153.

The week: it appears I may have spoken a tad too soon (see Blog 152).

Monday.

Started with a courtesy phone call from the Police; sadly, a Transsexual Escort had been murdered in North London just a few days earlier. It seems the suspect (now under arrest), had also called me the very same evening of the murder, 7:23pm to be precise.

They asked if I could recall the phone call, I racked my brain but nothing fell out. I was assured not to worry but should they need to talk to me further, would it be OK to call again, ‘At a time that’s convenient for yourself Frances, we don’t want to get in the way of your appointments,’ he politely enquired.

Lest you're unaware, Escorting is legal here in England.

I replied that I’d be more than happy to help; I do already on occasion, a few of the ‘Boy’s in Blue’ are amongst some of my favourite clients.

Tuesday.

'Mr Latex Gloves' is back in town (see Blog 40), he stays at The Dorchester (Floris toiletries) these day, always takes a gigantic suite overlooking the park. His bedroom alone is the floor space of my house back at HQ (large), whilst the sitting room is one and a half times that; all this for just one man on his tod; his government must have money to burn; well they do have an awful lot of oil.

Wednesday.

Was Club Lola's last evening at its present location. The owners of the building have sold the lease and although they've offered us another place to move to, thus affording a smooth transition, we've decided to launch out on our own without them.

I can see why they want us to stay with them, we're making them a lot of money, however, they were either slow or not forthcoming whenever I requested something for my club evening, so why would I bother?

Dick Bradsell and I are now talking to potential investors and are looking for a new location within Soho/Theatre-land; to open sometime in the early New Year.

But hey, it's not such bad news, we became so popular that we outgrew 23 Romilly St and the 11pm licence was awful, so now we'll have a place that's bigger, better and has a licence till at least 1am.

Straight after turning the lights out at Lola (12:30am), I popped along to the launch party of 'Vouge,' I was going to stay for the obligatory hour, but only managed twenty minutes; I'd have loved the place twenty years ago.

Thursday.

To the launch party for some new glam magazine, held in a very noisy pub (George & Dragon) on Hackney Road. Stayed for all of fifteen minutes, didn't bother to make my excuses, simply snook out the back and headed over to Hawksmoore for a quiet drink. Did they miss me, I guess I’ll never know? Bed 1am.

Friday.

It's the official closing party for 23 Romilly Street. I walked up to the bar whereupon Dick cracked opened a bottle of champagne and thrust it into my hands, 'Drink that girl, you deserve it!' There was much mourning and merry dancing for what had become the surrogate 'Colony Room.' After closing that place down (Midnight), a few of us strolled over to Gerry's for a nightcap, or three; hailed a cab at 3am.

Saturday.

Band practise with The Frantastics at HQ, 2pm-8pm.

Had promised to meet up and entertain a friend from out of town at 9pm, now wishing I hadn't offered, as I'm starting to drag now. Take him to 69 Colebrooke Row along with my guitar in the hope of getting a bit of a sing-along going, as much to stir me up as anything else...it works! Stood on the staircase like some minstrel, I belt out Cash and Elvis songs, they roar for more; bed 2am.

Sunday.

First to Cipriani's for one of the many dinners they owe me, we have a nice agreement, I do little musical turn for their New Years Eve bash, gratis, they feed me the rest of the year for free, nice.

The long table next to me is populated by some ten Eurotrash type diners, after dinner I slip a tip beneath the stem of my depleted champers glass and head toward the door. I observe much whispering amongst the table (is she doing a runner, or as is known in the trade 'a walkout'), this amuses me.

At the door I'm embraced and wave a fond farewell, 'Till next time Frances, ciao bella.' Eurotrash are now left wondering, 'Who can she be, she doesn't have to pay, we do!' Ha, I'm just a nobody.

It's off to Blacks (my club in Soho), for one of their eclectic nights of entertainment held on all three floors of this Georgian townhouse.

Top floor is poetry recitals and acoustic music; middle floor is comedy and readings, basement floor is a DJ playing 50's music, chanson and Rockabilly, oh and I finishing off the night stood upon the long refectory table giving it some serious welly; need to get home and have a shower. Bed 2am.

Well, so much for slowing down, I'm going to die with my boots on at this rate! Anon.

What I'm reading in bed...

The Guerrilla Home Recording. Karl Coryat.

152.

It's official, I'm slowing down and veering steadily toward that grassy bit next to the hard shoulder; I'm quite enjoying it really.

After last week’s ‘Frantastics’ gig, I stayed around for all of half an hour to meet and greet (networking future gigs), before heading off home. Time was, when I’d stay around for a few hours, unwind and have a drink with friends.

