Masturbation and Media

As achievements go, masturbating myself into my local A & E has never really been up there on my 'top ten to do before I die', but achieve it I did. Y'see, recently it was my birthday and ever the kind soul that he is, one of my long standing clients in Belfast asked me what I would like. No contest, I asked for a Hitachi magic wand. For those of you not familiar with said device, in terms of stimulating a woman, it gets you from nought to sixty before you can say 'HEADS' - on the break during Coronation Street.

Eager as I was to try my new toy, I rushed back to my hotel room and sure enough, found that euphoria in record time. There was just one small problem, I developed a very bad headache, to the point where I thought it might be a migraine, although I've never had one of those in my life. So I darkened the room and lay down and in time it passed. Fast forward some two weeks and I'm demonstrating the benefits of a wand to a bemused client in his hotel room, rather like a late night shopping channel, naked.

With the rush of fluids and moans and all things gorgeous which go to prove that the good lord did indeed intend us to have sex ad infinitum - came the worst headache I have ever had in my life. It was at the back of my head and was pulsating, literally taking my breath away. What to do ?

As it happened I had a routine appointment with my GP several days later and gingerly raised the issue. She said she was going to consult with her colleagues and call me back, and in the meantime I was to find something to keep me amused 'above the waist', as she delicately put it. So, I threw my case into the boot of my car and hit the road for Inverness, as had been the plan. Having just reached the bottom of the A9, the phone went and it was my GP.

"Can you get to A & E as soon as possible please ?"

"Sure, I'll be back from Inverness on Thursd ...."

"No, NOW."

And so it was that I found myself flat on my back for five days, whilst they ran test after test to ensure I hadn't ruptured something or was in danger of doing so. The first day or two were great, and the novelty of having a television and a bed all to myself without -

1. 'MOM'.
2. 'MEOW'.
3. 'FIFTEEN MINUTE QUICKIES LOVE?'

...was delicious. In time though, I got so bored, I thought they were going to have to transfer me to the psych ward. Finally, on day number five, the most goddamn beautiful doctor I have ever seen in my life came to see me. I was good to go, he explained, but my stress levels were through the roof and that's what was most likely contributing to the headaches, chest pains, racing heartbeat and insomnia. (I know, I know.) Rather predictably, I phoned my Dad.

"Hola Padre, I have seen the error of my ways and am coming home. I plan on checking myself into a convent where I shall self flagellate for the rest of my pitiful existence."

"Hilarious. See you on Saturday".

So we sat, my father and I for some considerable length of time and deep into the night in his garden, chewing the fat and contemplating what needs to change. I know that ideally he'd like me to go and work in an animal sanctuary for the rest of my life, but for the moment, that's not going to happen. Nope, I'm going to have some fun.

I'm taking June until October off study completely, although I had originally planned on doubling up on modules. I'm going to let my hair down and I'm going to chill-the-feck-out. So, for those of you wondering why I have suddenly organised a group session in Glasgow, it's because I want to, it's something I thoroughly enjoy and if it goes well I will do it again.

Before I sign off, let me just say a HUGE thank you to everyone who phoned, texted and emailed after Sex on Wheels. I have no regrets about doing it at all, I think it's an important issue which needs to be addressed and I will continue to campaign as hard as I can. The only regret I have is when they filmed me speaking to a potential client on the phone and saying - 'I'm closely trimmed'. I'm sorry, but that information is not required to be known by the disco mummies, my neighbours and very definitely not my Dad. Memo to self - in future when the camera is rolling - astound everyone by simply SHUTTING UP.

LL xx

P.S : My availability diary is now done until the end of July, although subject to change. I will be in both Leeds and Bristol so do drop me an email. 'Tis about time I ventured South to see what all the fuss is about.

Ankles and angst

Good evening and greetings from Inverness where I am chilling out with a bowl of room service chilli (dreadful) and my magic wand (significantly less dreadful). I'm thinking back to the day I was awarded my degree all those years ago, it was all going so well. We lined up with our parents and collected our awards, after which we debunked to the local restaurant for lunch and yet more photographs.

At 4pm, our parents made their excuses and left and we regrouped for the party to end all parties. We deserved it, we had all spent the previous six weeks surviving on diet coke and Marlboro lights, trapped in our horrid student flats. By 10pm, it had all begun to fall apart. A couple of fledgling lawyers had wandered off in search of the elusive burger van, one had gone back to a very dodgy flat for a private party and still another had fallen into the canal, by Rathmines. As for me, I was in the residual party of survivors, up the back of the pub singing loudly and having a whale of a time.

