (which I appreciate a lot. Meeting your lady in a bathrobe or even less is not exactly chic) but they obviously did it in a hurry. M is in chinos, his shirt undone; Elliot clearly only just pulled his jeans on. There’s a gap between his belt and his stomach, I look there and giggle. He nearly blushes.

All this is rather hard for me. When I meet a client, I focus my attention on him. When I meet a couple, I concentrate on the woman: the man will be fine just by looking at us. But what’s a girl to do with a couple of men? I could give my attention to M because he’s paying, but this is unfair on Elliot because a. it may look like I’m stealing his client (he’s been seeing M for a year) and b. I’m paid to see both of them so Elliot is also my client even though he’s not the one who pays me. I end up kissing them both, flirting a little and deciding to leave it up to them. They asked me to come, let them deal with my presence.

You can see they are feeling awkward, too. They start discussing things, referring to me in the third person. I put it down to feeling awkward rather than being impolite, tell them to mind their language – there’s a lady present! – and (sod it all!) grab M and start undressing him. Elliot’s a professional, he’ll find his way around.

How to make a good first impression

I was in the middle of polishing Part 2 of “Cats and Dogs” series when he called again, and this made me change my mind and publish this post first.

His first call in the morning went like this:

Jewel: Hello.

Caller: Hi.


Jewel’s brain: Time waster?

Jewel: How can I help you?

Caller: <very quietly> I’m looking for an escort.


Jewel’s brain: <rather loudly> Time waster!

Jewel: I see. So how can I help you?

Caller: <even quieter than the first time> I’m looking for an escort.


Jewel’s brain: <deep sigh, eyes rolled>

Jewel: Is it an incall or an outcall you are looking for?

Caller: <still very quietly> Incall.

Jewel: When do you have in mind?

Caller: <barely audibly> Six.

Jewel’s brain: Or was it “sex” that he said?

Jewel: 6 o’clock tonight?

Caller hangs up.

Jewel: Thank gods.

Jewel’s brain: <loud snicker>.

In the afternoon he calls again and the same conversation takes place. While the caller is most probably a time waster, I somehow hope that he doesn’t do it on purpose. I know it can be rather scary to make this first call especially if you’re not the shiniest spoon in the cutlery draw and it’s the first time you’re speaking to “a woman who does this”. Over the years I’ve had thousands of men on the phone and yes, men can be very nervous when talking to women (after all, their sex life depends on it – it can’t get more serious than this, can it?), to the point where they lose their gift of speech (if they ever had it) – and this is the best case scenario. In the worst case they start blabbing away and end up being rude without probably meaning it. Besides, not all of us have the talent to be patient on the phone. Take me for example: if you don’t make sense within the first 2 phrases, I tend to lose patience and with it any interest in meeting the caller, which, of course, makes the poor sod on the other end of the line even more nervous.

So here are a few tips on how to make this first conversation a success.


  • Read everything on the lady’s website, especially the part where she says how she prefers to be contacted and how much notice she needs.
  • Be polite and respectful if you really want to meet the lady you’re calling (I’ll be the first one to say that it’s not too hard to be polite without being respectful – I use this technique myself – but if you want to get laid, you have to remember that the woman you’re speaking to is not your girlfriend).
  • Address the lady by name. It’s basic good manners and it shows that you’ve taken the minimal required interest in her profile/ website.
  • Introduce yourself.
  • Say what you are looking for (please spare a minute to think it over  first). This may be tricky but please be more specific than “I’m looking for an escort”. Say what day and time you have in mind, incall or outcall (if your lady offers both), 1 hour or a dinner date.
  • If you’re not sure about any of the details – say so. We’re always happy to help you arrange a date and time that suit both parties.
  • If you’re nervous – say so. It’s not a job interview or a public speech so it’s ok to let your lady know how you’re feeling talking to her, and it can be an ice breaker. It’s ok to be nervous, it’s ok to hiccup and stammer, and feel free to hyperventilate – anything goes as long as you’re making sense and not mumbling to yourself. We really do understand how you feel: we’ve heard it hundreds of times before.
  • If you don’t speak much English – say so. We’ll speak slower and we’ll choose simpler words.
  • Anything else – say so. We’re always happy to help, be it on the phone or later in person, but we can’t unless you tell us what the issue is.