However…this evening it was straight back to HQ, into my ‘jim jam’s,’ put another log on the fire and settled back into the sofa to continue on my 1000 piece jigsaw; yes, I’ve been seduced by the calming effects of jigsaws.

The first one I tackled a few months back, was 500 pieces, which I was able to complete in about a week; do people really finish them in one sitting? Surely, the whole idea is to slowly chip away at it, a little bit at a time.

I've learnt that one starts with the edges, steadily moving toward the center. The thrill of successfully placing a piece is not unlike a mini high, accompanied by a punch in the air exclaiming loudly...'yes!'

Moreover, it induces a calming, therapeutic effect. Sat there in contemplation, one begins to turn things over in one's head, deep things, as you scrummage about the box looking for that next fix/piece of jigsaw.

Once upon a time, I'd have given my eye tooth to be invited to launch parties, opening nights et al, I still enjoy 'soft openings,' as one tends to bump into familiar faces, and it usually involves free food and drink, yum yum!

But as for those loud brash times, I no longer care for them.

Hosting Lola (fun though thoroughly exhausting), is probably one of the reasons I don't go out as much these days, and also the reason I now get even more invites to other's events. I prefer my midweek soiree's (avoid weekends), arriving at the bar or club of a friend, just as they're kicking everyone out i.e. a 'lock in.'

Tomorrow evening I'm off to the launch of a new club (Vogue) for 'Bright Young Things', I'll pop in, as I'd like to support lovely chap who's hosting it, but shan't stay too long, how can I...there's work to be done and some serious puzzle solving to be had!

So, if perchance you're feeling a little stressed, I highly recommend a jigsaw, better still...pay me a visit and perhaps we can share a jigsaw together in bed, resulting in you becoming doubly de-stressed! Anon.

151.

Raising my head from between R's loins I asked, 'Do you drink a lot of coffee?’ How do you know that Frances!'

Skin is a very porous thing as I once found out; someone asked if they could do a line of coke over the crest of my bottom and then over my inner thighs, I obliged though didn't partake; however, I had indulged, albeit naively.

Fellatio is a sure way to find out if someone is a smoker or not, then again, it's easier just to offer them a cigarette and see if they accept it, though it's not half as much fun for either party.

A few weeks ago, whilst greeting an acquaintance with a hug, they asked, 'Have you been eating garlic?' I'd been on a curry fest with a friend the day before, it wasn't on my breath, but they'd smelt it permeating my skin; fortunately, I wasn't entertaining any clients that day.

So...fellatio i.e. 'willy's/cocks/dicks/or bunny’s,' call them what you will, they come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. Some might bend to the left, some to the right, whilst others may bow north or south; sometimes one needs to apply the science of trigonometry.

There's actually a medical term for 'willy's' that aren't straight as a dye, it's called Peyronie's Disease; caused by a connective tissue disorder.

If you're really that bothered (I'm not), it can be corrected with surgery. Personally, I'd leave well alone; I remember a friend telling me that he'd been circumcised in his 20's and has since never been able to get fully erect again; if it ain't broke don't fix it!

Several years ago I was out to dinner with two friends, one was bemoaning the fact that he had a small cock, seven inches, 'Hey, that's not small, that's one and a half inches above average, I said, I'm seven, it more than enough for me!'

Meanwhile, the other friend bemoaned that his cock was 'too big,' nine inches! 'It's a curse, you really don't want a big cock, I have to hold my hand around the base, otherwise girls find it really uncomfortable, I'd trade cocks with you tomorrow,' he said, to my greedy and sufficiently well endowed friend.

Men, remember this; 'It's not the ocean it's the motion.'

Now, whilst big cocks may look impressive in a porn movie, they're otherwise unwieldy, impractical, more than a mouthful and quite frankly, a pain in the arse!

And so I say 'hurrah' for 'Mr Average' sized willy; anon.

150.

I have a love affair with food (epicurean), fortunately, I also have a love for riding my bicycle at any given calorific burning opportunity.

I've a hand-built Pashley cruiser, perhaps in some way, it's a little reflection of myself, casually sat back in the saddle, taking in the scenery, happy to detour if distracted by some appealing sight, sound or smell, arriving when I get there.

Such a laid back attitude toward life, can only be good for one's blood pressure and therefore, one's health and longevity.

I'm not a 'Tour de France' kind of person, pedalling at break-neck speed as fast as the wind will carry me to my next destination. Nope, I'm more of a 'Bobbin Bicycles' cyclist, built for comfort not speed.

