Every. Fecking. Time.

"The Good Lord only gives you that which he thinks you can bear; no more, no less. Further, every trial and tribulation is sent to teach you a lesson about yourself - resilience, strength, patience, tolerance, or in your case how feckin' dim you've been to get yourself into that situation in the first place."

Those wise words of my Nan still make me smile and have never been more apt than the last six months, which have been a test of gigantic proportions. So much so that I've developed a theory. In the same way that psychopaths lack empathy, I believe that my psyche is lacking that element which says, "That's it, I'm off."

Let's start with the appearance I did at the Northern Irish Assembly in which I was told that I'm financed by pimps and target vulnerable disabled men for my own benefit. Further, I was told that a Justice Committee "do not need evidence." Lovely. That didn't actually get to me until I boarded the boat home that evening and it began to sink in. That any human being in a position of trust and responsibility could be so unprofessional and downright rude, all whilst maintaining an air of sanctimonious righteousness is astounding. What was even more perplexing was when my complaint about that behaviour was cast to one side.

I was home a matter of weeks when having had my real name revealed to the abolitionists present on the day of my NIA appearance, COMPLETELY by coincidence, I had a letter from HMRC to say they had singled me out for a tax inspection. (This is the price you pay as an activist, it's seen as just punishment for daring to question the lies and seemingly unquestionable bottomless funding that the abolitionist NGO's enjoy.) I have nothing to hide, and have years of accountant prepared reports, but even so, spending my evenings going back over every strawberry flavoured condom purchased is something I could have done without.

Finally, and after many months of arguing, I satisfied the requirements of HMRC and was given the all clear. Next up, exams. I became feral for several weeks, and surviving on a diet of Diet Coke and crunchy nut cornflakes I locked myself in to my office and crammed. I'm really not sure how I did, nowhere near as good as if I had really studied to the best of my ability but then when you're holding off HMRC and abolitionists, there's only so much you can do. Finally through the exams and back on the road to enjoy a summer of freedom from any major stresses, I landed back in Belfast.

Day one was grand, enjoyable appointments and good craic. Day two started off like any other working day, sprinting down the stairs at the very last minute for breakfast before hitting the shower in preparation for a busy day. Having carefully laid out my towel, coconut body butter, razor and shower gel, I stepped in to the shower. I'm not sure if you've ever seen those injuries sustained by footballers where their knee goes in completely the wrong direction, but in a nutshell, I did that in conjunction with the splits. Feel free to wince, it goes one eighth of the way towards the guttural screams which emanated from my hotel room.

It's funny what goes through your mind when you've had a bad shock. I was naked, wet and in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a shower cubicle and I knew that my right leg was badly injured and wouldn't take my weight. So I crawled, out of the bathroom and pulled myself up on to the bed where I dried off and got some clothes on. What next ? "Well", I reasoned, "I'm going to be in feckin' A & E all day so I might as well have a ciggy". Yes, that's right, with a leg which was starting to resemble that of an elephant and turning fantastic colours, I hopped over to the other side of the room and hung out the window. By now the shock was beginning to wear off and pain was setting in so I called for help, and David (one of my lovely guys from Belfast), came to my rescue. He picked me up and brought me to A & E and waited with me all day while they did tests, x-rays, and that loud hissing noise through the teeth, usually reserved for mechanics about to hand you a monster bill. End tally = ankle broken in two places, dislocated knee and assorted torn tendons. Full house.

Aside from the fact that I was now facing six weeks off work with no income and probably lots of pain, I was also wondering how the hell I was going to get to Glastonbury. Y'see, I'd been asked if I could go quite some time previously, so what followed was a very animated "discussion" with the hospital consultant. Really, I could have saved us both a lot of time by introducing him to anyone who knows me well, I was going and that was final. Go I did, and it was fantastic, until my motability scooter got bogged down in the mud and I had to be towed out by four burly security men. (In fairness, I've been ably assisted by security men towards the exit in the past, but this wasn't my fault and was particularly mortifying.)

A product of 1950's Catholic Ireland, my Dad doesn't do "I love you". He did say it once but that was after sustained familial pressure when I was emigrating to the US. (I was back ten days later, but that's a story for a whole other time.) No, the best you get from Dad is as follows -

"I'll give you one thing. Life knocks you back but by God, you get up. Every. Fecking. Time."

LL xx

P.S : I'd like to thank everyone who has supported me when I've been unable to work, including Jewel of Edinburgh, Lucy Smith of Ugly Mugs, David (as mentioned above) and the very many others. It means more to me than you'll ever know. Three more weeks and I'm back on my feet.

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.

Vomiting and Vexations

Let me make this clear from the outset - I hate vomiting, it's the most disgusting sight, smell and sensation, EVER.

Sometimes though, I guess it's a necessary evil, the body's way of getting rid of that which doesn't belong or will cause harm, such as the bug which provided me with a very rude awakening at 4am this morning. I looked skywards as I often do and loudly remonstrated with anyone else who happened to be awake - "YOU ARE HAVING A GIRAFFE, RIGHT ?" This was the morning I was to jet off to London for three days to fulfill an exciting schedule and meet up with some old friends too. Alas, it was not to be and I have spent the majority of today in the bathroom, so much so that if I am ever called upon to go on Mastermind, my chosen area of expertise will no longer be the sex industry. No, it will be the ingredients of every shampoo and toilet cleaner ever invented.

Come the afternoon, I had reached the conclusion that there couldn't rationally be ANYTHING else left to come up, so I took several ginger sips of water and headed out to do some messages and praying to God that I wouldn't run into a client looking like something Boy Cat had coughed up. My first port of call was a place which was all too familiar to me, bored looking employees trying to look vaguely interested in a pep talk being given to them by their line manager, who was playing to the crowd more than anything else - David Brent is alive and well and working in financial services in Ayrshire. I thought back to my time on the corporate hamster wheel and gave thanks to the Goddess for Fallen Women that I am now a very happily self employed hooker. No more pep talks for me, no sirree.

