American clients of Edinburgh escorts

Farewell, August

Please excuse the 2 weeks of silence. There were good political reasons for that. No, the political reasons were actually bad, but they make for a good excuse.

The poll results

The festival poll was nowhere as popular as the weather one. Oh, the britishness of it! They’d rather talk about the weather than about the things that are fun. There were 13 votes altogether, exactly half of the weather poll results.

In case you forgot (as it’s been over 2 weeks now), the question was You and the festival time in Edinburgh are like…

  • Fish and water – you may try living without it, but you’ll fail. 0 votes. Pity.
  • Fish and fins – you can live without it but who wants such a life? 3 votes. One of them mine.
  • Fish and chips – you often go together but it doesn’t make your life longer. 1 voteI guess some people are just born enthusiasm-free.
  • Fish and the shore – you know it exists but you’re not remotely interested in it. 2 votes. Spoilsports!
  • Fish and umbrella – some find it useful but not you. 0 votes. I’m glad it was 0!
  • Fish and the critical period hypothesis in linguistics – what? where? 1 vote. The Fringe HQ need to invest more in their advertising campaign.
  • Why am I always the fish? 1 vote. A fair question which I don’t have a ready answer to. It just happened this way. Could have been anything really, from prostaglandin to an ingot, a fish just has more idioms and connections already available.

And the 5 “other” replies which are the real fun (in order of appearance): 

  1. Love the atmosphere, but trying to go anywhere on foot… Tourist Rage! Funny. I thought it was driving that gave people the tourist rage during the festival, as tram works on their own are bad enough, add the increase of traffic and… I went (as I always do) everywhere (work unrelated) on foot and didn’t have any problems, only fun. I mean, isn’t it fun when out of the blue you’ve got 10 people rubbing against you at the same time? And for free!
  2. Fish and strawberry sauce. We don’t mix well. Pity to hear this but great to see that the fish caught on.
  3. A fish who loves the festival but dislikes the shoal. Beautiful. Just beautiful.
  4. No! I don’t want one of your fucking flyers – and relax… Very cathartic, thanks. How often does it happen nowadays that a SMILING person comes up to you and GIVES you something? For FREE? In Edinburgh it’s only one month a year. I find it refreshing. 
  5. Fish and the bicycle – I’m in the USA so I miss the festival. You poor fish! Now you know where to spend next August.

And other news. Jewel’s news:

  • I’ve arranged a new photoshoot in October so new photos are coming! Probably not till early November, but you can start salivating right now: I don’t charge for anticipation.
  • Another big tour, not just a night in London, details here
Blog news:
  • I’ve shuffled and updated my Blogroll a little and as a result there are now 5 categories there, feel free to explore. Oh, and Blogroll is the thing in the column on the right, where I have links to other blogs and sites which I find either useful or amusing.
  • In view of the political changes mentioned above, there is a new page coming on this blog very-very soon. The sooner the better so I’m working hard in this direction.
  • And a new blog entry (dedicated to touring) out of sequence here.
Client news:
  • Do you remember my first Belgian experience? He was back to Edinburgh for the festival this year and although I didn’t get to see him again, he gave me his ticket for the show he couldn’t attend. How sweet is that! Thank you so much!
  • The ex-old nutter texted to apologise for his behaviour. “Diffidence in the presence of a beautiful woman comes easily”, apparently.

Old “friend” – Part 2

Continued from Part 1.

We left off at the point where I take Colin to the bedroom, didn’t we? There he told me a wonderful story (we did other things there as well, but those are none of your business) about his trip to the States with a bunch of his mates. Naturally, I’m not going to embarrass him and tell you that they went to San Francisco. No, instead let’s imagine they went to Las Vegas – it’s neutral enough and believable enough. So he tells me how one evening they ended up in a night club and some of his mates got to chat to really attractive girls. When the girls agreed to go to their hotel for, errm, a coffee, the blokes thought they really pulled. Can you imagine their disappointment when, once in the room, the attractive ladies started talking business! Can you imagine how hard I laughed! When was the last time an average Scot pulled anything in the States except for his own equipment? I’m not trying to be mean to Scots – they are great people. I wouldn’t live in Scotland if I thought otherwise. But until such pleasures of civilization as razors are available for sale here (together with a manual), Scots have little opportunity to pull attractive urbane ladies who are not familiar with Scottish culture of body negligence.

