A Tail of Two Cats

Greetings from home, where I am chilling out before heading off into the Yorkshire countryside for a week with Mr. F. I have to bring my wellies apparently, it remains to be seen what purpose they will fulfil, I mean I really don't fancy an au naturel photo shoot with just some factor 15 and Tesco's Finest Wellies for protection. Maybe it was a euphemism ? Only time and midgie bites will tell. (Incidentally, tonight I found out that the scientific name for midgies is culicoides impunctatus, even the Latin term sounds like an act of needless barbarity.)

Anyway, without any coercion, duress, or even trafficking of his favourite fresh prawns, after a soul searching and agonising decision making process, boy cat has decided to come "out". Well, sort of. The above picture attests a typical scene in my house, when I sit down in the evening to answer emails and scoot around the net for a bit, he will make his feelings known by jumping onto my office desk and fellating himself, he really does pick his moments. This is very deliberate, it's his way of showing that -

1. He disapproves of the manner in which I removed him from my lap, and ;

2. He can pleasure himself at any given time, without the aid of anything which vibrates, something I will never achieve. In fact there's a colloquial term for it in Glasgow, "Get it right up ye".

Those of you who have read my inane drivel as far back as that will know that I adore boy cat, I got him from a rescue centre where there was a litter comprising three big bruiser ginger boys and in the middle of it, this black and white genetic oddity. My boy is all out of alignment in that he looks like an old style Egyptian cat, he has a long face, long back and long tail, with short legs. He was also the runt of the litter and when the cage door opened he came forwards and chose me, there's no doubt about that. You may also remember that at one stage there was "girl cat", a beguiling little kitty I adopted and had for a year, to put it bluntly, she fecked off and I don't think I'm being overly harsh in saying that boy cat threw the cat equivalent of a three day warehouse rave when she left.

Following on from his accident, my vet decided to give it some time before he should have his annual booster shots, so two weeks ago we rolled up to the vets, with La Princess trying to keep boy cat calm who was meowing like he was going to the guillotine (in his travel box, and not impressed) because he knew damn well where he was going. To while away the time and pretend I really couldn't hear the attention seeking howls of my cat who was far outdoing the efforts of a cocker spaniel puppy in to have his boy bits severed, I had a look at the notice board, and there it was.

"FOUND - VERY FRIENDLY FEMALE TABBY, APPROX TWO YEARS OLD.
OWNER PLEASE OR A GOOD HOME".

I took down the number and when I arrived home, I called the number to be told -

"Oh is that ad still up ? That was about ten months ago now."

"Um, do you still have her ?"

"Well, she arrived at the workshop at the back of my house and to be honest, wouldn't leave. She was a lovely wee thing and could eat for Scotland, I mean I would put down food and she'd inhale it, not to mention the birds, voles and all sorts she brought back as "presents". She kept me company in the workshop and would sit up on top of the bonnets of the cars I was working on and chat away, like I say, she wouldn't go away but she was great company."

"When you say "was", where is she now ?"

"I found a home for her out in the country with an old lady who's not long been widowed, the two of them are the best of pals."

I FECKING KNEW IT.

I asked the gent if he had any photos of her that he could send me in email or text me, but he said that at his age it's all he could do to switch the phone on, so I had to go to his house to view the pictures. No doubt about it, it was herself, in all her glory, crashed out upon a car bonnet in the sun. So I asked if I could have the address of where she is living now and called the lady concerned. When I arrived, I could see the look of panic on the lady's face, she really thought I was going to say "THAT'S MY CAT", and whisk her away.

Rather predictably, she is the size of a small sheep, having meowed her way through enough calories to make the establishment of a niche market for "cat feeders" a real possibility. Don't snigger, I mean if you search long and hard enough you can find pretty much anything on t'internet now. The bond between the two was unmistakable, if nothing else they are united in their love of custard creams anyway.

What really made me smile was the haughty look she gave me, " ... and you are ?"

So finally, when the question came -

"Is she your cat?"

"No".

