Under The Skin

Amanda and I went to see Under The Skin, starring the gorgeous Scarlett Johansson. Based on the Michael Faber novel, it’s a sci-fi thriller about a remote, mysterious woman in the Scottish Highlands who lures men into her van in a predatory fashion; resulting in a set of dark consequences. Never one to indulge in spoilers, I liked how the film lead us to some insightful discussion on science fiction and it’s incorporation of sexuality.

Amanda then regaled me with a story; from her none-too-distant past of a night with, frankly, an alien sex fiend. This man, we’ll call him Michael, had a sci-fi fixation that took in everything from Star Trek to Phillip K Dick novels to, er… modern-day Star Trek remakes; that’s as much as she took in! He seemed be the ultimate geek client at first but, after a drink at the hotel bar, she was soon aware that was a quiet yet insistent intensity about him; she felt an unfamiliar pull from the silence and furtive glances from his deep-set, heavy-browed eyes.

On entering his room she freaked out at the contraption in the corner emitting a green, strobe-like lighting effect, the unusual incense scent and a form of music that sounded like crickets heralding in the night sky. He sat her down at the desk and opened his Macbook, at which point Amanda fully expected to be introduced to a new porn channel, but the unexpected happened. Michael simply wanted to introduce her to the heady world of Avatar Sex. According to Urban Dictionary, the definition of which is:

“when your avatar or character in an online game engages in sexual acts via internet message ie: chat, facebook chat, windows instant messenger, yahoo instant messenger or other virtual communication method”

She soon found herself enjoying the sights and sounds on Zindra, a Second Life adult-content continent, where virtual sexuality is the raison d’etre; a place to hang out in boutique singles’ clubs, BDSM behemoths while wherever you look there’s a pixelated penis. Sitting next to Michael, as he guided her hand through virtual urban sex tourism while simply moving his hand up and down her thigh is still the single most erotic experience of Amanda’s career. Which goes to show, you can never judge a book by the cover or, rather, a lover by the avatar.

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Amanda’s diary

One of my girls, someone who I view as a very good friend, calls me weekly for shop talk but we always end up going over her extra curricular social life – some of her exploits outside the bedroom have me howling with laughter. So I asked her to keep a diary, just bullet points of key events. This is how the last week in February panned out for her:

I have decided that as it’s summer I should set up a few dates to ring out the holiday season.

So I get online, onto OKStupid (real name: obvious). I end up talking to a bozo that wants me to talk dirty via IM at 1am on a Monday night; hey I can do this at work so I wrap it up before it’s even started. Then I get on Tinder – turns out that I know at least 4/5 guys on there, including the married guy who I bedded last week for the agency. Christ, this is bad – I am going to have to leave the house!

Wednesday – I hit an art gallery launch in east London, with my friend Alf. It’s the usual art crowd; people are either bloated on too much red wine, on something and some, quite frankly, just require a bath! I talk to a guy called Charlie – ‘mixed-media painter’ – whatever the hell that is. We make-out in the smoking area and he takes my number. He texts the next day and surprise, he wants to sex text – again, I’m not on a busman’s holiday and so give him the swerve. This girl don’t work for free!

Thursday – I wind up at a party for Erotic Review; I know, right? Moonlighting again! I keep a low profile and am dressed demurely and yet… someone mistakes me for one of the pole dancers. This guy wouldn’t let up so I made my excuses, by inventing a limp – telling him that since birth I’ve had a skeletal deformity, I hobble out of there before my lie is uncovered. A single girl’s life in London is not without moments of hilarity, the tragedy of which we keep to ourselves.

Friday – I decide to go dancing at a gay bar in Dalston. The basement dancefloor is hot, sweaty fun and yet again I’m a hit with the trannies – think god is trying to tell me something. Wind up making out with a guy called Jonjo, as we’re leaving (for separate taxis, I’m a good girl!) he tells me he’s not really bi and made an exception for me as I look like Kristen Stewart. Well, he was no R-Patz and I guess being totally gay he doesn’t fulfil the tag: ‘man of my dreams’.