Rather typically, my friend E had just found the true love of her life, again. She was quite literally inside his mouth and it was yours truly who was dispatched to go and rescue her. In huge heels and even bigger hair, I picked my way down the sodden and darkened steps to the basement bar, before bawling at her over the loud music - "COME ON, BACK TO MINE". She gave me that look, the one which says - "I'm this close to getting his phone number on the back of a ciggy packet, DO ONE", so I went to Plan B. There were some girls on the steps, dancing side ways up and down (show girl style) to New York, New York. Well, if you can't beat them, join them is what I say. Come the very end of the song and we were really going for it, the fact that I didn't actually know any of the other dancers was by the by, in Irishland, provided you're drunk and friendly, it really doesn't matter.

I went for the bottom step and missed it in spectacular fashion, my foot went over to one side and there was a loud 'snap'. I didn't actually hear that snap, but it was politely pointed out by a lady who was sitting at a table just adjacent to my not very comfortable landing pad. I laughed out loud, ankles don't just snap, right ? Having said that, when I got to my feet, that ankle flatly refused to take the weight of my body, resulting in my getting home through a variety of carrying techniques and hopping.

By the time we got to my flat, my ankle was rather swollen, but I was reliably informed that it was just sprained, so in true Irish fashion we got on with the night and commenced strip poker. Come 4am, my ankle was turning black, and the size of a football.

"I'm not being funny girls, but I really think I've done something awful here."

"Oh give over. Put some frozen peas on it. Well, mini pizza's then."

I woke up the next day in mortal agony. I literally couldn't get out of bed, any sudden movement at all went right through my foot and caused anything from a sharp intake of breath to a muted scream.

I did what every independent twenty something graduate does in times of trouble, I called my Dad.

"DADDY, I FELL".

He came to my rescue, and sat with me in the hospital whilst they manipulated my ankle back into place and plastered it up. Cue paternal loving frown.

"Look, you'll be all right. Just get up and get on with it".

This week, I've had the week from hell in a lot of respects. I had some bad news which quite literally took my breath away, it was like a punch to the stomach. Although I'm entering a really exciting phase involving a lot of media and a total change in direction, that one phone call really took the wind out of my sails. So, I did the one thing a thirty something mother at the base of a new career and in a crisis should do, I called my Dad. Cue paternal loving frown.

"Look, you'll be all right. Head up and keep smiling. Go get 'em."

Thanks Dad.

LL xx

Belfast and bum sliding

It's been a frenetic week thus far. I lighted back on Scottish soil yesterday and flew up the road to my humble abode to get busy with my submission to La Grant. It's not great, but it hits the main points and campaigning will persist in spite of various offers of assistance towards my demise. Abolitionists really ought to be introduced to the wonders of spell check, not to mention internet security.

My visit to Belfast was wonderful, I thoroughly enjoyed a brief trip to the Christmas market and the usual permutations of perversion. My final client of Wednesday evening was a rather genteel chap and terribly nervous into the bargain. I lit some candles and played some soft soothing music in the background too, hoping that eventually, he would relax. Ordinarily, that combination would work without question, were it not for the room filled with gobshites immediately opposite. Not content with contaminating their own ears with what could reasonably be described as aural torture, they subjected the entire hotel to two hours of what I believe is referred to as 'trance' or what you and I would refer to as music (sic) for those in the middle of a psychotic episode.

Thankfully, it all went quiet, either because they had passed out in a drug induced stupor and were visualising little fluffy clouds or because they had moved onto a club. Suffice to say I was very glad when the time came to embrace my beaming guy and wish him goodnight. Having closed the door, something was bothering me and I knew I couldn't ignore it. It's what I call my spidey sense, essential in the sex trade.

The "Do not disturb" sign, yes that's what it was. Having narrowed my eyes, I peeped through the spyhole and sure enough, there it was. Belfast's answer to "Trainspotting" had nicked my DND sign and put it on their own door. I THINK NOT.

Bounding across the hall, I snatched the sign back and placed it on my door handle. Fait accompli, except now I had a problem. I had left my own room without a key and the door had slammed behind me. SHIT.

I resembled one of the delegates from Lady Marmalade, hair flowing, stockings and suspenders, killer heels and a thong which would cut Swiss cheese. I remembered the wise words of my pal in Brighton and decided that keeping my ass to the wall would be exceptionally wise. There was nothing else to do but wait, and I don't mind telling you, those were the longest 12.457 minutes of my entire life.

In time, a tipsy but perfectly lovely couple emerged from the lift. There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by ...

"Are you, I mean ... do you need ..."

