Fransexual

181

2011-12-23T10:13:00.335Z

Christmas rolls around and once more, I find myself humbled by the shower of gifts bestowed upon me from some of my dearest clients, jewellery; books; champagne; lunches; dinners and generous tips, 'To go buy yourself something nice Frances:' what a charming life this is.

There was also the offer of a weekend shopping trip to Paris, unfortunately my band The Frantastics, had previously been booked to play a corporate gig that same weekend. No matter, the offer still stands for sometime in the New Year.

I did notice, I guess what with the current recession, there wasn't so many 'Office Parties' this year and so found myself less busy than usual in the week running up to the Christmas break, with clients skiving off from their office party to pay me a visit.

However, this was to be a blessing as I spent much of December staying over at the Princess Alice Hospice, nursing and amusing my dear friend Samantha, the original bass player in my band.

Mine isn't a Monday to Friday 9 till 5 routine, it's more like Monday to Sunday, 9am till late, how late depends on how busy my day may or may not have been?

Occasionally, I'll turn in as early as 10pm and snuggle down with a good book, though the phone might stay on: visiting a hotel after midnight brings a heightened sense of decadence, it's also fun to have sex in a different environment to the one I'm use to. Oh...and let's not forget the toiletries to be had.

It appears that this year I've attracted several clients, all of whom are early risers, or rather, have early stirrings. On such occasions, I'll stay over at the Office the night before, saving myself the twenty-minute drive from HQ (that's twenty more minutes in bed), they're usually good enough to arrange with me the night before.

And so, one of my resolutions for this coming New Year is to rise half an hour to an hour earlier, as I like to have already showered, checked my mail and had breakfast (a smoothie) before the phone starts ringing, that little lot usually takes an hour.

I also put my hands up and admit that still after all these years, I have that bloody nagging Catholic guilt about rising at the hour I do. I mean, it's not like I have more than eight or nine hours in bed anyway.

I recently had a friend stay over and share my dangerously seductive, sumptuous bed at HQ, we spent thirteen hours in it and we didn't even have sex, that's how cosy and alluring that bed is.

And so ends another year: the candles are snuffed out, the lights switched off and the door of the Office closed. Wishing you my dear reader, a Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year.

What I'm reading in bed...

A Christmas Carol: Charles Dickens.

180.

2011-11-23T00:34:00.018Z

Note to self: I should not let my clients wear my black stilettos, they'll only end up stretched thus becoming far too big for me to then wear.

Endorphins, that's it, that's what I must be lacking in the tit & bum department.

You see, the way I believe it works is like this; someone spanks your bottom or tweaks your nipples real hard and one's initial reaction is, 'Ouch that hurts,' swiftly followed by, 'Ohhh...ahhh...hmmm...that feels rather nice actually,' that's your endorphins kicking in, the body's natural ouch defence mechanism protecting you from pain.

Sadly, it never did anything for me at school when I was caned, if it had I've have been getting off on it several times a week, and my school days would have been one perpetually long orgasm.

Unfortunately, as God was putting the finishing touches to me (probably a Friday), I guess in his rush to get out of the door early and down to the pub, he neglected to connect up those feel good sensory wires to both my bottom and nipples.

Dear God...if perchance I do come back in another life, I'd like them connected up please, if it's not too much to ask?

However, there's still a slim chance that my nipples may yet become sensitive (in a pleasurable way), as many a client has told me that their once insensitive nipples became more sensitive as they grew older; I live in hope.

What I'm reading in bed...

Betjeman's England: John Betjeman

179.

2011-10-22T22:31:00.027Z

To The Four Seasons hotel (Roja toiletries). I'd arranged to arrive at 9:00pm, but then M called back to say he'd ditched his dinner appointment in anticipation of my visit and could I possibly get there any sooner, so bang went my post-dinner cat-nap...yawn.

The hotel has just finished a major refit and very tasteful it is too. Gone is the heavy handed bling look, for that of a delicate, fresh, simplistic boutique touch.

The finest boutique hotels boast cloud-like fluffy beds, crisp bedlinen and luxurious toiletries, all of which happen to be right up my street. However...the rooms tend to lack the glowing, cosy snugness of a cocooned hideaway, which I happen to like too. I believe the thinking behind this is, one is compelled to retreat down to the deeply cushioned, warm, inviting and opulent hotel bar, wherein you precede to spend even more of your money.

Browns hotel (Molton Brown toiletries, large bottles) in Mayfair is still my favourite London hotel, quintessentially English and they do a bloomin marvellous afternoon tea in The English Tea Room to boot.

M, dressed in a bathrobe ushered me into the room; early 60's, about 5ft 10in, silver haired and tanned, of Greek origin, he took my coat.

'Right then, lets get rid of that television and put some nice music on,' I said, taking control of the situation and the remote control; the delicate scent of jasmine wafted about the rooms, another nice boutique hotel touch, expensive smelly candles.

It took hardly any time or effort before M, satisfied now snoring, had drifted off to the land of nod. Whilst he slept like a baby or rather, exhausted international business man, I took myself a long relaxing shower and reapplied my make-up.

'M, I whispered softly, I'm going to slip off into the night and leave you to sleep, do you mind if I take these toiletries?' 'Oh sorry Frances, let me just get you your gift and of course, help yourself.'

A little before 10pm I tripped out of the hotel and into bright 'n' shiny London town, still early (for me) and all dressed up, I had spending money in my pocket and a generous tip too.

However, having spent most of that day in a hospice, amusing and caring for a painfully close friend, my heart was far from the space of its usual joyous and gregariousness self.

Realising I'd nothing left to give, I thought it best I be on my own and so headed straight back to HQ. After pouring myself a glass of crusted port, I decanted myself into the retreat which is my bed, read awhile and then pulled down the shutters on the day.

It'd been a productive day of extremes, but not a particularly happy one for this eternal optimist.

What I'm reading in bed...

As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning: Laurie Lee.

178.

2011-09-22T23:34:00.023Z

It doesn't help to be cynical in this line of work, and many a potential client would have been thrown out with the bath-water if I were, nor am I gullible, well perhaps I have been a few times in the past?

Trust is the oil that makes things run smoothly between client and Escort, without which we've nothing to build on, or indeed in common.

Escorts, on top of the usual SPAM email, get targeted with impossibly daft romantic proposals from lovelorn folk, just like the one below.

A few discontent (or plain stupid) girls out there, have sold up heart and home, swallowing line, hook and sinker, the overtures of some exotic sounding Don Juan, only to find the whole thing a crushing disappointment, usually at their own financial expense, 'C'est la vie.'

For starters, the different font in the first two and last four lines gives it away, spelling and syntax is another matter. Nothing scans nor matches with the main-body of text in-between this 'copy and paste' declaration of love.

Google Translate et al, have a daunting challenge ahead with this translation technology.

For your amusement, here's a recent example.

Hi my beautiful dream
Have a nice day.
Ten years ago when I saw your website ... I felt that you dream big and beautiful, which I hope to come ... so I spoke with you on the phone again and made you an invitation to come to Egypt ... I feel that bond of love between us even before we meet .. And when I hear your voice or see your photo s feel the pulse of my heart and the flow of blood in my veins I feel the desire in your lap.
I need a lot of writing to describe to you how I feel toward you. But I reiterate my call to you ... in order to approach some of the most oldest and you all I can to be happy and learn how you My Love and my desire .. Can accept that we become happy couple and this dictated the ultimate .. I hope that you are thinking about it seriously, and I'm ready for the implementation, except.
I think that Egypt is not as far as a country where a lot of pleasures that will make you happy.
Thank you, waiting your soonest kind reply
Best regard
Dany
kiss&love

What I'm reading in bed...

Parallel Lines: Ian Marchant

177. Part 2.

2011-08-05T18:06:00.015Z

March 17th 1998, was the culmination of that watershed moment six years earlier, March 1993.

I'd already been on my Transitional journey some two years, when I first met the man I'd spend the next seven years with...a man!

He, like I, was raised a Roman candle i.e. a Roman Catholic, albeit he a lapsed one.

We'd been together some five years, when he was confronted by a friend on a night out, 'Well, would you marry Frances,' 'Yes I defiantly would, he replied, but how can we?' Back in 1997 there was no such thing as a Civil Partnership, nor does the Roman Catholic Church look like it's about to adopt this 'Love that dare not speak it's name,' any time soon.

I got to it and made enquiries. First I contacted a Gay friendly Evangelical church, who then refereed me to a Father X, based at Westminster cathedral.

'Hello Father X, I'm Frances, my partner and I are Catholics and we'd like to marry however...Ehhh...he's male and I'm a Transsexual.' 'Come and see me next week Frances, we can better talk this over then,' said the calm and reassuring voice at the other end of the line.

At 8pm, Father X opened the cathedral's back door in Frances Street (good omen I thought) and bid me come in. He was blind, though I'd never have guessed but for the fact that he mentioned it, as he weaved through the cathedral's labyrinthine as easily as any sighted person might, well...he'd been living there some twenty-five years now.

I told him of our wish and dilemma, that I'd been training for the Priesthood from fourteen to seventeen, before jumping ship and joining a Christian commune. He asked about my present faith and satisfied with my answer, offered that we should meet again with my partner.

A month later both C and I met Father X, again in the evening through the little back door. No one else was to be seen as he took us first to his room and then to a side chapel. He gave us both a long hard grilling, and was pleased to learn our relationship was built on solid ground, not the shifting sands of mere sexual attraction.

He agreed to marry us...but it would have to be in stealth.

'What does the Catholic Church think about this, what does Cardinal Hume (the then head of the Catholic church in England) think,' I asked. 'Between us Frances, we are fully supportive, you are two people who simply and sincerely love one another; however...you'll appreciated there'd be wildfire if we ever acknowledged this publicly.' To say I was blown back by this statement would be putting it mildly, and to say I was delighted, trifling.

Cardinal Hume was renowned and admired for his literalism, and more than any Pope before or since, dragged the Roman Catholic church into the then, 20th Century.

And so, on March 17th 1998 at 9pm in that little side chapel of Westminster Cathedral, all hush hush, we took our wedding vows. C slipped a wedding ring upon my finger and kissed the Bride, as did Father X.

It was a simple affair, we'd decided against having witnesses and because of the sensitive (nay illegal) nature of the marriage, there was no signing of the register nor marriage certificate, that would have compromised us all.

We celebrated with a scrumptious late dinner at The Grill Room at The Cafe Royal, when we arrived home I insisted C carry me over the threshold; twice.