Saturday – I go out dancing at a Mayfair members’ bar, I wind up dancing suggestively in front of the rotund owner and being invited back to his pad with a select few. Back at his luxe Mayfair pad I continue to get my groove on and lo’ I do get hit on – by a girl! She’s smoking hot, and wants to come back to mine, which freaks me out a little. I do like some lady-love from time to time but this girl is so drunk she’s foaming at the mouth. I wind up putting her in a cab and taking the bus – good grief!

Sunday – last day of the week, and I’m pretty desperate to be honest. How does a girl get a date in this town?! Some girlfriends and I decide to go bowling. We venture down to Bloomsbury and grab our lane; some of us are decked in hot pants to make the boys wink. We wait and see who shows up in the lane next door while whooping it up on Pimms, despite it being 5pm. Well, we needn’t have bothered as a group of older ladies wearing their best M&S walk in and take the spot. Turns out they’re members of the Women’s Institute out on an away day… I rest my case. Later, I go to my local in Hampstead for a drink and get talking to the cute barman – just as I’m leaving he asks for my number.

Result. Moral of the story: if you go looking, you might just find what you’re looking for on your doorstep!

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Experienced ‘girlfriend’ required, apply within

According to a recent survey, the most popular ‘quality’ that men seek from escorts is the ‘girlfriend experience’ and in this current climate of marriage flux I can vouch for this statistic, in the truest sense. Recently a client of mine sought one of my top girls to accompany him to Malaysia for a business trip. So I sent along Suki, a grande dame who had been on my books for 7 years, and really knew how to keep the customer satisfied. My client, let’s call him Piers, had a conference in Kuala Lumpur that involved plenty of schmoozy dinners and entertaining and so Suki was the ideal candidate; being vivacious, charming and au fait with current business affairs. However, this ‘match’ took on a Richard Gere/Julia Roberts turn as Piers and Suki, on meeting felt an electric charge that proffered a connection that followed them from the bedroom, all the way up to the boardroom doors. Any time Piers had a free moment he would take Suki shopping to one of KL’s fancy boutiques, or for snatched extended lunches in the city’s top restaurants. It turned out that they had both schooled at one of Surrey’s top private schools, at different times, both had a love of the great outdoors and loved playing polo in their spare time. Their attunement was such that they spent less and less time in the bedroom, and even more time spent walking hand in hand through the city streets – inseparable and kissing on every available street corner.

After a long weekend of playing ‘boyfriend/girlfriend’ the two return to the UK and start texting like crazy – Suki even divulges to me that she had fallen in love with Piers. This was something that pleased me, contrary to how an agency head usually views genuine love matches. This was the 4th or 5th relationship that had come from my matching two people for this kind of business trip, I was becoming quite the cupid. The introduction/trip occurred in early July but is currently still going strong, with both parties meeting on a regular basis in London. How the situation pans out is anyone’s guess but it goes to show that a call girl’s life is full of surprises, some more innocent than others.

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Micro-Moments of Connection

In her new book Love 2.0: How Our Supreme Emotion Affects Everything We Feel, Think, Do, and Become, Barbara Fredrickson wrote:

“You can experience micro-moments of connection with anyone – whether your soul mate or a stranger. So long as you feel safe and can forge the right kind of connection, the conditions for experiencing the emotion of love are in place”.

This revisionist view of love and relationships really got me thinking about those intimate moments, shielded from the usual constraints of man-woman dynamics, that oftentimes make our world go round. A lasting glance on a tube platform, hands brushing between strangers at a bar, snatched conversations with a flirtatious man/woman at a hotel bar – I don’t know about you but these brief interludes in everyday reality definitely get my juices flowing. I recently met a tall, dark stranger at one of London’s swankiest hotel bars last week: I was waiting on a friend and started talking to the American gentleman next to me. We ordered negronis and settled in for the night, the air was heady with excitement and, despite our conversation leading to conjecture on Edward Snowden’s true motivations, it was the sidelong glances that piqued our frisson. He had told me he was married so I soon made my excuses but, as I travelled home in my taxi, I did wonder what might have happened had I followed him to his hotel room. Something about this so-called ‘intelligence expert’ had gripped to me, and I was soon weaving down Aldwych wondering… Wondering what might have happened in the instant that his room door had closed, as we struggled to find the key-card slot. I imagined pushing him up against the door, in the dark, grappling with his shirt buttons to reveal his obviously manly chest and pressing his naked torso against my low-cut dress as my mouth searched for his. I’ve been wondering about this all week, but the warning: ‘He’s married!’ kept flashing up in my mind. Then I happened upon an old Simone de Beauvoir quote and quickly revised my own concerns on the sanctity of marriage. After all, we’re only human – simply put on this earth to connect (albeit for a short time)…

