I was planning to polish the latest instalment in my Isobel narrative and shoehorn it into this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt then I saw that the prompt was "Ritual". I enjoy ritual whether involving sex or not but I am aware that it has also come to sustain the sexual relationship I have with my wife. I found myself thinking about how this had come about and wrote this immediately on rising (getting up not the other!) I haven't really written about my wife here before and I really need to consider why I am sharing this with strangers (even if it feels like some of you are becoming friends) but I'm not going to share it or at least not in this form with her?
Photo of the Lady herself taken by Old Mike
We met as teenagers and soon there was an urgent need to move on from heavy petting to proper fucking but when and how was driven by lust and circumstance. Later we fucked other people but always came back together. Through our twenties and now a proper “Couple” spontaneity was our watchword and subtlety largely absent unless you include the occasional photo session when we made our own version of the spreads found then in top shelf magazines (sadly none of the pictures survive).
Later we worked hard together to destroy the life we had built as we fucked less, spoke less and shouted more. The pressures from the world outside grew and, though then I couldn’t name it, stress became my companion playing its little tricks on us both.
The years apart allowed me do some learning about myself, about sex and about the relationships between people who fuck each other. I wrote about one part of that here. But the connection between us was never fully severed and it wasn't long before clandestine fucking during the hours of daylight was taking place.
Soon enough we were one again a publicly acknowledged “Couple” and then a “Married Couple” and our sex became more adventurous and experimental for a while. Our honeymoon in New York established the erotic power of even quite downmarket hotels. We worked together then – literally running a business for a couple of years – and survived. Spontaneous sex became less frequent but a the first iteration of our ritual sustained a us and for a while even enabled us to explore some mild kinks.
During our time apart we had become used to sleeping alone in double beds and though now married we continued to do so. Practically it made sense as our sleep patterns are different and it also allowed me to indulge in early morning fantasies while she slept on.
We were kinder to each other now too and provided mutual support through cancer, accidents, joint replacements, redundancies, family losses and sometimes even the need to cope with success. I knew my old acquaintance, stress, better though he had brought his best buddy, alcohol, to stay too. It became our everyday resort without ever becoming a “problem”. These last few months though I have learned that if you send both those little buggers packing your desire for sex is magically and sometimes rather problematically restored! Looking back I also realise just how many times we spurned a chance to fuck because we were "Too tired" in other words "half pissed by 8 pm".
And so it became our practice to arrange sex “dates” where without naming it we would play out our ritual. Sometimes work would mean we were apart for a few nights and carefully worded texts might lead to some serious fucking on my return. The night she collected me at the station wearing only stockings under her coat (I checked of course) still snuggles warmly in some alcove of my filthy mind. But when we entered the bedroom – always mine as her involved a platform bed 6 feet in the air – the ritual would commence.
And so on into our fifties and for her the menopause. It wasn’t the worst but it still took its toll and looking back I realise that our sexual performances while continuing to be ever less frequent also took on their near final ritual pattern at that point. Today we are in our sixties and that ritual is well rehearsed. It is important because we still find it hard to talk about our sexual needs and it allows us to to make love without extensive negotiations. Sometimes I think I should just accept that fucking at all in our mid sixties is something to be happy about but then I think how our teenage selves would have envied us having the time and opportunity to whatever we wanted when we wanted.
And so to the ritual itself. It begins by fixing a time and place and as the hour approaches I tidy the bedroom, arrange the music (usually Goldfrapp’s Supernature), prepare the candles, close the curtains, clean the toys and cock rings, lay out the lube, wipes and finally put my anal plug in the bathroom so I can nip out and slip it in at some point. We both shower and she opens a bottle of something sparkling. She has a good selection of play clothes which we add to from time to time. There is now a trade off between how they look and the practicalities of fucking however. The PVC cat suit can cause an almost instant erection but has to be removed before serious action can take place. The negotiations to replace it with a more adaptable rubber one are going about as well as those concerning Brexit as I find latex a stimulant while she finds it a turn off!
Usually stockings, heels and some flimsy underwear suffice though I am optimistic that a recently acquired leather dress is going to serve us well. And then we begin. We stand and face each other and I to stroke and probe and kiss her. I remove just enough of her clothing make her her cunt and nipples accessible. After a few minutes she moves to the bed, glass in hand, while I strip down to a jock strap.
I then join her and continue to explore her body, removing her heels, encouraging her to grasp the headboard, spreading her lips and beginning to take her to orgasm. Being a man I think I am quite skilled at this and mix it up with tongue, fingers and a variety of vibrators. Recently we have begun to use the Le Joue Mimi for clitoral stimulation - it seems to provide a very deep buzz that works a treat on her. I would happily lick her cunt and clitoris for a longer time but she has stopped shaving and has never been a great one for giving me feedback anyway. Oh how I wish I could arrange a conversation between her and Julia who recently gave me an absolute master class (or should that be mistress class?) in how to help a man work your clitoris with just lips and tongue all the way to orgasm.