"That would be lovely, do you mind ? Only I really can't .."

"Not a problem, give me two minutes".

Mister Lovely Couple went sprinting back down to reception to get a room key. In the interim, Mrs. Lovely Couple managed an entire conversation without eye contact, quite an achievement really.

"So, good ...ah ....night then?"

"Yes, just this, you know. MORTIFIED".

"Yes. I mean no. Whoops".

Having gratefully received the new key from Mr. Lovely Couple, I can say with an enormous degree of certainty that I really wouldn't recommend bum sliding up the wall of a hotel to retain any last shred of dignity.

LL xx

Articles and Archives

Good evening and greetings from home, where I am chilling out with the motley crew, it's very fecking difficult to write and concentrate when there is a large beige coloured hamster scooting all over the desk, intent on committing repeated hamstercide by leaping from the edge. Before I forget to mention it, I am no longer touring to Brighton ( I am going there, but I will have La Princess with me ), instead I have decided to visit central London in May, dates to be confirmed.

The recent interview I did for "The Skinny" magazine was published today - link here. Overall I'm very pleased with it, most importantly I got the piece in about the legislation although I dearly wish I hadn't being quoted as saying "for fuck sake", hahaha. Don't think that the irony of being included in a magazine called "The Skinny" has been lost on me for one minute, I think it's delicious.

Moving swiftly on, there are many blogs belonging to academic writers whom I admire greatly. I am often in awe at their knowledge and their ability to articulate it too, with particular reference to Laura Agustin. Recently on her blog, there appeared a letter from a lady purporting to be a prostitute, dating back to 1858 and addressed to The Times. The reason I say "purporting" is because according to the critics at the time, a woman who chooses to be a prostitute couldn't possibly be lucid, never mind articulate and pugnacious, so it was deemed from many quarters to be fictitious. Regardless, I think it's stupendous, and it serves to illustrate that in spite of the chasm of time between us, she speaks of the same problems that we as sex workers encounter today, the presumption of a particular social status, the stigma, the misapprehension of her job, the affiliation in the minds of most of all elements of the industry, it's all there. She speaks to the notion of the "rescue industry" too, her approach to them is quite robust and very encouraging given the times she lived in.

Although it's long, it's well worth a read -

Sir, Another ‘Unfortunate’, but of a class entirely different from the one who has already instructed the public in your columns, presumes to address you. I am a stranger to all the fine sentiments which still linger in the bosom of your correspondent. I have none of those youthful recollections which, contrasting her early days with her present life, aggravate the misery of the latter.

My parents did not give me any education; they did not instil into my mind virtuous precepts nor set me a good example. All my experi­ences in early life were gleaned among associates who knew nothing of the laws of God but by dim tradition and faint report, and whose chiefest triumphs of wisdom consisted in picking their way through the paths of destitution in which they were cast by cunning evasion or in open defiance of the laws of man.

I do not think of my parents (long in their graves) with any such compunctions as your correspondent describes. They gave me in their lifetime, according to their means and knowledge, and as they had probably received from their parents, shelter and protection, mixed with curses and caresses. I received all as a matter of course, and, knowing nothing better, was content in that kind of contentedness which springs from insensibility; I returned their affection in like kind as they gave it to me. As long as they lived, I looked up to them as my parents. I assisted them in their poverty, and made them comfortable. They looked on me and I on them with pride, for I was proud to be able to minister to their wants; and as for shame, although they knew perfectly well the means by which I obtained money, I do assure you, Sir, that by them, as by myself, my success was regarded as the reward of a proper ambition, and was a source of real pleasure and gratification.

Let me tell you something of my parents. My father’s most profitable occupation was brickmaking. When not employed at this, he did any­thing he could get to do. My mother worked with him in the brickfield, and so did I and a progeny of brothers and sisters; for somehow or other, although my parents occupied a very unimportant space in the world, it pleased God to make them fruitful. We all slept in the same room. There were few privacies, few family secrets in our house.

Father and mother both loved drink. In the household expenses, had accounts been kept, gin or beer would have been the heaviest items. We, the children, were indulged occasionally with a drop, but my honoured parents reserved to themselves the exclusive privilege of getting drunk, ‘and they were the same as their parents had been’. I give you a chapter of the history of common life which may be stereotyped as the history of generation upon generation.

We knew not anything of religion. Sometimes when a neighbour died we went to the burial, and thus got within a few steps of the church. If a grand funeral chanced to fall in our way we went to see that, too—the fine black horses and nodding plumes—as we went to see the soldiers when we could for a lark. No parson ever came near us. The place where we lived was too dirty for nicely-shod gentlemen. ‘The Publicans and Sinners’ of our circumscribed, but thickly populated locality had no ‘friend’ among them.