I was once sent on a course on the effective management of waste paper, which lasted three days - I kid you not. I amused myself by playing hangman with a lad from Inverness, who insisted 'Dallas' only had one 'l' to the point where the supervisor asked if we had something we would like to share with the rest of the group. Actually, we had - but it was most certainly not up for discussion with the course attendees and that very morning over breakfast we had vowed to never speak of it again. (Well, what do you expect ? Put some young delegates in a Glasgow hotel for three nights and give them twenty pounds dinner allowance, one pound will be spent on a bowl of chips and the rest on alcohol. QED.) Those course 'facilitators' had a knack of making us feel like we had the intellectual abilities of a turnip, I still recall with horror the opening line every morning - "Let's start with a fun game, a wee ice breaker". The only fun to be had with that was going in my mind from ice breaker to ice pick and entertaining a horrific imaginary scene of corporate violence.

Having 'enjoyed' all of those memories whilst standing in the queue, I realized it was almost my turn to reach the counter. I also realized that my stomach was starting to churn. Then came the sweating and the dry throat, that awful sensation when you just know what's coming. As I saw it I had two choices - run out onto the street and try and find a bin or upchuck right there and then. The street was out because it was lunchtime and literally heaving with sandwich laden suits. With seconds to spare I just made it to the waste paper basket beside David Brent before decorating it in style with the accompanying sound effects. There was a sharp intake of horror and a laden silence. This one would have to be brazened out.

"I hope you've all brushed up on your disposal techniques, yes ? Have a lovely afternoon".

With a flick of my hair and a flash of my broadest smile, I strode out the door and into the sunshine. Perhaps vomiting isn't so bad after all.

LL xx

Activism and Angst

No-one has ever yet written "The Guide to Perfect Parenting", in principal because the perfect parent doesn't exist. Babies don't come with a Haynes manual which tells you what to do in the event of an unplanned exhaust leak which escapes the utilised protection and slowly makes it's way down the legs of your trolley and onto the floor of Asda. Or what to do when they work themselves up into such a state of temper that they bang their heads in tune to the over priced soothing baby lullaby CD you just purchased. There's no trouble shooting flow chart or help desk. Instinctively, you just know, and with that knowledge comes a solution, tailor made to every diazepam inducing incident.

But while we can all meet once a week and bitch (sorry, empathise) over coffee about our little darlings and their latest attempts to have us sectioned, in my experience it's the same subjects which arise for discussion over and over, 'Is my child showing the first signs of psychosis ?', or 'Why do they behave for every other fecker but me ?' One subject very worthy of discussion has yet to come up in our group, and it is simply this - how to instil a sense of social justice in your child. Of course, they will form their own core values and belief system, but children can very quickly become a product of their environment.

A long time ago and in an Irish kitchen far away, my Dad was preparing a carcass, when I swept in the door from school.

"Hi Dad, what's for dinner ?"

"Oh, this is just an auld mutt I found on the road, hit by a car, so I thought - waste not, want not".

I was speechless with anger, after all, our house had become known as the de facto shelter for every waif and stray. Flaring my nostrils as I do when I'm very cross indeed, I loudly declared -

"RIGHT. THAT'S IT. I AM NOT EATING ANY MORE MEAT IN THIS HOUSE UNTIL SUCH TIME AS THE ATTITUDE OF THIS FAMILY HAS CHANGED TOWARDS THE WELFARE OF ERM ... DEAD ANIMALS."

To this day I don't know how my father kept a straight face, in any event, my 'protest' lasted until the following Saturday morning when our traditional fry up was filling those flared nostrils of mine with aromas so beautiful I could stand it no longer. I slouched into the kitchen and announced - "Sure the pig won't mind anyway, he's in heaven".

Fast forward some twenty years and suddenly it befalls me to combat those highly enjoyable convivial jousts as they arise. It started one balmy evening as LP and I were watching television and some horrifying footage of starving children in Africa was being shown. Studying her little face, the wheels of cognition could almost be observed, spinning furiously.

"MAM".

"Yes sweetpea ?"

"Sure that baby doesn't have any food ?"

"No love, none."

"No juice either ?"

"No, no juice either."

"No blankies ?"

"No sweetie, nothing."

She thought about this state of affairs, long and hard before her face lit up with all the excitement of a ground breaking solution to world hunger.

"Well then her mammy should have gone to Tesco's, shouldn't she ?"

Clearly, there was a lot of work to be done. In mitigation, she was very young then and has since grown to grasp the basics, such as - the oppression of minority groups is never acceptable. She even gets the concept that one person's moral code should never dictate the sexual freedoms of a society, whether those freedoms are exercised in a commercial sense or in the privacy of one's bedroom. Quite impressive for a twelve year old really.

Less impressive was this evening's display of pre-teen plumage. I had not long returned from a long day at a photo shoot and I was tired and cranky. On entering the kitchen, there stood a triumphant boy cat, licking his chops having just enjoyed the last remaining scraps of ice cream, as offered to him in a cereal bowl.

"For Christ's sake, can we not share the crockery with the animals ? Especially when he spends the vast majority of his day with his tongue between his thighs ?"

"SHAME ON YOU. CATS HAVE RIGHTS TOO."

Yep, it's going to be a long week.