Most times we get there and when it goes well her orgasms are impressive and nearly 50 years after the first time I still enjoy seeing her nipples grow hard and a red flush creep up her neck before she begins to spasm and thrash about. After a brief period of recovery we move to the final part of our ritual. I prepare my cock to be as hard as I can get it these days using cock rings and a plug that puts pressure on my prostate and add some lube before penetrating her.
This time while my cock is exploring her cunt, slowly pushing apart her lips before pressing deep inside is an absolutely critical time for our whole relationship. It is almost the only time we make eye contact and verbalise our love for each other as though we mean it rather than something said as part of everyday routine. These times are infrequent but I believe they sustain us as a couple who have been lovers on and off for nearly fifty years as well as being best friends for all that time.
It is rare that ejaculation takes place inside her vagina as this can take an awfully long time now so the ritual draws to a close with my cum being spread on her tits and stomach. There is always room for enhancement and one day I may take my courage in my hands and spill the spunk on her face then give her a lingering kiss before she has time to say “yuk”.
Yesterday I was made arrangements to meet up with Jade another one of my favourite escorts next week for some uninhibited sex play but thanks to Marie’s prompt I have been reminded that it has been too long since I took part in our own private ritual. I rather think I need to do something about that very soon - possibly even this very evening – but first I just need to bribe the 20 year old to go out for a few hours, not fulminate too much about politics over breakfast, remember to be supportive when she lags behind on the morning run and perhaps swap St. Vincent for Goldfrapp on the bedroom CD player....
"The Girls in their Summer Dresses" is a short story written by Irwin Shaw in 1939 that addresses a way some men behave and it is as fresh and relevant as when it was written 80 years ago. I wish I could write half as well but it served as the inspiration for this piece which had been half written for ages. Bridget's prompt is "Turns ons" - and it all came together because right now my response is simply "Girls In Their Summer Dresses"
For three days the city had grown warmer and that morning he rummaged through the wardrobe to find a linen jacket and a shirt that would have been overly bold for a man of his years most days but was acceptable when the sun shone this brightly. As he made his way to the Underground station, he couldn’t fail to notice the girls too had rummaged through their wardrobes and were wearing flimsy pieces of cotton that revealed long pale legs or last year's tops that were now just a little tight but very revealing.
The train was crowded and he tried hard not to stare at the legs and breasts on display. Some belonged to girls who were young enough to be his granddaughter and it would have been utterly inappropriate for him to give even a hint of appreciation. Others though were below faces of mature beauty, faces that betrayed the fact that they had witnessed some serious living. Here he felt he could allow his gaze linger just a little longer.
Once he would have looked for the prettiest young girl and smiled his special smile, the one that always seemed to elicit a smile in return. Sometimes that was all but once in a while it led to something more in the naive way it can when you are young. The older women brought back memories of a different time however. A time when it wasn’t the smile but the Saville Row suits and Rolex watches that made clear what sort of man he was and might lead the right woman to make the signs he was seeking. A shy smile and a slight opening of the legs and as she moved to the exit an accidental touching of hands and a backward glance.
And once in a while that glance would ascertain that he was indeed following. Those were the women who understood instinctively how it was going to be and were on their knees as soon as the door closed but others took longer to accept that while he would be gentle and generous to them, first they must submit to him. Now it was only women in their fifties who gave him those small signs indicating their availability and try as he might they simply did not arouse him and so he had learned to avoid eye contact with them.
These days he found it better to pay for his deviant pleasures. The women were beautiful and knew exactly what was expected but they were kind too and told him what they both knew were sweet lies about his looks and performance. He did, however, believe that at least they appreciated the effort he made – no wandering nasal hairs or foul breath for him.
His reverie was interrupted by a young woman with face of quite extraordinary prettiness who stood up and approached him.
“Sir, please take my seat”
This was thing he feared most. He knew his looks had faded yet he believed he was still “interesting” but seemingly this morning his appearance had evoked only pity. Nevertheless he was nothing if not a gentleman, or so he liked to believe, and he demurred but she responded by saying that she was getting off soon.
“Do please have the seat, Sir, it is so hot this morning my legs are sticking to the seat!"
Without thinking he glanced down at those legs which were as pretty as her face. He thanked her and took the seat feeling conflicted in the extreme - both humiliated and turned on. Now he was seated it was hard not to look at the girl and he noticed that her arms were lightly tattooed and it also appeared that there was a hint of a larger one just emerging below the hem of her flowered dress.
He had not registered the facial piercing either when she offered him her seat but it did nothing to lessen her attractiveness - indeed it hinted that there might be other, hidden, treats to be explored. He looked up again and was surprised to realise that she was smiling down at him and he couldn’t stop himself smiling back despite feeling so old. The train was now slowing down and she moved towards the exit and he looked away and in doing so missed her backward glance
As the train began to move again, he realised she was standing on the platform looking at him through the train window and as their eyes met, she shrugged and smiled again but this time rather sadly and then turned away.