Call me a soft gobshite, but I just couldn't do it. I wish them both a long and happy life together. I'm just glad that she's OK and happy, I mean there was never going to be any danger of her starving.

(Don't tell boy cat, but I was eyeing up some new born kitties just the other day in Carlisle...)

LL xx

P.S : I'm away and doing stuff in lingerie and wellies until Thursday 12th July, catch up with you when I get back.

Back to Brothels

Greetings from home where I wouldn't say I'm chilling out, I'm fecked. This has been a very long and very emotional week in lots of respects. On Tuesday the 19th, every sex worker's rights activist in Scotland was either at Holyrood or on the phone monitoring the progress of the Justice Committee's decision re Rhoda Grant's proposed changes to the legislation around paid sex, which would criminalise our clients. With baited breath we waited until the news came in that she had failed in her attempt and there was much jubilation, short lived though that was. We cheered and allowed ourselves our first deep breath in several days, but we know it's only a matter of time before she is back with a new consultation.

Having prepared ourselves for the worst, we all had a full diary of appointments lined up, meetings with MSP's, interviews and meetings with sex workers too, most importantly. I very much enjoyed Holyrood, what I found most interesting was the "contemplation seat" that MSP's have at the back of their office, it's a space by a window to allow them to mull things over. Those visitors who have to be accompanied by an assistant at all times are given a badge with an enormous "V", you seriously don't want to know my thought processes around that.

Mulling things over was not a luxury available to myself and my colleague N, we hit the campaign trail with gusto on Thursday and Friday and visited many saunas in Edinburgh, to talk to the ladies therein and inform them of what is going on. I loved every minute of it, it was like a trip down memory lane for me because I began my career in the biggest sauna in Dublin, run by a huge Irish country man (to be polite) who wasn't the brightest star in the sky. I still remember with great fondness the day he announced loudly to the masses that in order to cut back on his costs he had decided to wash and dry the towels on site and that very day we could expect delivery of his proudest investment, a "tubular dryer". (I damn near wet my thong at that, in fact if memory serves me correctly that was the day I got the sack for the third time.)

Although I had my own experience of working in saunas many years ago, I was very nervous about visiting the contemporary equivalents, I really didn't know what to expect. Well, all I can say is that I left every single  one of them beaming and more determined than ever before to work with our team and protect those wonderful women I met. To be perfectly honest, there was a moment when I walked through the door of each one when the women threw me a distrustful eye, and who can blame them ? Right now they feel as if everyone is against them, politicians who are determined to take away their livelihood, feminists and abolitionist campaigners who are determined to "rescue" them, not to mention various members of the public in their commentaries who have suddenly become experts on what it is to work in the sex industry and the psychology behind it all too, it's almost impressive.

As soon as I let it be known that I am on their side, the change in their body language was quite remarkable. Arms were unfolded and they leaned forward and listened. In fact, in most of the places we went to, N and I had a really good laugh. As I deal in truth and not fiction, I can tell you that there was not one lady who appeared to be trafficked, every lady I met was perfectly happy to be working there and in fact they were enraged when I explained to them the full ramifications of the proposed changes to the legislation. Having explained why they enjoyed working as they do, their next question was simply - "What can I do to stop this?"

Continuing in the vein of honesty, I can tell you that out of all of the women I met, there was ONE woman who was very clearly on drugs, the rest were perfectly ordinary women, busying themselves with hair straighteners and make-up. That was my experience of the "horrors" of the Edinburgh sauna scene and I've no doubt that when we begin visiting flats we will find pretty much the same scenario.

The trouble with the debate that's raging at the moment around the scene in Scotland is that the anti's are relying heavily on the street scene to back up their arguments, when they speak of drug use, beatings, arrests, pimps etc. Now, I'm not going to pretend for one moment that any drug addicted woman happily applies her make-up and goes out on the street night after night to earn enough money to feed her own addiction and quite possibly that of her boyfriend too, of course not. I will say, that there are some women who choose to work "the beat" because it's just what they've always done, like the woman two doors down does in the run up to Christmas too. The problem with some of those women is not prostitution, it's POVERTY, and it's drug addiction. If that's the case, why don't we ban drugs ? Oh wait, we have, that didn't work either. If those women cannot get their drugs from the proceeds of paid sex, no matter how dangerous that is, then they will source the money any other way they can, spot of shop lifting anyone ? Of course, that alternative course of earning might get them arrested, they might even end up in "The Vale", where they really will meet the creme de la creme of Scottish society, but that's OK, because they are morally superior to prostitutes.