Our neighbourhood furnished many subjects to the treadmill, the hulks, and the colonies, and some to the gallows. We lived with the fear of those things, and not with the fear of God before our eyes.

I was a very pretty child, and had a sweet voice; of course I used to sing. Most London boys and girls of the lower classes sing. ‘My face is my fortune, kind sir, she said’, was the ditty on which I bestowed most pains, and my father and mother would wink knowingly as I sang it. The latter would also tell me how pretty she was when young, and how she sang, and what a fool she had been, and how well she might have done had she been wise.

Frequently we had quite a stir in our colony. Some young lady who had quitted the paternal restraints, or perhaps, had started off, none knew whither or how, to seek her fortune, would reappear among us with a profusion of ribands, fine clothes, and lots of cash. Visiting the neighbours, treating indiscriminately, was the order of the day on such occasions, without any more definite information of the means by which the dazzling transformation had been effected than could be conveyed by knowing winks and the words ‘luck’ and ‘friends’. Then she would disappear and leave us in our dirt, penury, and obscurity. You cannot conceive, Sir, how our ambition was stirred by these visitations.

Now commences an important era in my life. I was a fine, robust, healthy girl, 13 years of age. I had larked with the boys of my own age. I had huddled with them, boys and girls together, all night long in our common haunts. I had seen much and heard abundantly of the mysteries of the sexes. To me such things had been matters of common sight and common talk. For some time I had coquetted on the verge of a strong curiosity, and a natural desire, and without a particle of affection, scarce a partiality, I lost—what? not my virtue, for I never had any.

That which is commonly, but untruly called virtue, I gave away. You reverend Mr Philanthropist—what call you virtue? Is it not the principle, the essence, which keeps watch and ward over the conduct, the substance, the materiality? No such principle ever kept watch and ward over me, and I repeat that I never lost that which I never had – my virtue.

According to my own ideas at the time I only extended my rightful enjoyments. Opportunity was not long wanting to put my newly acquired knowledge to profitable use. In the commencement of my fifteenth year one of our be-ribanded visitors took me off, and introduced me to the great world, and thus commenced my career as what you better classes call a prostitute. I cannot say that I felt any other shame than the bashfulness of a noviciate introduced to strange society. Remarkable for good looks, and no less so for good temper, I gained money, dressed gaily, and soon agreeably astonished my parents and old neighbours by making a descent upon them.

Passing over the vicissitudes of my course, alternating between reckless gaiety and extreme destitution, I improved myself greatly; and at the age of 15 was living partly under the protection of one who thought he discovered that I had talent, and some good qualities as well as beauty, who treated me more kindly and considerately than I had ever before been treated, and thus drew from me something like a feeling of regard, but not sufficiently strong to lift me to that sense of my position which the so-called virtuous and respectable members of society seem to entertain. Under the protection of this gentleman, and encouraged by him, I commenced the work of my education; that portion of education which is comprised in some knowledge of my own language and the ordinary accomplishments of my sex; moral science, as I believe it is called, has always been an enigma to me, and is so to this day. I suppose it is because I am one of those who, as Rousseau says, are ‘born to be prostitutes’.

Common honesty I believe in rigidly. I have always paid my debts, and, though I say it, I have always been charitable to my fellow crea­tures. I have not neglected my duty to my family. I supported my parents while they lived, and buried them decently when they died. I paid a celebrated lawyer heavily for defending unsuccessfully my eldest brother, who had the folly to be caught in the commission of a robbery. I forgave him the offence against the law in the theft, and the offence against discretion in being caught. This cost me some effort, for I always abhorred stealing. I apprenticed my younger brother to a good trade, and helped him into a little business. Drink frustrated my efforts in his behalf. Through the influence of a very influential gentleman, a very particular friend of mine, he is now a well-conducted member of the police. My sisters, whose early life was in all respects the counterpart of my own, I brought out and started in the world. The elder of the two is kept by a nobleman, the next by an officer in the army; the third has not yet come to years of discretion, and is ‘having her fling’ before she settles down.