He was puzzled by this and for several moments struggled to make sense of it. Then it came to him and his heart sank and he silently cursed his own stupidity. No one under 50 ever calls someone “Sir” these days unless they are preparing to submit…
Newspaper headline "Middle East Deadline"
Jazz musicians are down on the breadline
Soho (needless to say)
I'm alone on your streets on a Friday evening
Soho (needless to say), Al Stewart
This week's prompt is "Unmentionable" and while some of the things Carla and I did might be unmentionable in polite company that isn't the link. The very fact that I had a joyous two hours with her is unmentionable to my friends, my family and in particular, my wife, which is a shame because it was a lot of fun but at least I can share it with you! PS - Isobel will be back next week
Picture of Carla James used with her permission
It felt good being back in Soho with sex on my mind but the nerves that usually reach a crescendo as the time of an appointment approaches were strangely absent. I was about to spend the afternoon playing out an extended scene with one of London's most accomplished role players yet I wasn't nervous! Had I known what the next two hours would involve I would have been but Carla's warmth had shone through our email exchanges as we worked out the roles we would play - I the "Master" and she the "Submissive" albeit one who knew what she wanted and how to get it only too well.
And then there were the masks! I have long harboured a fantasy about sex with a complete stranger while we are both masked - only when my cock is deep in her cunt are the masks removed and we see each other's faces for the first time. By the time I left that particular itch was going to be well and truly scratched.
The flat had a delightfully decadent feel while the four poster hinted of pleasures to come. When I emerged from the shower I found "Miss James" standing tall in heels, stockings and exquisite underwear - she looked me in the eye and handed me a collar and leash. I resisted the temptation to lay hands on her arse and spank it because she needed to be collared and then made to kneel before me so she could take my cock between her lips for the first but not the last time that afternoon.
I knew Carla could switch and I had given her free rein to take her character where she wanted but there was a palpable tension in the air when Miss James first asserted herself and made it clear that if I was to continue to enjoy her body I would need to let the alpha female out to play for a while. In that mood she was just a little frightening and I really shouldn't have encouraged her read my about the caning given to me by Julia because before long I understood what the four poster was really for as I was first tied to it then flogged.
But there is only so much a man can take and I reasserted myself making it clear that it was now time for her to present that marvellous rear for some attention. I let her know that if she behaved herself perhaps an orgasm might just be permissible too Unfortunately for her she allowed herself to come much too soon so now she too would feel the sting of the flogger and the paddle. Yet this punishment only served to cause her to demand yet again that I, despite being the master, should actually submit to her perverted desires.
However I have been called a gentleman on occasion and it is rude to deny a lady her wish to have a little fun so I felt obliged to do as I was told. Being half choked by Miss James's strap-on cock as it was rammed down my throat may not have been uppermost in my mind earlier while I wandered the streets of my old stomping ground but here I was on my knees learning what a face fuck feels like. When told to present my arse ready for a serious pegging I knew that I would have to make her regret this outrageous behaviour before we finished.
The creator of Miss James had told me during our planning that she enjoys giving A play and she now set about demonstrating just how skilled she is at it (and here I must thank Julia who has been mentoring me for some time - had this been my first time I fear I would have been overwhelmed by the extended fucking I had to take).
Nevertheless being penetrated so expertly and deeply was a challenge to my self control and I knew that if something wasn't done I would find my self repeating Miss James's error. So I forced myself to call a halt and once more I asserted my dominance of this extraordinary woman by insisted that it was now her turn to kneel and see just how far down her throat she could take a cock - quite a long way as it turned out!
Finally it was time for me to fuck this gorgeous, infuriating and alluring creature - and so I did. After a few deep thrusts into that lovely cunt she in turn mounted me and the moment I had been waiting for so long had arrived. As Carla looked down at me first she removed her mask revealing just how pretty that face is and then removed mine too although this revealed a somewhat craggier visage, of course.
In my fantasy at this point I not only kiss the beautiful stranger but ejaculate as I do so. I at least managed to kiss those sweet lips however as for the latter I am man of advanced years who had just undertaken an afternoon of extraordinarily vigorous sexual activity - well that's my excuse. Fortunately another of Carla's many virtues is patience so with more than a little manual assistance from her matters eventually reached a highly satisfactory if messy conclusion.
Now out of character we chatted for a while and I moaned about how Soho wasn't the same since Jimmy's closed down like I do while Carla told me about where she spends some of her private time and other matters which are no one's business but ours.
Carla James is a very special person - you quickly realise that if you met her in any circumstances her warmth and humour would draw you to her and being in her company would help make the world feel like a better place. I don't know what the path was that led her to become the exquisitely skilled professional she is today but for the time we were together she committed herself totally to making our private, intimate drama become a performance that would have merited a standing ovation had there been an audience to witness it.