However, in the last four months whilst riding out and about, I've had more expletives thrown at me from impatient motorists, than I've had whilst driving about in my car in a year! My usual response toward such ignorant people is to smile, whereupon, said person/prat simply bears their teeth even more so; ho hum.

Last Sunday no such incidents happened, as the roads leading from Tower Hill to Buckingham Palace and back, where closed to motorists, as 65,000 men, women and children took to the streets of London for the annual 'Skyride.'

The average speed here in London by car is twelve miles an hour, that's slower than I can pedal!

I'd be tempted to cycle to my clients at their various West End hotels, but fear I might end up looking like a drenched cat dragged though a hedge backwards, should the skies suddenly decide to open, as they're apt to do hee in London and throughout the UK.

Come spring 2010, I'm considering taking my bicycle to the 'Champagne' region in France, via Eurostar. Now, that would make a memorable holiday, weaving merrily along the dusty lanes from chateau to chateau, stopping off for liquid sustenance, a nice piece of squishy brie and tearing at a freshly baked baguette.

Yes, food and bicycles, what a splendid combination: see, I'm not all 'Rock n Roll:' anon.

What I'm reading in bed...

Now we are Sixty: Christopher Matthew.

149.

Sprawled across the sofa, 'Bunny' (my affectionately named cock) and I lay thoroughly knacked i.e. sexually exhausted; what...you don't have a pet name for your cock?

The reason...we'd both just finished entertaining not one, but two couples, plus one of my regular client in less than twenty four hours! Now, if you do your sums right and stretch your imagination a tad, you'll realise that's twelve bunny holes.

I'd been corresponding with A and D for a few weeks and although this wasn't their first threesome, it was with one such as I. They'd booked into the Guoman hotel (bog standard toiletries) at Tower Bridge, just a five minute walk from my apartment; marvelous!

We met for drinks and an ice breaking introduction in the hotel's bar, which sports a fine view of the river and Tower Bridge itself, quite a sight when seen lit up at night.

Having now got acquainted and fantasy's (soon to become reality) discussed with diplomatic precision, we retired to their room. A, was the male Dom, D the female sub; roles they were both comfortable to play.

The evening's shenanigans went something like this...

Frances fucked A;
A fucked Frances;
Frances fucked D;
Frances & A both fucked D i.e. double penetration (DP);
Frances fucked A whilst D sucked her partner off;
A fucked Frances whilst D sucked Frances off;
Frances & D together sucked off A; Bingo!

A successful threesome needs the timing, precision and coordination of an 'Oxford vs Cambridge' boat race.

All participants have to be pushing and pulling on the right stroke in the right direction at the same time, otherwise, you're rowing against yourselves. Get it wrong and you'll all come tumbling down, usually over the side of the bed and into a fit of giggles, with the potential of some seriously bent tackle and broken oars.

Here's a little tip: if ever you have to cross a dance-floor full of people twisting and twirling, the trick is...dance across it, swerving and weaving between the bodies. This way, you're swaying with the rhythm/current of the crowd; walk across it like some robot and you'll be smashed against the waves.

The next evening saw me entertaining another couple at the Marriot Hotel (Molton Brown toiletries) Grosvenor square. D called at 6pm requesting that I be there in half an hour; 'I don't think so, this is rush hour, this is London!' I arrived at 7pm.

The door of the suite cracked open, I was greeted by a strong, cheery Aryan looking blonde (she was Austrian), an Annie Lennox look-alike sporting a black satin basque and knickers. 'Come in Frances, lovely to meet you,' I was shown to the bedroom.

There, upon the queen-sized bed atop crisp white cotton sheets, lay a man with an erection; I didn't blink but I did think...hmmm...I've seen this chap on the TV and in the movies. We shook hands whilst accepting a glass of champagne in the other.

Not wanting to bore you with a blow by blow account, night maneuvers went pretty much as they had the evening previous. Whilst getting dressed I casually enquired of D if he was living here in London. 'No Frances, I live in Switzerland now, tax reasons and all.' 'Aha I thought, a tax exile, that figures.'

They'd booked a table for 8pm at the fashionable restaurant downstairs from the hotel. The restaurant's GM, being a friend of mine, I thought I'd pop by and say hi. 'D, don't think me rude, but, discretion being the better part of valour, if I should see you in the restaurant I'll ignore you.' 'Thanks for that Frances, we'll call you next time we're in town.'

At 11pm, C, my longest serving client arrived at the Office. I wore a cocktail dress and we danced about the apartment together to a little light music; it was nice to do something a bit different, just the three of us, C, Bunny and I; anon.