Involuntary memory

You know how Proust goes on and on about recollections of the past that are triggered by simple things in your everyday life, like a taste or a smell? Or maybe knickers?

Edinburgh escort's knickers
Exhibit A

I recently got myself a pair of red silk French knickers – exhibit A. In case you wonder what they look like in real life, think boxer shorts but red, silk, sexy and evocative of the words “drawers” and “Edwardian”. I didn’t go out of my way to find them, I just came across them online one night and thought ‘may as well. Together with that black lace thong’. They arrived, I put them on, looked in the mirror, and the memory took me back a decade or so.

I was 22 – the “poor student” years I mentioned a few times here. I made friends with Allie, a beautiful blond girl of my age and one-of-a-kind personality. Allie worked as a stripper. She shared a small flat in Pimlico with 2 of her colleagues.

One Saturday afternoon we wanted to go to a gallery together, and she said I could come to pick her up. I found the door and rang the bell. For a while, nothing happened, and then the lock clicked, a sleepy-looking girl appeared and welcomed me in. She was tall, slim and busty, with masses of long fair hair, slightly tangled from sleep. She was wearing blue silk French knickers and fake eyelashes. Some glitter was smudged over her shoulder.

‘Are you for Allie? She’s in the bathroom,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. The fake eyelashes didn’t mind in the least. ‘Want to come in?’

Unsure of what I may see if I venture further from the door, I declined. The sight in front of me was enough.

‘I’ll wait with you then, I need to pee,’ said the girl and leaned on a wall. She rubbed her eyes again, looked at her hands, saw the nail polish on one of her nails was chipped, and started picking on it.

‘Allie! Out!’ she hollered 2 minutes later without warning. I jumped, and someone deep inside the flat snored in disgruntlement. There was no sign of Allie, so the girl started chatting to me. I don’t remember what about. I remember looking at her lips as a way to avoid looking at her breasts.

I had never seen other women’s breasts before. I mean I had, like in a gym change room or on TV, but those breasts were never so real, close and, well, available to look at. I was fascinated. Thinking of it now, this was probably the moment my attraction to women found itself deep inside my ovaries. I’d only just discovered sex, as you know, didn’t know much about it and, frankly, didn’t realise it was possible to have it with people of other than opposite sex. No, I wasn’t naive, just disinterested in sexual matters and thus mostly uninformed.

At the time, I thought it was her lifestyle: you know, sleeping till midday, being beautiful and wearing silk bloomers. But now I know the lifestyle wasn’t the real attraction factor. I have it now – I’ve got the underwear to show for it! – and I’m nowhere near less attracted to the girl as I remember her. It was her utter naturalness, and femininity, and those breasts. And, of course, the ease/ mental disorder with which she opened doors to strangers without bothering to cover up.

And yes, starting with Proust gives me a touch of chic, but the truth is, as a teenager, I opened Swann’s Way, read greedily a few pages, said ‘oh what bollocks!’ and never went back to it. Maybe the translation wasn’t too good. But at the time I couldn’t read the original. Still can’t. Not Proust. I don’t know the French for “bollocks”.

Tales of Stupidity: MEN

This is the second part of the tales. The first one, dedicated to women, is here.

He’s coming to Edinburgh for a week-end and we arrange to meet for a dinner on Sunday night.

On Sunday morning, however, instead of a confirmation e-mail I receive a cancellation one. It comes with a story: on Thursday night, when he’d landed in Edinburgh, he met a lovely girl at the airport (let’s say she was German) who also had just arrived to Edinburgh for the week-end. He got her number and texted her* the next day but never heard back. And then on Saturday he ran into her while sightseeing; it turned out that the settings of her German mobile wouldn’t allow her to text him back on his French number while in Scotland, that’s why she didn’t reply. She now agreed to have dinner with him on Sunday night, so he has to cancel our date.

Yes, of course I giggled a little and even said “Oh, honey!” but my reply read along the lines of “good luck! Hope you get what you’re after”. He immediately e-mailed back saying that he wasn’t after anything, he simply really liked the girl and wanted to make friends. I do wonder why he said it. His mother may have bought it. But me?