  • I’m looking for an escort – go online or call an agency.
  • Do you have anyone free tonight? (rather popular with callers after 10pm) – call an agency.
  • How much do you cost? (rather popular with men from smaller towns in Scotland and the North of England) – go shoot yourself. Being thick is not an excuse for being rude.
  • Are you busy tonight, hon? – call your girlfriend.
And the last thing. Please understand that we have a life. It means that when you call we’re not sitting on the bed polishing our collection of sex toys. We may be picking up kids from school, having dinner with our parents or an argument with our husband. We may be queueing at Sainsbury’s or entering a hotel. Please leave a voicemail.

The Jewel box

The first time P got in touch, I told him off and didn’t hear back for a long time. What happened? As always, I asked what sort of experience he was looking for. He said all he wanted was a touch of class but so far he’d only been disappointed by the women he saw. And true to myself, I told him that if a man is disappointed with a sex worker, it’s his own fault. Let’s be honest, it takes two to tango, be it bad or good. Men tend to assume that if they pick a woman with the right bra size or the right accent or the right price – it’ll be good. The reality is that you are going to have sex with this woman, not with her bra size or her accent. If you did not enjoy it – you didn’t choose the right woman or didn’t make it clear to her what you were looking for. Communication is everything: sex workers are not mind readers.

Which reminds me of one young man who was trying so hard not to be shy that it was obvious that I was his first lady of fixed-rate virtue, so I sat him down on the sofa, climbed on top and explained the rules:

– Rule number one. If you don’t enjoy what we’re doing – you tell me. Ok?

– <emphatic nod> Ok.

– Good. <kiss> If you do enjoy what we’re doing – you tell me. Ok?

– <emphatic nod> Ok.

– Good. <kiss> And if you want to change what we’re doing – what do you do?

– I’m a farmer. <Jewel slides down on the sofa in a fit of laughter>

And back to P. As you can guess, we meet eventually. He shows up on time with the bribe in hand – a cup of hot chocolate which I requested as a token of his appreciation for my waking up at a ridiculous hour to see him at 10am.  He says he was so taken with my bus ads (have you seen them? A few bus routes in Edinburgh promise you a heavenly ride straight to “The Jewel”. Unfortunately, my website URL is too long to fit into the destination box on the bus foreheads) that he couldn’t resist buying some of my produce – and he hands me “The Jewel Box”. This I haven’t seen yet: a little square blue and pink box of chocolates with my name on it!

We end up in the bedroom where things unfold smoothly, but P keeps a little distance. You can see he’s enjoying himself, but he doesn’t allow himself to relax and open up fully. Oh well, you can lead a client to bed but you can’t make him buy the dream.

I sometimes wonder why men do it – avoid intimacy. Fair enough, there are men who are not looking for intimacy, but these don’t usually want to meet me. Those who become my clients are usually men who want a little more than sex. Obviously, a close connection doesn’t happen straight away. Newcomers, like the farmer above, open up quicker (literally on my 3rd sentence), probably because of the negative experiences and misconceptions they haven’t yet amassed. Others take a little longer. Yet, if we leave out those whom, for various reasons, I fail to establish a connection with and those who open up sooner or later, we’re left with about 10-15 percent of my clients who seem to be happy in my company and make an effort to help me enjoy theirs, but somehow I can see that they are not all there with me. Here’s the little list of reasons that I think they go by, but please correct me if it’s wrong or incomplete. Some clients keep the distance because:

  • They think it’s wrong to enjoy paid sex fully: ridiculous, I know, but I have also met sex workers who think it’s wrong to enjoy paid sex;
  • They don’t want to get emotionally attached to their chosen sex worker: I’ve been told quite a few times (BY MEN!) that for men it’s much easier to fall in love than it is for women (and the cursed love has already cost me a few very good clients over the years);
  • They don’t know how to be intimate with a stranger (which is a weak argument for when they see you a few times and you’re not a stranger anymore);
  • I’m not trustworthy enough for them to open up. Oh well.

