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

Belfast 30/01/12 - I'm fed up with alliteration

Finally, it's come to me. After years of deliberation, I've ended the internal war on what to say to a guy who approaches you in the hotel bar after a hard day's touring - "I'm a serial killer". Simply inform him that your patio is heaving at the seams for space and suddenly he'll decide that a game on his PS2 in his room is the better option.

You'll have gathered by now that I am indeed back in my hotel room, having shaken off the man who thought that wearing his jeans half way down his arse was not only cool, but attractive to the opposite sex too. Sorry, maybe it's my age but - GET. A. BELT. While you're at it, read "Women are from Saturn and Men are from the Lunar Ring", or a title to that effect anyway. It never did me any good but if it helps you shed your dreadful dress sense and handbag dog then it has to be a good thing, right ?

Meanwhile, I came across an article in the Irish Independent, link here.

This article caught my attention for a number of reasons, not least because I started my working life in Dublin and worked there for many years.

The first quote to jump out for me was from the author -

"But the author, known only by her pseudonym Scarlett O'Kelly, is far from alone. She is just one of a growing number of Irish women from respectable backgrounds who are selling their bodies to make it through the downturn."

How many times ? The women who choose to work in the sex industry are not "selling their bodies", they are renting their skills, there is a HUGE difference. As I said recently, if I decide to sell a kidney, you'll be the first to know. For those of you who think that our job doesn't involve any skills, I'd invite you to meet the client of an under trained dominatrix, it ain't pretty and that's for sure, because I've had to mop it up, more than once.

Moving on to the next quote that caught my eye -

"No matter what side of the tracks they come from, I have never met a happy prostitute in my 12 years working in this business," says Linda Latham, of the Women's Health Service on Dublin's Baggot Street, which has seen a dramatic increase in middle-class women coming to its door.

"In the '80s and '90s, we saw mainly heroin addicts but now across the board we are seeing educated women who are so strapped for cash they are resorting to it out of dire economic need."

Ah, right. What the IE neglected to inform you of here, is that the Baggot Street project deals primarily with street sex workers. So, whilst I absolutely applaud their work ( and I know they do a van based outreach service too ), nevertheless they are not in a position to make a statement about the sex industry in general, quite simply because they haven't had the experience with the ( and I hate the term ) "upper echelons" of the industry to make an informed statement.

Before I was about to put pen to cyber paper and give the IE a piece of my ever fragmenting mind, I read this part of the interview -

"It's not always the case that women are forced into prostitution," says Dr Paul Ryan, sociology lecturer at NUI Maynooth and a member of the Sex Workers Alliance of Ireland (SWAI), a representative body for Irish prostitutes opposed to the criminalisation of sex workers and their clients.

"Some make a choice to do it. It is something women enter and leave all the time depending on whether they have a First Communion coming up or another financial pressure.

"I did research which showed that some women prefer to do sex work than resort to shoplifting. It is actually a moral choice for them and there is a lot of decision-making based around it. That notion is often brushed under the carpet with the attitude that all prostitution is violent, all prostitutes need to be rescued. . . end of. That's far too simplistic."

A senior garda detective based in Limerick, a city that has become a magnet for sex workers, backs up this claim.

"None of the women we have caught has been trafficked. A lot are coming over to make money and they are certainly not always under the control of a pimp, especially the Romanians and Brazilians. They make more in a week here than they would in a year in their home country. Sadly, it's a lifestyle choice for them and they can make very big money out of it."

Niamh claims to be a prime example of this new class of sex worker. A strong-minded, opinionated, single woman, she operates as a sole agent, squirms at the idea of having a pimp, and claims she has never put her life in danger."


Whilst I don't appreciate the equation of sex work to shop lifting, I am very much encouraged by a sensible and truth founded statement from a member of the Gardai.
I have to be honest, it's something I never thought I'd see in my life time.

Maith an fear.

( English translation - good man. )

LL xx

Cross dressers and crankiness

Oh God, how awful. I'm in a hotel room in Perth after a hard day at the helm and the people upstairs have made it their business to ensure that the whole hotel knows they're having sex. I DON'T CARE, and what's more, she's sooo faking it. I have a good mind to go and knock on their door and inform them of that because any more of those fake huge exhalations and she'll need an inhaler, so really, I'm doing them a favour.

I said in my last blog that there were far more serious things to be discussed and there are, I'm just too weary and battle worn to do it tonight. Instead, I fancy a brief word on "discretion".

"Discretion" is a word you'll see bandied about on various websites, but in my case, I mean it literally. Moving swiftly on from the man in Belfast who thought he could sail through reception with a life-sized cross on his back, we come to my client this morning.

"I like to cross dress, is that a problem ?"

"Not at all, looking forward to meeting you".

I thought I was going to meet a suited and booted man with a backpack containing all the niceties he would like to change into.

Oh no.