Here’s a woman’s take on this story.

Imagine you’re the German girl. At the airport you meet a bloke and you give him your number. You receive a message from him the following day and…

And if you really like the bloke and really think there might be something there, what do you do if your phone inexplicably tells you that you can’t reply his message? Exactly! You call him. If you can’t call him from your mobile, then you call him from your hotel room phone or from a payphone. Because if you really want to see him again, you only have these 2 days in Edinburgh for it.

Edinburgh escortsIf, however, you only gave him your number because he was sweet and you didn’t want to upset him, you ignore his text and get on with your short holiday. And when by some super-unlucky chance you run into him when sight-seeing, what do you do? That’s right! You concoct this story of how you couldn’t get back to him. Because even if you’re German, it’s still impolite to say something like “Yeah, I think I got something from you yesterday, but I couldn’t be bothered to read it and deleted it straight away”.

And now imagine you’re the French man. You have a sexy date arranged for Sunday night. Then on Saturday you meet a lovely German girl who agrees to have dinner with you on Sunday. Here are your options:

  • You can meet your lady of fixed-rate virtue and have sex – guaranteed. Or
  • You can meet your German girl and, with luck, you can have sex for free – no guarantee though. Or
  • You can lie to yourself that you’re not interested in sex at all: the German girl is only a friend and you cancel your date (sex guaranteed) to spend a sexless evening with her.

But we already know that the German girl isn’t going to be enthusiastic about sex**. So the inevitable happens: at 10pm on Sunday night the poor young man, having stopped lying to himself, calls his lady of fixed-rate virtue to ask if she’s still free and willing to see him after all.


* Don’t. DON’T ever text the woman whose number you just got. Apart from the fact that it’s just plain bad manners (and she will be right to ignore your message), you run the risk of not knowing if your text was delivered, if it was delivered to the right person, or if the woman it was intended for is actually happy to hear from you.

** Actually, no, we don’t know that the German girl refused to have sex with him. Maybe the dinner was so good that she agreed. In which case his call to me later only proves the old axiom that if you want something done well, either do it yourself, or pay a professional.

And yes, it’s the same image for entries for men as well as women.

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”.

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.

The rocky road to not being a virgin

Remember my Bambi client? Well guess what, I saw him again! And then again! He still has his animal magnetism (that of a baby deer) and not a hint at facial hair. Some men are just born lucky.

In the first entry about him, if you remember, I said I hoped he’d get a girlfriend and live happily ever after. This isn’t because I believe that I or other sex workers aren’t good enough, it’s because I think that at 18 he’d better go out and meet girls and learn to build relationships with them and save the money he’s only just started earning for something like a car or whatever boys want these days. And this is exactly what I told him in April, the second time he got in touch with me. My only excuse is that I was on medication, off sick. Because when he replied my e-mail saying that he agreed with me on all points, he was not trying to substitute or escape a meaningful relationship by seeing me, and he made sure he saved a little each month, it was quite embarrassing.

As a sex worker, I get upset when people who know nothing about my life or my work (like Rhoda Grant et al) tell me what’s best for me and explain why what I want to do is wrong. So who am I to decide what’s best for B? I don’t know the first thing about his experience of the opposite sex (well that’s a lie, the only thing I know about his experience with the opposite sex is exactly the first one because I was present) or his life, or his finances. Who am I to tell him how to spend his money? The state thinks he’s adult enough to drive, vote, drink alcohol and have sex and I’m not his parent to have an opinion here. B didn’t seem to be surprised or upset by what I said but felt I had to apologise.

Hi B,

I must apologise. My previous e-mail was disgustingly patronising and it looked like I was treating you if not as a child, then at least as a not-so-mature youngster. I thought of all the virgin clients I had (this is well over 20) and of them only 3 I saw once. The rest I saw at least twice and sometimes 3-4 times. Nothing sets you apart except your age so I think it’s high time I stopped mollycoddling you and let you make decisions based on what you want rather than on what I think is best for you. So I am sorry and I’ll be happy to see you again whenever you are ready.