Again, it’s not that bad all over Scotland, there are some cosmopolitan people even here, but the general attitude of Scots to shaving is not that shaving is good or shaving is bad. It’s more of: what? Shaving? It took me about a year to make Walter* start shaving. Now he does it all the time because, as he confided in me the other day, it looks like his wife quite likes it. But of course she does! First time in decades of marriage she was able to actually see her husband and what do you know! He’s not that bad-looking at all! So the last time I saw him I touched (again) on the state of his nails. Reaction:

– What, manicure? No! This is girlie!

Well, at least he knows it’s called manicure. But he’d rather scratch me non-stop for 3 hours and apologise for it again and again than get a little emery board and file the sharp corners of his nail-cutter-chopped nails that keep catching my skin (and my stockings, my lingerie and my clothes) – doesn’t sound sensual, does it? Feels even less so. I’m sure at some point I’ll get him round to this: after all, it’s not like I insist on French manicure, I ask for basic sensible things. I grew up with a father who used to have his hands manicured every week while he was still in business (and no, it wasn’t the line of business the Scots would immediately assume) and the image of a man who wants to make a good impression but can’t be bothered to take care of some basic things doesn’t sit well with me.

Anyway, back to Colin who started it all. Now you can imagine how I taunted him back when he was hairy bloke no 2. Naturally, it’s not going to go away just because he’s moved to number 4. But he doesn’t know about it yet. Right now we’re still cuddling in bed and he says suddenly:

– You know, Jewel, Colin’s not my name. I’m actually <real name>.

And while I silently go first “aww” with a smile and then “me-e-en” with a sigh, he goes on:

– I’ve no clue why I said I was Colin when I first came to see you. I only know one Colin and I don’t even like the man.

To “Colin’s” credit, at least he was consistent. I’ve seen men who come as Davids on Monday and then show up again on Thursday as Ians. Whom do they do it for? Not me – I can’t care less for what your name is. If you tell me your name is Reed-That-Bends, I’ll call you Reed-That-Bends. I’m not fussy. If you introduce yourself as Andrew but in your hotel you are checked in as John, I’ll still call you Andrew because this is what you wanted. The name that you tell me is the name you’ll hear. But do you want to hear the name of the man you don’t even like when you’re cuddling a woman you’ve just had sex with?

*If you are new on this blog, Walter is a regular client who’s been mentioned here a million times but I don’t think there is an entry dedicated to him personally so I can’t even link his name to a post that would explain who he is. Maybe I should come up with one at last.

Animal Planet: the A to Z of client species found in Edinburgh

The Americans – these come with a hard impermeable shell that they will open up if consider the surrounding environment friendly. The content of the shell varies from individual to individual. The Americans don’t do well in captivity or on their own, they tend to live and migrate in small packs, even when on business. This might be due to the fact that American folklore is very rich with menacing tales of the end of the world, when their natural habitat as it is will cease to exist unless they are all saved by one American, usually known as “the hero” (the only exception is the series of tales where the world was saved by a German lesbian, usually respectfully referred to as “die Hard”). These fear and distrust over the generations found their natural way out in evolution of the protective shell mentioned above.

The Arabs – religiously clean, personal grooming includes fur intolerance. Young unmated individuals may differ greatly from mature mated ones. The Arabs are reportedly polygynous; when mating outside their natural environment, tend to show preference for copulation with only one female. In return for her favours they religiously follow the prescribed rules of keeping the females satisfied: supporting the female financially, taking her shopping, then to a restaurant, then to the bedroom. It is thus seen as taking on a short-term wife rather than cheating.