“To hold and proclaim that a man and a woman (who may not even have chosen each other) are in duty bound to satisfy each other in every way throughout their lives is a monstrosity that necessarily gives rise to hypocrisy, lying, hostility and unhappiness”

Simone de Beauvoir (The Second Sex, 1949)

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Who’s the Boss?

Occasionally you have a client that really takes risks. One, let’s call him Donald, rang me a fortnight ago and asked for a ‘bevy’ of girls to be sent to his Fitzrovia townhouse offices late on a Thursday night.

‘Make sure they’re into tights,’ he said, furtively, before promptly hanging up.

Well I went into ‘party planner’ mode and sent four cherry-picked beauties of differing heights and build but with the best legs on my roster. Keisha, Tania, Elin and Karolina got to the house near Fitzroy Square at 7pm, having stockpiled the entire Wolford hosiery counter from Selfridges, and awaited their instructions. After a brief wait in the lobby they were greeted by Donald who claimed to be working late on a case but was already rather ‘squiffy’ on champagne. He led them to the boardroom where he fed them strawberries, played chamber music and asked each of them to undress to just their skirts and underwear. As Tania recalled the following day, she was all set for an orgiastic display with her cohorts when Donald turned out to be none other than a tights festishist. He had them lay out their Wolford goodies, upon which he expected each pair before asking one of the girls to try them on. They, in turn, couldn’t believe that they were being renumerated for such low-impact activity and gleefully modelled each pair, with their pencil skirts hitched up gracefully, as one-by-one they sashayed up and down the solid oak boardroom table in their Louboutins. As it got darker the Venetian blinds were closed and Donald disappeared into the back of the house to ‘turn out lights’ in the office area. At this point the girls started to wonder whether they would be escorted to the well-known Morgans Hotel nearby and went to put their coats on. But Donald soon re-entered wearing a hotel dressing gown, looking rather flushed… causing Tania to ask: ‘Are you alright, Sir – you look a bit peaky?’

Donald, who was hardly David Gandy but in good shape for his age, kept huffing and almost squirming in an uncomfortable manner under the towelling robe – ‘it must be hot in there’, was Tania’s initial thought but nothing prepared her for his grand reveal…
‘I asked if you liked tights for a reason,’ said Donald, in a clipped accent usually reserved for Shakespearean actors, ‘…well I hope you like them as much as I do!’ With that he untied the shackles of the belt and set himself free from everything but a pair of tights that went all the way up to his nipples, a bodystocking to be precise. Tania recoiled at the sight of his leg hair matted down under the fabric, then fought hard to suppress her laughter at his member attempting to poke through the groin region. Conveniently, Donald’s time was up figuratively and metaphorically –the girls had another arrangement after their 2-hr booking and so were able to make a quick exit. They stifled their giggles on exiting but not before Karolina spotted the sight of the office cleaner who had been working upstairs conspicuously for the duration without her employer’s knowledge. My girls made an executive decision that night – to walk away without alerting Donald so that, so they could imagine various permutations of the scene in the boardroom as the cleaner entered to find her boss in a wholly comprising position. Their cab ride was certainly one of mass hysteria – ‘laugh and the world laughs with you,’ xxxx

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Every Penis is a Snowflake

Last month, while scrolling through the Economist online, I read a review for Tom Hickman’s book God’s Doodle: The Life and Times of the Penis and promptly ordered it for ‘research purposes’. A satisfying read, I devoured this light-hearted tome to the trousersnake and discovered many new facts about male genitalia, appreciating they way it debunked myths on size/shape/ideals – as in my experience no two dicks can ever look like duplicates. Hickman asserts that every penis is a special snowflake, whether “long, short, thin, stumpy, straight, bulbous… swerved left or right or up or down, circumcised or not, smooth or as wrinkled as a Shar-Pei pup.”