So in May, when I thought I was well enough, B came to Edinburgh again. I won’t go into details of that date, but somewhere in the middle of it, when things were going really well, I said “oh, excuse me a minute, will you”, then went to the bathroom and threw up. I did feck up a few dates over the years by various stupid things (that’s right, I make sure it’s not on my blog). This, however, was in a league of its own. I was certain B wouldn’t be back, and the 2 thoughts that made it all better were:

  • I didn’t expect to see him again anyway
  • Now he knows what it’s like to pick up a woman in a bar on a Friday night

So you can imagine my surprise when a couple of months later he was back. There was one skill in particular that he wanted to polish, and one experience he wanted to report – that of meeting a girl in a bar. By the sound of it, it was the girl who picked him up, not the other way round, but I’m still very pleased for him. There’s no knowing if I’ll ever see him again but I’m sure he’ll be just fine, he’s a quick learner.

There was once a lady…

Right, I am now officially back to work after a month of highly unpaid sick leave. Ah, the joy of being self-employed! I still tire easily so I’m not exactly up to the usual 4-5 dates a week yet. Please bear with me and I’ll get there eventually. I would like to give my apologies to people whose e-mails I took days to reply and express my gratitude to those whose bookings I couldn’t take for their patience and understanding. I would also very much like to thank Violet for her help and support while I was ill. Violet went to the hospital with me and helped with other things that normally I wouldn’t even ask for – forget expect! – from someone in sex trade. If this doesn’t show that sex work is a caring profession, I don’t know what does.

I have been (very) slowly updating my blog and you can now enjoy both posts about working with Dana Popa, the photographer (Part 1 and Part 2). Part 3 (the after-Dana part) will be ready in a few days. I have also been reading poetry. This needs a little explanation as I’m hoping to ask you, dearest reader, for help.

Recently I was contacted by a gentleman called Leonard with a view to a date. And, while waiting for the coming date to arrive, he’s taken it upon himself to keep me thoroughly complimented (and, more importantly, thoroughly entertained). Frankly, I have no idea why; we haven’t even met yet so he can’t possibly know anything about me other than what my blog says, and let’s be honest, this is MY blog. It’s about how awesome I am. I’m too biased to accept another point of view on this issue. But since he doesn’t question these basics of Jewelogy, I kindly let him get on with praises. And, as part of his daily complimenting routine, he now arrived at poetry. Having tried haiku, he moved on to limerick. Here’s a part of his e-mail (and I have his written permission to publish it):

“Let’s try the Limerick.

There once was a lady named Jewel. . .

Well, now I am stuck. I need two words that rhyme with Jewel. My choices seem to be limited to “cool” (too cliché or completely the wrong temperature), “fool” (well, I feel like one for trying to capture your essence in verse, but still not quite right), “pool” (your eyes are deep pools of . . . well, your eyes are lovely but this is overdone, so no), “rule” (interesting, could close with “my heart she doth rule”. Need one more…) “school”, “tool” and “wool” all rejected, and don’t even think about “drool”. Maybe a new opening line?

A Jewel in Edinburgh lies

The cause of many men’s sighs

Clever and gorgeous

A mind like the Borgias

Her loveliness no one denies

Well, a reference to the Borgia family will certainly be new and the rest is properly complimentary, so it might work.”

I won’t lie, it did work. I was particularly taken with the fact that said Jewel lies. I suppose my job isn’t called “horizontal trade” for nothing. But I was upset to see the first opening line rejected when he already had these great rhymes lined up. All I had to do was put them together in the true lewd spirit of limerick:

There was once a lady called Jewel

Who saw every man as a tool.

While every man clamoured

to be her jackhammer,

I wrote her a poem, old fool.

Please understand that all I wanted was to show that the rhymes were good and could easily work. I didn’t mean to provoke another limerick from Leonard in reply:

there once was a lady named Jewel

like Pavlov she caused me to drool

my love for her brain

went right down the drain

when she started to talk of my . . .