I often wonder what C's doing these days, is he happy, is he well, I'd like to think so.

What I'm reading in bed...

Attention All Shipping: Charlie Connelly.

177. Part 1.

2011-07-22T20:49:00.417Z

It's encouraging to see the Pope has finally come around albeit reluctantly, to the idea of condoms and safer sex (though not infallible); notwithstanding, 'A day late and a dollar short' does spring to mind.

Now, if he'd just make a move on the ordination of women, sexual orientation and same-sex marriage, the Roman Catholic Church might really be onto a winner here; Lord knows they need it.

I'm inclined to agree with those few and highly respected biblical scholars, that perhaps St Paul was a teeny weenie bit of a misogynist. Perhaps the poor chap was given a hard time by his ex, it does happen.

Well here's a personal story of Catholicism, that wouldn’t be out of place in a Dan Brown The Da Vinci Code movie, however, this isn't fictional; Pope Benedict, you may want to look away at this point.

From the age of fourteen to seventeen, I found myself in and out of various junior seminaries; I'd received the calling and embraced the vocation, to dedicate my life in service to God. I must have been eleven years old when things first began to percolate.

'Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man;' St Francis Xavier; and boy how those Catholic Orders fought over who'd get me.

However, serendipity had other plans, as I happened upon a band of rag, tag and bobtail Christians, living by faith alone. Meantime, I was expected to study and pen-push for some seven years in order to attain my faith. Now there's an oxymoron I thought, how does one study to attain a personal faith, surely you either have it or you don't, it's not a tangible thing, it's not quantifiable, you can't buy two get one free.

'Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.' Hebrews 11:1

I jumped ship and signed up to this motley crew, much to the dismay of family, relations and the local parish, who'd been raising the funds to send me away. Years later, I discovered my parents had put a Private Detective on my case, thinking l'd gone completely bonkers and fallen in with bad company. He reported back quite the contrary; I think they may have been slightly disappointed.

For the next ten years I was to live in various communes around the world, spreading the 'Good News' from a soapbox or wherever, often with a guitar and a song; no change there then.

So intense was my conviction, that I didn't masturbated for nearly two years, no, not even a sly one on the side. I was seventeen for goodness sake, I should have been wanking for England, nay, the world; my peers certainly were.

But, nothing and nobody was going to distract, come between, nor sap the energy and single-mindedness I needed for the cause, that of preaching the Gospel to the world. Strangely enough I didn't even miss it.

Editors note: Frances has since made up for all those years of abstinence.

Nine years on and ever so gradually, I'd become disenchanted. No more that searing hot flame, it had begun to flicker, inspiration was on the wane, this was not what I'd signed up for. My personal faith and conviction however, were still intact and just as strong; I guess it's not dissimilar to a love affair that's gone bad?

This wasn’t helped at all by the increasingly odd, silly, stifling and questionable doctrines that were creeping in and had begun to take root, things were steadily going pear-shaped, all was not well in the garden.

We'd gone from Jesus’ band of merry men and women, to a cumbersome, dictatorial organisation driven by quotas and performance goals, where some were more equal than others and certainly more privileged.

To be fair, now twenty-six years old and nearly ten years since I'd first joined, my own needs, wants, desires and values had shifted massively. I hung in there for another year, alack, things didn't get any better but rather, became even more petty.

If I hadn't resigned they'd probably have asked me to leave anyway, descent in the ranks and all that jazz.

Contrary to urban myth, I was never shackled (more's the pity) nor prevented from leaving the group, though it didn't stop them trying to lay a great big, fat, smelly guilt trip on me (thanks, but we raised Catholics carry our own built-in guilt trip; wanking anyone, it's hell for me then...again). I'd left of my own free will, my connection with the main-man healthy and intact.

Sadly, this was not the case for some, who'd left beneath a dark and thunderous cloud of doubt and self-condemnation.

What I'm reading in bed...

How to Fish: Chris Yates

176.

2011-06-22T16:39:00.147Z

7am. I find myself in a Pimlico basement-flat taking a coked up, bent over, Knight of the Realm from behind.

Mid-fuck I thought to myself, 'You really do need to get away from it all for a few days.'

Quite a bit of canoodling goes on in and around this area, it being within striking distance of the Houses of Parliament means, folk can quickly dash back to their chambers, be it the Commons or the House of Lords, should they be needed to vote on a particular bill or amendment.

There are several bars around Westminster, in which they'll actually ring a bell to alert boozing Lord's and MP's of such matters, I've no such devices at The Office, nor have I any intention of installing one...yet.

Laura, a Brunhilde figure of a woman, charming and totally professional (hard to come by), had invited me to join her; we've entertained together on several occasions. She'd first called at 3am, they’d been going at it since midnight and were in need of a new angle; sleepily, I reached over and hit the 'please go-away' button, sending her call to voicemail.

I arose at 5am for one of my nocturnal wee’s; before slipping back betwixt crackling, crisp Egyptian cotton sheets, I checked my messages. Returning Laura’s call she answered, ‘Yes Frances we’re still here, please come over, you've met R before he'd love to see you ( see Blog 140).'

Between them, they’d sniffed several grams of coke before I'd even arrived, the excitement was all up in R’s head and between his ears, it most certainly wasn't between his legs, the lights in that department were out, nobody was at home; not surprising given how much he'd snorted.

Laura opened up a fresh wrap and offered me to partake, I thanked her but polity declined, this genuinely surprises folk; most people are more than happy to hoover up free coke. However, each to their own, I personally don't care for it, despite this seemingly Rock 'n' Roll lifestyle of mine.

Only last week I took a call from a prospective client, asking if I'd also supply, 'Ehhh...I'm sorry but I'm an Escort, not a drug dealer.' Not surprisingly, he quickly lost all enthusiasm regarding an appointment; ho hum.

After nearly four hours of mutual nipple tweaking, difference being that whilst this turned him on, mine were painfully close to dropping off, we called it a morning. It was now 10am, R had a plane to catch to Switzerland at 2pm; actually he should have been on that plane at 9am, but was so carried away with the fun, he called his private secretary to re-book his flight.

It was all Laura and I could do not to giggle out aloud, as R stood upright and naked tweaking his nipples and winking at us, whilst soberly talking with his secretary on the other end of the line.

I bid adieu and stepped out into a harsh late morning sun, donning sunglasses and a silk Hermes scarf about my head, I blended in with the locals, nothing to distinguish me but an evening make-up face at 10am.

Time for one quick call before heading home. Skipping along the Embankment and past those House's of Parliament, a smiling Bobby dabbed his tall hat; 'Morning Madam,' does he suspect?

I popped into Soho to the Algerian Coffee Stores for fresh supplies of tea, it goes well with the sympathy ('Frances, tell me, am I really weird for liking Transsexuals...lovely tea by the way'); 'Cor, you're up early aren't you Frances', said the voice behind me, it was the proprietors of a marvellous Spanish restaurant I frequent called Salt Yard, 'We've not seen you in lately,' 'Sorry, I promise I'll be in soon,' I replied.

Turning into Dean Street with my stash, I pass the open windows of The French House pub, one of the bar staff calls out, 'Hey, Frances what are you doing up this early...or is it late?' Oh my, do they suspect too?

175.

2011-05-26T19:34:00.263Z

I've nothing against false-teeth, dentures that is, well sometimes my cock, but on occasion I find the need to drop a subtle hint, 'Oh I love that, but try nibbling on it as you would a lettuce leaf, not a crunchy raw carrot.'

Perish the thought I should ever become limp as a lettuce; I guess the problem lies in the slight diminished sensitivity in the oral department?

The last time I was at The Lancaster hotel (Molton Brown toiletries) was some 20 years ago, and oh what an improvement; I remember the evening well.

I'd been to see Donovan playing at Chelsea town hall, after which he invited me back to the hotel, whereupon we spent several hours passing a guitar around a small circle of musicians, each taking turns to sing.

I mentioned this to S as I walked into his room, nice little icebreaker I thought. 'Cool and how did he perform,' enquired S, 'Oh no it wasn't of a sexual nature, it was of the musical variety, when Francis was spelt with an 'I' not an 'E.'

S wins 'The tallest man I have ever met ' stakes, at six foot ten inches that's a full eighteen inches taller than me, I had to tilt my head backwards almost ninety degrees to make eye contact. Out of interest, when I arrived back home I Goggled the average height for an English woman, it's five foot-four inches, that's me bang on the money then.

He'd admired my site for several years (his words not mine), but had only now plucked up the courage to call, 'Why did you wait so long,' 'I suppose curiosity got the better of me, masturbation's all good and well but...anyway, I'm ready to try the real-deal.'

I've said this before, if one has spent the last ten, twenty, thirty, forty years of their life fucking, the curiosity of receiving rather than giving gets the better of some, and whilst these men would never consider having sex with a man, someone like myself offers an alternative proposition to this sexual conundrum.

My problem wasn't so much the height issue, we're all equal horizontally (as we are in death), but rather, the keyhole surgery I'd had on my left knee just two weeks earlier.

I'd believed the soreness of my knee was due to fifteen years of jogging on terra firma, but no my surgeon assured me, 'It's just one of those things Frances, look at how many seventy year old’s still jog, anyway, no more jogging for you, more cycling; swimming and rowing'...rowing?

I'd dosed up on plenty of prescription codeine before arriving, perhaps too much, which might explain my euphorically light head, prudently I declined the offer of champers (doggie bag please), lord, with that combination I'd have been tripping.

Trooper that I am, I took S from the doggie position (sexually, not the bag).

However, I couldn't bear more than a few minutes on my knees, so suggested I stand whilst he knelt on the bed; this is one of my preferred positions back at the Office, as I also get to watch in the wall-to-wall mirror.

Now it was time for me to be curious; 'So, at home do you have a custom made bed,' 'Yes Frances, and when I book a hotel room I have to request a king-sized bed and sleep diagonally.' Well thank goodness I'm just a short arsed five foot four inches then.

174.

2011-05-12T21:13:00.031Z

And now Ladies & Gentlemen, my latest musical Opus entitled Ninja...enjoy.

For those who've ever wondered how a song comes about, the lyric or the music first, well, it can be either.

This particular song was inspired by the words 'Move like a Ninja,' that I saw painted on a building site hoarding whilst sat at traffic lights in my car, yup a song can be inspired by the simplest of things.

Fortunately, sitting on the passenger seat was a ukulele, I always keep one in the car for such eventualities, also, to sing-along with when stuck in London traffic jams (often). By time I'd reached home some thirty minutes later, I had most of the melody and chorus down.