I am a fortunate man to be able to occasionally enjoy such pleasures and I thank Carla for making it possible and I even have a sufficiently large ego to believe her when she said that she too had found it to be a rather "hot" afternoon.
Carla James web site can be found here - she is also a rather good advert for the Kinky London Escorts group (KLE)
Savior, Annie Clark aka St. Vincent
Royalty free Photograph by Anatoly Tiplyashin
When I was going through puberty I recall having fantasies about being kidnapped and placed inside a box with a hole in it through which people reached through and "did things" to my penis and testicles. I have no idea where I got this from but it prompted me to do some odd and potentially dangerous things to myself and in particular try and find ways to apply heat to my penis without actually burning it - somehow I survived without doing any lasting harm to myself.
I had a very ordinary childhood and adolescence - I wasn't abused and didn't see anything I shouldn't have. Of course by the time I was in my late teens I sort of understood some of the jokes about spanking but really didn't give it much thought. It was my encounter with A (Cheating Heart Reprised) that really started me thinking about pain and restraint. After A my then girlfriend, later wife, who was always relatively passive during sex was happy to be gently restrained but wasn't interested in impact play at all.
Inevitably I began to look for opportunities to play out some of my kinky fantasies with sex workers. This didn't go particularly well and I usually ended up with quite mixed feelings. I have written about the first of these encounters in the post "Three Lions on Your Chest" but a few years later I had a great experience in Soho with a gorgeous woman who had the poshest of accents and gave me a whipping that I now realise was really quite gentle - the sex after was pretty damn good too. This time I didn't go back because I was afraid I had enjoyed it too much and could very easily get hooked on someone that lovely!
I shall pass quickly over the woman who reminded me of the witches in Macbeth and tied me up then asked me if I wanted my cock chopping off (being British I told her that on the whole I would rather not so she used a vibrator instead and as long as I kept me eyes shut it was OK). There was another very enjoyable Soho encounter with a lady in black latex which involved my one and only experience with electrics. The significance of this is that my sexual bucket list therefore doesn't contain the use of electrical stimulation.
What it did have on it until today was taking a caning and yes you can see where this narrative is going! Today I visited the wonderful Julia who I have been enjoying some really hot and inventive sessions with for more than 3 years now. Julia is not a Dominatrix and doesn't seek clients who want that service. However some time ago I spotted a couple of canes in the corner of her room and asked about them. She explained that one or two of her other regular clients had requested that she use them and as she always aims to please she acquired the canes.
I have to make a somewhat sordid confession at this point - I have watched quite a few caning movies (and worse - though I do try to avoid the Russian stuff - most of it is vile) and really rather enjoyed most of them. I even visited a professional spankee once but frankly wasn't too clever with the cane myself so we did something else which was quite good fun too!.
But for years I have felt I need to know what it feels like to have a cane coming down across your arse and trusting Julia as I do I decided that today was the day. Now many of the bloggers who post on Wicked Wednesday are themselves experienced subs or switches - I am in awe of the beatings that The Bibulous One takes and I am very clear that I did little more than dabble today. However after warming me up with a flogger and a paddle Julia delivered 6 strokes - I was then ridiculously pleased with myself when I asked for another 3!
It wasn't a severe beating by any standard but it helped me to understand the comment made by Niki Flynn in her book, Dances with Werewolves (1) "It's not the caning itself I get off on: it's the aftermath. I don't actually like being caned; I like having been caned."
Afterwards we proceeded to have a really good time the details of which are not relevant to this post other than to say a huge thank you to Julia for a morning I will long remember. When I got home I thought it wise to check for bruising - alright I was hoping that there would be some evidence so I could feel like I really had been caned - and yes there was! (2)
Next item on the Sex bucket list is a role play with one KLE's finest but that is still in the planning phase. I know I am trying to turn fantasy into reality but some fantasies have to stay that way - unless anyone can let me have Annie Clark's phone number? Meanwhile despite being inordinately pleased with my marks I will have to spend Easter making sure my wife doesn't see them - so I thought I'd share them with you instead.
(1) - the book was drawn to my attention by one òf the Bibulous One's posts and it really is worth reading - even if you don't have the slightest interest in caning or spanking. You can get it as a Kindle download from Amazon - I rather hope my wife will assume its just another of the Urban Fantasy novels I read and not bother opening it!
(2) - in case you were wondering taking a picture of your own arse isn't really all that difficult if you have a good camera!
Now all the boys down at Smokey's Bar they could easily understand
How Judy left without a word, but not without a man
That old routine that she had going was like the sun so sure
That by surprise just may not rise but it always has before
And I still remember what was on the jukebox as she turned:
The dobro part out of Cheating Heart. She never has returned
I cannot hear Nic Jones' version of Jeff Deitchman's ballad, "The Jukebox as she turned" without my thoughts turning to A and remembering how she held that pub entranced but left with me. By chance it was on the car stereo this morning and then I saw the Wicked Wednesday prompt of "Mental Health" and knew what I had to do.