LL xx

Saturday sleepovers

Good evening and greetings from home where I am chilling out with Le Mog having finally finished my tax return. Officially, I'm not speaking to Boy Cat. I spent most of yesterday laboriously sorting my receipts into monthly piles only for one over excited cat in hot pursuit of a fly to jump up on my desk and knock the whole feckin' lot over. I wouldn't mind, but he's not even looking suitably contrite.

I'm not long back from Belfast, where I was finishing off the documentary for Channel 4 and it was an experience to say the least. It was very stressful, not because of the crew, they were fabulous, but because in between bouts of filming I had to jump into various outfits to meet clients. Although this is something I've become accustomed to on tour, it was a new level of manic. I know that the end result will be worth it though, and I hope to challenge perceptions on sex and disability.

On a break from filming I phoned home, as is my daily custom. La Princess was full of chat, everything from, 'I miss you', to 'Can I have a tenner to top up my phone?' I was waiting for the inevitable, and in time, it came. "Can I have a sleepover this weekend ?" GREAT.

For the uninitiated, 'sleepovers' run as follows - several very grateful parents drop their little darlings chez moi, and head off in the direction of the nearest off licence or dealer, the understanding being that they snap out of their temporary delicious psychosis and be on my doorstep by 1pm the next day.

The bemusing part of sleepovers is the solid belief in the participants, that what they are about to perpetrate has never been done before. Uh huh, because parents were born aged 30. So, it's -

Creeping to the kitchen to empty the contents - check.

Sub-dividing the group into two with bitchery, with one group ending up in the hallway at 2am, hotly debating the identity of the bigger bitch - check.

Antagonising the hamster, to the point where she squeals in temper, the defence offered being - "We didn't do anything, she was just sitting there" - check.

Antagonising the cat, to the point where he scratches, the defence being - "We didn't do anything, he was just sitting there" - check.

Freaking each other out with ghost stories until someone asks to come into my bed - check.

Ordinarily, I just throw in pizza, popcorn, several bags of sweeties and then shut the door, slinking off to my own boudoir with boy cat and a good book, but this weekend I have a new game plan just ready and waiting for the inevitable onslaught.

I'M GOING TO KILL THEM WITH TWITTER.

Normally, I throw open the door at 2am, 3.30am, and 3.35am and beseech, "Girls, please ! Keep it down, we have neighbours". As you can imagine, that approach is about as effective as putting a brake on a canoe, so the new plan is simply as follows - I'm going to befuddle them with all of the new delicious terminology I've learned on Twitter.

I envision the process as follows. Throw door open, and -

11pm. - "TROPE".

12.10am - "PATRIARCHY".

12.30am - "HELEN MIRREN".

12.45am - "NICK CLEGG HAS A GREEN ONESIE".

12.47am - "SUZANNE MOORE'S TRANSPHOBIC EXPLOSION".

I reckon, that by 1am they'll either be stunned into shocked silence or they'll have had me sectioned. Either way, blissful peace awaits.

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

Topiaries and Tom Cruise

Thusfar, November has been stressful beyond belief. In fact, when I recently met Rhoda Grant at Holyrood, I told her that I will be a size ten by Christmas and it's all her fault. How we laughed.

Meanwhile, at Activism HQ, we've had moments of nothingness, by which I mean, November and December are just so full on that we wondered what on earth we will campaign about come the new year. Fear not, for I have a solution.

Mandatory conscription for sixteen year old males to a two week intensive training piece on kissing. Preferably, this would be held in the dark, but I'm sure that idea would be contrary to some Human Rights Convention or another, initiated by some well meaning train spotter called Colin.

This rather unique and brilliant idea was born out of my time on Facebook yesterday, when I noticed several friends vying for the title of most notable Movember 'tache. I know I'm an escort, but were I to sponsor them all I would have to resort to shop lifting cat litter again, not a prospect I relish to be honest.

It got me thinking about the whole Magnum PI era. Remember THAT moustache ? It was iconic, it was part of his character and it was even 'cool', but I bet his make up people didn't have to kiss him. See I don't mind moustaches or beards per se, they can even be sexy. Where it becomes problematic is where the length of such facial topiaries mean I will be eternally grateful for the emergency tonsillectomy I had as a child.

The crux of the matter is this, kissing is rather like any other form of oral gratification, it needs to be built up slowly, y'all. I make no secret of my love of cheesecake but to woff it down in one would be gluttonous and anyway, the taste needs to be savoured, treasured even.

So I object, yes I said OBJECT to anyone who thinks that as a prerequisite to making the beast with two backs they can explore my larynx and expect me not to gag, (I gave up fake moaning years ago). Don't do that, dude. Softly softly catchy girly, or words to a similar effect anyway.

All of the above has been brought on by an event last night which will scar me for life. One of my friends sent me as message as follows - "Remember that day when we bunked off school and watched THAT scene from Top Gun over and over ? We rewound that Betamax tape until there was smoke coming from the machine just so we could see Tom Cruise making love in silhouette ? Well I've found the scene on You-Tube."

I was so excited I could barely contain myself, indeed boy cat dived for cover. But what I witnessed resulted in slack jawed horror. He does the tongue thing, BEFORE they've even hit the bed. UNFORGIVABLE. I thought my respect for Tom Cruise had diminished beyond any and all conceivable repair following *that* incident on Oprah's sofa, but no. I'm done with him now. And November.

LL xx

Pregnancy and progress

I can still remember where I was when I found out I was pregnant. It was in the bathroom of the office where I worked and I can still feel my cheeks burning with shame at the recollection of the 'walk of shame' to my manager's office. It was the year 2000. Yes indeed, Robbie William's 'Millenium'.

"Um, I need some time off".

"OK, going anywhere nice"?

"Not really, the maternity hospital".

I can still see his face now, it was a curious hybrid of a fatherly like concern combined with an embarrassed half smile.

