Friday, 10 April 2015

211.

Damn it…Becky has retired. Well she did say she would this year and good for her, off to pastures new; however, where does this leave me now?

There goes my ‘Go To’ Transsexual playmate, the one I'd call upon for assistance in a threesome boudoir liaison. And to whom do I now refer my clients when I'm not available, or if they'd simply like to have some fun with another English gal?

Becky was a unique Escort, by which I mean she was polite, educated, mindful, genuine, delivered the goods, loved champagne as much as I and…was English.

I fondly remember one evening together, no one else involved just ourselves. We retired to her boudoir, the lighting and music was just so and we were on to our third or was it fourth bottle of champagne. Lying there I looked at her, she looked at me, in a 'Well you start,' we were both so sloshed, that we fell asleep.

We spent many a wonderful afternoon/evening entertaining, be it her client or mine and would often jump the Eurostar to Paris for a weekend shopping trip, to top up on our lingerie and stocking collection, or pop over to the annual lingerie trade show weekend, to which we were invited each year.

How many girls pop up in Google search these days when you type in ‘London Transsexual Escort,’ hundreds I imagine? But I doubt there's one of Becky's calibre, one whom I wouldn't hesitate referring one of my own client to and who's English…if you do know then please let me know too.

Sometimes, the feedback I hear from clients begins to sound like a broken record, ‘it wasn't them in the picture;’ ‘unsympathetic and impatient;’ ‘couldn't speak the language;’ ‘upon arrival reeled off a list of prices for various services.’

Now don't for a moment think all Escorts are like that, oh no, it's only about 40% of them, at least from what I'm told; it's a jungle out there.

So, good luck and bon voyage on your new adventures Becky, we certainly had a ball and what a pleasure it was too; thank you.








Thursday, 12 March 2015

210.

M had just arrived in from NYC; ‘Hi Frances, I'm staying at the Corinthian hotel (Espa toiletries) but I have to pop out awhile first, can I see you at 10pm?’

The Corinthian is one of London’s newest hotels, it boasts itself as 5-star and indeed it is very nice, however, it’s the hotel equivalent of a ‘Euro car,’ smooth, conformist modern lines, built for practicality rather than quirky originality. It’s insipid, indistinguishable and lacks identity, no different from a hundred other high-end boutique hotels.

And those interiors they're always the same, muted grey or brown, with lots of chrome and glass, not at all cozy, or the kind of place you'd like to squirrel yourself away in for a long weekend; the toiletries are nice though and I love the ridiculously large fluffy towels they call bath sheets.

M must be in his late thirties, a tall handsome man, he ‘works-out,’ I know this because he told me so several times, just in case I’d forgotten the first three, or was it four times? ‘What do you think of my body, you like it,’ he asked, ‘Well, it looks like you workout,’ I said flatteringly, it was the polite thing to say. 

‘So, why don't you go lay down on your tummy, and I'll give you a nice back massage after that long flight.' I slipped out of my dress and down to stocking and suspenders (as requested), before popping into the bathroom for a towel, tissues and body lotion.

Flipping him over I straddled his thighs, grasping both erect cocks in one hand whilst squeezing body lotion over them with the other, like as when they pour you an ice-cream. 'Aha, two cocks divided by a common language,' well that went straight over his head. 

‘And can you fuck me in the mouth too,’ ‘Sure,’ I replied. It appeared we had about the same size cock, but he being American his was circumcised; it didn't escape my attention that no mention was made about his cock, mine being a tad bigger.

‘Might I suggest a 69,’ ‘Sure thing Frances, whatever suits you.’ I enjoyed that, as my mouth bobbed up and down the length of his shaft, having my cock in his mouth kept him somewhat quiet. 

‘Do you wanna see how far I can shoot my come,’ he asked, in for a penny I thought, ‘Yes OK.’

M stood on the thick deep-pile carpet at the foot of the bed, where he could get the best view of himself in the mirror and proceeded to wank himself off. I thought I'd spice the proceedings up a bit, so stood behind him wrapping my hand firmly around his cock, and wanked him off hard.

‘When I come I want you to keep jerking me off, I want to see it shoot over the carpet,’ oh well, it wasn't my bedroom carpet.