I hope you laughed as much as I did. Which, at last, leads up to my question: what do you say about a little limerick competition? All limericks about me, of course. Anyone is welcome to take part, I’ll publish all the limericks (no names attached) that I receive (a month should be long enough, I think, after all people don’t look at my blog daily) and then the readers will choose the best one. I’ll be sure to come up with a prize. A dinner with the winner? Well, the rules and the prize will need to be thought through, for now it would help to know if people are interested to take part, so please comment below.

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.

Operation Windermere, Part 1

It’s a cold but clear April morning. I wake up, shower, swallow a handful of antibiotics and painkillers, throw the rest of them into the little bag that I packed the night before, call a cab and go to Waverley. By the time I reach Carlisle I feel rather queasy: the side effect of the medication I’m on, I’ve never been travel-sick in my life. It’s 40 minutes until my connection and I walk around the station trying to coax my stomach into behaving itself. A beautiful carriage catches my eye and I get my mobile out. I know nothing about trains, but this one is really lovely; I take a picture of it and e-mail it to a client who loves trains. Ah, the beauty of modern technology that allows you to share what you see with people miles away from you in just a few clicks and several seconds! Then I board one of these hateful trains that make you regret having had dinner the night before and suffer for another hour. By the time I get to Oxenholme I am so weak at the knees I can barely walk but that’s ok, because The Nutter meets me right at the platform, takes my bag and  drags me to his car.

Edinburgh escortsThe hotel is right on Lake Windermere. From our room balcony a narrow garden path leads right to the water. We walk down the path, along the old wooden pier to get a better view of the lake. The view is so beautiful you wonder if it’s real. And it’s a clear sunny day which, as The Nutter dutifully informs me, is exceptionally rare for the area. Well, seems like it was meant to be. It’s the first time I’m in the Lake District and I  know I absolutely have to paddle in the lake: who knows if I’ll ever have another chance? The water is not easy to get to but if you’re a determined woman on painkillers – nothing stands in your way. I slip off my shoes, put my socks into the pockets of my jacket, roll my jeans up to my knees and jump off the path onto the rocks in the water.

The water is cold. The water is so cold that at first it doesn’t even register with my feet that they are in the water. Yet it feels the right thing to do: I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m barefoot, which is rare, or the subzero temperature of water, but it gives a sudden clarity to my mind and this unexpected treat of a trip becomes very real. I want to say thank you to the Nutter.

We walk around the hotel garden. It’s beautiful, the heart of it is a little brook jumping on mossy stones. My feet are still wet, my jeans rolled up, and my shoes dangle from the Nutter’s hand.

Back in the room I have a shower and change for what is the actual reason of our Lake District visit – Home Service concert. It’s one of The Nutter’s favourite bands and he wanted to share it with me. He also wanted me to wear something casual to blend in with the audience. This isn’t the case of “even if I say so myself”. In jeans and a plain off-white top I still looked a few degrees hotter than any day an average member of this audience ever lived through. The Nutter did warn me to expect a bunch of bearded blokes with beer bellies. I had a close look before the show: out of 46 people in the audience 32 had facial hair and some of them were women.

I won’t say the concert was sheer joy, but I enjoyed myself a lot. With 46 people in the audience, the concert was quite intimate – just as I like it. I could see The Nutter’s pleasure, I loved being part of it. This type of music was new to me and I appreciated the experience. I got to see John Tams live, he hasn’t changed much since Sharpe’s days. And, of course, I got to be stared at by a bunch of bearded blokes with beer bellies: never before being beardless gave me such an advantage.

Part 2 will be unusually graphic for this blog. I’m quite looking forward to writing it.

For your entertainment only

Reproduced below without any care for the author’s permission, an entertaining trip into one man’s desperation.