I don't regret becoming a mother. Quite the opposite, there are very stressful times when the only thing which keeps me going is that cheeky wee face around my door. Why else would I have just agreed to another three days in Blackpool Tower with two thousand, (count them) TWO THOUSAND little princesses running riot in sequins ? If I have any regrets, it's the manner is which my little darling was conceived. She wasn't planned, hell no. I went with the old Irish Catholic method of "Och, it'll be all right". Quelle surprise, it wasn't. Wasn't it Billy Connolly who nodded in the direction of the Catholic Church and the rhythm method for his very existence ?

Post conception, I struggled with the shame thing for a while. I COULDN'T be pregnant, because I come from a very large, very Catholic family. What to do ? Common sense prevailed when I realised at 27, I had a full time job, with maternity leave. Not quite the end of the world then. Still, telling those closest to me was hard, although once La Princess arrived, the whole schema became pink and fluffy.

See, I come from a country where until recently, it was deemed acceptable to condemn women to a life of abject torture in The Magdalene Laundries, because they were unmarried and pregnant. Indeed, in some cases they weren't even pregnant, just "queer". I come from a country where in 1984, Ann Lovett lay down beneath a statue of Our Lady. She died from irreversible shock caused by haemorrhage and exposure during childbirth and her new born son died also.

I come from a country where for years, the Catholic Church became a convenient hiding place for paedophiles and homosexuals because you see at that time, they were one and the same. I come from a country where every time one of those sons of God attacked a child, they were simply moved to another parish and a huge cover up ensued. All of those cover ups are only beginning to come to the surface now, as are the cover ups around the Magdalene Laundries.

As a society though, we have moved on, right ? Well no, not really. Today I have taken time out to read the horror story of a young woman who was effectively sentenced to death by Irish Catholicism. Strong words ? Maybe, but the truth is she was bearing a child who stood no chance at a sustainable life and because of the archaic laws surrounding the rights of an unborn child, she was allowed to die. I'll just say that again. SHE WAS ALLOWED TO DIE. There was no medical intervention to remove the foetus and ultimately, although the child was destined to die, the mother lost her life also.

There's something seriously skewed with that thinking. Let me make this plain, as a feminist I am not pro-abortion, not at all. But that's MY choice. I don't deem it my right to dictate to any body else what they should and shouldn't do with their own bodies. Never will I support the Jeremy Kyle generation who pop down the clinic to have termination number three because they can't be bothered to use contraception or because they simply decide at twenty weeks that they've changed their mind. Not on.

The women who choose to have a very early abortion deserve a mention too, I don't believe they ought to be burnt at the stake either. A bitch will fight to the death for her pups yes, but sometimes she will eat them. It's called survival.

The afore mentioned situations are different, this is a woman's life we're talking about. A happily married woman who could have continued to have had any number of successful pregnancies.

Is it any wonder that a sizeable proportion of my Irish friends have converted from Roman Catholicism to Christianity ? Not really.

LL xx

Faux Feminism

The recent suicide of Amanda Todd got me thinking. From where I'm sitting, there are two schools of thought. One is that she was a young girl who made a stupid mistake on a social networking site by exposing her breasts. One picture ended up doing the rounds of various social platforms and in the end, she could stand the bullying no longer and in spite of having changed schools, she gave up and ended her life.

The second school of thought suggests that she recorded multiple videos involving masturbation, which she distributed through BlogTV whilst persuading a thirteen year old boy to cheat on his girlfriend. Amanda Todd has been compared with Paris Hilton, hence the picture above. "Why does everyone pick on Paris, she does such great work for charity and she only did one sex tape".

Give me a break.

Let's get this into perspective here. Paris Hilton is an attention seeking 'celebrity' who spends Daddy's money and gets to go to lots of red carpet events to exchange air kisses with other beautiful people who have also had sex tapes leaked (cough) and feel her 'pain'. Amanda Todd was a young school girl who was physically assaulted and dumped in a ditch. She drank bleach in an effort to kill herself and when that didn't work, she committed suicide, this time ensuring it was effective.

Those are not the actions of an attention seeker. Those are the actions of someone who had truly had enough and wanted off this planet, for good. But why ? Because some pitiful insecure pack running bullies decided she wasn't good enough to join their social circle ? Really ?

When it comes to overt sexuality, why is it that women perpetually turn on women ? This is what I find so perplexing. We live in a society which deems it acceptable for an individual to approach a seven year old child and tell her - "Your mother is going to die of AIDS", simply because that child's mother chooses to work quite legally as a sex worker.

We live in a society in which Rape Crisis Scotland deem it acceptable to loudly announce a 'Reclaim The Night' march in Glasgow in support of women against rape (which in itself is fantastic) but to then denounce sex work as an 'act of violence'. One rule for the 'nice' women and one rule for sex workers ?

We live in a society in which Joan Burnie of the Daily Record deems it acceptable to say that Edinburgh saunas are "sad, seedy and sorry". I doubt that she has ever set foot in a sauna in her life, I challenge Ms. Burnie to visit the saunas with me, and speak to the women therein. I think she'll find that they are very much of the same ilk as herself, ordinary women getting by and paying their bills day to day.

All of the above is what I lovingly refer to as 'faux feminism'. It's when women who choose to call themselves feminists selectively choose their allies, to the exclusion of other minority groups who don't meet their moral standards. And it's not on.

So why am I so angry about 'faux feminism' ?

I'm a sex worker, prostitute, whore, call me what you will. I have felt first hand what it feels like to be isolated and bullied because of what I have chosen to do in private, between consenting adults, and within the law. I don't fit within the moral code of faux feminists, I make them uncomfortable. How they deal with that discomfort is to project their insecurities onto me.