And yes, it was an impressive spurt, four long one’s all over the deeply piled 5-star grey carpet, the first spurt reaching furthest. M collapsed onto the bed whilst I went off to fetch a towel to clean up any sticky evidence, I'm practical like that; don't want the chambermaid getting stuck to the spot.

‘So hey, can I see you again tomorrow evening, and can you wear black suspenders and stocking this time,’ ‘Sure M, I can do that, I’ll talk to you then, oh and do you mind if I take an apple, I haven’t ate since breakfast.’

What I'm reading in bed...

Bevis: Richard Jefferies

Thursday, 19 February 2015

209.

R arrived back in town from Hong Kong, we'll usually meet up 3-4 times a year, occasionally have dinner too. He doesn't look dissimilar to Hemingway though somewhat shorter, about my height (5ft 4inc).

And for a man with a full beard, it is certainly the softest I have ever nuzzled, what's his secret, does he moisturise it daily, I shall ask next time and pass it on to you wiry beardy types.

R was staying at The Dukes Hotel (SKN toiletries), quintessentially English and famed throughout the world for their Martini's, combining top-shelf ingredients with flare and ceremony. A brass and mahogany drinks trolley is wheeled over to your table, whereupon alchemy is performed before your very eyes; I imagine it all adds to the taste expectation in one's head, a grand party piece.

I wonder if one could tell the difference in a blind tasting, comparing it against one that has simply been shaken at the bar, never stirred at The Dukes (Ian Fleming drank here). For those interested enough in learning this sleight of hand, one can book a 'Martini Masterclass' for a mere £95.00 with bar manager maestro Alessandro Palazzi.

Suffice to say we ordered two (with a twist), it'd have been a crime not to, along with a champagne chaser, doubly criminal not to.

Having caught up on each other's gossip, R had a lightbulb moment, well...more of a trouser bulge moment really. 'Frances, do you know anyone who might like to join us?' It was now 11pm.

'Well it's too late for TS Becky, she's an early bird these days, switches off her phone at 7pm and puts her feet up for a G & T,' good for her I say. 'There's Sophie, I could try her,' 'Great, give her a call.' 'Hi Sophie, are you busy, if not would you like to come join us at The Dukes for some fun,' 'Actually Frances, I'm in bed reading The Times but give me half an hour.'

Thirty minutes later Sophie was sat with us sipping upon a chilled Martini. I announced, 'I think we should all retire to the boudoir, anyone disagree, all those in favour raise you glass, chink chink chink. Having arrived at the room R suggested we order up a bottle of fizz, I played mother and called down to the bar, 'Yes, three glasses please.'

Room service arrived promptly, so I shuffled the other two off to the bedroom while I showed the waiter into the sitting room, where he poured three glasses of bubbles. I tipped him as he left, leaving him to his thoughts, I'm sure he's seen it all before.

R and Sophie were already getting it on or rather, off, when I entered the room. Stripping down to my lingerie I sat on the bedroom chair, glass in hand and watched, before joining in a few minutes later. R was rather taken with his new plaything, so I acted a bit like a traffic cop, waving and suggesting what should be their next move.

If I'm completely honest, I can't quite remember what we got up to (sorry about that, I blame the martini's), but I do know we had an awful lot of fun. I took care of Sophie's gift before she left and stayed on a little longer chit chatting with R.

Rather than jump a cab straight away, I took a stroll down St James' and along 'The Mall' beside Green Park, it was a cold crisp night with a bright hazy moon, but the winter air felt refreshingly good for my rather muddled head.

What I'm reading in bed...

Meadowland: John Lewis-Stempel





Friday, 30 January 2015

208.

The New Year brings self imposed challenges, I feel the need to strike a balance between my hedonism and Catholic guilt.

Oh how swiftly that last year seemed to fly by. Of course it doesn't really, it's still 365 days of 24 hours, unless of course it's a 'Leap Year,' in which case it's 366 and time goes by more slowly.

Here's one explanation of why time seemingly goes by quicker, Does time really fly?

Overall, I'm pleased with the accomplishments of 2014's resolutions. I became a better guitarist; performed more solo gigs;  swapped that car (goodbye Mini hello Land Rover), and religiously shipped myself off to Rye every 6-8 weeks for a weekend break.