And only at the end of our date, when we’re cuddling in bed, something happens to P and the no-intimacy switch goes off in him. Now he’s being his real self: it’s in his eyes, his tone of voice, in the way he suddenly wants to express how he’s feeling. He sits up, I wrap my legs around him, and he starts gliding his hands over my body. It only lasts a few minutes and then he’s back to his formal mode of interaction.

When a client opens up – it is so touching, even if it’s only for a few minutes. Totally worth working for.

The Good Date

Continued from Part1 and Part2.

Mr French is running late. He was supposed to be at the flat at 1pm, but it’s a long way to Edinburgh and the traffic is not very helpful. At 1.30 he storms in, suit on a hanger in one hand, a bag in another. All this immediately goes on the floor so his hands are free for a little fumble right by the door. Eventually I tear him off my face, shove a towel in his hands and lock him in the bathroom where the shower is already running. 3 minutes later he’s out. I dry his back while he zips his bag open. Not made of carpet, it’s still Miss Poppins’ style: he takes out a pair of shoes, a pair of socks, a change of underwear and lots of grooming things. 5 more minutes and he’s ready. Another little fumble by the door until we’re at last out and in a cab. Thankfully, Lyceum theatre is close by and we’re there just on time.

As much as I am now in love with Arabic theatre, I have to mention that One Thousand and One Nights is not the sort of play you go to see with your mother. Or with your children, even if they are over 30. In fact, depending on what sort of woman you were clever/ lucky enough to marry, your wife might also be the wrong partner for this sort of entertainment (when the slaves with strap-ons appeared on the stage, the elderly lady on my right closed her eyes. When The Porter went down on the three sisters one after another, she closed them again. When he ran across the stage stark naked, I didn’t dare to look at her. Besides, The Porter was quite a sight). But the sex-worker – client relationship happened to be perfect for it and by the end of Part 1 Mr French started looking keenly at me. We go for an early dinner in a nearby restaurant and he seems to relax a little, but back at the theatre, in the bar, his hand is again firmly glued to right below the small of my back.

“You’re so lovely” he says. I yawn. He takes a swig from his glass. “You’re bloody desirable.” I smile smugly. He pulls me in closer. We kiss. The taste of his drink burns my throat.

One Thousand and One Nights is a tale in a tale. Shehrazade tells tales to her husband (don’t we all know women like this?). The characters of her stories (2nd level), brought to life right in front of us by the power of her imagination, go places, meet people, tell them their story and listen the stories of others in return (3rd level). These stories also involve people and so we go deeper and deeper. Mr French admits that he’s losing the plot. I’m surprised – after just 2 drinks? But by the middle of Part 2, when a character from a 5th level tale comes to the 3rd level tale to resuscitate The Hunchback, I have to admit that now they lost me, too.

We leave the theatre around 10. It’s a lovely evening, even if a little too fresh, and we walk in silence, his hand on my waist. I’m still dwelling on some parts of the play that impressed me most. No clue what’s on his mind. Eventually, he’s the first to speak.

– Now I know what your plan was. To show me that women are so much better than men.

This totally wasn’t my plan. I haven’t seen the play before and I didn’t know what it was about. Besides, there were some decent male characters in the play, too. Although, in all honesty, not too many of them. But would I really tell Mr French that he’s arrived to the wrong decision? I just reply that everything around is a part of a greater plan.

My own revenge plan, it seems, did not work that well. Not only did he sit through the 6 hours of the play without falling asleep, he also really enjoyed it. Oh well, there’s always the next time. Maybe I will have to tie him to a chair after all. At this point I get too cold and Mr French hails a cab.