The Aussies – think well of themselves and rightly so. For mating rituals always show up well-groomed and well-dressed. In contacts seem to prefer quality to quantity. Exhibit a good sense of style, hygiene and humour. Genetically courteous. Unanimously list religious upbringing as enemy no 1.

The English – easy to spot even out of their natural habitat due to their inbred tendency to form queues where more than one specimen is involved. A few subspecies are recognised (although all show a high degree of individual variability) distinguished by location, attitude to females, mating rituals and view of self. By most part, however, see themselves as sexually attractive just by being male and therefore are not well-trained in the arts of personal grooming and dressing. The ones who left their natural environment and were accepted by other species copy successfully the other species’ ways of grooming, dressing and polite interaction.

The French may vary wildly in their appearance but the behavioral traits that set them apart from other species are unmistakable. They are the only species that really know how to enjoy life and themselves, even within the settings of Scotland. Adults train the young to appreciate good food, good wine and good time for yourself, sometimes even at the expense of training in personal grooming. They willingly acknowledge this about themselves but are not in a hurry to change the behavioral pattern: so much good food, so many good females, so little time for silly necessities!

The Italians – not enough data gathered to provide a reliable description, most probably because located so far north, Edinburgh does not provide this species with favourable conditions for mating. The only confirmed fact is that the myth of hot Italian lovers is a myth. The research continues and volunteers are welcome.

The Kiwis – quite rare here but the ones spotted are reportedly similar in behaviour to the Aussies although differ from them in appearance – they can be careless dressers. It’s unclear whether this is characteristic of the species or is done by relocated individuals to fit in with the local fauna. More research is needed.

The Scandinavians (Norwegian species, the Dutch and the Swedes) – being the northern species, cultivation of body hair is a distinguishing trait, although some individuals are known to have experimented in that field. The absence of smooth body surface is successfully compensated by sweet personality, unassuming attitude and genuine ardour when the possibility for mating arises. However, when the possibility turns into certainty, some Scandinavians show strong tendency for timidity when vis-a-vis with a female. This might be due to the irrational Scandinavian belief that females of the species should not want to mate, and if they say they do – they are clearly confused and need professional help.

The Scots used to form an independent species, but not for long and were never good at it. They were glad to be assimilated by the English, and now, with the same well-documented use of a large variety of polite words, are practically identical. Until the late Pleistocene, were characterised by wearing skirts – a highly distinctive trait, and a very efficient way for males to attract the opposite sex. Nowadays, in line with the English culture, efforts to attract the females are seen as a sign of weakness. The Scots, however, preserved their historic admiration for females and give the lead in the mating rituals to them which, according to Freud, may be due to “skirt envy” and an innate guilt complex rooted in abandoning the skirt tradition.

The Welsh – this mythical species has long been the object of wonder: although everything points to its existence at least at some point in time, no specimen has been captured alive so far. A few individuals are reported to have been suspected of being Welsh, but there was no way to prove it as due to the lack of evidence the existing description of the Welsh and their behaviour is highly unreliable. Consequently, the rumour of a modern country populated with the Welsh has no grounds, although of course a place like that could have existed in antiquity. Theories vary from the ones that suggest that the Welsh died out because they were so few and far between that meeting for procreation was virtually impossible to the ones that stipulate that the Welsh actually reproduced asexually by budding and went extinct because seriously, who can survive without sex? Excavation continues.

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.

A yeti of my own

An American client. My cab drives up to the hotel and I recognise him in the man of stately appearance waiting outside. It’s raining, and he makes a few steps towards me with open arms. A little hug, a little kiss, and we walk inside.

Pouring me a glass of sparkling water, he says he has a present of some sort for me.

– It’s not much but I thought you might want to see this, – and he hands me his camera. It takes me a while to understand what the man on the photo has to do with this booking. You know how men in movies use facial hair to change their appearance and still you always know it’s them and you can’t believe film characters can’t see it. In real life, however, the transformation is shocking. The bearded man on the photo looks nothing like the man with a clean shave in front of me. He says he wanted to get rid of the beard anyway, our date was just the much needed nudge, and I have to hope it’s true, because there are limits to sacrifices that I’m ready to accept.

