Keep up with the latest on dinner date and GFE escorts with the London blog from someone-somewhere.

Last Thursday a colleague and I grouped some of the girls together at her Kensington pied-à-terre for a spot of pampering before a night on the tiles, as a way of getting reacquainted with good old London town (and a damn good excuse to show off my healthy LA glow). One of my longest-serving girls, a dusky French beauty named Laetitia is now one of my best friends and we have such a tight relationship – and look so much alike – that clients often think we’re sisters. We had a carnival of treats in-store at hers on this particular eve as she’d booked a private pampering session with Manuela and Rosario from Spaja spa nearby. The go-to girls we often use for all our Brazilian beautifying needs, these two Latin foxes could administer anything from blow-dries to mani/pedis and of course the namesake wax if needed. Soon the rest of the party arrived; a few seasoned scene queens alongside freshers who were eager to soak up new knowledge and a couple of trusted girlfriends from my inner circle.
The apartment was soon a flurry of activity and conversation – this was the epitome in female bonding. I like to keep a watchful eye on my newest protégées, and get them swapping notes with regular stars of my agency so they’re better equipped at client relations. Of course, we only exchanged stories in private – with no names mentioned, just their requisite ‘stud’ names – in keeping with our tight-lipped trustworthiness. In particular regular clients that we favour get our vote alongside newer members of the ‘cast’ ie. there’s the best looking, the best performer when you really want a good seeing to, then there’s the one who’s so sensual and gentle when you need some TLC etc. It was great for girls like Mya, a reposed Lebanese beauty who was young but eager to learn, as the older girls gave her many tips for heightening the mood on an evening so that guys aren’t left short-changed. After much prosecco, giggling and a bit of girl-on-girl flirting we managed to eventually stop checking out our new hair/nails etc – pulling ourselves away from the mirror and pulling down the hems of our skirts to head out to show the town how its really done. LeBaron was our destination, the London outpost of the hip Parisian hot-spot and, as Mya knew Drew in the house band, we’d have no problems getting in – so we set off in taxis to see what the night would hold in store.
As presumed, on arrival we just waltzed past the queue and got shown in to the venue with a warm greeting by the door girl. Though Mya and a few others were single, this was not a night to be out ‘on the pull’ as it were.. One-by-one we trouped in as if fresh off a Parisian runway – a sea of Brazilian blow-dries, stack heels, and directional dresses. It felt good to have all eyes on us as we found our corner by the spacious bar. After we’d huddled for a catch-up pow-wow to pick out which members of the hipster clientele we recognised, we ordered a round of rum cocktails. Eva pointed out two suited David Gandy types at the bar, who looked too louche to be married, and inevitably locked eyes with the hotter one. Soon enough, he sauntered over pretending to look for the bathroom before she beckoned him in the ‘right’ direction, ie. us! It turned out he was none other than the French model who last week had been given the red card by US singer Katy Perry – we’ll call him ‘Antoine’ to protect his identity from the gossip forums. With his olive skin, cheekbones to hang couture off, and plump, kissable lips – it seemed only right that he’d make a beeline for Eva – a Latina with great bone structure and the hottest pout since Brigitte Bardot. We observed them as they did that playful flirtatious dance that people do when really they should be ripping each others clothes off; a heady mix of coyness, eye contact and titillation. But that conversation was as far as that went. Soon Eva was back in the fold and we all got up to boogie Studio 54-style.
Meanwhile Mya and Samara had made friends with a hot looking couple at the bar; he a spruced up Mayfair type and she a gazelle-like African model in a dazzling maxi dress with an alluring split up the thigh. At one point they all had their heads thrown back in dizzying laughter but when I looked back again, they all seemed to be heading outside… so I texted Laetitia to check all was OK before I too got parlayed by a preppy English guy called Max. A Notting Hill art dealer, he explained he was toasting in a new acquisition by way of tempting me with a drink – well, who was I to refuse such an offer from a dashing gent… We flirted ridiculously while I pretended to know an awful lot about the art world before he made his excuses to head off early (not before taking my number!). It was then I checked my phone to discover that Laetitia and Samara had headed to a bar nearby with their new best friends. The rest of us continued, dancing up a storm in such a playful, sexy manner that a lot of the male clientele were getting a bit hot under the collar – unfortunately for them, we were enjoying our own company so much that they didn’t get a look-in. The evening then took on a time-lapse effect and we found ourselves heading to a Fulham club for more dancing but it was soon apparent that our collective energy had waned and heels were desperate to come off – so home time it was.
Four of us went back to Laetitia’s for cups of cocoa and a dissection of the evening. Somewhere around 3:30am, Mya and Samara called to join the slumber party and found us in silk pyjamas and dressing robes with cleansing masks at the ready. It seems their consciences had aleady benefited from cleansing however as the couple had asked them to join them in a group ‘scenario’ back at their Belgravia townhouse. My girls had declined for no other reason than the evening being all about ‘girls together’, a night of woozy, innocent fun. Seemingly Mya had been slow on the uptake, rendering the cheeky male instigator at great pains to avoid the literal plane, so much so that he wound up tying himself in knots of innuendo. We laughed at her naivety, before I explained that this was all part of London’s rich nightlife tapestry and then, on feeling sleep descending, I tucked her and the others in with a big kiss and took to my room to get some shut-eye for the next day’s shopping frenzy. As I lay there dozing I could only think of a well-known phrase, one with roots in a religious proverb but I appropriated it for my little sisterhood: ‘the family that plays together stays together’ – and with that I drifted off for my beauty sleep.