Now, what if I am a prostitute, what business has society to abuse me? Have I received any favours at the hands of society? If I am a hideous cancer in society, are not the causes of the disease to be sought in the rottenness of the carcass? Am I not its legitimate child; no bastard, Sir? Why does my unnatural parent repudiate me, and what has society ever done for me, that I should do anything for it, and what have I ever done against society that it should drive me into a corner and crush me to the earth? I have neither stolen (at least since I was a child), nor murdered, nor defrauded. I earn my money and pay my way, and try to do good with it, according to my ideas of good. I do not get drunk, nor fight, nor create uproar in the streets or out of them. I do not use bad language. I do not offend the public eye by open indecencies. I go to the Opera, I go to Almack’s, I go to the theatres, I go to quiet, well-conducted casinos, I go to all the places of public amusement, behaving myself with as much propriety as society can exact. I pay business visits to my trades­people, the most fashionable of the West-end. My milliners, my silk­mercers, my bootmakers, know, all of them, who I am and how I live, and they solicit my patronage as earnestly and cringingly as if I were Madam, the Lady of the right rev, patron of the Society for the Sup­pression of Vice. They find my money as good and my pay better (for we are robbed on every hand) than that of Madam, my Lady; and, if all the circumstances and conditions of our lives had been reversed, would Madam, my Lady, have done better or been better than I?

I speak of others as well as for myself, for the very great majority, nearly all the real undisguised prostitutes in London, spring from my class, and are made by and under pretty much such conditions of life as I have narrated, and particularly by untutored and unrestrained intercourse of the sexes in early life. We come from the dregs of society, as our so-called betters term it. What business has society to have dregs—such dregs as we? You railers of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, you the pious, the moral, the respectable, as you call yourselves, who stand on your smooth and pleasant side of the great gulf you have dug and keep between yourselves and the dregs, why don’t you bridge it over, or fill it up, and by some humane and generous process absorb us into your leavened mass, until we become interpenetrated with goodness like yourselves? What have we to be ashamed of, we who do not know what shame is—the shame you mean?

I conduct myself prudently, and defy you and your policemen too. Why stand you there mouthing with sleek face about morality? What is morality? Will you make us responsible for what we never knew? Teach us what is right and tutor us in what is good before you punish us for doing wrong. We who are the real prostitutes of the true natural growth of society, and no impostors, will not be judged by ‘One more unfortunate’, nor measured by any standard of her setting up. She is a mere chance intruder in our ranks, and has no business there. She does understand what shame means and knows all about it, at least so it seems, and if she has a particle left, let her accept ‘Amicus’s’ kind offer as soon as possible.

Like ‘One more unfortunate’ there are other intruders among us—a few, very few, ‘victims of seduction’. But seduction is not the root of the evil—scarcely a fibre of the root. A rigorous law should be passed and rigorously carried out to punish seduction, but it will not perceptibly thin the ranks of prostitution. Seduction is the common story of numbers of well brought up, who never were seduced, and who are voluntary and inexcusable profligates. Vanity and idleness send us a large body of recruits. Servant girls, who wish to ape their mistress’ finery, and whose wages won’t permit them to do so honestly—these set up seduction as their excuse. Married women, who have no respect for their husbands, and are not content with their lawful earnings, these are the worst among us, and it is a pity they cannot be picked out and punished. They have no principle of any kind and are a disgrace to us. If I were a married woman I would be true to my husband. I speak for my class, the regular standing army of the force.

Gentlemen of philanthropic societies and members of the Society for the Suppression of Vice may build reformatories and open houses of refuge and Magdalen asylums, and ‘Amicus’ may save occasionally a ‘fallen sister’ who can prevail on herself to be saved; but we who never were sisters—who never had any relationship, part, interest, or com­munion with the large family of this world’s virtues, moralities, and proprieties—we, who are not fallen, but were always down—who never had any virtue to lose—we who are the natural growth of things, and are constantly ripening for the harvest—who, interspersed in our little, but swarming colonies throughout the kingdom at large, hold the source of supply and keep it fruitful—what do they propose to do with us? Cannot society devise some plan to reach us?

‘One more unfortunate’ proposes a ‘skimming’ progress. But what of the great bubbling cauldron? Remove from the streets a score or two of ‘foreign women’, and ‘double as many English’, and you diminish the competition of those that remain; the quiet, clever, cunning cajolers described by ‘One more unfortunate’. You hide a prurient pimple of the ‘great sin’ with a patch of that plaster known as the ‘observance of propriety’, and nothing more. You ‘miss’ the evil, but it is existent still. After all it is something to save the eye from offence, so remove them; and not only a score or two, but something like two hundred foreign women, whose open and disgusting indecen­cies and practices have contributed more than anything else to bring on our heads the present storm of indignation. It is rare that English women, even prostitutes, give cause of gross public offence. Cannot they be packed off to their own countries with their base, filthy and filthy- living men, whom they maintain, and clothe, and feed, to superintend their fortunes, and who are a still greater disgrace to London than these women are?