They call me slut. They call me whore. They hold their husbands tighter. They hitch their skirts higher, to compete.

None of which bothers me, but what does bother me is when a young impressionable girl like Amanda Todd is driven to suicide because of the elitism of others. She was a hormonal teenager and flashed her breasts. Crime of the century ? We could have a discussion around the 'Page 3' debate ad infinitum, but the reality is, there will always be breasts in the media. Nudity, even. I'm willing to bet that the very women who complain loudest about the 'abuse' of such 'victims' who dare to show their breasts on a public platform are the very ones who creep to bed with 'Fifty Shades of Grey' and their rampant rabbit. That's morally preferable, after all.

I just hope that those who ensured Amanda Todd's early grave can live with their conscience and can sleep at night. I sure as hell couldn't bear that burden, and if you pay any heed to the sex work abolitionists, then you will know that my future confessional is simply straining at the seams.

LL xx

A Feminist Whore ? Surely not ....

Am I a feminist ? Absofeckinlutely, but here's the thing, I am what you might call a traditional feminist. To me that means that as women, we are equal to men, not superior. Oh sure, we carry the can when it comes to childcare etc, but don't we expect a lot of our menfolk too ? If you subscribe to the age old stereotype then man should be the hunter, slaying a mammoth for dinner or at the very least beating up the guy next door because he peered at "his woman" over the geraniums. These days, and in times of recession then it's whoever has a job hangs onto it for dear life, conforming to stereotypes for the sake of it can lead to poverty, relationship breakdowns and a serious compromise to the welfare of the children, that's a fact.

A long time ago and in a doctor's waiting room far away, I was busying myself by reading the gardening section of a Sunday Times magazine, (I hate gardening). I was praying to anyone who would listen that the very elderly lady beside me wouldn't try and strike up a conversation. (I know, but I was in a dreadful mood and really not in the humour for a conversation around the useful properties of figs in the treatment of constipation.) As it turns out, I'm very glad she did strike up a conversation because we ended up so lost in our exchange that the receptionist had to bellow my name to get my attention. Eunice (not her real name, not that it matters) told me that as a young girl she worked for a number of years in a factory, before falling in love with a dubious cad who went on to become her husband of some 40 years. (He was a bastard apparently, but she still missed him every day.) Eunice became the first woman to successfully challenge the rule in that factory that all married women had to give up their jobs to become home makers. This was in a time where the woman's place was very definitely in the kitchen, as a matter of fact under Irish law, until relatively recently, a woman was considered a "chattel", no better than furniture, and there was no such thing as marital rape. I'll just say that again. THERE WAS NO SUCH THING AS MARITAL RAPE, once you were married you were automatically deemed to have given consent, ergo, your husband could do as he liked and there was nothing you could do about it.

Further, I can remember when the proposed legislative change to the divorce laws in Ireland came up for consideration. Night after night we sat watching RTE broadcasts of Catholic priests urging us to consider our faith and our pledges in marriage, to divorce was to fly in the face of The Vatican and those who sought a divorce would surely burn in the fires of hell. So, if your husband broke your jaw, or regularly beat your children to within an inch of their lives, tough. You were married for better or worse, brush that hair and be sure to be at Mass at 10am on Sunday, in case the neighbours talked.

When it comes to feminism, I don't believe that I should burn my bra, aside from anything else, have you ANY idea how much that cost ? Also, I don't think throwing myself beneath a horse or chaining myself to the railings of Holyrood will achieve much either, well it would certainly get press coverage for whatever cause it is I'm proposing to champion, but ultimately, I think I would look pretty foolish. I wouldn't consider myself a "radical" feminist either, quite obviously I don't believe that every time I allow a client to have sex with me it is rape and I am letting down "The Sisterhood". It's been an age since I've looked at actus reus or mens rea but I'm pretty sure that the burden of proof rests upon a lack of consent. As a sex worker, when I have finally untied a submissive male and as a "reward", allow him to have some sexual favours with me then to be honest I'm struggling to see who is consenting in that situation.

As I have declared myself a feminist, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I probably should and have read "The Female Eunuch". The answer to that would be a resounding 'no', because I have no great desire to taste my own menstrual blood and further, given my own curly mop then I resent, yes I said RESENT, Greer's pop at Suzanne Moore for her back combed hair, (sigh). See I'm not a selective feminist either, I don't subscribe to the notion that there is an elite group of women who are entitled to give themselves the title of feminist and to hell with everyone else. Either you support ALL women in their given choices or you don't, it's that simple.

So what do I believe in then, as a feminist in the very old fashioned "I have so reclaimed this word" kinda way ? It's very simple really. Like Eunice, I believe I have the choice to work, quite legally, without fear and the overhanging threat of intimidation, and stigma. That's all.

I don't ask you to place me on a pedestal, I don't ask you to declare me as superior to the male sex, I don't ask for any "special" treatment whatsoever. I simply ask you to respect my right to work as a sex worker, to make the informed choices that I make every day, without recourse to a "nanny state" which seeks to impose sanction on me, or my client.

In that regard, I ask my readers to consider the latest proposals from Rhoda Grant which will be tabled shortly in Holyrood. Ms. Grant is seeking to have a bill approved which will make it illegal for my clients to come to me as a perfectly willing and happy provider, and pay for my services.

The link is here, and I will write on it further as it develops.

LL xx

Land of Saints and Scholars - part two

J and I left Dublin for the beautiful South Coast and arrived in Waterford, not exactly a buzzing metropolis I'll grant you, but very beautiful to stroll around and our hotel was just as the doctor ordered. Who knew Waterford has a sex shop now ? Ye Gods, it's a far cry from my memories of buckets and spades on Tramore beach. Actually, what tickled me was not so much the sex shop but the "booth" therein, where a passing gent could spend a couple of Euros to indulge in a quick spot of porn and erm ... relief. Soho has finally reached the South coast of Ireland, well I never.