I’ve been a bit quiet on the blogging front after having almost 2 weeks of fun in La-La land. Having spent time luxuriating in shopping, hiking in the hills, and catching up with friends over cocktails in LA, I have come to the conclusion that California sure knows how to party. My trip started slowly and languidly, as I adjusted to the 80-degree weather after leaving unpredictable London. After staying over at my friend’s Malibu beach house I decided to go for a hike in LA’s healthiest pick-up spot, Runyard Canyon in the Hollywood Hills. I say this due to a chance meeting there that pre-empted a day that was so very LA it would have made Elmore Leonard blush. As I parked my car I noticed a rather handsome Bradley Cooper clone set off ahead of me and as I was alone also, I decided to keep him in my sightline so I didn’t get too lost along my uphill struggle. Naturally, I had other more prescient reasons in following him; just that his tanned, broad, muscular physique had got me overheated on impact and I knew that if I kept me eyes on his taut behind in those tight Fred Segal shorts then I would stay focused on the day’s taxing fitness pursuit… I stayed close, keeping my eyes on the prize so to speak, when about at 2km along the track a voice cut the silence in a playful tone: ‘Are you following me?”

I slipped out of my reverie to realise that the owner of the cute toosh was actually speaking to me. Blushing with embarrassment, and nervous as hell, I waved and pretended to not be out of breath. He grinned and walked over, and we bantered for a few short minutes before he mentioned how he’d noticed me in the car park and asked if I would like to go to dinner later that evening. We walked and talked some more and exchanged numbers back at our cars – ah it was refreshing to benefit from LA’s upfront dating mores. I went home and realised I would have to prep for my date, this meant I was in need of some California-style primping so I booked myself in for a facial and a sugaring bikini wax at Sonya Dakar in Beverly Hills. This recent addition to lady garden landscaping ensures less pain and smoother, sleeker results, while you take in the luxurious spa environs – a one-stop shop for me when I need to get ‘LA’id’. I always leave LA knowing that my beauty maintenance has left me ready and willing when I arrive back in swinging London.