Hurling big figures at us, it is said that there are 80,000 of us in London alone—which is a monstrous falsehood—and of those 80,000, poor hardworking sewing girls, sewing women, are numbered in by thousands, and called indiscriminately prostitutes; writing, preaching, speechifying, that they have lost their virtue too.

It is a cruel calumny to call them in mass prostitutes; and, as for their virtue, they lose it as one loses his watch who is robbed by the highway thief. Their virtue is the watch, and society is the thief. These poor women toiling on starvation wages, while penury, misery, and famine clutch them by the throat and say, ‘Render up your body or die’.

Admire this magnificent shop in this fashionable street; its front, fittings, and decorations cost no less than a thousand pounds. The respectable master of the establishment keeps his carriage and lives in his country-house. He has daughters too; his patronesses are fine ladies, the choicest impersonations of society. Do they think, as they admire the taste and elegance of that tradesman’s show, of the poor creatures who wrought it, and what they were paid for it? Do they reflect on the weary toiling fingers, on the eyes dim with watching, on the bowels yearning with hunger, on the bended frames, on the broken constitutions, on poor human nature driven to its coldest corner and reduced to its narrowest means in the production of these luxuries and adornments? This is an old story! Would it not be truer and more charitable to call these poor souls ‘victims’ ?—some gentler, some more humane name than prostitute—to soften by some Christian expression if you cannot better the un-Christian system, the opprobrium of a fate to which society has driven them by the direst straits? What business has society to point its finger in scorn, to raise its voice in reprobation of them? Are they not its children, born of the cold indifference, of its callous selfishness, of its cruel pride?

Sir, I have trespassed on your patience beyond limit, and yet much remains to be said. . . The difficulty of dealing with the evil is not so great as society considers it. Setting aside ‘the sin’, we are not so bad as we are thought to be. The difficulty is for society to set itself, with the necessary earnestness, self-humiliation, and self-denial, to the work. To deprive us of proper and harmless amusements, to subject us in mass to the pressure of force—of force wielded, for the most part, by ignorant, and often by brutal men—is only to add the cruelty of active persecution to the cruelty of passive indifference which made us as we are.

I remain, your humble servant, Another Unfortunate.



LL xx

Trasna na dTonnta ( across the waves )

La Princess and I are going back to The Motherland tomorrow for five days for another family "do".

This is what happens when you come from a large Irish Catholic family with 3,743 cousins who keep getting married / having babies / emigrating / going for transgender reassignment, that sort of thing.

I'll be back in glorious Glasgow on Thursday the 16th and will catch up with you when I get back. In the meantime if you'd like to book for Edinburgh do drop me an email as I have limited spaces left.

LL xx

Travelling, Tours and Torments

Good evening and greetings from the coldest hotel room, EVER. I'm in Inverness and although it hasn't snowed it sure feels like it's going to, which should make travelling home a hoot. Speaking of travelling, I am delighted ( loike ) to say that I will be in Edinburgh and Brighton next month, Edinburgh is somewhere I've not frequented for a while, although I have been there on outcalls and Brighton is because I want to catch up with a very dear friend.

He and I worked together in a restaurant when I was 16 and to be blunt, I wanted to remove his Calvin Kleins with my teeth. It wasn't to be unfortunately, because late one night after staff drinks I moved in for the kill and he recoiled in surprise. After he'd finished laughing like a drain he told me he's gay. Oh. Never mind, a life long friendship was formed thereafter and I'm dying to see him. Looking back, I can't believe I didn't know he was gay, I mean he's camper than Lily Savage but I guess at 16 I was nowhere near as savvy as I thought.

This week brought tremendous excitement when my phone providers contacted me to tell me my contract was due for renewal. Without delay, I hot footed it down to their outlet and went for the iPhone4, the phone of choice for all self respecting hookers everywhere. I have a Blackberry for my work number but the iPhone is for real life and is brilliant for staying on top of emails when on the move and um ... Angry Birds.

In particular, I was dying to get my sweaty paws on the new innovative Siri, the voice activated software that allows you to send texts, emails etc. without having to key anything in, ideal for those moments when you're already 20 minutes late and haring along the M8. The Apple website is full of promise too, saying - "Just speak naturally. Siri understands what you say."
Brilliant. Except, IT FECKING DOESN'T. I mean since when does "at the vets" become "pantalettes" ? WTF are pantalettes anyway ? Exasperation isn't the word for it, and by the time I've gone back and changed all the words it hasn't understood I'd have been better off typing the whole fecking thing out by hand. ( My Brother, who reads my blog and is a devoted geek, will be absolutely aghast at that. Tough, I've given it three chances now and a final written warning. ) For those of you who simply can't comprehend why I was so irate, I invite you to view this video. ( Absolutely cracks me up every time, I love it. )

Aside from that, the past week has been absolutely awesome and I was up to my stocking tops in bookings with the very epitomy of diversity, just as I like it.