Some compositions have come about merely from a sentence I've heard, or a melody I discovered whilst nonchalantly noodling on my guitar or piano, others I'll compose to order, as I used to when I was in the 'Jingle' business, which is a bit like painting by numbers.

It never ceases to amazes me, the ability to move people with music and song.

I've gate-crashed many a launch party or event in the past (occasionally still do), simply by walking up to the entrance with a guitar case, to then be ushered in with the words, 'Ah, you must be the band, we've been waiting for you.' If you can walk with authority and confidence, people will rarely call your bluff, a bit of charm and a good back-up story doesn't harm either.

Wednesday was a musical evening. I arrived in town at 9pm, popped into a Soho club, The Friendly Society, to join a friends birthday party, I didn't stay more than an hour due to the deafening noise levels. I don't much care for shouty conversations these days, nor having to communicate in semaphore.

J, art dealer and champion of YBA called, 'Frances, we're in The Groucho are you in town, come join us, oh and do you have your guitar with you?' Well, I did have my ukulele. Six of us sat out on the patio making merry, James, knowing my occasional vice, ordered up a cigar (Patagas D), the best I've smoked in awhile, it was so rich the taste lingered in my mouth for two days afterwards, yuk!

It was now 2am but we weren't ready to go home, so it was all back to James' house, which is as much a galley as it is a house. It was deemed that we needed a guitar, so two of us dispatched to the Office and picked one up, wisely, I left the car and we caught a cab back, this wasn't going to be an early night.

Fortunately for me, there were two other singer/guitarists amongst us that evening/morning.

At 10am...yawn, we waved goodbye to the last of the guests, J suggested I stay over however, aware of my impending doom, I thought it wiser to awaken in my own space, knowing exactly where the paracetamol, lucozade and eye-mask was located.

As foreseen, the remains of Thursday were spent in a hazy fug, stumbling from bed to sofa, to soothing hot bubble bath, back to sofa and bed again. I threw the towel in proper at 9:00pm and headed off to HQ.

Yes yes I know, it's not big and it's not clever, but thankfully it happens very very rarely these days. Sometimes, that guitar-case in hand gets me into real trouble.

What I'm reading in bed...

Wise Words & Country Ways Weather Lore: Ruth Binney.

173.

2011-04-12T13:57:00.053Z

'Frances, do you kiss,' 'but of course, isn't that why God gave us lips,' I replied. Now, you may think that's a daft question to ask, well now...

Recently, a client related a story of how he'd visited an Escort, where even before offering a welcoming kiss upon his cheek or a warm handshake, she'd reeled him off a menu of prices for every optional extra, dreadful!

It reminds me of the restaurant scenario, one unwittingly starts nibbling the olives and bread-sticks there on the table, only to find you've been hit with a charge on your bill; is nothing free these days?

The quote Margaret Thatcher was forever saddled with, 'She knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing,' comes to mind. Is it any wonder why these armatures last barely six months to a year tops, before their phone stops ringing; I mean, it's not like its rocket science, is it?

Wednesday, I attended the launch party of the delightfully new Zetter Townhouse in Clerkenwell, the cocktail bar is sumptuously adorned with furniture, fixtures and decoration, transporting you back 100 years.

It was suppose to be my night off, but I was asked to do an impromptu gig, heck I'm a performer, how could I disappoint? I usually keep a guitar or ukulele in the car in case of such eventualities (quite frequently actually), my drummer does a similar thing with her snare drum.

The party went on until midnight, after everybody left, we locked the door drew the curtains and broke out the good stuff. The staff and I drank, played cards and showed off our origami skills until the wee hours.

I still can make a mean paper aeroplane; at school I'd make and sell them for a few pence to friends. I was quiet the entrepreneur, I'd make up little books of practical jokes, they sold well, along with my menthol crystal cigarettes (inserted between the two filters), until the science lab teacher asked for the spare keys back.

Due to the previous late-night, I was to bed at 10:30pm (rare for me), to watch Some like It Hot, I'd never seen this movie before; I must say, Tony Curtis scrubbed up rather well and seemed to be enjoying the role above and beyond the call of duty.

At 11:30pm the phone rang, 'Hello Frances, is it too late for you to visit me, I'm at The Hilton Park Lane' (Crabtree & Evelyn toiletries ), I arrived at 12:30am. S had a suite on the 24th floor, its main feature was the amazing floor to ceiling view over London's West End, twinkling and glittered like a Christmas tree.

Lying back upon the bed of the dimly lit room, S sucked my cock whilst I took in the views outside, it was a surreal moment, I’d be hard pressed if I had to confess which was giving me the more pleasure?

I was relieved that S chose to relieve himself over my cock and tummy, he was so well-endowed, it posed a far from comfortable ride. For any of you men with penis envy let me assure you, anything bigger than seven-inches is simply excess to requirement.

1:30am there were no cabs to be had outside the Hilton and so I strolled over to Hyde Park corner, it was quite a balmy night, the day's heat was still rising from the pavement. Now, a cab was going to cost me at least £25 but look, a row of Barclay Bikes. I paid my £1 and pulled a bike from the stand; there wasn't much traffic about.

Cycling down Coronation Hill with Buckingham Palace to my right, I gave the royal wave, Queenie was home as the Royal standard was flying. Then along The Mall and onto the Embankment, stopping occasionally to pull down my dress, the brezze exposing my stocking tops and suspenders.

Twenty-five minutes later I was back at HQ, fitter, tired and chuffed to have saved myself £24 in taxi fares. I flopped into bed and finish the last half of Some Like It Hot, it was now 3am, so much for that early night then.

172.

2011-04-05T17:00:00.037Z

Here's a Q & A I did last year for the delightful Tabby Jones' Blog, you can read more of her observant and amusing posts HERE.

Interview No: 1 Frances.

Hi all, I have started to interview various well-known Tgirls, my first is the lovely, sexy and all round stunning Frances.

1. OK, my readers often ask me how to select a femme name, can I ask how you selected yours?

Easy, my Farther was named Francis as was my Grandfather, and so it followed that I was too; I've since changed it by deed poll to Frances with an 'E' although if I'm honest, I wasn't too keen on the name as a teenager, it was rather like being called 'A Boy Named Sue.'

2. What is your most fave casual outfit?

Nothing beats an old pair of jeans, a nice Liberty print shirt and a pair of smart leather moccasins.

3. Are you Bi, do you think most Tgirls are; when did you discover your need to dress and be femme?

Yes, I swing both ways, all the more for me then! Most Tgirls would claim to be hetero, but I'm sure given the chance, most would try something different, even if it were just to see what it was all about. I was a late developer in the dressing department, having never dressed in my life, but I hit an age and thought, 'I'm bored, what else is out there,' obviously, it seems I got a little carried away with my curiosity.

4. What do you think makes a women, what is the main mistake Tgirls make?

Femininity and sensitivity make for a woman. If you mean mistake as in not passing, well some things simply can't be changed, if you're 6ft tall you're 6ft tall and that's that, so embrace it. If you're talking about being under the radar, don't wear stiletto's, fishnets, leather mini skirts and a tight blouse; sure, women wear these items, but never ever all at once, it just screams 'I'm a Trannie.'

5. Do you swallow…giggle?

No, I enjoy oral, but find one goes around gagging all day if swallowed.

6. Describe your perfect date

Generous, courteous, clean and polite, suffice to say a Gentleman, do they still exist?

7. What are your fantasies; what is your most secret hidden dream the one that makes you blush / giggle?

As an Escort, I continue to realise both my own and many of my clients fantasies.

8. How well do you think you know the femme you?

I live with her everyday, pretty well I'd say.

9. If you were dressing to impress what under-wear would you select, describe in detail.

La Perla or Rigby & Pellar lingerie and suspender belt, they have to be metal claps, all eight of them.

10. What annoys you?

Cheap and dishonest people, I've known a few.

11. What makes you laugh?

Myself, I'm very good at laughing at myself.

12. What makes you cry?

The B&W film Scrooge (1951).

13. What are you ashamed of?

Life is far too short to be going around feeling ashamed, if you're ashamed of something, stop doing it, change it and move on.

14. What advice would you give a young Tgirl / Crossdresser?

Less is more.

15. What are you the most proud of?

That I've made it thus far.

171. Part 2

2011-03-25T15:18:00.015Z

Once again, N's driver arrived just before midnight to whisk me back to Blakes hotel (Molton Brown toiletries); he'd made a comment earlier, how he liked the woman in a suit & tie power-look.

If someone has a particular clothing request and I have it in my wardrobe, I'm always happy to oblige, if not, they're welcome to supply it and I'll wear it.

Well, he liked the outfit so much (suit & tie), that I must have sat there a whole hour or more, before finally undressing. 'Frances, I've had them stock the bar with your favorite, open whatever you want,' no prizes for what I unwound, tore and popped.

It was now 2am, we were sat on the bed chilling and exchanging erotic adventures, 'Shall we get another girl in Frances, but...only if you want to?' 'Sure, but all the girls I know will be in bed by now.' 'OK, lets call an Escort Agency, if you like the sound of her I'll have her come over, but hey...if you don't want to we'll leave it,' said N.

There was a knock on the door, the concierge had brought up a contact booklet (Adult Guide to London) as requested, it was served on a tray, discretely hidden beneath a crisp white cloth napkin; well done Blakes, go to the top of the class.

The Internet and the ability to build one's own website (cutting out the middle-man), has pretty much knocked the stuffing out of the Agencies, but a few still survive; we called one based in Knightsbridge.

Lord...sitting for hours in some stuffy room, full of other similarly attractive hopefuls, what a drag that must be. But then, I've lost many a potential client for quite the opposite reason, i.e. not sitting on a sofa twiddling my thumbs in the hope that the phone will ring and I'll be chosen.

For the most part, when I receive an enquiry the planets are usually lined up in the right place and time; however, I'm not above moving the earth a little in order to make those planets line up to my advantage.

That said, I was at a birthday dinner on Saturday evening, usually one of my quietest nights, and I had to decline three potential clients; it rains it pours.

B arrived half an hour later, a pretty, dark skinned girl. I'd insisted that N tell the girl before she arrived, that I was a Transsexual, I don't like to give people surprises, nasty or otherwise, so it was good that she was cool about things.

She drank a couple of glasses of fizz (perhaps too many), before we were all legs and arms over our host; it really didn't amount to much more than heavy petting and masturbation, it was a cosy affair.