There was a slight change to the menu, however. My attendant and I got on so well – she, a Russian model who elucidated on her countrywomen’s predilection to leave the entire area unadorned, that on discussing the topic at ‘length’ I suddenly heard an ‘ooops’ with her confessing to having taken matters in her own hands leaving me with the same. Luckily I was accustomed to this look – when occasion sees fit -– and took it in my stride, thanking her for such a slick finish and knowing my date was in for a treat this evening. Later on, ‘Victor’ got in touch to make arrangements to meet at Playa in West Hollywood, a hip new restaurant fusing Latin fare with world cuisine in a space with skylights and straw chandeliers that resembled giant sea urchins – very LA! It was clear from the off that Victor and I had serious chemistry, there was some leg brushing under the table – due in part to his chishelled features and boyish grin and my relaxed response to the city’s rosy sunkissed hues along its outstretched boulevards. Well this and the fact that I had a slinkier feeling in my underwear due to my earlier spa trip. I agreed to follow him in my car to where he was staying – originally from San Diego, he was up on business –to the recently restored Hotel Shangri-La in Santa Monica. On discovering he was booked into the R’n’R suite – in keeping with my general mood – I realised I’d totally lucked out as I surveyed the room; huge, surround windows overlooking the beach, original 1930s features and a large bed. We started to kiss passionately, and a couple of Old Fashioneds later meant that soon it was time for the big reveal. Needless to say, upon slipping his hand between my legs and rolling down my underwear, Victor was very taken with my new bare look and soon got to work. His technique – I will now simply refer to him as ‘the clit whisperer’, he was THAT good – meant that barely minutes went by before I climaxed. After a good main-event romp and some pillow talk, Victor closed his eyes with me in his arms as I watched his facial muscles loosen as he drifted off. I lay back and looked out at the ocean, as the early sunrise began to taunt me for having such a late-night, inhaling deeply I thought ‘I love this town..’ before sleep got the better of me also. The next day, I drove home to Los Feliz before making a quick stop at Hollyhock House in Barnsdall Park, a gem of early 20th century romantacism by Frank Lloyd Wright and, thinking of my wanton night with Victor, remembered a quote by the architect that I’d once read: “Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.” I couldn’t have put it any better myself…

When it comes to fine dining being in-the-know is as paramount to any Londoner as wearing the right shoes, but my recent visit to new Caprice Holdings’ Mayfair restaurant was definitely more like a ‘getting to know you’ experience. It was Friday, and I was meeting ‘Christian’, a faithful purveyor of my ventures – charming and so undeniably handsome that his company was always a pleasure. On entering, I screened the décor – all the classic hallmarks were in place, a lavish room with clean lines that immediately gave the impression of being adrift on a luxe cruise liner. Christian greeted me at the bar, looking devastating in a Margiela suit, his stubble brushing against my cheek as I inhaled his scent, causing my stomach to flip like a teenager.

We sat at the busy bar and got stuck into one of our flirty conversations. Over on business, Christian had an evening to kill and soon made it clear that my company was appreciated – dining alone seemed to have lost its appeal. I had to run across town for cocktails at 10pm sharp but forward planning meant that a man this fine would not be decamping solo to a hotel room. Cunningly I’d placed a call in to Lola, a colleague who was as vivacious as she was beautiful, and right on cue she arrived as our plates were cleared. Entering the room in Charlotte Olympia platforms and a red silk dress that danced over ripe curves, every male eye looked away from their counterparts to drink her in. I shimmied out to the ladies room, winking back at her as she sidled over to Christian, her plump lips smiling like a sphinx with a dark secret. I returned minutes later, by which time they were chatting like old friends – Christian cupping her delicate waist in his palm – rubbing his thumb lightly along her ribcage, moving it closer to the cup of her breast in each movement – his head thrown back, laughing. After a quick round of specialty Black Velvets, where we tantalised him with details of our saucy spa massages, I said my goodbyes and headed out.

My taxi sped on into the night and I smiled assuredly – Christian was definitely in for a good evening… it was then that my basket-case antics called for a reconnaissance mission back as I’d stupidly left my purse in the bathroom. I sashayed out the taxi, into the building and found myself in a restaurant corridor – I must have got lost somehow. I turned into a dark hallway, past a clandestine, disused lift shaft when a sudden movement caught my eye. Hiding behind a doorframe I watched, a silent voyeur, hazily making out the form of a man and woman. She had her back to the wall, with one heel propped up against it – her body in complete submission within his grasp, as he flicked his tongue lightly along her ear lobe. I soon realised I’d coveted those same shoes earlier in the evening. Things were coming to a head, literally, as I then recognised the familiar motion of a hand, submerged inside his suit jacket, moving back and forth in his groin region… He let out a gentle yet guttural gasp just as I felt a longing within me and my nipples hardened. Compelled to waltz over and join in, I bowed out to time creeping up on me. Retrieving my purse finally, I re-entered the busy restaurant, flushed yet safe in the knowledge that that was another job well done.