Thurs & Fri - A tremendously interesting and lovely man. We rounded off a very enjoyable session with a light chat on whether we can blame the breakdown of neurotransmitters across synapses for the psychological tendencies exhibited by serial killers. Not your usual post-coital chat I know, but very interesting nonetheless. Also, he said something which will stay with me for the rest of my studies. He's a highly accomplished man and is held in very high regard so I complimented him on his obvious intelligence. "Nothing to do with that, I just work hard. I've never been presented with a problem which I couldn't overcome, simply because I refused to give up." I found that quite inspirational actually.

Sat - An overnight with that Slave Bitch of mine. I negotiated the cobbles of the lanes in the West End once again in death defying heels and had a beautiful meal, after which we adjourned to his boudoir where I made sure that every time he sits down for the next week or so, he'll remember me. *snigger*

Sun - A trip out to Glasgow airport to see a lovely guy I have met before, who unfortunately for him, let it slip that he is in the Royal Navy. BIG mistake. This being a return booking, I insisted that he be in full uniform and he was, phwoooaaaarrr. It was almost a shame to take it all off, but hey ho, needs must. Anyhoo, he has very kindly allowed me both to take and use the above picture of his clobber, which will save me having to go rooting about on Pornhub the next time I'm having a play with my new Magic Wand, more on that later but suffice to say I may never leave the house again.

LL xx

Dundee and Doggy Tales

So that was Dundee and what a hoot was had by all, including one unsuspecting gentleman. My room was the very last in the corridor, by the fire escape.

Client number three announced his arrival by phone ( by then I was fairly tired ) so I dusted myself down, applied lip gloss and headed to the door. There was a peephole on the door which looked into the corridor and how I could tell said client was approaching was when the heavy fire door half-way down the corridor banged shut.

Through the peephole I spied him, a suited and booted guy approaching so I opened the door in a black satin robe, stockings, "fecking hell" hair, massive heels and a grin that would put any Cheshire cat to shame.

Fabulous, except he wasn't my client but the guy staying in the room opposite.

Whoops.

To make matters worse, after said innocent hotel guest had almost impaled himself on his briefcase handle with the fright, REAL client showed up and hammered on my door, bellowing ...

"LAURA !!"

I could have lynched him, but as it turns out we have a lot in common, mainly a deep love of animals. I've long thought that if I could surround myself with animals for the rest of my life I would be the happiest woman on earth, it's people I find difficult ( with some notable exceptions, of course ). The reasoning behind it is this, animals don't bitch - they don't know how to. It's one of two reactions -

1. You fed me and rubbed my belly, ergo I love you and I'm going to lick you, whether you like it or not.

2. You annoyed me / stood on my paw, ergo I'm going to bite you, HARD. It's OK though, because we'll be friends again within the hour.

See ? Simplicity at it's most splendid.

So, Mr. Client was telling me ( in the after-glow ) that for many years he has been a long haul driver, ( he was just passing through ) all achieved with a very small and very cute companion in the shape of a terrier. He LOVED that dog, they travelled all over Europe together and were inseparable. One weekend he noticed the dog was not himself and was off his food, so he decided to keep an eye on him and postpone his boy's night out. By the second night, the poor creature couldn't make it up the stairs, so this man, all 6 foot 2 of him, brought the dog's bed downstairs to the fireplace in the living room and curled up beside him to sleep. At some point during the night the dog gave a couple of loud yelps and was clearly in pain so my guy held him close and said "Close your eyes son, it's time to go".

Sure enough, by morning time the dog had passed away. By the time he had finished his tale, both myself and my guy were sitting on the side of my bed, sobbing uncontrollably, made worse by the fact that he had pictures of him on his phone to accompany the narrative. All in all, it was a very surreal experience and I really hope he bites the bullet and gets another puppy.

Back to normality then ( whatever that is ) and I'm preparing for my tour to Perth next week before I go on sabbatical for a bit. I really don't know how long I'll be away as yet but I plan to get back to the wonderful world of floozying as soon as I can. Meanwhile I face the enormous task of trying to get my books in order for my accountant, this year I have decided to be ruthless and claim for every can of diet coke and snickers consumed whilst on tour which means I have a mountain of receipts to be sorted through. To compound my anxieties, The Mother has announced her intention to conduct the bi-annual inspection during my time off too, so I will be on a cleaning frenzy to boot. Marvellous.