This really got me thinking about the snowy London scenes surrounding me – and despite the city not coming to a standstill and putting everything in flux – that we can still have good reason to operate autonomously. On Monday my best friend called, exclaiming gleefully that her office was out of bounds for the week due to adverse weather, and with much work to do on my personal projects I too decided to hunker down by the fireplace and hide from the world. But this wasn’t before I’d the brainwave of inviting my local, personal ‘handy’man-friend Brendan over to help with some ‘diy’. Brendan came over on the Sunday afternoon with his special toolkit – trust me, I’ve reached a plateau with the English sexual innuendos so this is not a euphemism – and set to work, putting up some shelves for all the new ‘research’ books I’d acquired of late. After a welcome feast during an extended lunch, in which we gorged on Beluga caviar and oysters, he hoisted me over his shoulders and led me to the bedroom. There we remained for several hours without a care in the world, every now and then just checking on whether his SUV would get snowed in on my driveway. Later we sat in the living room and played a hilarious game of Salacious Scrabble – basically the only words allowed have to be of the saucy kind – while listening to the kindling crack on the open fire. So rather than freak out about how the snow might hinder my progress this January, I took the opposing view; that of an opportunist who managed to catch up on reading while allowing ample enough time to appreciate life’s individual snowflakes, because as the aphorism goes: sex is like snow; you never know how many inches you’ll get or how long it will last!

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Bright Young Things

F. Scott Fitzgerald once penned the line, “First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you …” Well this could sum up my New Year’s Eve in London. It all started innocently, when a couple of girlfriends and I were invited to join a VIP party hosted by a Mr Jay Buchanan, obviously not his real name ;-) , for dinner at the Oxo Tower which was decked out a la The Great Gatsby. This of course meant that we’d readied ourselves in embellished low-waisted dresses of opulent silk, pearls and headdresses.

On arrival Jay greeted us warmly, his eyes glinting as he took me in. All I knew about him was that as a publishing magnate, he oversaw five big glossies and owned a private jet and large piece of the East Hamptons. Jordan, one of my new girls, maintained that she’d recently seen him inside her local betting shop looking very shady with a woman that wasn’t his common law wife. Well, I was not in this business to ask many questions and avoided brass tacks by agreeing to imbibe the champagne as it flowed freely at our table. Jay paid particular attention to me in my low-cut, flapper girl dress and, after our fairly sedate phone conversations, I found him to be a charming raconteur with a heart of gold. Jordan, however, had a different impression entirely and later told me in the powder room that one of my girls had attended a private dinner where Jay had entertained the two honchos of one of the city’s most notorious Russian gangs and that he received regular pay-outs from them while aiding them on their endeavours. We toasted in New Year at midnight despite my eyeing our not-so-venerable host’s huge gold rings suspiciously and feeling just a little afraid.

Much later we found ourselves at a very exclusive but low-key party at Shoreditch House. I still didn’t know what to think about Jay but decided to lap up the attention he paid me as the passed over girls sat conferring. Within minutes of him leaving my side to smoke a cigar I found myself cornered by Agatha Waugh, a former wild child/model who nowadays was known more for her brush with mental institutions having set fire to her ex-fiancé’s country cottage in a fit of anger. By the time I politely edged myself away from her I started to feel woozy from the champagne and intensely radiating outdoor heaters. Managing to edge by back to the wall – far enough away from the pool for fear of slipping in and losing my dignity, and more importantly, my Louboutins – I scanned the room for Jay – feeling unnerved by the stories and his elusive to-ings and fro-ings. It was then I heard a loud SPLASH in the pool and looked over to find Agatha floating, facedown in the pool, with the trail of her black widow dress behind her. My alarm vanished however as her head emerged from the water with a peal of laughter… soon followed by the familiar visage of Jay Buchanan who it seemed, despite ‘owning’ prime beachside real estate at the Hamptons could not swim… So he really wasn’t who he seemed at all. There was no cause for alarm as Agatha managed to get him a light headlock and swim him to safety, much to the bemusement of all present. I guess everyone had had a little too much to drink that night, most of all Jay. As I returned home safe and sound I imagined Jay kicking himself for not holding back and retaining that air of mystery and intrigue that had long been his calling card. But in London, a Gatsby-esque charlatan sooner or later always gets found out. And that’s why I love this town.