Is not the answer to support these women rather than criminalise them ? If they want to get clean and get off the streets, HELP THEM, if they want to continue to work on the streets but do so in safety, HELP THEM. Looking at the Merseyside model gives us all some scope for hope, in that case the police have been treating sex workers as the victim of hate crimes where they have been assaulted or harmed in any way and the result of that is, the human rights and the safety of the women have become paramount, not futile arrests and harassment.

I don't claim to be an academic, (far from it, although I am working on it) but I do know the sex industry, because I have been working in it for quite a while and therein lies the reason why I do what I do under my "real" working name, I cannot be debunked. Oh sure, I can be discredited, jeered, all the usual fun stuff, (you know, if the best a purportedly educated forty-something woman can come up with is 'fat bitch' then I fear for the educational future of us all) but no-one can claim I am a pimp, a client, or just some (ahem) alternative person who gets their kicks out of writing as an escort, (they exist, believe me).

Nope I'm just me, a common garden variety escort, and a rather content one at that.

Before I sign off, huge thanks to the journalist who gave me a voice this week, you know who you are and thank you for fair and impartial reporting. I need to say though, that was nowhere near a "no holds barred verbal assault", no. That was "mildly irritated", if and when I really get my curls in a twist there will be no room for any doubt. ;)

LL xx

Celebrations and Campaigns

Good evening and greetings from home where I am not long finished supervising the construction of a rather impressive erection. It's an assault course for Fatty, apparently designed to appease boredom but if you ask me it wouldn't look out of place on The Krypton Factor and it should take her the best part of a week to get through it. I wouldn't mind but there doesn't even seem to be a reward at the end of it, I mean even Skinner's feckin' pigeons fared advantageously. Still, she seems content enough or maybe that's complacency, only time will tell.

Meanwhile a HUGE thank you to everyone who sponsored me for the Race for Life, it was tremendous as always and I know SCOT-PEP are very grateful to every one of you for your generosity, as I am. Since then I've not really been in circulation, quite simply I've been up to my ears in it.  I had to do an academic sprint which involved a lot of coffee, swearing and anti-social behaviours but I got there in the end and ultimately I am now study free until mid-August, splendid.

Speaking of splendid, huge congratulations must also go to Dollymopp who has recently been awarded "Sex Worker of the Year 2012" at The Erotic Awards in London, well done that woman ! She is one of the loveliest women in this industry, a nicer person you would struggle to meet so I am thrilled. I am also thrilled that having had the glorious news that Dr. Brooke Magnanti is to become a patron for SCOT-PEP, I am finally going to meet the lady herself in August. Waxing and nail buffing will be in abundance prior to that evening, and not an item of Primark underwear will be found anywhere near my corpus, nae chance.

Next week I am off to Edinburgh on Tuesday and Wednesday and I will be around Edinburgh for most of the working week after that, because Catherine Stephens will be there and we have many exciting meetings lined up, not to mention the later commitments I have with SCOT-PEP too. That's all you need to know for now, otherwise I might as well print up an itinerary for the anti's and abolitionists and we can't have that. I can exclusively reveal though, that we are taking time out to visit the pandas. I'm told that they are actually quite somnolent which is a blow, I mean I don't expect them to fire walk or juggle but even so. You'd think, wouldn't you, that when they get one chance a year to copulate they'd seize the opportunity but no, apparently chewing leaves and sleeping hold more appeal, rather like moi after a hard day's touring I suppose.