At the flat, I make him go through the drafts of Parts 1 and 2 of the recipe first but it’s obvious that reading is not what he wants to do. I point at his chin. He opens his carpet bag, takes out his shaving things and disappears in the bathroom. He knows how to win my, erm, heart.

And so, the ultimate rule for being happy with a woman: no matter what your woman says, all you have to do is reply “Yes, dear” and then go and do as she said. It really is that simple. Happy women don’t nag, don’t look unattractive and don’t make your life miserable. You are far more likely to be happy with a happy woman than with an unhappy one.

Old nutter, or when you are with a woman

So, the old nutter. This post is based on the booking with him, but only because it was typical, as many men tend to make the same mistakes. Also, the solutions given are my point of view only, but they can be applied to most people, men and women alike. For example:

I undress him.

– <with fascination> Wow! Look at these scars! How did you get them?

– Oh… it’s this operation I had last year…

Really? Did my question sound like I wanted to hear about an operation? Didn’t it sound like I wanted to hear a story? A woman who is about to take you to bed does not want to know what operations you underwent. It’s not because the woman doesn’t care for your health, it’s because the moment is not right. If you think that the woman in front of you might have some matrimonial plans – by all means, tell her about your kidney stones, insufficient secretion of pancreatic juice, rectal prolapse and missing teeth. The woman has the right to know exactly how damaged the goods that she’s buying are. But if it’s too early to order a three-tier cake yet and if you doubt that you are eloquent enough to add charm to your medical history, then maybe it’s better to hold the horses for a while – unless, of course, it’s the story of how you lost one of your balls.

Instead, why not tell her something that has more sensual appeal/ raw force to it? If the amount and quality of your scars allow for it, you can start like this: “Oh these? Not nice, eh? But I’m proud of them. It’s through them that I was awarded Victoria Cross. You see, it was in the Second World War/ Korea/ Vietnam/ the Falklands/ the Gulf/ Afghanistan (pick according to your age and political affiliations, but keep it in mind that no VCs were awarded for the Gulf War). We were in Dunkirk/ Pyongyang/ Hue/ Goose Green/ Khafji/ Kabul (try to keep your story plausible) and our division was in the right flank when… ” and let your imagination loose.

And if the extent of your scars does not allow for a heroic explanation, then try to be meaningfully vague: “This scratch? I hoped you wouldn’t notice. You see, my second divorce was not easy, but it was worth it” (unless, of course, this is how you really lost one of your balls – do NOT under any torture tell this story to a woman. You don’t want to put ideas into her pretty head, do you?)

So he’s naked (and quite happy about it), I gradually catch up, we’re on the bed and then he goes: “Can we talk a little?”

Really? Now? We’ve spent 20 minutes talking in the living room! If all of a sudden you’re nervous again, why not kiss me a little/ a lot more? It’s the ultimate turn on! But he’s a client, so if he wants to talk…

– Ok, you talk then. I’m a little busy.

Silence. Don’t you just love them?

– Right, why don’t you tell me what it is that you teach?

– You don’t want to hear about it, it’s rather boring. I teach XYZ.

Really? Is this the way to get me interested in it? Like most mere mortals, I have no clue what XYZ is about. All I know about it now is that it’s boring. Is this how you teach it, too? Why not tell me about XYZ in a more entertaining manner? For example: “Fasten your seat belt, woman, and prepare for a ride! You’ve never heard anything that comes even close to the story of XYZ! XYZ was born when Babylonians/ Aristotle/ da Vinci/ Newton found/ discovered/ invented/ was hit on the head (from here continue as you wish. I’m naked, in bed and with a man. How much do you think I care for what happened once upon a time in Mesopotamia?)

I guess all of the above can be concentrated to this: be playful. Life is too short to be serious in bed. Sex should be fun. Your woman will appreciate it and hopefully act along and together you can have a good laugh. You’ll enjoy your date all the more for it and you’ll have something to remember with a smile later. An honest and serious conversation does not enrich your sex life. And so, keep your woman entertained! There is only one other rule for a good date and it’s coming in the next post.