Between it all, we drank, dressed N up, ate Pringles, cashew nuts, chocolate, and compared stories of Escort/Client encounters. As pleasant as B was, we found her to be a bit mechanical and sex by numbers. 'Well, if I'm to stay another hour,' she said, 'I'll have to call the agency and charge you extra.'

For N, a wealthy and generous man, the last thing he wanted around him on his night off was, a mechanical, clock watching and time-keeping companion. Discreetly, he indicated that we let her go, shame, it was her loss, he would have more than taken care of her.

For Escorts (and clients), the downside of an agency is being unable to follow ones own intuition or instinct, it thoroughly dampens the moment, the joie de vive.

8am rolled around, N had an 11am flight to Norway, 'Frances, would you help me with my packing before you go, I'm useless,' I'd gone from a muse to his mother.

Job done, I declined the drivers offer of a lift back home, I needed some air, N would be back again in June. I'd had about seven hours sleep in the last forty and was feeling light headed (I once went forty hours without sleep), I was ready to sleep like a dog.

171. Part 1

2011-03-20T00:59:00.008Z

It's been a hard days night and I've been working like a...well you know?

I'd just returned from a rather jolly night out in Soho, which included a gallery opening and book signing by the artist Sir Peter Blake, creator of The Beatles iconic Sergeant Pepper album cover (I resisted the temptation to mention The Fab Four.

Pulling back the bed covers and in mid-crawl betwixt the sheets, the phone rang; N (see Blog 142) was back in town from Oz, he's in the entertainment business and was taking care of things over here for a few days.

'I'd love to come over' I said, but I can't drive, I've had a glass too many,' 'Aw don't you worry little Missy, I'll send my driver over to pick you up, and I'll have him take you back.'

Into the shower I did a go-go, slipped on some fresh lingerie, stockings and a change of frock; the car turned up some forty minutes later and whisked me off through a dark, chill and sleepy London town and onto Blakes Hotel (Molton Brown toiletries).

N was waiting outside, getting some air, he'd been flying for nearly twenty-four hours and then it was meetings all evening when he arrived; it was now 2am. The room was sumptuously hung with heavy velvets, giving it a royal, decadent feel, I passed on the champagne, I'd had my fill already that evening

We never have sexual intercourse, we do everything else but. People have their own particular codes of conduct and for N, it's play as much you want but never fuck, that's where he draws his line in the sand, he's a married man and feels this is his way of staying faithful; I'm more than happy not to moralise.

It was 8am before I left and 9am by time I got to bed, I was up again at noon for a dental check-up and then flat-out busy for the rest of the day, taking care of all those little things that make my life look seamless. A 8pm I was meeting The Colonel for dinner. After dropping him off at Tower Hill station, it was back to the Office for another change of outfit and a midnight rendezvous with N back at his hotel.

What I'm reading in bed...

Mussolini, His Part in My Downfall: Spike Milligan

170.

2011-02-13T17:12:00.023Z

As I approached the entrance to The Dorchester hotel (Floris toiletries), l noticed it to be unusually busy with photographers door-stopping.

Once inside the lobby, it was a buzz with an inordinate amount of meeter's & greeter's; one of them approached to enquire, 'Are you OK with that bag Madam?' For goodness sake, it was only my handbag, not the trunk-sized thing women are inclined to haul about these days, like some kind of status symbol.

On my way up to the 6th floor, the lift-door opened (3rd) and in stepped a vaguely familiar face, hmmm...I've seen him before, was it on the telly or in a movie? 'Going down,' 'No, I'm still on my way up,' I replied.

As I neared Mr Latex Gloves suite (see Blog 40), passing the courteous almost stooping, housemaids, I clicked, 'Ah yes...it's the BAFTA's this evening,' a bunch of nominee's must be staying at the hotel, Colin Firth anyone?

A, had his usual three-bathroom suite overlooking Hyde Park, which I should mention, must be the size of my house...his room, not Hyde Park.

The sumptuously luxuriant, satin-canopied four-poster bed, reflected in the wall-length mirrored wardrobe, as were our antics. This afforded me an indulgent moment to view my pneumatic pumping skills, whilst wearing nothing but latex gloves and stockings, and the new one-stone slimmer Frances (January's diet), well done me!

A, likes to keep his dressing gown on during sex (each to their own); I should point out that the dressing gowns at The Dorchester are at least half-an-inch thick and quite impossible to penetrate.

Have you ever tried to fuck someone through a Dorchester dressing gown, don't bother, you'd have a better chance of penetrating the vaults at the Bank of England, where I was last week actually (the bank, not the vault).

But hey, the customer is always right and if this is how A likes to do it then he shall have it, mine is but to pleasure, not judge.

Before leaving, I took a few of the posh toiletries (with permission), 'They're charging me for it Frances, take em all.' I know it's a silly thing, but it's like getting back to my car five minutes after my time has run out on the meter and finding I haven't been given a ticket; beating the system is quite exhilarating.

A, was still sprawled out on the bed when I left him (mission accomplished), the head-housemaid approached me in the corridor, clipboard in hand, 'Madam, can we turn down your room now?' Thinking of the knackered chap I'd just left behind I replied, 'Ohhh, would you mind coming back in about say half an hour, thank you,' I'm thoughtful like that.

169.

2011-01-25T18:28:00.054Z

It's not easy, taking someone from behind whilst wearing an electric blue coloured condom (tutti frutti), and not giggle, well, it's plain unprofessional. Note to self: 'Always ensure you have regular, as well as flavoured condoms in stock.'

Becky, a Transsexual friend, had suggested to one of her clients, P, that he pay me a visit, as he was keen to find someone who was both passive and active. Well, patience is a virtue, because it took more than six months of corresponding with P by mail and phone, before we actually did get to meet.

It's like that sometimes, even with the best intent, situations pop up, things go south and plans have to change, but at all times one should be polite, inevitably it pays off. Sure, I have my share of time-wasters, but I'm never one to let them get the better of me, remaining civil, calm and collected.

If however, someone persistently calls me, repeatedly asking questions of a sexual nature (just getting off), then they're entered into my phone memory as a 'TW', and all future calls/text are sent straight to voice-mail; they get bored eventually and go off to bother someone else with their tiresome fantasies. I don't do fantasy, I do real-life.

Don't ask me why, but the majority of time-wasters tend to be of Irish or Indian origin.

'Frances, could I see you at 3pm' (it's 2pm), an hour's notice, that's fine; five minutes later, 'Eh sorry, could you possibly do 2:30pm instead?' The rush is on, shower, make-up, lay out my stockings, heels, knickers and a lace slip, a spray of Chanel No 5 on the appropriate pulsing places...Bingo! I hate having to rush.

For M, this was his first-time, and confessed that he was rather nervous about it all, but had to fulfil his curiosity. I explained that he shouldn't worry, 'We're not about to try and split the atom, or go beyond the point of no return, I had a first-time too;' though for sure it wasn't going to be anything like mine, what a disaster that was, I'll tell you about it sometime.

The reason for M's hurry was, he's the head Chef of a well-known restaurant in the City, and had come to see me on his break between lunch and dinner. So much for a rest then, he returned back to work more exhausted than when he'd left, ah...but now with a skip in his step. 'Please, you must come and eat at the restaurant sometime Frances, I'll take care of you,' 'I will, I promise.'

Now I'm wondering, do those blue people in the movie Avatar, have blue cocks too, how exotic would that be.

168.

2011-01-02T11:21:00.031Z

Christmas, that time of time year when I hang up the seamed stockings, pull shut the door to the Office, and take a holiday.

It is however, to the dismay of some of my regular clients, stuck at home with the in-laws over the Christmastide, and without a valid excuse to be out and about, playing.

I've never spent Christmas away from England, I love that whole Dickensian thing we have going on, so it was with some trepidation, that I boarded a plane to Italy for a week's break. Three friends and I were off to the small hillside town of Ostuni, situated in the heel of Italy.

There was the usual scrum for space on the budget flight airline, Cryinair, 'Excuse me, where's the recline button for my seat,' 'Ha...you're joking aren't you,' replied the unimpressed flight attendant. Fortunately, the flight was less than three hours, if you'd managed to grab an hour's sleep sitting bolt upright, the journey didn't seem quite so dreadful.

Stepping from the plane, I was welcomed by the spring like weather, a sharp contrast to the snow, ice and grey slush I'd left behind in London.

One seriously wonders...do Italian newborn babies pop out of their mothers (Mamma's) womb wearing large 'Jackie O' style sunglasses and a Puffa jacket, or it simply a part of their national dress? And somebody tell me, was it the Italians who invent that daft trend for wearing sunglasses in the evening, probably?

Well they certainly are a physically attractive nation (I married one), sharp dressers too, so it's hardly surprising that they're amongst some of the world's most talented, innovative designers, and not only in fashion, just don't let them get behind the wheel of a car...aghhh!

For the length of my stay, I indulged in the local wine, ate a tad too much, slept more than one needs to and spent many hours sitting by the fireside, poking away at the slow burning olive tree logs (they're bushes actually), whilst sipping chilled Lemoncello, blissful. In an isolated country villa, there's not much else to do but play cards and board games, it was an enforced rest.

The plane back was full to capacity with excited Italians, coming over for the New Year’s Eve celebrations. I wondered if they'd bothered to check the weather back in London, because they could've left their sunglasses at home; then again, I guess they'd have to be surgically removed.

What I'm reading in bed...

Untold Stories: Alan Bennett

167.

2010-12-22T00:30:00.017Z

'Hi Frances, this is J, the tall American guy from Houston, we met about two years ago, I don't know if you remember me (I did!), well...I'm staying at Claridges (Bamford toiletries), would you like to come over?' It was 9:30am.

'Sure, I can be with you for twelve o'clock.' How could I refuse the offer to get back into bed, I'd not even fallen out of my own yet!

And so there I was, in bed at London's finest hotel, betwixt crisp white cotton sheets and propped up on fluffy cloud-like pillows, a glass of fine champagne in one hand, an erect cock in the other and thinking to myself, 'yeah this life of mine is pretty cool.'

J is more the passive type, many men are and it must make a nice change not to have to be the one who's always giving. So, I took charge of the proceedings, first bringing up a rear guard action before a final push from the front, much to his delight and utter exhaustion, well he was on holiday.

I stayed awhile, we took a shower and together polished off the renaming champers. J enquired where might be a good place to go Christmas shopping, I drew a little map on how to get to Jermyn Street in St James, just a ten-minute walk from the hotel.