It wasn't her pub, but she started coming in with one of the regulars she was seeing. When she arrived early and took her seat at the bar there wasn't a man in that pub, and some of the women too, that didn't look for a reason to start a conversation with her. It wasn't just her looks though when she walked across the room in those tight Capri pants the wiggle took your breath away, it was the way she took control of the room without even trying.
Now the boyfriend was gone but she kept coming. That winter I had a new girlfriend, G, and things were going well. She had started wearing high heels and stockings and had not only agreed to try anal sex but now positively enjoyed it. I was still working through the implications of my split with the long term partner the previous year and trying to understand why men in general and me in particular behave so badly.
Then came the night A chose to sit down at my table uninvited. I was there for a quick drink after work and G was off somewhere putting the world to rights. We chatted about her work with children and my work with the public's money and maintained eye contact for what felt like hours. I knew how this worked so I offered some common ground and said we could share information and if we exchanged numbers.
When I called next day she came straight to the point - was I still seeing G? "That's history" I lied but by the time she walked into the pub that night it was true. I treated G appallingly and still regret it but it wasn't the first time I behaved like a shit and it wouldn't be the last. I probably deserved what happened over the next six months.
Sex with A started brilliantly and then got better. After 3 weeks she and her cat moved into my flat. One day she found a riding crop belonging to my ex from her riding days and brought it into the bedroom. I asked her if she had ever been whipped and she just smiled, turned around and lifted her skirt. This was new to me and I knew no better than to give her six hard stokes without any warm up. She made barely a sound but after the sixth stroke turned back to me with tears rolling down her face and said "You hurt me - now you have to fuck me". I had barely entered her when she came with a force I'd never seen before. Over the following weeks I came to understand that for A pain was foreplay.
Its impossible to think about A without remembering her vagina. Women's vaginas are beautiful and as distinctive as their faces but A's was simply quite, quite beautiful. Her inner labia were long and thin and dangled a good inch below the outer lips. I could play with them for hours and years later still wonder if she ever did get round to having them pierced.
A and I spent almost all our time together when we weren't working and I began to take her to meet my closest friends and without exception they fell under her spell. I realised that I was falling in love with this woman who was both beautiful and the best fuck of my life. Then I had to go away on family business for a few days and left A behind in the city.
The phone rang just after 11 pm at my parent's house. It was A - she sounded down and said she was missing me. I promised to be back early on Sunday evening and told her to be waiting, naked and holding the whip which seemed to cheer her up.. I think it's merely hindsight that lets me think that the call left me uneasy but 15 further calls in the next 36 hours most certainly set the alarm bells ringing.
Once I was back things returned to the way they were I thought. When we were alone together we behaved like a couple in the first throes of love who just couldn't get enough sex with each other. When we were at work things were fine and in company A was effervescent, the centre of attention yet utterly lovable.
But when we were apart, and both family and work did take me away at times, things went badly and A started to have sudden mood changes even when we were together while her behaviour grew more unpredictable.
Back then I knew little about Mental Health. I knew I had been depressed for a while after the big split up but I had managed to "pull myself together" and since had been enjoying life to the full. Things got so bad I took A to see my GP but I didn't sit in. He referred her to a walk-in clinic and eventually she followed that advice. I now realise she probably had "Borderline Personality Disorder" and may have been on meds but had stopped taking them because we were so bloody happy together!
I simply had no idea how to cope or how to help her and inevitably she walked out one day taking the cat with her. Being back in her own flat seemed to help stabilise things and we kept in touch. I went back to playing the field and visiting Soho now and again. Our sexual attraction was undiminished but the grimness of the way our relationship had ended loomed large. I also had my once and future life partner whispering negatively in my ear despite now being in a new same sex relationship herself.
Its rare that I can date precisely when I had sex but I know that the last time A and I fucked was 15 July 1986. How I know may not show me in the best light but its one of the rare occasions I managed to combine my two passions of sex and football. That day Belgium played the Soviet Union in a World Cup round of 16 game that ended 4-3 after extra time and was one of the greatest games of all time.
A wasn't a huge sports fan but always took an interest in the big events. In fact one of our most memorable dates was on the night that Steve Davies and Dennis Taylor were battling to win the World Snooker Championship. They were still at it when the pub shut at 10.30 which they did back then. A simply found another customer who lived nearby and we adjourned to this stranger's house to watch the finish. I suspect he still remembers the night a stunningly beautiful woman invited herself into his home!
We had sex, watched the game in bed, then fucked again - we very probably fucked at half time too. At times it felt like we were making love but it was merely an after image of what we had once shared or perhaps a glimpse of a future that would never be. Gradually we lost touch until our paths crossed briefly on Social Media decades later. For a few years she drifted in and out of relationships before becoming involved with a man who turned out to be a genuine sadist. He took advantage of her pain kink to physically hurt her quite badly. The upside was she went for therapy in the aftermath and eventually met and married a widower whose family she took on and found genuine happiness.