—– Original Message —–
Sent: 04/25/13 01:25 PM
Subject: Proposition
Hello Miss. Jewel
I have a question, do you think any of your clients would pay good money to see two good-looking people together?
I’m a young guy in my early twenties and I often get complimented about my looks, but as I’m sure you already know good looks alone don’t bring money in the bank!
I find myself in a situation where I need more finance, so I thought maybe I could use what God gave me, to my advantage.
I understand you chose a profession and I respect it totally. The way I see it is many women do it indirectly, your just completely honest about it.
I was wondering if I could make sum income in a similar way? Nothing gay though.
Thank you for your reading this short message and I apologize if I wasted your time.
Hope you have a fruitful day,
From: Jewel <>
Sent: Friday, 26 April 2013, 0:25
Subject: Re: Proposition
Hello J,

Thank you for the entertaining mail. The best part of it is that you enquire about how my clients would feel but you don’t seem to give a dead rat’s arse about my feelings, i.e. if I would want to engage with a man who wants to make money off my labour.
It’s not entirely clear to me what the many women you refer to do indirectly (have sex for money?) but I appreciate it that you understand that this is my job – having sex in return for payment. In view of this, I can’t see why you think that I would agree to have sex with you for free. If you are not paying, then I am not interested, it’s that simple. I’m a prostitute, not a slut.
As for my clients, since you asked, if they wanted to see two or more good-looking people together without engaging with them, they could do it online for free.
If you would like to become involved in the sex industry, you can either audition for porn films or become gay for pay. I can’t think of any other way that would bring you money in this trade.
Good luck.

To: Jewel <>
Sent: Friday, 26 April 2013, 2:32AM
Subject: Re: Proposition


Hi Miss. Jewel,
Looking at things from your perspective Something you should have done before getting in touch, you kind of have a point.
I wasn’t looking to make money off your labour, I was thinking maybe we could both have a good time, make some nice money and you wouldn’t have to fake an orgasm for once. I used to think that after years in my work there is nothing a man can say to insult me: I’ve heard it all by now and I know what it’s worth. But look at this! He managed to insult me and all my clients in one sentence. This takes some talent.
I wasn’t looking for a free ride either, Really? Were you looking to pay me?  you look amazing and I’m sure your very good at what you do and so far I’ve always been told that I’m not too bad at what I like doing, so what I was looking to recreate was pure, pleasurable entertainment for the paying customer. Yes, but were you looking to pay me? 
As for what I said about other women doing it indirectly, how many women put up with some incompetent fool, never experience any form of joy in the bedroom and look completely miserable, Rhoda&Co comes to mind just for the sake of some financial stability…? At least you get it over and done with. So what you’re saying is that putting up with some incompetent fool and never experiencing any form of joy in the bedroom is definition of my profession. I’m afraid with this attitude your career in sex trade will be very short-lived.
I have nothing against homosexuals, what they choose to do with their ass is totally their business. I look at a beautiful woman like yourself and a get a feeling inside that’s hard to describe in words, but its like something triggers my animal instincts to hunt down and devour my prey. I wasn’t keen on meeting in the first place but now I have an overwhelming urge to actively stay away. I’ve never had that feeling towards a man, maybe its because I only like to give. So you are not looking to receive any pleasure from the free ride you’re asking for?
Some things money can’t buy and money alone definitely can’t make a woman cum. No, of course not. This is why I have sex with men and women instead. I personally find great joy and satisfaction in watching my woman orgasm, if that makes sense to you? It totally does. I see it in every client.
Even if I did have the money for your service Ah! Now we’re getting to the point! I still wouldn’t pay you, because you’re a cheap and arrogant sleaze. if you really liked me you would fulfill my every fantasy, I wonder what line of what page of my website gave this impression. regardless of how much money I had in the bank, right? Wrong. I can’t say for all women – there are stupid ones out there, too – but why would I want to waste my time on a man who promises only pleasure in return when I can have this same pleasure with a man who will provide something else on top: money, affection, responsibility, shared future, children, or at least a nice dinner?  
Anyway considering I managed to entertain you and we definitely can’t work together, how would you feel about becoming friends in the future? You have got to be fecking kidding. This is after I said I am not interested if you are not paying. You sound like fun!
And one last thing, what’s the difference between a prostitute and a slut?
I didn’t know it was a tricky question. It’s the difference between me and you. Starts with P and it isn’t “penis”. 
Sweet Dreams Miss. Jewel,

February in London, Part 3

Continued from Part 1 and Part 2.