'Frances, can I call you again tomorrow,' 'I'm sorry J, I'm off to Italy in the morning for whole of Christmas.' 'But hey, I can recommend someone, Becky, she's a lovely girl. I don't know if she'll be about, you'll find her contact details on my website Links page, but I think she's prefers to be passive?'

Gaily (tipsy actually) I tripped out of the hotel, I felt a warm toasty glow within, 'A Merry Christmas to you Madam,' said the lift attendant as he pulled back the Deco caged door; A Merry Christmas to you Madam,' said the doorman as he dabbed his top hat.

I strolled through Mayfair, the Sally Army brass band were playing Christmas carols on the corner, next to them, a man selling hot chestnuts; the outdoor florist on the junction of Old Bond Street was doing a roaring trade selling holly and mistletoe, flowers and hyacinths in terracotta pots.

I admired the beautiful women shopping in Burlington Arcade, all wrapped up in their furs, carrying sheaves of presents; everyone seemed to be making an extra special effort to be smiley. The whole scene reminded me of the beautiful poem by John Betjeman called Christmas.

And so dear reader, may I wish you a very Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year; anon.

What I'm reading in bed...

How to Fish: Chris Yates

Christmas by John Betjeman

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall ?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

166.

2010-11-22T21:16:00.049Z

I first met E back in the summer at Mistress Vanessa's apartment/dungeon, a long time regular client of hers, he'd asked if she might provide something a little different, me being the something different.

He'd experimented with a strap-on before, but as yet not experienced the real deal, however, he wasn't interested in seeing a man, not being that way inclined.

Now, some may find that an odd contradiction, certainly the Gay community do, but one's sexuality is a deeply complex and personal thing, mine is, it's not as easy as ticking a 'Yes or No' box; wouldn't sex be boring if it were so?

I imagine there'd be an awful lot of therapists out of work, if we all knew how and why we tick; I don't think I care to know, it seems to work just fine.

Mistress Vanessa's dungeon, resplendent though it is, isn't quite the environment in which I like to entertain, all that black; rubber sheets; medical paraphernalia; chains and shackles hanging off of the walls, it simply doesn't do it for me, but hey, each to their own.

For my own boudoir, I prefer the dulcet tones of seductive music (not too loud); soft lighting; silk & satin and the light scent of perfume in the air. I don't care for being an accessory to accessories.

After we'd finished our decadent threesome and E was all spent, we sat there half naked in some West End dungeon, sipping tea from fine china cups and nibbling on biscuits; it could easily have been an old English teashop, as we chitchatted about the weather etc.

E recently paid a visit to the Office, we'd been sitting on the sofa sipping a wonderful green tea called Gunpowder; 'Frances, I know I only booked for the hour, but would it be possible to stay for two,' and so I put the kettle on again. I imagine whatever trepidation E may've had about paying his first visit, had thoroughly evaporated like the steam from the kettle.

On his next visit he'd like to examine his S&M tendencies; fortunately I happen to have a very good book I can scratch up on (S&M 101 by Jay Wiseman).

Friday night, The Frantastics were playing at Quo Vadis in Soho, up in their Members Bar (you can find me not singing there too); that all went off swimmingly well.

At 2am whilst on the way out of the building, my drummer and I literally bumped into an old friend, she and her boyfriend were staying just across the road at the Soho Hotel (Miller Harris toiletries).

And so, along with several of their friends, we retired to their balcony suite. By now I was ready to unwind and had come prepared with a nice Cuban cigar in my handbag.

Our hosts were generous to a fault, knowing how much they mark up champagne in these boutique hotel mini bars, it's painful to think what their bill came to at checkout time. However, it was upon their insistence, that we cleaned out the mini-bar and order up more supplies, I passed on the coke.

In return, I entertained with sing-a-long tunes upon my ukulele, sounds like a fair exchange.

It was sometime after 7am before I got home. Falling out of bed around 3pm, I made it all the way to the sofa, where I lay until 9pm. I'd agreed to compère a competition (Pets win Prizes) at a friend's fetish club (Club Rub) at midnight, ouch! Well I shan't be doing 24 hours like that again in a hurry.

What I'm reading in bed...

Jesus Rediscovered: Malcolm Muggeridge

165.

2010-11-14T23:08:00.044Z

T was back in town, he'd come all the way from New Jersey USA, for his month long fix of all things to do with trains; an annual pilgrimage (see Blog 141).

Now retired, he follows this passion with great devotion, and has won many prestigious model train-building competitions on both sides of the pond.

I'm fond of train travel too, soaking up the vistas of the English countryside (surely the most beautiful) as it whooshes by, trouble is, all that gentle sway and clickity clacking, causes me to nod off within half-an-hour or so.

I'd always wanted to visit the National Railway Museum in York, so T made arrangements for a short two day mini-break, and what a beautifully City it is. I can't say I've ever seen a better-preserved city in England, no, not even Bath.

Arriving a little after lunch-time on Sunday, we unpacked before going for a stroll along the Roman walls of cream coloured York-stone; York Minister and Evensong was a must, though I'll admit, I almost nodded off during the service; what a sleepy religion the C of E is, I can't imagine anyone ever dozing off at a Southern Baptist Pentecostal service.

Still, I'm attracted to the reverence, pomp and circumstance of a Cathedral service, which is why I often find myself in Southwark Cathedral, just a ten minute walk from the Office on the banks of the Thames; the draw of foodie heaven Borough Market, situated smack bang next to it, makes for a doubly attractive destination.

After an early evening soak (bath not rain), we took off to explore a quaint little bar on the east side of the city called, The Phoenix, run by a retired Oxford academic. His pipe dream was to own a pub free from that terrible duo of conversation killers, television (sport yuk!) and jukeboxes, and replace them with live jazz and board games; I applaud you sir!

It was close to midnight before we got back to the hotel, and at the stroke of twelve it would be T's birthday, so I suggested we go to the bar, where I ordered a bottle of fine celebratory champagne.

Monday began with breakfast at the hotel, I made it down to the restaurant with fifteen minutes to spare, before they began putting everything away; T had already been for a morning walk. Breakfast over, I presented him with his birthday presents, two books all about...oh go on, have a guess?

A leisurely stroll up into town and through the Shambles, worked off about ohhh...25% of our Full-English breakfast. We sat outside a coffee house on the bank of the river Ouse, the morning air was still fresh and crisp enough to see one's own breath; is it just me, or does hot chocolate taste even more yummy when drunk outside, is there some secret ingredient in cold air?

The National Railway Museum, was but five minutes walk from York's grand railway hotel. I was surprised nay, pleased, to find the place wasn't swarming with school children, as are London's museums, however, I'm pretty sure they have their moments, as it houses the Hogwarts Express steam train, from the Harry Potter movies.

The sight of the Duchess of Hamilton is one to behold, she's actually a steam locomotive. Honestly, it's the sexiest, most phallic piece of engineering I've ever seen on two rails; what Freud must have made of it, I can't even begin to imagine?

We got to look down from the gantry and into the workshop, where restoration of the The Flying Scotsman was going on. As we were about to leave the museum, I turned to T, 'I've just got to pop off for a minute, hang on there.'

Sneaking back to where they were repairing the Scotsman; I called from the gantry, 'Mr Engineer, please could I have a quick word with you?' 'Hang on there love, I'll be up in a minute,' he popped out though a side door, smelling of grease and oil.'

'I hope this doesn't sound silly, but my friend has come all the way from America, he's just mad about trains, is there any chance I could get a little piece of The Flying Scotsman for him?' 'Of course love, just wait there.'

He returned with several bolts, rivets and a few squares of slick metal. 'There you go young lady,' 'Oh thank you, thank you so much,' I planted a big kiss on his cheek, he seemed more than pleased with this fair exchange. 'Oh, and if you want any more bits love, just ask for me, Dave's me name.'

As excited as a child, I rushed back to T. 'Where did you go,' 'Well, as it's your birthday, I thought you might like a little piece of The Flying Scotsman to take home, your railway friends are going to be so envious;' he chuckled and I beamed.

I felt like I'd just given someone the crown jewels, and I'd wadge that for T, it must rank pretty close?

164.

2010-10-20T09:35:00.045Z

Richard O’Brien & Frances invite you to...

An autumnal evening of song, anecdotes & conversation.

Within my own little orbit of a life, I am master/mistress of all that I survey, that is, aside from the odd act of God or nature.

However, for a while now, I've been itching to do something a little bit different, a little scary; to step outside of this comfort zone I've worked at, created and built up, in which I now cosset myself.

And so, one evening a few months back, having shared several glasses (or was it bottles?) of fizz, I proposed to Richard O'Brien (Rocky Horror Show/Crystal Maze) that we host a soiree come fund-raiser for St Christopher's Hospice, an evening to which we'd invite family, friends and members, at my club; Blacks in Soho.

The idea was, we'd perform a selection of intimate and personal songs, not The Frantastics, not The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but rather, the first songs we'd ever written, reflective, melancholic, and the back-story to them.

My concern was, would anyone turn up and if so, what if we ran out of songs and things to talk about, after one and a half hours?

I needn't have worried, quite the opposite, not only was the evening a Sell-Out, but we ran out of time, we didn't even get through half the material we'd intended to do!

It was Standing Room Only, so much so, the poor buggers who turned up late had to stand in the next room with the door open; packed in like sardines they were; bloody marvellous (well perhaps not for them?).

The evening turned into one great big Woodstock...esque love-in. We ended with the beautiful traditional New Zealand song Pokarekare Ana, for which everyone joined in (song-sheet provided), as they swayed side to side, in one harmonious wave.

The evening managed to raise nearly £500, and Blacks Club kindly donated the use of the room for free.

It was with great glee, that I turned up unexpectedly at the hospice reception on Monday morning, with an enveloped stuffed full of cash.

Delighted, Richard and I are now pondering the idea of taking it on a little tour of England next year? We did toy with the idea of calling ourselves The Chixy Dicks, alack, someone's already come up with that one...damn, so it's thinking caps back on.

What I'm reading in bed...

SM 101: Jay Wiseman

163.

2010-09-13T20:22:00.063Z

How confusing, three Marriott hotels (Penhaligon's toiletries) within the space of a quarter of a mile, their latest acquisition, the warren that is Grosvenor House on Park Lane.

After waving off my out-of-town friends, whom I'd been entertaining, S called to ask if it wasn't too late for me to pay him a visit, it now being 2am. Well, I was in town anyway and it was only a five-minute drive from Soho, but a fifteen-minute manhunt till I eventually found the right bloody Marriott!