I learned a lot from the time I spent with A about about myself and how you need to understand someone's mental health if you are really going to build something lasting. I loved A but then lost her. Of course I missed having the best sex I ever had for free but what I missed then and sometimes still do 30 years later is being the centre of the circle of warmth she created around her when she was healthy and being adorable as only she could.
I guess I'm one of nature's optimists so when my business meeting fell though a few weeks ago it meant I had a couple of hours to myself in town. Not that many years ago this would have been an opportunity for spontaneous, casual sex and I would have looked for a phone box with plenty of cards or rung Les Girls to see who was working. Back then it didn't take much to start my mind wandering - once I saw an attractive woman wearing a leather skirt, jacket and high heels waiting at the station and by the time I was in London I knew I had to have sex - and soon! These days more planning goes in to it and I have learned to enjoy the anticipation - and the week of abstinence before hand too!
I began wondering if it was still possible to get laid without resorting to the internet so being near Baker Street - the scene of many a fleeting hour of pleasure - I decided to walk from there to Berwick Street in Soho where Les Girls were for many years. I failed to spot a single card near Baker Street although there was evidence that they had been present but Westminster Council had done their usual thorough removal job. The cards back then were quite basic and the pictures bore little or no resemblance to the woman you would meet. These days when you see a working girl described as "young" you worry that it actually means a 16 or 17 year old or worse but then it meant anyone under the age of 50! Yet sometimes you got lucky. It was how I met "Flame" a sweet girl with a spectacular mane of red hair and a penchant for wearing latex even on the hottest of days - her card simply consisted of a line drawing of a woman in rubber and her number - it certainly worked for me!
I made my way down to Bond Street and headed for Soho - still no cards on view. As I tuned into Berwick Street the memories came flooding back. In some ways the street was just the same - certainly the market was still there but were the sex workers? This was where the "walk ups" were to be found with their hand written cards alerting passers by to the availability of "French Lessons" or the opportunity to purchase a "Large Chest". All long gone. Les Girls was very different and in many ways ahead of its time. They described themselves as "a group of professional working girls whose aim is to provide a high standard of personal services in accordance with their clients' needs and delivered in a healthy and mutually respectful environment." They started in the mid 1990's and were early adopters of an internet presence. Many girls worked there over the years but the two I saw most often were Paige and Chelsea - they were both attractive physically but more importantly were warm, friendly people who really tried to make sure you had a good time.
If I found myself with a free Saturday evening a session at Les Girls followed by a meal at Jimmy's in Frith Street then collecting an early edition of the Sunday papers on the way home was a real treat. Three things that were unique to London all now gone and almost forgotten.
Blore Court was a dead end off Berwick Street and it now seems to have disappeared into a new building on the corner with Peter Street. It felt safe and clean and you really were made to feel welcome. If we lived in a parallel Universe where honesty ruled there would now be a Blue Plaque there telling the world about Les Girls who helped me understand that engaging with independent professionals was so much better for both clients and providers.
Still no cards to be seen though the thought crossed my mind as to what I would do if I found some? Would I make the call and head off to have sex with a complete stranger? For all of 30 seconds I considered this and then thought about what J, the superb professional I now see regularly, would have to say. My guess is she would read the riot act - she considers health, safety and hygiene as being utterly non-negotiable and I suspect that if I confessed to a casual encounter like that I would find my self rapidly removed from her "white list"!
I finally did find a phone box with some cards clearly on display. It was just by the Edith Cavell memorial in St Martin's Place - not a hot spot for the sex trade as far as I am aware. I was about to go in and take a closer look (purely for research purposes of course) when a Chinese couple decided that this was the ideal place for some wedding photos - I am guessing that they liked the idea of having a quaint red London phone box in the picture but I can't help wondering if they noticed the unusual adverts too!
My time with A a decade earlier had made realise that BDSM was something I wanted to explore and over the ensuing years I would both try to persuade my partner to explore it and visit professionals. I was and still am unclear whether I am more sub than dom and have never indulged my kink on a regular basis. I am exploring some possibilities with one of my current regulars and the recent launch of the Kinky London Escorts (KLE) web site brings together some very impressive ladies and I hope to meet one or two more of them in the years ahead. This is an account of an early foray into professional domination.
I had been planning this for months. I had found someone who seemed to understand that for me domination involved the mind as much as the body and didn't require a full leather outfit (not that there is anything not to like about such outfits). We had exchanged emails and a time was set and a number provided to ring once I got to the tube station.
I had explained that I was an inexperienced submissive and wasn't looking for heavy punishment but wanted to give her complete control over what would happen during the hour we would spend together. I had given her information about my limits but what I really craved was experiencing something I could not anticipate and would have no control over. Finally we established that I would be enabled to ejaculate at some point. Her web site was very discreet and didn't contain any images of her at all.