The following morning the Nutter comes to pick me up from my hotel. The weather is slightly better and we walk to the Royal Academy of Arts to visit the Manet exhibition. We queue outside in the snow for something like an hour: the Academy is very English and very Royal in this respect. The exhibition is a joy.

I’ll be honest, I’m not big on art. My favourite movement is Pre-Raphaelites, that should tell you enough. But I am captivated by portraits and figure painting. Now, before you accuse me of neglecting the beauty of nature in art – you’re right. It’s true, landscapes bore me out of my skull. Seascapes – not so much, but close. Still life, on the other hand, is fascinating as long as it’s a flower painting. Anything other than a bouquet in that composition and as far as I’m concerned, I’m looking at a landscape again. The Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge has a whole room dedicated to flower paintings. If there is anything the Dutch are good at…

Anyway, figure painting. I’m not a connoisseur, I don’t care much for brush strokes and techniques. I enjoy the story the painter tells me. Figure painting is like blogging. When I blog about a client, I tell you how I see him. I’ve never seen him at work, or with his children, or at a funeral, so my blog entry is not a well-rounded and truthful depiction of a man, it’s a description of my experience of him. I can bet all you want that his wife would tell a very different story. Similarly, looking at a portrait we see the person the painter saw. We can only guess about the actual poser. The painting tells us more about its author than about its object. Olympia, the notoriously controversial painting of a prostitute. It’s not like she’s the first hooker to ever be painted, far from it. But very few of the thousands of sex workers painted before her looked so unrepentant, unashamed and unabashed. She wasn’t caught unawares when dressing or spied on when bathing. No, her accessories show that she’s naked by choice and she’s very comfortable with it. Moreover, she looks dominant. She knows what she’s doing. I guess that’s the real controversy. What do we know about her now? Nothing but her job. The way she looks here is the way every other sex worker would look when naked (I am now really curious to see Dana’s photos of me). Does it tell us anything about Manet? He is evidently very comfortable with female sexuality. He doesn’t want to own it, he celebrates it.

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Fair enough, the woman in the painting is a model, but any real life sex worker could be painted very differently in the context of her job by another painter. Of course, not all painters are good story-tellers and not all portraits are there to be heard. That’s why the exhibition was a beautiful learning experience. And I was taken by his signature: “Ed. Manet” on most paintings. It was hard not to poke the Nutter in the ribs with my elbow and say loudly, pointing my finger: “Look! Another good one by Eddie!”

Out of the Academy, we walk a little around Piccadilly and then he takes me to a little restaurant in Jermyn Street for lunch. The lunch conversation is an eye-opener: we go through our “history” of 5 dates. First time he came across my website, he thought “She’s bloody arrogant!” First time he came to see me, he assumed I was older than the website said. And I have to say that the first time I saw him he looked and acted much older than the Nutter I know now. So maybe it’s all in the eyes of the painter. Has he changed since? He says he has. He is now more sensitive and considerate to others’ needs. I don’t know about that. I notice his increased confidence around me (and his new talents in bed) and his attention to his clothes. Unlike the first time, he’s now a tasteful dresser, understatedly elegant. If I were to paint him, you’d see a very sexy 60 year old man.

Time flies when you’re happy and it’s 2.45 before I know it. I have to leave the Nutter at the table and rush to Praed Street clinic for my appointment at 3. This is the first time I am at the clinic dressed for going out (shirt+skirt), not for blending in with the other clinic attendees (jeans+T-shirt) and suddenly I am treated differently. Even my reply to the same old question of “how many clients a week do you see?” (why do they have to ask every time I’m there? To check if I’m lying?) doesn’t inspire a raised eyebrow.

Thankfully, the Nutter leaves for his hometown from Paddington, 5 minute run from the clinic, and I make it there just 10 minutes before his train leaves. We walk to the gates, stop to say good bye and I reach to kiss him. As our lips touch, he drops his suitcase. He bends down to pick it up, mumbling something along the lines of “clumsy old fool” and I give my usual line of “I tend to have this effect on men”. But I can only wish. This is the first time a man drops something other than his trousers when I kiss him.