The hotel itself was deathly quiet when we checked in and I did wonder if it was conducive to kicking J up and down a corner suite with his pitiful cries going un-noticed. Happily, on our return from dinner, the population of the hotel had swelled on foot of a clapped out tour bus carrying the geriatric version of Club 18 - 30. For want of a better word, they were being "entertained" in the bar by Finbar* (*names changed to protect the completely inadequate) with his keyboard and a right foot which operated rather like a flipper, thrashing away at a drum machine at least two beats behind each note of the song being murdered.

"Quelle horreur!" I thought.

This was a crime against music and no mistake. As an aside, one of the people I most greatly admire from a musical point of view is Les Dawson, yes I said LES DAWSON. If you recall, he had the most marvellous ability to play any song just one semi-tone off key throughout, resulting in anyone with even half a musical ear fighting to control their rattling teeth. In actual fact, it takes a person who is very musical in the first place to be able to pull that off, and it used to make me howl with laughter. In fact, I've just found this wonderful clip of him singing "Feelings", click here. RIP. :(

Anyway, back to the bar; things went from bad to worse when Finbar announced he was taking requests, and there was a veritable stampede of hush puppies and other sensible shoes to the stage. There's always one, isn't there ? One very elderly man who does Elvis to varying degrees of success, in this case he was actually fantastic and sang a couple of his classic hits, I'm sure I saw several embroidered hankies being used to quell feverish brows when he swung his hips to "Suspicious Minds". I couldn't let the opportunity go and wrestled with my conscience as to what to sing. For a fleeting moment I entertained the idea of that dreadful song by Samantha Fox - "Touch me", but thought better of it, and in the end I went for a safe bet - "Crazy", by Patsy Cline. It went down a storm and I had lots of hugs, an offer of marriage and a slap on the back that nearly sent me into reception, (Irish farmers just don't know their own strength). Having secured several bookings for a 21st, a Christening and a hurriedly arranged wedding, Finbar was packing up his one man orchestra and J and I decided to call it a night, when the magic happened. It was pre-empted by the usual declaration -

"WILL YIZ SHURRUP ? MICK IS SINGIN', G'WAN MICK."

A hush descended on the bar and from the corner of the room, "Mick" began to sing in a mournful, soulful and truly moving way about his inevitable demise to Greenland with dolphins, and so it went on. Song after song from misty-eyed patriots who in all honesty, had never set foot in "The Fields of Athenry" in their lives, let alone fought in the "Great Fallen of 1916". It was all I could do to stop myself reminding one gentleman who was mourning his beautiful Motherland that actually, he lived in the bungalow, first turn on the right. I think I would have been thumped for that offence.

As I tried to explain to J in hushed tones, this is the way things are done in Ireland. When someone dies, everyone gets together for the "tórraimh", or the "wake" and remembers the person, and rather than mourn they laugh at the good memories they have of them, then they get absolutely rat arsed and sing. Following on from that is the funeral, where everyone dresses in black, pays their respects, and then they get rat arsed and sing. Come to think of it, there aren't many occasions when my country folk don't get rat arsed and sing.

Given his (ahem) Etonian accent, by now J was positively panicked, because THAT stage of the evening had begun where the songs had adopted a staunch "rebel" theme, so much so that he refused point blank to open his mouth for fear of being lynched, so we called it a night, for real this time.

You know, whenever I go back to Ireland to visit my clan, it's always really hard to leave them, and if I'm honest I usually have a howl on the way back to Scotland, but for the first time I realised that it is the people and the culture I miss too, I sat amongst those warm, wonderful people and for the first time in many years, I realised I was very, very homesick.

LL xx

Land of Saints and Scholars - part one.

Good afternoon and greetings from LL towers, where I have finally arrived home after an exceptionally enjoyable week away, to a rapturous welcome from the zoo. Firstly let me apologise again for the (albeit temporary) outburst yesterday. Sometimes we all have to release what I call my "inner fishwife", I don't like doing it, it's not befitting the person that I am but hey, when pushed far enough it's in all of us.

If the truth be known, that's twice I've had to do it this week, allow me to explain. J and I arrived in Dublin and checked into our beautiful five star hotel, situated as it was not too far from Grafton Street (which is where the posh shops are, innit) but also just a stone's throw away from some of the grottiest tenement flats in Dublin's inner city. So if you turned left, you could indulge yourself with your credit card, but if you turned right, you could be met with the traditional Irish welcome of a needle to the neck and a stamp to the head, thereafter someone else could indulge themselves with your credit card.

Come the late evening, I stood outside the front door of the hotel to admire the passing shiny tracksuits when I saw what can only be described as an advertisement for rehab, trying desperately to steal some bikes from across the street. When he couldn't free them from their stands, he proceeded to start to kick the crap out of their frames. I deplore anyone who wilfully destroys the property of other hard working people, it drives me mad. Dublin's answer to Tristan Smedley Smythe was beside me, on his Blackberry. He said that he was going to call "The Guards". Now I knew that was never going to work, the only way to get the Irish police to respond is to tell them that shots have been fired or that a perfectly happy and independent escort is working in an apartment, (whoops, did I say that out loud) ?

