I Want It All, I Want It All, I Want It All and I Want It NOW!

I Want It All, I Want It All, I Want It All and I Want It NOW!

Lord, how many times have I heard this statement, “Are you available NOW!” Really, your dick starts to twitch, and the first number you come across, your intro to making an appointment, is to demand an appointment NOW! So, I take a deep breath and try to interject some reality into this persons obvious state of delusion. Because unless, he is a Time Lord, has access to the Tardis, has discovered my location and is actually standing in front of my door, or some how think I have a portable ho house that can pop up magically at his location, this foolishness of coming NOW, isn’t going to happen.

So, I ask a few basic questions, such as, where did you see my ad?  Have you seen the pictures? How long would you like to book? And what city/country/continent are you located?

Why the interrogation? This is due to being a globe trotting ho, and yes even with concise information in my adverts, such as location, length of duration at said location, and a host of other important info. Men can and do manage to get things slightly confused and think Canberra is Cornwall. See, I sincerely don’t think this would happen to a girl, we would not confuse our Gucci with our Gaultier. it is too important.

You would think the urgency with which a man wants his end wet, NOW! He would put a bit more effort into making sure I was located in the same town as he.



Security services. Intelligence gathering. Acquiring assets. Spying. Phone tapping. All this and more, our various security services engage in to obtain information. Why don’t they just ask their local neighbourhood hos for info?

Collectively, was chatting to the cartel the other day, yes we hos talk, in fact we talk a lot. We compare notes, news flash, share information on clients, you think we all live in isolation, but the smart ones don’t. We are global and mobile, and social media and red bull can transcend time zones. We will keep tabs on our friends going for an outcall in another country, we take info and in the event she doesn’t contact one of us by a certain time, we will call the police in her country to alert them to something not kosher.

We run our small business like tiny blue chip corporations, we market, we tweak, we package/repackage, we re brand our product, and if necessary we will change name and shut up shop; pull down websites and reemerge like the Phoenix from the fire new and shiny, with new boobies, hair extensions, or a few pounds lighter. Sorry to burst the bubble. We are anything but stupid. At the end of the day, many of us started this journey to survive and we are excellent at adapting and evolving as situations dictate.

So, as I was talking to the cartel, we happened to discuss a certain client, and it became apparent he had seen several of us, told us different stories, and we started to compare them. We are excellent listeners. Well, it became apparent something wasn’t all together. Mind you we are all on different continents, and in some cases different hemispheres of the world. All happily chatting away. Facebook is our friend.

Then it hit us! He has got to be a spy! No kidding! This was rather exciting when we all realised this. His story when told to us was extremely plausible, until we compared them, and a glaring thing, which I will not mention became apparent. And the funny thing is I know what country he is actually doing the deed for and it is humorous, cause they are allies. Politics and bedfellows.

Swedish Model

Swedish Model

Of all the anti prostitution laws on the books, most aimed at making the lives of women seeking to make a living as dangerous as possible. Ireland of course chooses the possibility of criminalising the client, or the law more popularly known as the Swedish Model. Which makes it illegal to purchase sex, but not illegal to sell. The idea being to stop men from purchasing and exploiting women. Ha! The idiots who came up with this did not think this through. I have worked in countries where this law is in affect and it makes no difference.

But I have a feeling it will make a difference in Ireland. But not the one everyone thinks. The difference I think it will make is to possibly instill a slight modicum of manners into the punting population.

You must remember that the Irish punter as a whole is a slightly self entitled, xenophobic creature. But they are scared as shit of their own shadows, their neighbours, their wives, mothers, dicks, sexual urges. You name it. The idea of it being illegal to purchase sex will make them more skittish than ever. But trust me this is a good thing, why?

Because fear is a good thing when dealing with the Irish punter. It is shocking how many don’t know it is legal. And far be it from me to tell them differently. But adding the part that makes it illegal for them to buy will have the added benefit of making them even more fearful. Fear makes them behave, well in as much as they are capable of.

Guilt is another motivating factor. But the Catholic Church took care of that one already.

So the combination of fear, guilt, horniness and disposable income will create the perfect punter. Let’s hope the extra fear improves their ability to listen and follow directions.

The UK is Back!

The UK is Back!

Well, this international touring ho, may me lifting her skirt a bit more in the UK, why you ask, because the economy is back!

How do I know this? Is it based on the financial forecasts, the credit rating of the nation, the GDP predictions for the economic growth for the future? The retail index? The fluctuation of the pound against other currencies? The performance of the stock market? I wish I could say that it was based on these more acceptable gages.