Oh, and I became a more knowledgeable gardener. Yes you too can possess mystical, magical green fingers, it's mainly a science of do's and don’ts. However...the 'Talk less listen more' resolution continues to be a work in progress, perhaps never ending?

2015’s resolutions in no particular order are thus…

Learn to play the piano in the key of ‘G,’ it has one sharp i.e. a black note. I can competently play tunes in the key of ‘C,’ white notes only, but it’s limiting and even a monkey could do it, well one with a musical ear who can play triads and a melody at least.

Continue my sanity break weekends away in Rye, also start stomping about exploring the surrounding East Sussex countryside too, it's quite beautiful.

Cycle across England on the ‘Coast to Coast’ route, it's only 150 miles (Whitehaven-Tynemouth), with stop-offs for leg massages and cider tasting at the pubs en route; four days would be a doddle and I imagine quite wobbly?

I’ve already ticked off two resolutions, a dry/no booze January (leaving one feeling both virtuous and pious) and getting back to my hour long cycle/jog 4-5 mornings a week (bloomin freezing out there), which unfortunately fell by the wayside last year due to…’Come on now Frances, no excuses,’ ‘Oh OK then, I was lazy, sorry.’ 

This year also sees me involved with helping design the interiors of two London restaurants, I'm looking forward to the opportunity to vent my creative side, not quite full rein but close enough and at no expense to myself.

So I've now four irons in the fire, music gigs; gardening (employed as my neighbour's gardener); interior design and fret ye not...of course there's always the 'Office' that needs attending to.

What I'm reading in bed...

Freud On Food: Clement Freud.

Monday, 22 December 2014

207.

B, called Monday afternoon to book an appointment for the following Saturday morning; I like that kind of forward planning, and the chance to have a good think about what I'd like to wear on the day, plenty of time to really dress it up, instead of the usual one hour's notice and the big rush. 

T and JR, give me some six-months notice or more, both being from the USA they like to do their forward planning before their annual visit, I must have known them for some six years now, perhaps longer?

Anway, B has a thing about knitwear, mohair in particular. I was looking forward to meeting him, he had an interesting voice, calming, metered and precise, like that of a radio continuity announcer...

'And now here on Radio 4, it's forty-eight minutes to one and time for The Shipping Forecast, read by Charlotte Green.'

Alack, it wasn't until he confirmed at 8am on the Saturday morning (big yawn), that he enquired, 'Oh and by the way Frances, do you have any knitwear?' Well actually I do, but I'd put my cashmere dress in to be dry-cleaned only the day before, there was no way it would be ready to pick up in the morning.

And so I got creative, 'Necessity is the mother of invention,' nude coloured stockings, beige patent heels, yellow knickers and long sleeved fawn brown cashmere jumper which I pulled down over my thighs, the lace stocking tops peeked out from just below. In fact, I thought it was such a nice look, I'll use it more often.

B arrived in a long flowing woollen coat, with fur trimmed collar and lapels, beneath he wore a black angora turtle-neck jumper and fine woollen trousers, or rather, pants as our American friends might call them. We agreed that we didn't much care for very warm weather, one can dress up so much more in cooler climes.

Retiring to the boudoir, he insisted in taking the initiative, 'Oh OK then.' I was to lie on my back, still wearing my knitwear (he in his mohair jumper), whilst he massaged the spot just below the base of my cock; it stimulates the blood flow to the penis, it felt quite pleasant and relaxing.

And yes, my cock did get erect, but then it does anyway, it's fully functional, or as I'll often reassure my prospective clients, 'Yes, it still goes up and down, just like Tower Bridge.'

My next new experience was for B to wrap a white mohair jumper around my cock and slowly wank me, he'd brought it along especially for the occasion. Again, I was to simply lay back, 'Well OK if you insist,' I replied. Later on I too got inventive, popping each cock into a sleeve and wanked us both off to completion; his dry cleaning bill not mine, not that he minded a bit; I do hope he returns for a rematch.

And now boys and girls, it’s time to close the Office of fun for another year. May I wish you all a very Merry Christmas from HQ, and hope to see you all again next year, till then...

What I'm reading in bed…

New Selected Poems: Carol Ann Duffy