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Red room of joy

By now most of you have heard of the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy and the furore surrounding this demagogue of cliterature. It left me wondering when a client would put an exacting request in for their very own Anastasia and last Friday I received a call that finally made me go: ‘bingo!’

So ‘Dominic’ is one of my newbies; a hard-working (read: stressed) investment banker, he’d only requested two dates so far but called the other day asking for a night that involved a bit of d/s (that’s dominance and submissive to innocent bystanders like you and me). Only thing is he didn’t really state a preference for the girl ;) Having met Dom ‘the dom’ I immediately sensed an alpha strength that probably saw him through life and that, though he was charming, his punishing work schedule meant he needed loosening up – a lot! Basically I knew he’d be game so I sent Anna over; a recent discovery – this Antipodean fox was sassy, classy and a trained-actress who was up for playing a sub-turned-dom type. I saw to the finer details – even dressing her a bit like Ana, the character in the book – and sought out a room decked out in red – not unlike Christian Grey’s Red Room of Pain – though this would be one with a marked difference.

Anna and I concocted the idea of 50 Shades but in reverse, knowing that Dominic had the sense of humour to ensure he saw the flipside. Instead of cable ties and ropes we furnished the room with feathers, silk scarves and anything else that could illicit pleasure through the sensual and fun frolics rather than the infliction of pain. After the evening Anna relayed a few details of how their night unfolded and Dom’s reaction to being the submissive male in a red room. Apparently he took it well, and came away with a renewed fervour for being blindfolded and tickled for a protracted length of time, as the foreplay intensified close to his erogenous zones. Anna, rather than play dumb, turned the ‘Secretary’ role on its head and had him bound to the bed while she instructed him on how to enjoy the night. At first he was apprehensive but then she couldn’t believe how much he managed to relax, after a night of all-over aromatherapy massage and tantric climaxing. Dominic actually thanked Anna profusely, saying that he may even have to re-evaluate his d/s stance to make it fun for the women in his life and compared the evening to ‘great therapy’… he even bowed when leaving the room, thereby signifying his complete yielding in the face of her powers. At this point she just had to admit that as a trained actress she wasn’t as bossy as she appeared and was in real life a fairly demure girl. Dominic later called me to effuse on his BDSM breakthrough, and found the humour and subversive nature of the evening to be the best part, well that and the ‘peaches and cream’ innocence of Anna in her becoming, La Perla lingerie. I remarked it was just as well he could handle the fun otherwise I would have had to charter a private helicopter to come to his rescue (just like the novel) and to this he laughed heartily, like a man who most likely would never be the same again…

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parlez Francais part deux

I’m not so into strip bars these days, I’ve seen the majority of venues in this town go from hero to zero in a short space of time, with the cheap ‘n’ nasty places pulling in the most punters. So when I heard that Parisian legend Crazy Horse was bringing its brand of class, intrigue and variety to London I jumped at the chance to go to the launch. One of my newbies, Brigita very sweetly asked me along so we got dressed at mine – low-drop-waisted dresses, sheer lace tops, stockings and black silk lingerie that peeped through our clothing.