By the time I emerged from Temple tube my heart was racing and my bowels were making ominous noises - always a sign that my nerves were getting the better of me. I called and was directed to a flat off Fleet Street. I was greeted by a maid who showed me to a small waiting area where a few moments later I was joined by Mistress B. She was dressed well but could have stepped out on to the street with a pretty face, long brown hair and a home counties accent.
She quickly confirmed that I wanted her to take charge and would do as I was told but that I wasn't going to be whipped (I was married by then and my wife might just have noticed if I had been) only spanked and paddled. I was directed to the "Play Room" via the bathroom and told to undress and await Mistress. She entered shortly afterwards wearing high heels and corset which I hadn't requested but pushed all my buttons. Her first words were to tell me I was overweight and offer to supply me with slimming pills which took me aback even though she was right! Her second words were to assure me that her discretion was absolute and she mentioned in passing that one of her regulars was a High Court Judge!
Once the session was underway I was restrained and given enough of a hand spanking to make me sting a little and then 12 blows with a paddle. She assured me that my now very warm arse would slowly return to normal in a couple of hours at most. After a delightful interlude while she sat on my face she left the room leaving me to wonder what was going to happen next. What actually happened never even occurred to me as a possibility. She returned leading a masked male slave! I have to be honest and say this freaked me out more than a little! AIDS was still seen as a mainly Gay disease then and I immediately assumed that the slave and I would be expected to have anal intercourse. I was well versed in buggering willing women but my interest had never extended to the exploration of male anal passages.
I actually started to panic a bit at this stage and Mistress B thought it would reassure me if she told me that the slave was only there to suck my cock which he proceeded to do! Interestingly despite my unhappiness about this my cock stayed hard and for the first and last time in my life another man's tongue explored it. Time was moving on and Mistress B now took things in hand so to speak and brought me to a climax though she left the slave to clear up the mess while she released me from the restraints.
I was left with mixed feelings about the experience. I knew there was much more that Mistress B could offer and for several years the business card she gave me lay hidden in my desk. That card said simply B..... Green, Personal Assistant and a mobile number. I never did ring that number though. The participation of the slave had changed the dynamic and while I have occasionally had sex with two escorts it has always been straight(ish) sex. FMM simply doesn't do it for me and the session taught me that while I might be prepared to undergo physical chastisement I wasn't really a submissive -I needed to to negotiate the scene in much more detail and thus have control even if I was placing someone else in charge.
3 Lions? The encounter took place on the afternoon of 18 June 1996 and later that evening I was at Wembley watching England beat Holland 4-1 and wondering how many other members of that crowd had spent their afternoon having sex with a professional dominatrix rather than sitting in a pub getting tanked up?
Well goodness me! I submitted this to Wicked Wednesday and the Bibulous One has chosen it as one of the top three! He said "My final pick surprised me most, as it soon became apparent that I was reading a blog my a man who sees sex workers! We (men who write about this) are as rare as, well… something very rare indeed and so I really enjoyed Fear and Anticipation from Old Mike. His writing about his fear and anticipation before a meeting with an escort rings totally true for me. I like his acceptance that the meeting will mean different things for her than for him, and yet: “That laughter has connected us – and we begin to work together to create a few hours of shared pleasure.” Sounds exactly right." His blog is extraordinary and i'm honoured by his kind words.
Fear. Fear and anticipation. Pulse racing, guts in turmoil. Is this a huge mistake?
I am about to stand naked in front of another human being. I have not seen her face though her body is familiar from the photographs on her web site. If it is her body?
I have not heard her voice though her words are now familiar and resonate with what I hope to find. If they are her words?
Memories of past occasions when my fear was wholly justified crowd in but so too do those of times when the next, short, while was better, infinitely better than I could have hoped.
It isn’t the physical that makes me afraid but the question that cannot be asked in advance – will we connect? I remind myself that for the woman I am about to meet this is just another encounter with a new client. For her it will be mundane; her thoughts will be elsewhere. Once I heard them verbalised and learned that considerations of what the children will be given for supper can cause my erection to wilt in seconds.
Today I have requested a mask to sustain the mystery of the blurred face a little longer. And to let me play out my recurring fantasy of fucking a complete stranger silently, anonymously and only beginning to communicate when she is already sitting astride me with my cock buried deep inside her.
As my train crosses the river gleaming in the morning sun a text arrives telling me where to find her flat. I walk back across the same river wondering if any of the people I pass have similar thoughts – are they too planning to seek the thrill that comes with having sex with a stranger and anxious about the fear that comes before the thrill?
I decide that they are not because I need to feel that I am set apart from the workaday world, I am doing something today that few will have the opportunity to do. Of course I know that she will see others later today but as I approach her building I put that from my mind and focus on managing my fear.
I press her number on the intercom and for the first time hear her voice – soft, warm but a little guarded perhaps. Moments later her door opens and there stands a young, slim woman demonstrating that the pictures are real – this is the body that I will soon be touching, caressing, penetrating and it is beautiful! She closes the door and for a moment we stand awkwardly – she almost naked, me in my street clothes – she begins to explain where the shower is but then pauses – and says the mask feels strange - then she laughs – in a second my fear is gone and my desire for her is overwhelming. That laughter has connected us – and we begin to work together to create a few hours of shared pleasure.