Last week I went to see the play ‘Collaborators’ at the National – a fantastical satire about the relationship between Stalin and Bulgakov the writer. I had glasses on and my hair in a topknot to imbue the role of theatre critic but who was I kidding in my figure-hugging, designer black dress. While in the cab my cultural compadre, let’s just call him ‘Tom’, texted to say he was late and on exiting, as luck would have it, my Myla suspender became unhooked so I had to tiptoe delicately inside and on to the bathroom to adjust the stocking until it sat pretty again. Disaster averted, and with tickets in-hand I asked to be ushered to our seats, texting Tom accordingly.

The sparse, intimate room was dark as I took my seat, leaving room to my left for my date. I reapplied my claret lipstick and arranged my décolletage until the curve of my upper bosom appeared round enough to hopefully cause Tom to wish he’d arrived earlier; to embrace me in that way that old lovers do – a hand drawing my hips in to his so that my pertness could lightly grace the cotton of his shirt. Once out of my reverie, I inspected the person to my right and to my astonishment – after doing a subtle double take – I realised I was in the company of the Right Honourable Chancellor of the Exchequer! Deep in conversation with his wife, he had yet to notice me but I pulled that neckline on down and, observing him through my periphery, eavesdropped on what I could tell was an argument. It was certainly him, with his 6ft slim form with a slight paunch, and those stern narrowing eyes. For one so loquacious, attempting contact with the man who’d imposed austerity measures on a country on the brink of collapse would be no mean feat.

But I took my cue as his wife stormed off to the bathroom. Staring ahead, the lines on his forehead crumpling with tension, I felt an urge to relax him and went for an obvious trick by brushing my forearm lightly against his wrist at which point he glanced over. I smiled shyly and proffered: ‘Chancellor, it’s a pleasure to meet you…’ He warmed to me readily, and for the life of me I can’t remember his friendly ripostes as those minutes flew by. We talked briefly of the play’s leanings before I, sensing the performance would begin imminently, whispered huskily: ‘If you’d like to go for a bellini one night, don’t hesitate to call me…’ Reaching into my purse I pulled out my card and pressed it into his clammy palm, before reaching lower – placing my hand on his upper thigh for a second or two. I felt his body flinch and relax, like a snake recoiling and releasing when moving in on its prey. It was then that the movement of his trousers inferred that something else had recoiled and relaxed therein so I moved it swiftly away in time for both his wife and Tom to make a beeline for their seats! Tom kissed my flushed cheek with a quick ‘sorry I’m late’ as the lights dimmed, with the evening continuing as if nothing had happened. But for me the experience of watching a play about an attempt to quash frenzied Stalinist supremacy while sat next to the raging Chancellor of the ‘sexchequer’ was clearly engorged with fervour.

Wishing you all a fabulous 2012 full of happiness, prosperity, good health and lots of SEX!

After all, it has been proven that sex is good for your health and keeps you young, resulting in more success at work and at home. As Steve Martin said, “I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy.”

So, here’s to a very SEXY 2012!!!

LOVE,

Vanessa
xoxo

Occasionally I like to unwind by treating myself to a “body to body” sensual massage. I’m usually with a gentleman partner so we’ll normally book 2 girls, but this time I was on my own and I fancied a male masseur.

I had been dreaming of a handsome man with his big strong hands working his way through my body as I groaned with every touch … but the reality was actually quite different.
Yes, he had strong hands but he also had more bodily hair than my usual female masseuse. He had shaved his chest but it was still rather stubbly, so as he performed his “body to body” massage by rubbing his chest on my body, it had the unfortunate sensation of sand paper … if I had wanted exfoliation I would have gone to a proper spa! As I lay there I longer for the smooth softness of the female form.

Then there was his technique, perhaps it was the testosterone running through his body but not only was his massage stronger but faster, more erratic and sadly less sensual
After about 40 minutes I realised that this guy was not going to give me the explosive orgasm I usually have with the soft touch of a woman. He was rubbing me so hard and fast that I was instantly desensitized!
This wasn’t my first disappointing session with a male masseur, its happened before and I decided this was the last time I would ever book a guy!
Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE (and prefer) men in the bedroom, but when it comes to sensuality women are simply better! They are softer, smoother and know how to build up the tension by teasing with gentle caresses, Mmmmm …

Had I requested a male escort he would’ve been perfect at fucking me senseless but I wasn’t interested in hardcore sex, if that was the case I would’ve called up one of my young studs to pleasure me. But that evening I was yearning for a more sensual pampering experience … unfortunately I left with the conclusion that male sensual massage is an oxymoron.