S was a tall, fifty-something gentleman, a Brit now living in Houston Texas; 'Big hat no cattle,' is what they call a Texan with a big mouth, he was neither. I'm told the city has to be one of the dullest, soulless places to live in the US. I've only ever flown through it on my way to New Orleans, which has to be one of the liveliest, soulful places in the US, well it used to be.

Once, on the forty-minute flight from Houston to New Orleans, I was sat next to what I'd describe as a rough redneck cowboy, with southern hospitality. 'Lady, you'd like a piece a ma jerky,' he asked (without irony), as he bit, tore and chewed at a length of dried beef, not dissimilar to how cows eat.

'Ehhh...no thank you, I'll stay with my water, but thank you.' 'Gee, ya'll from Eng-a-land lady,' 'Yes, London actually, I'm off to New Orleans for a few days holiday, or as you say, vacation.' 'Say, that's cool...wow London, well if you change your mind you just let me know?' 'I will, promise, thank you.'

It was a Midnight Cowboy moment.

I'm reminded of the time I was in Phoenix, staying at the beautiful Deco inspired Frank Lloyd Wright Biltmore hotel (can't remember the toiletries), with my then, American partner, we'd driven out into the desert to a restaurant called The Satisfied Frog.

Along the way I saw a man standing upon a hill wearing a cowboy hat, checked shirt, chaps and boots, the whole look. 'Ohhh look look...that man's dressed just like a real cowboy, I said, 'Honey, he replied tartly, it is a real cowboy, we're in the desert.'

However, he got his comeuppance. Once, whilst driving back to London via Cheshire, coursing our way thorough the English countryside, he announced, 'Hey, look at that up on that hill, it look just like a real castle,' 'Why yes darling...that'll be because it is a real castle,' relishing my retort.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, oppps sorry...the Marriott.

All went swimmingly well, however, because of my clients jet-lag he couldn't sleep, no, not even with two doses of Frances' famous elixir medicine, and so we hung out chatting for half an hour or more later. S is a keen cook and me being a Bon viveur, he suggested that next time he's in town, we knock off a few restaurants from a jointly drawn-up list.

Fortunately, S being the one with the expense account, this particular indulgence is not going to cost me an arm and a leg; it sure sounds like a tasty plan to me.

What I'm reading in bed...

Suggs & The City: Suggs

162.

2010-07-05T18:47:00.025Z

June transpired to be a 'Mensis horribilis' (a horrible month); I suppose I should count myself lucky, as HR Queen Elizabeth II, had a whole Annus horribilis (horrible year) of the stuff back in 1992.

Three friends died in as many week; two, the accumulation of self abusive lifestyles and the third, of a heart attack, which perhaps could have been prevented, had they led a healthier life?

And yes, I too am guilty of not living to my full potential of a healthier lifestyle. Sure, I could cut out the champers; shun that yummy bit of fat crackling on the pork belly; stop eating that skin on roasted chicken (the only tasty bit); eat fewer carbs; abstain completely from my occasional cigar (one every three months); get up earlier and go to bed earlier.

But hey, you're dead a long time.

Yup, I'd be a much fitter person for it, though I'm not so sure I'd be any happier, I think I may even become quite dull? Oh come on, one has to have a vice, I just happen to have several and I rather like them all. I don't harm people in my pursuit of personal satisfaction, nothing has ever been taken from anyone, in fact, my life is the most conscientious form of hedonism.

Came the end of July, I had my first full weekend off since January, that's like seven months! Things had really taken off for my band The Frantastics, a seven month Friday/Saturday residency, as well as various gigs throughout the week.

I found myself turning work down on the Escorting side of things, so as to accommodate the band commitments, not such a bad thing, well OK, perhaps for those potential clients it was? But, its all helped reinforce my belief that, I've a healthy handle on this rather unconventional life of mine.

Now should you be wondering, 'Uh oh...is she thinking of giving up the Office job,' fret not, I'm still enjoying things very much, I'll be around for a while yet.

Back in August, a fellow Escort called to enquire, 'Frances, have things gone really quiet for you?' Well sure, things always dip a little in August, people go away for holidays, and the kids are off school etc.

However, I look calmly and collectively upon August as my hiatus, the eye of the hurricane before September kicks in and once again, things in London start to swing like a pendulum do.

What I'm reading in bed...

How shall I tell the dog: Miles Kington.

161.

2010-05-26T12:56:00.015Z

D is a 76 old Gentleman, and he looks good on it too!

He visits London once a year shacking up in a West End hotel for two weeks, from there he travels the length and breath of the country, fulfilling his yearning and nostalgia of a country where for a few years, he once lived; he being Canadian.

He'd seen my photo ad in a magazine the last few years he'd visited here, and had finally managed to pluck up the courage to call me,

'What a fool I've been Frances,' he said, as he showed me into his hotel room. 'No matter, I'm here now,' I replied.

I know several men similar to D, with this pining for Blighty, who make their annual sojourn here.

Some are attracted by the romance of a bygone Shakespearean age, others, Tudor framed houses, Turner sunsets (it's the light), whistling Postmen and steam trains. Alack, gentlemen rarely dab or raise their top hats/flat caps these days, with a cheery 'good day Madam' or 'ello darlin, gorgeous day ain't it?'

And likewise, any hope of encountering an Eliza Dolittle's on the streets of London, is pretty thin too, not even in the smarter parts of town. Bling is now the thing, subtlety and understatement have been tossed aside for conspicuous consumption and ladette behaviour.

Sure, when I perform on stage i.e. a pubic performance (not the boudoir), I'll bling it up, but then you have to, audiences want more than just the music, they want a spectacle; 'people listen with their eyes', as Bobby Darren once said. However, I find it a constraint on my playing, but it has to be done.

If Elvis had come on stage, wearing a baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, well...you get my drift.

So where was I, ah yes..a bottle of champagne sat chilling nicely in an ice bucket; a bath towel had been laid out on the bed and upon it; a brown leather belt. 'Would you stay for a couple of hours Frances, I'd like to spend a nice relaxing evening in your company and get to know all about you.'

His desires were simple, he'd like lots of kissing and cuddling; an all over body massage; a good beating on the bottom with his trouser belt; and then I was to fuck him. It wasn't important that he climaxed, rather, it was all about the moment; of course I obliged.

D enjoyed himself so much, he insisted I come back two days later and do it all over again, but first we were to go out to dinner, to...as he put it, 'Pick your brains and find out what's in there;' 'not a lot I replied, I'm blonde, we don't come with the brain option.'

And so we met again Thursday evening, dinner was a simple affair, we dined at Joe Allen's in Covent Garden. Should you find yourself in London and struck by hunger pangs around Midnight, Joe's kitchen is open until 12:30am, now that's a good bit of local knowledge.

After dinner we retired back to the room, between us, I guess we must have burnt off at least half of the calories we'd both just consumed. 'Well Frances, that was a wonderful end to a wonderful holiday,' yes, I said, we certainly ended it with a bang,' we laughed. I guess I'll be seeing D again next spring?

160.

2010-04-30T15:19:00.030Z

The evening of the 24th of June saw me hosting another of my Salon's at Coco De Mer's rather posh erotic boutique, in fashionable South Kensington (see Blog 62), for executive women and Yummy Mummies.

But meanwhile back at the ranch...another amateur dramatics society production (amdram), starring yours truly in the lead role…play.

M enquired if I’d provide him with a scenario; I seem to be getting an awful lot of these requests lately, is it something in the water, is word out that I might be half convincing at this acting malarky?

For today's teatime drama, I was to play the stern Headmistress and he, the naughty schoolboy boarder.

M set out his ideal scenario: Headmistress was to have her wicked way with him. It sounded simple enough, but then he discovers Headmistress has an extra surprise up her skirt, and that it's she who'd be doing the fucking, not him!

'So...I see this is the third time you've been reported to me this term, whatever are your parents going to think if I decide to expel you, young man...hmmm?' 'Oh please don't, they'd be very cross Headmistress, I'll do anything, anything if you promise not to tell them.'

Having fulfilled my pent up lustful yearnings for the young handsome virgin, I then marched him off to the bathroom, where we gently soaped each other up, and then slowly sponged each other down.

Damn...now if only my school days were like that, I'd have gladly stayed on for another year, or three!

In my own misspent youth, I spent many a visit down at the Headmasters' room, bent over a desk (for nothing more than high jinx), I’d become acquainted with this routine far more than I cared for. Oh well, at least I was given the choice of being caned on either the hand or the bum, it was small reward, as they both bloody well hurt, the one just as much as each other.

And talking of showers, I've just had a brand spanking new bathroom fitted at the Office, so I guess I'll be doing a lot more entertaining in the shower, well I mean, what with a supposedly hot summer (sic) looming and all.

What I'm reading in bed...

How to be Idle: Tom Hodgkinson.

159.

2010-03-28T23:35:00.037Z

Dreams are made of this; 'steak tartare'...

There's nothing like a big chunk of cheese before retiring to bed, for inducing lucid dreams, I dream for England anyway, but sometimes I want to dream for the world!

Now, although I may be a bit of a dreamer, that is, I hope and wish the best for people (occasional disappointments), I'm actually quite a realist, having been round the block not once, but thrice.

Anyway's, better than any pungent Camembert could ever manage, I've discovered that steak tartare is the Queen of all dream inducing foodstuffs.

Since first seeing this dish in Paris, I was turned right off, a plateful of raw minced meat (raw egg atop), yuk, but I must say, after trying it just the other evening, I rather enjoyed it, although I still couldn't eat it as a main, only as a starter.

G is a recent regular visitor; a fifty-something gentleman, working in the City, G enjoys role-play, it goes something like this...

He's found himself uncontrollably attracted to his sassy aunt, younger sister of his mother; at 14 years old his male hormones (testosterone) are going through the roof (oh how I remember). His mother and father are off to a ball this evening and shan't be home until early the next day, so he'll be staying over with his aunt tonight, she'll be babysitting.

This attractive and vivacious aunt, single and living alone, is having her own hormonal crisis, and is quite taken with the idea of seducing a vulnerable and impressionable young man.

Nephew goes off to bed, aunt promises to come up soon and tuck him in for the night i.e. G goes off to the bedroom and undresses, whilst I wait a few moments in the sitting room.

Nephew fakes a temperature...Auntie (in stockings, heels and lingerie of course) gently strokes his hot brow whilst noticing a flagpole steadily rising beneath the bedclothes.