She is superbly good at her chosen profession and I feel as though I have known her for years not minutes. The mask is immediately discarded and a lovely face revealed smiling with lips and eyes. This time I have been lucky, so very lucky – pictures, written and spoken words can be faked but spontaneous laughter is always real – and trumps fear every time!
"There's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone"
1984 and I’m going through a painful split with my long term girlfriend (I did learn from this however and she is now wife but more of her in later posts). Back then pubs shut at 2.00pm on a Sunday and it was my habit to have a couple of pints at lunchtime. But after closing time I was looking at a miserable afternoon and evening and started thinking about sex which I did a lot then and
still do now.
This was before the internet and in the suburbs the only ways to find sex workers (not that the term was in use then) was through handwritten cards in news agents windows or the small ads of the local papers. The South London Press was notorious for having dozens of adverts for “massage services” and as my thoughts strayed I remembered that Friday’s copy was still around.
The drink gave me the courage to pick up the phone and after a few no replies I found a place just two trains stops away that was open for business and made an appointment. Half an hour later one extremely nervous young man, pushed the door bell of a ladies “tanning Parlour” which was
apparently not as “closed” as the sign would have casual passers-by believe.
The door was opened by a woman in her mid 30s with short blond hair and wearing exactly the sort of white overall you would expect in a “tanning parlour” and I was quickly invited in. I was then ushered into the back room where a massage table awaited me. Helpfully I was told to take my clothes off and lie face down on the table. A towel was then draped over my behind and I was given
a gentle massage until I was told to turn over. The towel was then deftly rearranged
to cover my genitals and the massage continued.
I had only booked half an hour and with less than 10 minutes to go I was frankly puzzled about how this was going to work until for the first but not the last time I heard the magic words “Do
you want extras?” I most certainly did but had no idea what was involved – “hand relief £10, top less for £15” apparently.
The open top button of that overall had already revealed an enticing cleavage and absence of bra had so £15 was agreed upon. So at 32 years of age I was brought to a climax by a woman using her hands for the first time. I was encouraged to place an arm around her now naked upper body and fondle her rather fine breasts. Once the ejaculation was over and I was cleaned up we settled up and I went on my way albeit with a smile on my face.
I never went back and the lady’s name is lost in the mists of time but I have always felt that I was very fortunate to stumble upon such a sweet, attractive woman who made my first time memorable and satisfying. Somehow the invitation to put my arm around her while she worked on me made me feel that this was just a little more than impersonal sex. I'm sure I told her it was my first time and perhaps that is why she was so warm to me - but neither of us could have known that she was launching me on a career that would still be continuing more than 30 years later.
f I had known then what I know now I would have returned and showered her with gifts for doing so. The Sex Workers that I have known since have given me many memorable experiences - most good, some great and a few dreadful. But that is no different to anything else in life - when it goes wrong it might be an off day or someone who really hasn't worked through the implication so their profession. Or it might have very well have been my fault and today I like to think I really know how to treat these wonderful women with respect and care and if I do manage that we should both thank that woman in the Tanning Parlour I guess!
There is fascinating article about business cards advertising sexual services found in phone boxes which were a key way to find sex workers before the internet but still can be seen today in Central London. It is by Dr Kate Lister who also curates “Whores of Yore” which has an always entertaining Twitter Feed!
The realisation that I have been seeing Sex Workers for more than half my life came as something of a shock but prompted me to look back at how things used to be and how they have changed in my home town of London and elsewhere. There have been some great times and a few disasters too. Along the way I will look back at some of the amazing people I’ve met and reflect on some of things I have experienced.
At the very beginning I want to be clear that I believe Sex Workers do an important job and that our deeply hypocritical society treats them appallingly. They are entitled to be respected and treated as the professionals they are. The job is a tough, even dangerous one, and Sex Workers need help to stay safe instead all too often across the world efforts are made to drive out them out of business and increase the risks they face.
The Independent Sex Workers I know are talented, confident and take care of themselves and their clients. I also know there are women who are being exploited in many ways both here in the UK and across the world. The English Collective of Prostitutes seems to me to be a sane organisation and I support their campaign to decriminalise prostitution.
I know that I am lucky to be able to enjoy the services of women who are independent and have made a choice and there are two I see regularly. They have web pages and I think it is only fair if I share them with others who might also want to use their services - but you need to treat them with respect.
The Ultimate Courtesan is a remarkable and independent young woman from London – bright, beautiful and articulate – time spent with her is always quality time
Jade Heart is an independent escort based in Newcastle (though her very discreet flat is on the Gateshead side in fact) – she is warm, funny and makes you feel so good!
An old man called Mike remembers sex in London before the internet, rants about the hypocrisy of today's society and shares some links to the best companions around today......