He puts the camera back on the table and accidentally knocks down my glass. The sound of breaking glass and the shards on the floor prompt another transformation: he loses his dignified looks and all of a sudden turns into a gawky teenager who knows he is gawky and is feeling rather self-conscious about it. And as smithereens are removed, I set on bringing him back to his confident self and reach for a kiss.

I undo his shirt buttons and feel compelled to ask:

– Some good Scottish genes there, eh?

– Yes… How did you guess?

I didn’t have to guess. The Scottish genes are looking right at me. It’s a typically Scottish thing to save on winter clothes by cultivating a thick natural covering. We continue step by step, and when at last I’m helping him take off his trousers, I notice something that strikes me as so surprisingly noticeable that I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before.

– What shoe size are you?

– I’m not good at European sizes, why?

Why? Because anything that’s more than twice the size of my shoe is not a shoe anymore but a canoe. I still can’t believe they were not in the way for him when he walked. He smiles at my surprise and asks with a wink if I know what they say about men with big feet.

If like me, you’ve never before heard anything about men with big feet*, let’s face it, you don’t need a degree in divination to figure this out in the circumstances described. So the only excuse I can find for my stupidity is the acute stress reaction caused by the sight of his canoes. And instead of playing along I ask (totally genuinely):

– No, what is it? They smell more?

It’s just logical. The larger the skin surface, the more pores. Mr Bigfoot is squeaky clean and smelling fresher than a daisy, but before my words brought back the gawky teenager, I jump on the bed and pull him towards me.

Somewhere between this moment and the end of the date another transformation takes place, and now he’s a passionate lover who’s about to say good-bye to the object of his desire. We walk across the hotel lobby in silence. It’s still raining, and my cab is already outside. Mr Bigfoot presses me in his arms and we kiss. When he lets me go, I head for the cab but my hand is still in his: a little pull and I step back into his arms and we kiss again. I get into the cab eventually and the elderly cabbie goes aww.

* Whatever they say about men with big feet is not true. Basic anatomy shows (and Leonardo da Vinci illustrates) that the length of foot is equal to the length of forearm, not other body parts, and even then it all depends on your race and how average you are. My personal experience says that feet, while an important part of a human body, do not play a major role in satisfying sexual practices unless these have to do with a foot fetish, but how many women out there will worship a man’s feet? Please…

The American way

Not sure if you remember J, but I certainly did, which is why I was surprised to hear from him again in August. No, the first time went well, but, as with a lot of Americans, it felt more like an appointment rather than a date. It’s hard to explain the difference without the use of words such as “sterile” and “personality-free” and I don’t want to use these as it makes sex work seem what a lot of people think it is. In fact, Americans make great clients (I’ll tell you why in a minute), in quantity as well as in quality, it’s just that with some of them I find it hard to figure out if they are genuinely enjoying themselves or if they are just being polite. So most of the time the cab ride home I’m busy with “he liked it, he liked it not”. And as I believe that if you have to guess then the answer is NO, you’ll understand why I’m surprised if they want to see me again.

However, if not all my American clients are willing to add a few personal touches here and there, all of them have one thing in common: they are very well trained by my American colleagues. In the country where prostitution is criminalised, women can’t rely on police for protection and have to look after themselves. A complicated system of client check is in place there, and if a client can’t/ doesn’t want to provide his details, then he’s just not a client. So when an American client e-mails me, he willingly submits a sort of application form which I (working in a country where I can go to police should he turn out to be a bad boy after all) do not expect and do not ask for. Which is not to say it’s not appreciated. They’ll list their full name, sometimes home address and phone number, or names of friends/ relatives they are travelling with, the website of the company they work for (“you can find me in “Meet the team” section”/ “I’m the owner and all my contact details are on this page”), their Facebook/ LinkedIn profile, their business blog (which links to their wife’s blog), their car registration number, date of birth, height, weight and shoe size. And all the hotel details on top of that. Do I feel confident meeting them? You bet. As opposed to British applicants, who call you at 10pm and ask you to visit them at their home in an area which I wouldn’t want to have to walk past after 7pm and on my own. And when you tell them that you need their name and landline number on top of the address, they sound surprised (as if it’s not on my website in detail) and make excuses, and one even said that he didn’t want to lose his work over this and he did not understand what I need his personal details for. Well, I don’t see how he can lose his job but I can easily lose my life and no hard feelings, but I’d be very upset should it happen. Sex involves at least two people but some men only think of themselves. Do I meet them? No.