'Oh my, what have we got here,' says she, prodding the duvet, 'we'll have to do something about that then won't we, or you'll not get any sleep, and mummy won't be too pleased with me if you're all tired tomorrow.'

'Ehhh...yes auntie, but please don't tell mummy, promise you wont,' says he. She pulls back the bed clothes; 'I promise not to tell, if you show me what you usually do with it, I'll just stand here, and watch.'

G brings himself off to completion and then takes a shower before asking, 'Can I come and stay over again sometime auntie,' 'But of course you can darling, and I hope real soon,' as I bid him a fond farewell.

What I'm reading in bed...

Seeing Things; A Memoir : Oliver Postgate.

158.

2010-03-07T17:38:00.010Z

March comes around again and with it, another birthday pour moi.

Celebrations started on the stroke of midnight, as I was out hosting Lola the evening before.

Someone had spread the word and in walked a dozen folk bearing hand held fireworks, sparkling and fizzing like Roman candles, before the room broke out into song; I was quite humbled.

I stayed around until 2am, I'd been at the club since 8pm and whilst others wished me me to party on, I was keen to make the most of my birthday and avoid any prospect of waking up to a hangover, an easy but wasteful opportunity to greet one's big day.

That said, it was 11am, before I fell out of bed (I need my eight hours), well you can on that day can't you? By noon I was wrapped up in hat, scarf and gloves, mooching about Greenwich Park in the chill, but fresh dry air.

I treated myself to lunch, a sausage in a roll from 'The Honest Sausage', next to the Royal observatory, which straddles the meridian line i.e. GMT. The usual hordes of tourist were gathered there, and so I set off for a quieter part of the park in which to nibble my lunch.

On the way home, I popped by my local fishmonger and bought the biggest lobster they had; obviously an old lobster, it's shell and claws took some real cracking to get into, I had to use a hammer as well as the lobster crackers, but its juicy, succulent tender white meat, was worth all the effort.

I've tried those frozen then thawed lobsters you get in the supermarkets for £5, I don't bother any more, they taste like soggy cardboard, and I've come to the conclusion, real soggy cardboard is both tastier and cheaper!

Needing a new hi-fi system for the study, I stopped by John Lewis, but nothing grabbed my fancy, however, I did buy the rather fetching ironing board that caught my eye; domestic goddess that I am.

A few days earlier I'd arranged to meet G, a regular of mine, at 8pm, he was going to bring over a couple of bottles of pink champagne. He's very pleasant company to spend time with, and I had no hesitation spending part of my birthday with him.

G left at 10pm, he also left me an unopened bottle of champers. I showered, jumped into the car and headed back to HQ where I ordered out a banquet of a meal from the local Turkish restaurant. Whilst waiting, I made up a roaring fire in the fireplace, cracked open the pink bubbles, put my feet up and lit a cigar.

Yes, I thought to myself, that was a very fine day indeed, very fine.

157.

2010-02-10T21:55:00.030Z

T paid a visit late afternoon for a spot of tea and hedonism, now retired and in his early 70's (looking good on it too), he's earned the right to his indulgences, myself being one of them.

'Frances, if you don't do something every day, you'll die.'

Well, he certainly has the years and I've no doubt the wisdom, and so will take on-board his sage words.

Now, a Gentleman of his years, who can still get erect and climax to completion is encouraging; firstly, if and when I reach T's age, sexually, I'll be as fine as a vintage Bordeaux; secondly, it’s gratifying to know that whilst twenty-something men wish me to fulfil their Mrs Robinson fantasy, those in their autumn years look upon me as a youthful and rejuvenating tonic.

Passion now spent, we’d both worked up an appetite; 'Why don’t we go for a bite to eat,' I suggested, 'Well if you don't have to be anywhere else, yes, where would you like to eat,’ he replied.

T, having earlier grumbled about the lack of a good steak in town, 'Where the chef doesn't complain if you like it well done (burnt),' I suggested Hawksmoore just up the road from the Office. And a very fine steak it was too, top dollar, but since when did quality come cheap; T vowed to return.

It was now 9pm, again I suggested we drop into the excellent Spanish restaurant/wine bar called Salt Yard, as I had something more to talk about. It being January, I was still on the wagon, but if my pitch went well, I’d have just the one glass of celebratory bubbles.

Sat up at the bar, he with a robust glass of Rioja, me an orange juice, I presented my idea. ‘T, you know how we have this arrangement of you coming to see me every week and then going for dinner...well...let me make you a proposition.'

'Now, if I were a farmer I’d go out and buy a new tractor, well, I’m not a farmer but I still need to invest in the company; I’m going to have a little maintenance done soon, and rather than go to the bank for a loan, plus having to pay all that interest, I have an idea; are you ready?'

T nodded, in knowing expectation of what I was about to say next.

'Well, as it’s going to cost me X, what if I were to propose...if you were to advanced me lets say, sixteen visits, I'd lock into whatever time or day best suited you, then you could use those credits as and when you‘d like. Now, you don’t have to say yes or no right now, but have a think about it and let me know.'

There was a pause; T took a large glug from his glass and swallowed slowly as he looked up into the air...'That’s an excellent idea Frances, why don’t I come and see you tomorrow with a cheque for X, how about three o'clock, and if I pop my clogs before my sixteen credits are up, then you’re well ahead!'

We shook hands, I ordered two glasses of their finest champagne, 'Bottoms up,' and chinked our glasses. 'Now are you sure you’re happy with that T,' 'Very happy Frances, very happy and glad that I can help.'

As promised, 3pm bang on the dot the very next day, T arrived cheque in hand, the ink barely dry.

What I'm reading in bed...

Mallard. How the World Steam Speed Record Was Broken: Don Hale.

156.

2010-01-30T23:08:00.032Z

I remember as a child, every New Years Eve my parents sending my sister and I out through the back door of the house to collect a lump of coal, before entering the front door on the stroke of midnight, each with a piece of coal in hand; an old Scottish tradition for bringing luck.

This years' celebrations started some two hours before the strike of midnight and the welcoming in of 2010; this evening I had three gigs and two parties to do between 10pm and 3am.

New Years Eve is my busiest social/work evening of the year, it's the night friends and associates want me to turn up full of song with guitar in hand, either to get the ball rolling or, crank the party up again after midnight's crescendo.

The one restaurant (Cipriani) and two bar gigs, would put me in good steed with free meals and drinks for the rest of the year (a not un-sizable amount); we've a gentleman's agreement, money doesn't change hands but mutual benefits do.

It was 9am before I managed to crawl into my own bed, and now that it was January, my dry month had begun, a chance to detox and lose those few extra love handle pounds I'd gained over the festivities.

January also kicked off a three month weekend residency for my band The Frantastics, at uber fashionable Bistrotheque, an influential venue on the London radar, known for hosting some of the hottest tickets in town.

I say nine dates but after our first weekend there, the management asked if we would play throughout February and March too! Time Out London dispatched one of their critics along to see the show, resulting in a glowing review and voting us 'Critics' Choice,' 'Country rock with verve and charm from the stars of Frockabilly,' nice.

Here's a review of the venue Bistrotheque.

Things in the Office have been a tad quiet, but hey, that's the January factor, just as well really, what with all the band stuff going on.

As for New Year's resolutions, I've not made any, other than to keep up with what I'm doing, April sees me having a wee bit of maintenance, but more on that later.

155.

2009-12-30T18:15:00.039Z

J arrived bearing gifts of Belgian chocolates and a bottle of Belgian chocolate liqueur; so that's five extra miles of jogging to be done next week then, humph!

He was my last client of the year, before I snuffed out the candles, turned the lock and closed up the Office for the year. I wouldn't be entertaining again until New Years Eve, whereupon, I'd have three gigs to play and three parties to attend, all in the space of seven hours!

(Editors note: That's not humanly possible)

As ever, I was ahead of the game in the 'Christmas presents' department, mine was all done and dusted a few weeks before, leaving me to observe with smug amusement, all those still having to contemplate the awful dread of shopping in the West End.

That smug look was soon to be wiped off of my face, when I awoke on Christmas Eve with a dreadful head cold. The prospect of hosting three days of entertainment at HQ now seemed a tad daunting.

The invites had all gone out, the RSVP's returned; there was a 10lb goose to prepare, as well as a large leg of mutton, mulled wine to be...well...mulled, and the wine still to be collected from 'The Theatre of Wine' (why hadn't I asked them to deliver?).

I'd stoked up a roaring fire before my guests arrived, we were seven by 8pm.

After serving a welcoming glass of champagne, I suggested we all go up to the local pub. Falling out of there, we decanted ourselves into the local church at the top of the hill to attended Midnight Mass; thankfully, the walk / stumble back down the hill offered little resistance.

It was sometime after 2am before we all retired to bed and so Christmas Day was a late rise; 11am. The exchanging of gifts (two hours) followed a short reading of the Christmas Story and I recited the poem 'Christmas,' by John Betjeman.

Dinner was severed at 5pm, cigars and vanilla cognac came out at 7pm, along with packs of cards and various board games.

I'm proud to say, that the destroyer of conversation, 'television', didn't go on once all evening. However, as alluring as a roaring real fire might be, it's lethal to the now dying art of social intercourse, as its licking flames devour the room of oxygen, thus rendering everyone sleepy.

Come midnight, the air, what little the fire hadn't already consumed, was given over to a chorus of gentle snoozing; strewn about the carpet and over the sofas, lay the bodies of my contented and inebriated guests.

We entered Boxing Day with a little more resolve, an invigorating walk through a very chill Greenwich Park, where snow lay in clumps from the recent falls. I'd made a delicious hot curry that morning, from the left-over meat of Christmas Day, so there was something to warm us upon our return.

More friends were due to arrive at 7pm and to be quite honest, I was hoping they'd cancel; they didn't. No matter, I thought, it will soon be the 27th then I'll get to put my feet up. It all turned out well in the end, as said friends did much increased our merriment, which in turn, helped me forgot all about my being under the weather.

154.

2009-12-16T12:09:00.031Z

'Now this won't hurt, you'll just feel a little prick,' I said to B as he lay face down and bottom up on the boudoir bed. 'That's no little prick Frances,' retorted B, causing me to giggle and in so doing, missing my target.

I composed myself, reloaded and aimed for another shot, bingo!

I'd not seen B for some two years, our last meeting was an 'overnight' at a hotel not far from the Office. We started the evening with dinner and wine, both consuming a tad too much, very unprofessional of me, but B insisted. However, in my defence I still delivered the goods come bedtime and again at breakfast too!