No, my conclusion is drawn simply from the fact that I am seeing more coked to the gills clients. Now, why this difference is becoming more apparent isn’t that they stopped using coke during the recession, far from it. The difference now is they are using more coke than before.

Example, when you are called to an outcall to a seriously chic boutique hotel, ushered into a lush suite, and before I can slip into my sexy knickers, I am offered an assortment of class 1 substances, in quantises that if the police were to pop it would land the lot of us in some serious trouble. I am not talking grams of coke, I am talking ounces, and lots of them. I politely declined, I tend to like my drugs in the form of a well made cocktail, or a bottle of good champagne. But I don’t judge.

But the amount that was on offer is what gave me pause, and made me realise that people in the UK had disposable income again. God bless them.

But before I start to get too excited and unpack the knickers, the UK in its delightful wisdom have opened the borders to the EE countries. I personally haven’t a problem with the ladies from there, what I have a problem with is the fact they drive the damn prices through the fucking ground, ruin the market and the clients, then bugger off home leaving behind a mess. Just because 50 quid is half a months salary in their country, doesn’t mean they should charge that for the half hour! Men should pay for the privilege to get between our legs! Not act as if it is a right. The fuckers are entitled enough as it is.

Designer Pussy

Designer Pussy

Apparently I have one. I always though I just had a pussy, well it seems due to the bits all being neatly tucked in, mine is the go to for those seeking designer lips. Somebody shoot me!

Seriously, gentlemen! If you are looking at a woman when her legs are spread in front of you and all you can think about is the labia minora is longer that the labia majora, you my friend are not focusing on the right thing. Or you are getting way too much pussy! Trust me when my man is down there, he had better be attending to the task at hand, not bloody comparing a catalogue of cuntflaps! And if he is, I had better not find out!

You fools need to be more appreciative when you are at the altar. Designer pussy my ass!

1. Broke Ass Bitches

1. Broke Ass Bitches

Lord in his heavens save me from the creature known as a Broke As Bitch-BAB! You will find these in all walks of life, and in both sexes. But the one that particularly chaps my cunt is the one who manages to find the one iota of ambition she has to get off her ass and then decides to sell it. This one is the worst, why? Because this lazy bitch is too insouciant to realise that the rest of use hos are doing this as a business and not to feed a boyfriend, pay a late bill, get a new Guess bag, or a weeks supply of weed!

So, she couldn’t careless if she is selling below market value, and offering the sun, the moon, and her ass for a few quid! Nope, it is more than she gets sitting on her ass collecting the dole, or the wage slave job she works, so it is all gravy to this female. This shit makes me want to scream in frustration!

And don’t make the mistake of pointing out to this vile little guttersnipe she is giving the farm away! No, the insults hurled at you will vary from, being too old to attract clients, to thinking this is a business and how hard and business like we are. God save me! I really want to slap some sense into the little bitches head! But I don’t bother!

Why, I simply rely on the law of averages. Which states, she is going to attract the wrong sort of clientele and that unfortunately is when she quietly disappears from the scene. Never to be heard from again. I say unfortunately, because usually it takes a nasty incident happening to her to realise all the hardened old bitches were right! No one, even a BAB should have to learn a lesson this way.

I will not for a minute pretend to like this type, I don’t, but I don’t wish them harm, I wish them success, why? Because the sooner she reaches her goal the better off it is for the rest of us who do this for a living.

How the fuck?

How the fuck?

How the f*** did he sneak in under my defences? I mean seriously, was it those big, brown, fluttery eyelashes accenting lovely, warm, sweet, green eyes? No, not those.

Was it those arms like pythons that so masterfully wrapped themselves around me, or was it the excellent oral technique? Hole in murther fucking one! Leaving me panting on the bed in a puddle of my own juices, wondering who the hell was making all that damn racket, oh yeah that was me!

He is absolutely adorably cute, a lovely little bonbon. Kinda of like a delicious naughty stolen treat. Yummy, sex, sweet kisses, and touches. How the hell do I account for the f***ing withdrawals I am going through? Jesus, it has been a long time, since I have been properly loved up.

I am like a junkie needing a hit. Bad! It is messing with my head in a majorly bad way. I am wearing out my playlist of sad and soppy songs. How the hell did I, me, yes moi end up here? Need to get a grip on self and snap to hell out of this silliness. No more texts, and I will just have to endure. Horrible. I hate feeling like this. Aaaaarrrrrggggggg!