Catch up with you fae Perth.

LL xx

...and it's a goodbye from them.

I don't think many of us who work in the sex industry will mourn the loss of the News of the World. This is a publication which routinely ruined the lives of many ladies all in the name of selling papers to those who can't be said to list high browed intellectualism as one of their attributes. Aside from myself, I know of several ladies who have in the past been "doorstepped" and it is a horrifying experience. Your first thoughts are always for your children and how protecting them must be paramount in your decision making process. I have always thought that the reporters who outed ladies had the morals of a seal pup skin collector, caring not a jot for the feelings of the lady, her family, her friends and most importantly her children. I was right.

Whilst it is true that from time to time I speak to the press, there is an immeasurable difference between talking to a journalist about proposed changes to the legislation concerning sex workers and having your personal details splashed all over page 8, together with photographs. Following on from the last piece I did, a magazine called and tendered £400 ( WOW !! ) for a story about what it's like to be a "real" escort. I told them I would be delighted to speak to them provided that they maintained my anonymity, allowed me to mention Trish Godman and what she was trying to rush through Holyrood and if I could donate my fee to a women's charity. I never heard from them again.

When reading the NOTW's self-righteous pieces on "fallen" women, the one thing which struck me was that they would always choose the lady's lowest rate, so as to cheapen her to the penultimate level. She could charge £5,000 for a week, for example, but the headline would scream "£150 AN HOUR SLEAZY VICE GIRL". Vile journalism at it's best.

Let there be no misunderstandings about this, were they to "out" me, I would sue without hesitation, calling in every lawyer I know and touring until my legs fell off to pay for it if necessary. As far as I'm concerned, if I take measures to protect my identity on my website and don't parade my face all over the internet, then I have expressed a desire for privacy and it is a privacy I am entitled to.

Of late there had been an upsurge in the comments left by ordinary members of the public when such "stories" were published, such as "leave her alone, what she's doing is quite legal and your expose is not in the public interest" and I must admit I had begun to take heart. Finally, ( I thought ) common decency had begun to prevail. I was still in no way prepared for the huge outcry following the latest allegations against News International, it was people power at it's finest. If what is alleged is true, it is quite simply one of the most disgusting things I have ever heard. To hack into the phones of people who have already suffered as the family members of murder victims, those who fought and died for our country, not to mention high level corruption with alleged payments to police is beyond any reasonable description I could conjure up. It is the one scandal which has united the country in outrage and a demand for answers.

Perhaps now, these people will know what it feels like to experience social exclusion and stigma. In their predicament however, it is entirely warranted and richly deserved.

LL xx

Tours, Tortoises and Turkey

I'm off on my travels again, the rest of this month will see me in Dundee, Newcastle and finally Carlisle. Dundee is a place I haven't been for quite a while, I'm looking forward to it and will run off my fried breakfast down by the waterfront.

Terrible news girl cat fans, there is still no sign of the elusive feline in spite of endless searches and a prolonged poster and neighbour campaign, so I am back to being a one cat woman. :( I just hope she is well and being looked after and it's never a question of giving up hope, after all you read these stories in the news of cats returning home after months, even years away.

My loss has been misconstrued as my little darling's gain, she is adamant we can now have a tortoise. Naw, hen. Negotiations are continuing with the mention of a grass snake. It's not the snake I mind so much as the frozen mice in my freezer - nae chance. I have mooted the possibility of a goldfish, after all Adorable Amy gets no end of pleasure from her fish, but that suggestion was met with an incredulous look and a stony silence, so I guess that's a 'no' then.

Back to travels and as a reward for my jetting around the country and surviving on a diet of lucozade and pro-plus I have booked the family holiday to Turkey in October. This year I have decided to go all inclusive, the ideology behind said decision being that I won't be asked for money every ten seconds for ice cream or a drink and can get on with the important task of carefully burning my Celtic skin in the sun so that all my freckles join up again, only to fade within a couple of days of my return. The "lobster" look - much under-rated and in fact borderline essential for a Glasgow night out. ( Simply top it up with some bronzing pearls and hey presto, suddenly you're as orange as the rest of the lady folk and fit right in. )

Finally, on my search around the net for tortoise information, I came across this video which I thought you'd enjoy - notice how the female doesn't stop eating during her lover's rather impressive thrusts; HOW RUDE.

Click here and enjoy.



LL xx