The reason there is going to be an upsurge in political activity is because the submission from Rhoda Grant is going before the Justice Committee at Holyrood on the 19th of June. Ms. Grant is seeking to have the submission approved on the basis that all of the relevant and required evidence was collated during the Godman consultation. Any right thinking individual can see how inherently flawed the Godman consultation was and it is my fervent hope that common sense will prevail. In the meantime, over the weekend I plan on writing to the Justice Committee although I am off to Liverpool in the morning with Mr. F and won't be back until Sunday night so it will be another ferocious burning of midnight oil session with a heavy reliance on spellcheck and vast amounts of taurine. Yay.

The upside to stress and being busy is that I have lost a hell of a lot of weight, so I have decided to get some new saucy pictures done and re-vamp my site, which I am looking forward to immensely. The site itself is out of date in that it's not compatible with iPads or iPhones both of which are popular browsing devices now for prospective clients trying to steal a surreptitious glance whilst on a boring train journey with colleagues, I have had those whispered calls from inside a hideously noisy Virgin train toilet cubicle.

Before I head to the land of nod I fancy a brief word on lobbying against the forthcoming proposed changes. I would never ask anyone to become an activist, aside from anything else I know the grief that goes with that. Once you stick your head above the parapet you become a target for all kinds of people, from those who pray for your soul right through to the false reviews, threatening phone calls, bandying your real name about, rumour mongering and basically any and every attempt being made to discredit you, both as a person and as a sex worker. Balls of steel are required and a willingness to bite back as and when required, with the correct amount of restraint being shown regardless of how despicably the other side have behaved. The underhand tactics of some of the abolitionists would take your breath away. It's water off a duck's back to me now, I really couldn't care less what they hurl at me any more provided they leave my family and privacy alone, which reminds me, if you're going to send me prayers in French, at least make a decent feckin' stab at it and don't just run it through google translate. (sigh)

If the submission gets through the consultation stage though, what I will be asking YOU to do is use your voice which is as powerful a tool as can be, because you see what the anti's rely on is that we will be too frightened as sex workers to speak up. You can use your work name and email address or a completely new email address for privacy, it's up to you. There are an estimated 80,000 sex workers in the UK and this legislation could completely change YOUR job and YOUR earnings. Please don't leave it to a select few motor mouths and hope that it goes away, how I wish that were the case.

LL xx

RUN FAT GIRL, RUN !!

Good evening, I am just popping in to do a quick update before I go forth and drape my thong over a gentleman's table side lamp. I know this is short notice, but as Amanda would say, "suck it up cupcakes", (she really is most uncouth at the best of times).

Next Sunday the 3rd of June, I am doing the Race For Life in our very own Glasgae. Last year I managed to raise an amazing £500 due to the generosity of you lovely people. This year I am doing something a little different.

ALL of us at SCOT-PEP work our backsides to the bone to ensure that your rights as a sex worker or as a patron of ladies of negotiable virtue remain intact and the work involved can be time consuming and labour intensive. Now, more than ever, we need your support to fight the proposed legislative changes which are afoot with specific mention to Rhoda Grant's endeavours.

SCOT-PEP is a registered charity and has a PayPal donation facility on it's website, you will find the link here. Now, if I can get off my fa curvy backside and do a 5k run on a Sunday morning, all I am asking of you is that you make a donation to SCOT-PEP and it really doesn't matter how small. Please mark any donation with the reference "RFL" so we can keep track of how I'm doing. It goes without saying that all donations are completely confidential.

I will also have a sponsorship sheet with me when I'm on the tour trail but that will be for cancer research, not SCOT-PEP, it is absolutely your prerogative to choose which one (if any) you will donate to. (That is indeed the correct spelling of prerogative, email me at your peril, pedants.)

Next year I will do it for the IUSW, just let me get through this one alive firstly.

So, wish me luck. If I don't make it to Belfast on the 4th of June, then the chances are I'm in an oxygen tent or Glasgow Royal Infirmary in which case all donations of chocolate will be very gratefully received.

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

Quick update

Due to family circumstances I will be unavailable for the next week or so, profuse apologies but I will be back as soon as I can.

Laura x

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