At the Southbank pop-up venue we were hit by the attention to detail, for a makeshift space they had really gone to town –that town being Paris, with the chandeliered, plush interior conveying 1950s French decadence to a T. We were ushered to our velvet banquette at the side of the stage, and after the cocktail waitress took our order we settled in to watch the show. Each girl was neatly turned out; all bob haircuts with fringes, high cheekbones, long legs and ample curvature to their bodies – their costumes, or should I say accoutrements really added to the show, and I took mental notes to pass on to my girls – for when they’re performing Crazy Horse numbers in the bedroom. Though the stripping was alluring, the perfected choreography and mimed singing left me a bit cold, though one titillating performance by a women bound behind bars, whose angry balletic moves, lunges and expressions was pretty impactful. It turned out Brigita knew some of the dancers so we decamped to their hotel across the river for drinks in the lobby bar.

While Brigita worked the room, I propped myself up at the bar and got chatting to a French literary agent who specialised in high-end, erotic novellas and coffee table books – well, it’s a shame my identity is shrouded as I would love to author a book about my experiences. His name was Louis and he seemed courteous and intrigued by me, the less I disclosed about myself. However, after his third Armagnac he grew overbearing – complaining ungallantly about his ex-wife and losing all sight of my visage as he breathed down my shirt collar hoping for a peep of my silk bra. I looked ahead and past him, desperate to make a quick exit but Brigita was locked in conversation – I then felt a presence behind me at the bar, and as I turned 180˚ I felt my left breast brush against another woman’s followed by a surge of electricity between us. I looked into the bewitching eyes of the caged dancer from earlier, who beamed at me flashing her Bardot-esque gap between her teeth. After she introducing herself as Astrid, I proclaimed her performance to be the highlight, and we were soon talking like we’d known each for years. So much so that literary bore Louis had to take his leave, much to my relief. After gaining many recommendations on Parisian lingerie stores, I kissed Astrid goodbye – and, as he made a beeline for her, manoeuvred Brigita away from Louis’ sightline. We left him muttering to himself in the lobby and escaped to an awaiting taxi. Sometimes when it comes to relations between men and women, the only thing that springs to mind is the French phrase ‘vive la difference’.

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I’ve not been in radio contact as I spent my summer yachting around the Côte d’Azur – just one of the many perks of my job. One of my star clients, we’ll call him ‘Roberto’, an Italian businessman with a love of feminine witchcraft and watercraft, requested my company after his wife took the kids to Lake Garda.  A man with new-found freedom, a yacht and an invitation to swan around the French Rivera is not to be sniffed at and so I promptly plucked my two star pupils and booked flights for an all-expenses trip to la dolce vita as a bonus. Our chauffeur-driven car arrived at port, and an over-excited Roberto greeted us gleefully – the mere sight of Lauren, Apphia and I in our beachwear, climbing aboard the dinghy that would wing us to Plage de Pampelonne caused his head to spin 360°. We had a similar reaction as we approached his 150-ft, five-star cruiser close to shoreline… I’d never seen a yacht so huge.

Our days were spent in tranquil peace, with only the sound of motorboats breaking the silence. Lauren, a cute blonde with amazing legs and flowing locks, and Apphia, a dusky beauty with Victoria’s Secret curves, would hit the upper deck stripped down to their bikini bottoms (for an all-over, even tan) whereas I was far more demure, keeping my one-piece on. This was most frustrating for Roberto who, aroused by my modesty, would often make a beeline for me rather than the girls – alas, as a professional, I always rebuff my clients advances. Our days were so harmonious… we’d awake with the sun and move from port to port, taking photos of the stunning scenery while I would occasionally pen poetry – a pastime of mine. We’d dine on high-end, fresh seafood in wonderful shoreline restaurants and finish off the evening in a club. One particular night in St Tropez was a memorable one – Roberto decided to surprise us by taking us to a ‘friend’s’ party at Nikki Beach, well this turned out to be Paris Hilton, no less – Roberto’s line of work often takes him to LA, and the pair struck up a friendship. Not quite the wild child we expected, the heiress was composed though slightly tipsy from too much Armand de Brignac. Later we were invited to party on her monster yacht, complete with its own helipad. As we swayed to music under a star-lit sky I thought, ‘a girl could get used to this’ – not looking forward to my return to the London grind. But return I did, and after a few days catching up on life admin I’m back in the swing of things but every now and then I have flashbacks to fabulous Francais and have to pinch myself to realise that it wasn’t all a dream…

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