I will (again) apologise for the ensuing filthy language here, I'm just glad J didn't hear me because I think it would have frightened him to death, being the genteel soul that he is. I should also point out that real inner city Dubliners drop every 'd' and 'h' available to them, if you're not familiar with the dialect then you can view our own Mrs. Brown
here. So, I took a deep breath, moved towards what we Irish lovingly refer to as the "scumbag" and shrieked -

"OI !! GET DEFUCK AWAY FROM DEM BIKES ROITE NOW YE SCUMBAG, I'M AFTER CALLIN DE GUARDS. G'WAN YE KNACKER, AFORE I LOSE ME BLEEDIN TEMPER."

I'm delighted to say that seemed to have the desired effect and he scampered off, presumably to see if any of his esteemed friends had any Tesco value weed to spare.

Tristan Smedley Smythe was flabbergasted.

"I say, bloody well done. Did you go to theatre school?"

"Something like that, yes".

Wearing a large grin, I went back to join J for dinner.

I will pop back later in the week to finish my holiday tale, in the meantime I'm off to launch the Spanish inquisition, whilst I was away some fecker ate my Double Decker Easter egg, and they needn't bother blaming the cat this time, heads are going to roll.

LL xx

Pasta and Parenting

Good evening and greetings from home where I am awaiting the abomination known as "cheesy pasta" to be served, compliments of my (now) 11 year old. With increased age comes increased responsibility I suppose, so I will let her use the cooker provided I can lurk in various doorways with a tea towel handy, just in case. Where I couldn't lurk this week was when she went on a group outing to see "The Muppets" at the cinema. There was a group of 8 of them, all duly dropped off and collected by parents, who had been nominated by text - "Feck off, I did the birthday party last week". You'd think, wouldn't you, that I would relish the thoughts of a couple of hours alone in the house, to maybe get some study done, a little ironing or in reality, visiting THAT place on You-Tube, when you've followed a link from a link and end up ( as I did ) in an animated "discussion" with some semi-literate gobshite from Tennessee as to the rights and wrongs of coon hunting. I digress.

The reason I couldn't settle down into any of my favourite activities, (yes, even Porn Hub and my Magic Wand were foregone ) is because herself was on a date. Yep, a DATE. He's 12, so obviously she prefers the older gents like her Mother. On first appreciation of the horrid fact that she was "going out" with someone, I flew down to the school like a woman possessed. No way was my daughter going to land in my kitchen at the age of 15 with some tracksuit wearing clown to announce that I was going to be a Grandma and further, that we were booked to appear on Jeremy Kyle the following week, I THINK NOT.

My fears were appeased by the very wonderful teacher therein, and he assured me that these "relationships", (such as they are) are usually over before they have started and are entirely innocent. Hmmm. Nevertheless, I sent her off to the cinema with a stern warning that were she to kiss a boy, there are enzymes in her mouth which mean her tongue will turn black and I will know, instantly. You might think it's mean to send your child to the cinema in a state of irrational fear, I call it a pre-emptory strike. Parenting at this level is new, and difficult too. I could deal with hands down toilets, toast in the DVD player and decking other toddlers, that was easy peasy.

Anyway, as it happened, she came home to announce loudly that he had been "dumped". Yes, four days into romance of the century and it was all over, there goes any notions I had of negotiating deals with "Howya" magazine and securing several white doves, (all cared for and with the best of welfare, of course). My feverish search for a "Mother of the Bride" outfit can wait, apparently of more importance this week coming rather than the broken heart she has heartlessly walked away from is the forthcoming cheer leading try-outs, deep joy.

I'm off to Inverness on Monday and will catch up with you from there, there are some fantastic blogs I want to draw your attention to when I am finally alone in a hotel room, devoid of any newly emergent hormones or the zoo that surrounds me here.

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

Gregarious Granny

Unfortunately, this story has been exposed as a hoax, but it did make me spray my laptop liberally with tea. Enjoy.

Sitting on her plastic-covered scarlet arm-chair in the boudoir of her Gzira home, one would be forgiven for thinking Doris Borg is just a regular sweet old granny. But while she is indeed sweet as kannoli, she also has a more illicit side: she is Malta’s oldest working prostitute.

The silver-haired “anzjana tat-triq“, as she calls herself, celebrated her birthday on January 2, surrounded by prominent politicians, businessmen, lawyers and members of the clergy, all of whom were in costume to protect their identities. “I so enjoyed lapping up their warm greetings,” she beams.

Doris says she has been in the world’s oldest profession ever since she can remember. She comes from a long line of ladies of the night. “My mother was a prostitute, and her mother before her. Her mother was a cloistered nun so I’m not sure what happened there. There hasn’t been a proper male member of the family for generations.”

During her long life, the centenarian has lived through her fair share of momentous events. She has particularly fond memories of World War II. “All those marines,” she says wistfully. “Some historians say the invasion of Sicily might not have succeeded had the entire British 51st infantry division not spent a morale-boosting night with me before they shipped out.”

How has she managed to live for so long? “Well I’m lucky enough to do what I love, even though I don’t love who I do most of the time. I’ve never had a break, except for my hip of course.

“Also, a Ghanaian former witchdoctor once told me his seed had life-giving properties. It appears to have worked.”

Doris admits that due to her advanced age, the market she caters for is somewhat niche. “For men who are almost into necrophilia but not quite” say her ads on Maltapark. “Oh yes, I’m very web savvy,” she says. “One of my last clients, bless him, was a shy computer programmer, and he set up a Facebook page for me, which really helps to set up appointments since I can only cover about 30 metres of pavement in a day nowadays, and that’s with my Zimmer frame.

She says advanced age has several advantages. “Losing all my teeth has been a Godsend, I can tell you. And if someone has a foot fetish, but also likes breasts, in my case they’re in the same general area.”

Being more than a century old certainly hasn’t diminished her creativity either. “I can do more things with a tire-swing and a rolling pin than you could ever possibly imagine.”