When I opened my door ( in a quiet Perthshire hotel where every fecker is noticed ), there stood an apparition. A 6'2 man in a bright purple dress, with thick black woollen tights, a shiny and sparkling belt, black high heels and a matching black clutch bag. The look was complete with a bright red wig and matching lipstick, all topped off with huge dark sunglasses.

For a moment, I thought I was going to faint, ( you know that awful feeling of blood rushing through your ears ) but after I gathered my senses I grabbed him by the handbag strap into the room.

"ARE YOU QUITE MAD?"

"No, it's fine, I've been told I'm quite believable as a woman".

Jesus wept.

I had fully prepared myself for the eventuality that the manager was going to ask me to leave the hotel, ASAP, but when I went down for lunch he flashed me a grin and said - " No rest for the wicked, eh ?"

He's not kidding.

LL xx

Animal Antics

You know that feeling, that dreadful feeling like when you're in a lift which goes up really quickly and leaves your stomach behind ? That's how I felt on Saturday. Allow me to explain.

I had not long arrived back with several primed princesses from the Irn Bru Carnival; by primed I mean that they had overloaded on candy floss and sugary drinks and it was with a great sense of relief that I handed them over ( frothing at the mouth and cross eyed ) to their ( um, grateful ? ) parents. Job done, and several "sleepovers" owed to me, result.

There was no sign of boy cat, highly unusual in that ordinarily when the car pulls up I'm met with the meow concerto in A minor, i.e. "feed me now woman and some hugs wouldn't go amiss either". MIA, a huge worry.

Eventually and after much calling and whistling, he arrived at the back door. Usually he'd sprint a la Sebastian Coe for his food bowl, but he hung his head and wasn't even headbutting my leg for cuddles. Eventually he arrived at my feet, passed some blood from you know, there, and keeled over, hence my stomach crashing to the floor. I called the 24 hour vet, who told me to bring him straight in, we were there in eight minutes. It would seem that my boy had a severe blow to the abdomen, either caused by a car, or .. ( wait for it ) a boot from a ned.

The reason the vet mentioned a boot from a ned is that we are all aware that there are people out there who just do not like cats, but therein lies the irony. He is such a beautiful boy that it has been suggested to me that he would be an ideal candidate to bring around to retirement homes to cheer the inhabitants because he is a lap whore, any warm lap accompanied by cuddles will do, he's really not fussy. Very many people who "don't like cats" have met him and fallen in love with him, that's just his nature.

So, for the life of me, I fail to understand why anyone would hit a cat in their car and keep going and worse, why ANYONE would kick him. I just don't get it.

On Saturday night I was told that he was up to his furry ears in painkillers and that I hadn't to worry, but by Sunday that had changed. He had a perforated bladder, if it was a small tear it could be repaired there and then at the surgery, if it was really badly torn, he would need to go to a specialist veterinary hospital in Glasgow on Monday morning and there was no guarantee he'd pull through. On that basis, I asked if I could see him, and flew down to the vets. We had a cuddle and a kiss and I cried until I thought my eyes were going to shrivel up. Later that night came the phone call to tell me he was deteriorating and they couldn't wait for Glasgow, they had to operate there and then.

I don't think this blog is the appropriate place to discuss my faith, suffice to say I have a very strong faith and regularly have animated discussions with the powers that be.

"I don't ask for much, I really don't, but please let him pull through".

Several Hail Mary's later and he was in recovery and doing well, I cried my lamps out again but this time from relief. In the interim, I had to cancel my Carlisle tour, sorry guys but my children come first - furry and actual. You know, outside my Domme persona, I'm not a violent person, I'm really not, but I would dearly love five minutes alone with whoever hurt my boy and just left him there.

Finally, yesterday we got him home. He is skin and bone and very clingy but the main thing is he's OK. I sat down last night with a black and white stole in the form of boy cat to watch TV when the cry went up -

"MUM, FATTY HAS A WET TAIL".

Oh, dear God. This was a reference to "Fatima", our hamster - and apparently if her tail is a mess of um ... "stuff", it means big trouble and perhaps a full military honours funeral.

So back down to the vets we went, ( you really couldn't make this up ). The vet felt so sorry for me having paid £150 for an out of hours consultation fee for boy cat that she only charged me £35 to see Fatty. She's OK, she has an infection and is on anti-biotics, huge fun is to be had in administering that, via a syringe down the throat of a terrified small animal.

"GODAMMIT, I'M DOING THIS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD."

The good news is that at least the feckin' snake is OK, he observed the circus with a wry grin whilst digesting his small white mouse, ( *boak* - not fed by me, I hasten to add ).

So, on Monday I'm off to Perth and I really hope that in the interim The Waltons behave themselves. I mean I've never asked for perfection but Jaysus, give me a break.

There are lots more serious things for discussion which I will do over the next couple of days, in the comfort of a hotel room and away from syringes and furry creatures, so, I will catch up with you from Perth.

LL xx