Anyway, back to J. Yes, the first time I went to see him I knew everything about him that you can possibly know if you have Internet access. But even having seen him, I had no clue what sort of person he was. So the second time he got in touch I was quite excited: if he’s brave enough for this, the date’s supposed to be fun. Unfortunately, my schedule did not agree with his and we had to put it off “till next time”. To my surprise, the next time did happen!

We meet at the bar of his hotel. It’s early morning and I still can’t open my eyes properly. J, on the contrary, has been up since 5am – time difference is a funny thing, but only when it affects others – and is already feeling tired. I sit next to him at the table, get my glass of sparkling water and all of a sudden it just happens – we’re talking. He’s not American any more, just human.

Clients are not expected to tell me the story of their life (although most of them will. The majority of sex workers will know everything about their clients’ family, work, kids trouble, car problems, etc. We are a hybrid of a psychiatrist and a priest, only our job is far more useful) but I appreciate it a lot when they open up a little – it can be anything: something they do/ say/ ask for/ offer, the way they look at you or the clothes they wear. Even a small thing can sometimes help me build a picture of how a client is feeling about my presence and what he might be needing right now. A little more from him and I get a rough idea of what sort of person he is. All this makes my job much easier. Lots of other things help, too, like taking your trousers off.

The eyes of the beholder

An American client. It’s rather late and he’s supposed to meet me outside his hotel. I call when I’m in the cab to let him know I’ll be there in 5 minutes.

I come up to the hotel entrance. He’s sitting on the steps, playing with his mobile. As I approach, he looks up. I say “Hi” and smile. He looks surprised but hi-es me back. Silence. He looks at me. “What does this woman want from me?” is written all over his face. This is totally not what an eager client should look like. I start feeling funny.

– So are we going in?

– What?

The situation is quickly progressing from bad to worse. This man is the only one outside the hotel who looks American. Besides, he’s the only one outside the hotel, full stop. And he is definitely the man from the picture that Google gave me when I typed in his name. I’ve no doubts that Google gave me the right photo, but even if not, what are the chances of 2 people with the same name staying in this Edinburgh hotel and the wrong one sitting outside? Unless it’s the right one, but he has short term memory issues and has forgotten why he’s outside his hotel? All of a sudden I know what characters in Brazilian soap operas feel.

– Are. We. Going. In? (Just in case he simply didn’t catch it the first time) Or would you rather we stayed here?

His facial expression changes slowly from bewilderment to sudden realisation and then back to bewilderment.

– Jewel???

I look around. We’re still the only ones outside the hotel.

– Yes. Were you expecting someone else?

He gets up quickly and hurries towards me:

– No. Not at all. I just didn’t expect you to be so… You know… Beautiful.

He comes up and we kiss lightly. At last he looks like he knows what he’s doing, and we make our way inside the hotel. For me, however, the real confusion only starts. So I’m sitting outside, minding my own business, when a beautiful woman (so beautiful, apparently, that I forget why I’m there and what I’m doing) comes up to me, smiles and says hello. What would I do? Smile back, and ask if I can do anything for her. And if yes, then maybe she’d be kind enough to thank me by accepting a drink in my company the following day. Or whenever she has a spare minute. But that’s me. What does a man do? He sits there with a vacant face*, obviously waiting for the beautiful woman to turn for help to someone else. Does it make sense? Not to me. So it’s not “beautiful” he meant then. By this time we’re passing the hotel lobby full of mirrors and I quickly look at my reflection. Nothing unusual there. Two eyes, one nose. Hair rather messy, but, as I said, nothing unusual there. Nothing wrong with the coat either. Shoes and handbag look fine. So what is he not happy with?