What does she think of her younger counterparts? “Bah, in my day we used to learn everything on the job, if you’ll pardon the pun. Hookers today don’t know they’re born, with their MCAST courses and ETC training schemes.”

Despite the fact that her more glamourous days are arguably behind her, Doris has no intentions of retiring any time soon. “No matter how old I get I won’t stop bending over backwards to make sure my clients are satisfied.”

LL xx

Bankers and Biblicals

Good evening and greetings from Edinburgh, where I am chilling out in my hotel room after a busy couple of days involving a measuring tape and my nurse's uniform ( don't ask, field report pending which promises to be a belting read ). Before I forget, I've now done my availability diary and tour dates until the end of April, some call it being anally retentive, I call it being organised. Besides, J and I are away to Ireland for a week in April, plans include a visit to a wildlife centre so I'm looking forward to that immensely.

A brief note on Whitney Houston; now I've read all the comments about how she was a junkie and therefore it was only a matter of time etc. but I must confess the only emotion I felt when I learnt she'd died was overwhelming sadness. Did she push the self destruct button ? Yep. Was she the master of her own demise ? Almost certainly. But the fact remains, long before autotune, Whitney simply blew us away with the sheer raw power of her voice. Who can forget her awesome performance at Superbowl ? For me, her demise is best summed up in this clip. In summary, there were many people around her who supported her addiction rather than any attempt at recovery and that's what makes it sad.

Anyroad, speaking of sad, you will recall that recently when I was blogging about boy cat I mentioned that I prayed and that I have a faith. Ho ho, that brought them out of the woodwork and no mistake. OK, for the hard of thinking and those down the back let me say this for once and all, NO-ONE has the right to judge me. If you truly are a Christian as you claim, then you will know, only one person has the right to judge me and it most certainly is not you, yes you, the "lady" who emails and texts me incessantly with a plea to "turn to God".

Allow me to explain this to you. I have had elongated discussions with a man I would describe as a biblical scholar and I think you'll find that nowhere in the bible is it mentioned that prostitution should be deemed morally wrong. I've said it before and I'll say it again, if I thought what I was doing was morally wrong I would desist immediately. It's not, so I won't.

I'll also ask you to remember that when Jesus went into the temple and was faced with tax collectors and courtesans, it was the bankers he threw out. Quite right too, look at the feckin' state they have the country in now.

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

I found this ....

.... on the intertubeswebthingy and rather liked it. It draws a comparison between Gillian McKeith (or to give her her full medical title - Gillian McKeith) and that kinkstress of the kitchen, Nigella Lawson.

I know which one I'd rather be. On the basis that it will help me avoid facial lines, I am off to dive headfirst into a warm choccy fudge cake, ( pouring cream optional ).

LL xx

Holidays and Happy Hookers

Roite, I'm off ( well almost ). On Wednesday I am heading for the Isle of Man, returning to sunny Ayrshire to empty my suitcase unceremoniously into the laundry basket before refilling with pieces of cloth masquerading as clothes which would make The Mothers' eyes roll in the back of her head, then it's off to Turkey. All in all I won't be back in Glasgae until Tuesday the 25th, just in time to erect the electric fencing and trip wires for the little darlings at Halloween. ( Aside from the local "nice" children, we also get an influx of mini-skinheads who "egg yer gaff" if you don't give them cash, so preparation is key. ) I suppose you're wondering why on earth I have a picture of battling pandas to accompany this post ? No reason really, other than I thought it was an awesome picture and I don't see how they hope to avoid extinction if they keep battling each other with light sabres.

I came across this little beauty the other day, it's from the European Women's Lobby and features this video, which quite honestly blew my mind. "Prostitution is a form of violence and oppression", apparently. Yet again, the glaringly obvious has been over looked, that is - the community of sex workers who are happy in their work, although according to Julie Bindel the "Happy Hooker" is a myth. If this is to be a movement lobbying for women's rights, what about my rights as a woman to work perfectly legally as an escort ? What about my right to earn a living and support my family ? Oh wait, those rights don't sit well with their moral values, so they can't be of any consequence.

The Sex Worker Open University have penned a reply to that video and I've included a quote for you below which I think is rather brilliant.

"The European Women's Lobby has recently launched a campaign called Together For a Europe Free from Prostitution.

Their view of the sex industry is once more reducing women to victims, and prostitution to a system of violence against women. Once more, some women sitting in comfortable chairs in some official EU building are deciding what we should or should not do with our bodies. Once more, we are being silenced and victimised. Once more, our voices are being confiscated and we are not sex workers anymore but prostituted women.

That's enough.

We want to show them that sex work is work. This is how we make a living. This is how we pay our rent, our bills, our sex changes and our children's studies.
Those are our decisions. Our bodies. Our voices. Our lives.

We are from all genders and races.

Stop invisibilising trans women and men from the debate on sex work. Invisibilising us is a form of violence and discrimination.
Stop pretending that sex work is only male to female penetration. The services we offer are as varied as we are. Sex, companionship, BDSM, fetish.... Sex is not disgusting and the only thing that makes us sick is your insulting and degrading video.

To stop exploitation and abuse in the sex industry, we need to be heard. We want rights--human and labour rights, not more criminalisation. Criminalising our clients will only force us to work in more underground and less safe conditions.

You care about sex workers? You want us to stay alive? Listen to us now!
Stop victimising us. Stop criminalising us. Stop silencing us."

Fantastic, when I come back from holidays feeling less like I've been run over by a roads lorry from Glasgow City Council I will put pen to paper too.

In the meantime, farewell Steve Jobs. Like them or loathe them, Apple have been incredibly successful and Steve Jobs was a visionary - I love this quote from him;

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped my dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of other's opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

LL xx