After 15 minutes of walking up and down the stairs and corridors we reach his room, where he asks me to wait outside while he makes sure that the room is decent enough for me to enter.

Aah!.. All the confusion is gone.

*Free to sit on.

On gods, angels and sparkling water

Today I saw J. What an impressive start! About half the entries here start this way. Yet every single J (A/ B/ C, etc) is different. Talking of which, a little less than a year ago I saw a man with the same name. Not just J – both first and last name were identical. But how different are their owners!

J e-mails me first. Subject line reads “Hello Angel” (aww, so he bothered to read at least the few latest posts here). He says he looks up my site every time he’s in Scotland but has not had the courage to get in touch before (does my site make me seem intimidating?) We have a quick chat on the phone and soon I’m sauntering to his temporary home in Edinburgh, which happens to be just round the corner from my home. Literally.

He opens the door, we kiss, and I follow him to the kitchen where, like a magician, he produces a little green bottle out of ether for me. Sparkling water. Aww, so he read my site carefully!

Money counted and water poured, we move on to a sofa in a sitting room. Well, he does. Me, I’m sitting on top of him.

If you’ve read at least a few posts here, you surely noticed that I do it quite a lot. I like it for a number of reasons. It wouldn’t work at all the other way round: not only would you squash me completely if you were on top, but also, considering that an average man’s torso is longer than a woman’s, and that I’m shorter than an average man, my lips would be level with your solar plexus. If there is a technique that makes kissing possible in this case, I haven’t heard of it. Also sitting on your lap is the easiest way for me to make sure you don’t change your mind and run away. And it’s an indirect way to remind you who’s in charge here. But most of all, it’s just a very intimate way to kiss and I enjoy it a lot. And so do men.

Inadvertently, I usually choose this moment to ask a man under me what turns him on, simply because to me it feels like a good moment to share some personal secrets. I should stop doing it, honestly. I know it’s hard for a man to think when I’m sitting on his brain, not to mention that we’ve all heard about men’s inability to multitask, so I’ll be the first to admit that if you do get a reply from a man in this position, it’s not likely to be coherent. But J beats them all. So I ask what turns him on, he pulls me in tighter and breathes out “Go-o-d” with his eyes closed. Now, I’ve met some seriously religious people, but this looks like an extreme case.

J laughs easily and with pleasure – I like it. But at the same time, like a lot of American clients in my experience, he keeps himself to himself. Fair enough. I’ll only get as close to you as you let me. Still, it always makes me think whether I could have done something differently. Maybe I am intimidating after all?

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).

Bunnies, balls and boxers

Happy Easter to those concerned and best wishes to everyone else.

Talking of Christian celebrations, I’ve this story “of a Christmas card received from Mr and Mrs Ball when I was a kid which they had signed (honest!) with “Best Wishes from the Balls”. Life was simpler and more innocent back then” (courtesy of P).

I saw this American bloke (hot and hairy. Why? Why? Isn’t it Scots’ prerogative?) recently who told me a moving story – how every boy is given a pair of boxers with stars and stripes design (cotton ones, unfortunately, not silk) at birth and he had his own carefully preserved but didn’t want to flaunt them. Actually, for our encounter he only wore stripes, no stars… still, something to giggle about. I mean, you know he was having a laugh, but had he actually worn stars and stripes, I’d have probably left, that’d be too creepy.

And generally speaking, it was an interesting week. At the start of it I saw someone with one leg (and one artifitial one) and someone on crutches (and morphine!) at the end of it – and I think I was lucky. They both had a great sense of humour and were really lovely people so I had a great time and a good laugh and learnt a few things. Hopefully, they did, too.