A night of rumpy bumpy had left me quite tired, and so after we bade farewell I went straight home, switched off my phone and caught up on the sleep I'd lost the night before, effectively blowing out that day.

But today it was my turn to be the pincushion; I was off to have my six monthly health check-up regarding all things sexual.

I answered the Doctors questionnaire as he ticked things off; no I don't do drugs; no I don't smoke; no I don't engage in unsafe sex; no I'm not aware of having anything contagious (laughter perhaps?). Yes, I do rather like my champagne.

And now for the fun bit...

I turned my head away as he jabbed, extracting what felt to be a pint of blood from my arm (HIV/Aids test), ouch ouch ouch! I never look, I go quite sheet white, pale and nauseous at the sight. 'Oh dear, that can't be right, I thought I had blue blood,' 'Sorry Frances, it's your common or garden red variety,' he laughed.

Well it must have been my lucky day because, next up was a hepatitis jab in my upper arm. 'Please, can I have it in my right arm, I'm a guitarist and I've a gig tonight,' he obliged. 'Wide open now,' as next he inserted a long swab stick down the back of my throat.

I was sent off to the loo to provide a urine sample and given two swabs (syphilis & gonorrhoea test), one to be inserted into the top of my penis, or as we called it at school my 'Japs eye,' and the other up my bum, I placed them into a screw-top specimen tube before returning downstairs for my HIV/Aids results, yup, you can get this in just five minutes now.

'Ehhh...I'm not sure if that swab up the bum thing is going to give you the results you want, you see, I have an enema every morning,' 'That's OK Frances, it's the mucous lining that gives us the reading we need.'

A friend of mine recently applied for a job at Harrods, where they require a 'poo' sample! I can see it now on the school playground, 'So, what do you want to do when you grow up,' 'Ehhh...I want to be paid lots of money to investigate peoples poos...aghhh!

And what of my results, a clean bill of health...hallelujah! Must be all that champagne?

What I'm reading in bed...

A Christmas Carol: Charles Dickens.

153.

2009-11-26T11:31:00.029Z

The week: it appears I may have spoken a tad too soon (see Blog 152).

Monday.

Started with a courtesy phone call from the Police; sadly, a Transsexual Escort had been murdered in North London just a few days earlier. It seems the suspect (now under arrest), had also called me the very same evening of the murder, 7:23pm to be precise.

They asked if I could recall the phone call, I racked my brain but nothing fell out. I was assured not to worry but should they need to talk to me further, would it be OK to call again, ‘At a time that’s convenient for yourself Frances, we don’t want to get in the way of your appointments,’ he politely enquired.

Lest you're unaware, Escorting is legal here in England.

I replied that I’d be more than happy to help; I do already on occasion, a few of the ‘Boy’s in Blue’ are amongst some of my favourite clients.

Tuesday.

'Mr Latex Gloves' is back in town (see Blog 40), he stays at The Dorchester (Floris toiletries) these day, always takes a gigantic suite overlooking the park. His bedroom alone is the floor space of my house back at HQ (large), whilst the sitting room is one and a half times that; all this for just one man on his tod; his government must have money to burn; well they do have an awful lot of oil.

Wednesday.

Was Club Lola's last evening at its present location. The owners of the building have sold the lease and although they've offered us another place to move to, thus affording a smooth transition, we've decided to launch out on our own without them.

I can see why they want us to stay with them, we're making them a lot of money, however, they were either slow or not forthcoming whenever I requested something for my club evening, so why would I bother?

Dick Bradsell and I are now talking to potential investors and are looking for a new location within Soho/Theatre-land; to open sometime in the early New Year.

But hey, it's not such bad news, we became so popular that we outgrew 23 Romilly St and the 11pm licence was awful, so now we'll have a place that's bigger, better and has a licence till at least 1am.

Straight after turning the lights out at Lola (12:30am), I popped along to the launch party of 'Vouge,' I was going to stay for the obligatory hour, but only managed twenty minutes; I'd have loved the place twenty years ago.

Thursday.

To the launch party for some new glam magazine, held in a very noisy pub (George & Dragon) on Hackney Road. Stayed for all of fifteen minutes, didn't bother to make my excuses, simply snook out the back and headed over to Hawksmoore for a quiet drink. Did they miss me, I guess I’ll never know? Bed 1am.

Friday.

It's the official closing party for 23 Romilly Street. I walked up to the bar whereupon Dick cracked opened a bottle of champagne and thrust it into my hands, 'Drink that girl, you deserve it!' There was much mourning and merry dancing for what had become the surrogate 'Colony Room.' After closing that place down (Midnight), a few of us strolled over to Gerry's for a nightcap, or three; hailed a cab at 3am.

Saturday.

Band practise with The Frantastics at HQ, 2pm-8pm.

Had promised to meet up and entertain a friend from out of town at 9pm, now wishing I hadn't offered, as I'm starting to drag now. Take him to 69 Colebrooke Row along with my guitar in the hope of getting a bit of a sing-along going, as much to stir me up as anything else...it works! Stood on the staircase like some minstrel, I belt out Cash and Elvis songs, they roar for more; bed 2am.

Sunday.

First to Cipriani's for one of the many dinners they owe me, we have a nice agreement, I do little musical turn for their New Years Eve bash, gratis, they feed me the rest of the year for free, nice.

The long table next to me is populated by some ten Eurotrash type diners, after dinner I slip a tip beneath the stem of my depleted champers glass and head toward the door. I observe much whispering amongst the table (is she doing a runner, or as is known in the trade 'a walkout'), this amuses me.

At the door I'm embraced and wave a fond farewell, 'Till next time Frances, ciao bella.' Eurotrash are now left wondering, 'Who can she be, she doesn't have to pay, we do!' Ha, I'm just a nobody.

It's off to Blacks (my club in Soho), for one of their eclectic nights of entertainment held on all three floors of this Georgian townhouse.

Top floor is poetry recitals and acoustic music; middle floor is comedy and readings, basement floor is a DJ playing 50's music, chanson and Rockabilly, oh and I finishing off the night stood upon the long refectory table giving it some serious welly; need to get home and have a shower. Bed 2am.

Well, so much for slowing down, I'm going to die with my boots on at this rate!

What I'm reading in bed...

The Guerrilla Home Recording. Karl Coryat.

152.

2009-11-09T18:03:00.025Z

It's official, I'm slowing down and veering steadily toward that grassy bit next to the hard shoulder; I'm really quite enjoying it.

After last week’s ‘Frantastics’ gig, I stayed around for all of half an hour to meet and greet (networking future gigs), before heading off home. Time was, when I’d stay around for a few hours, unwind and have a drink with friends.

However…this evening it was straight back to HQ, into my ‘jim jam’s,’ put another log on the fire and settled back into the sofa to continue on my 1000 piece jigsaw; yes, I’ve been seduced by the calming effects of jigsaws.

The first one I tackled a few months back, was 500 pieces, which I was able to complete in about a week; do people really finish them in one sitting? Surely, the whole idea is to slowly chip away at it, a little bit at a time.

I've learnt that one starts with the edges, steadily moving toward the center. The thrill of successfully placing a piece is not unlike a mini high, accompanied by a punch in the air exclaiming loudly...'yes!'

Moreover, it induces a calming, therapeutic effect. Sat there in contemplation, one begins to turn things over in one's head, deep things, as you scrummage about the box looking for that next fix/piece of jigsaw.

Once upon a time, I'd be delighted by the invite to a launch party or opening night et al, I still enjoy 'soft openings,' as one tends to bump into familiar faces, and it usually involves free food and drink, yum yum!

But as for those loud brash affairs, I don't really care for them as much.

Hosting Lola (fun though thoroughly exhausting), is probably one of the reasons I don't go out as much these days, and also the reason I now get even more invites to other's events. I prefer my midweek soiree's (avoid weekends), arriving at the bar or club of a friend, just as they're kicking everyone out i.e. a 'lock in.'

Tomorrow evening I'm off to the launch of a new club (Vogue) for 'Bright Young Things', I'll pop in, as I'd like to support lovely chap who's hosting it, but shan't stay too long, how can I...there's work to be done and some serious puzzle solving to be had!

So, if perchance you're feeling a little stressed, I highly recommend a jigsaw, better still...pay me a visit and perhaps we can share a jigsaw together in bed, resulting in you being doubly de-stressed.

151.

2009-10-20T07:50:00.020Z

Raising my head from between R's loins I asked, 'Do you drink a lot of coffee?’ How do you know that Frances!'

Skin is a very porous thing as I once found out; someone asked if they could do a line of coke over the crest of my bottom and then over my inner thighs, I obliged though didn't partake; however, I had indulged, albeit naively.

Fellatio is a sure way to find out if someone is a smoker or not, then again, it's easier just to offer them a cigarette and see if they accept it, though it's not half as much fun for either party.

A few weeks ago, whilst greeting an acquaintance with a hug, they asked, 'Have you been eating garlic?' I'd been on a curry fest with a friend the day before, it wasn't on my breath, but they'd smelt it permeating my skin; fortunately, I wasn't entertaining any clients that day.

So...fellatio i.e. 'willy's/cocks/dicks/or bunny’s,' call them what you will, they come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. Some might bend to the left, some to the right, whilst others may bow north or south; sometimes one needs to apply the science of trigonometry.

There's actually a medical term for 'willy's' that aren't straight as a dye, it's called Peyronie's Disease; caused by a connective tissue disorder.

If you're really that bothered (I'm not), it can be corrected with surgery. Personally, I'd leave well alone; I remember a friend telling me that he'd been circumcised in his 20's and has since never been able to get fully erect again; if it ain't broke don't fix it!

Several years ago I was out to dinner with two friends, one was bemoaning the fact that he had a small cock, seven inches, 'Hey, that's not small, that's one and a half inches above average, I said, I'm seven, it more than enough for me!'

Meanwhile, the other friend bemoaned that his cock was 'too big,' nine inches! 'It's a curse, you really don't want a big cock, I have to hold my hand around the base, otherwise girls find it really uncomfortable, I'd trade cocks with you tomorrow,' he said, to my greedy and sufficiently well endowed friend.

Men, remember this; 'It's not the ocean it's the motion.'

Now, whilst big cocks may look impressive in a porn movie, they're otherwise unwieldy, impractical, more than a mouthful and quite frankly, a pain in the arse!

And so I say 'hurrah' for 'Mr Average' sized willy.

150.

2009-09-28T20:37:00.035Z

I have a love affair with food (epicurean), fortunately, I also have a love for riding my bicycle at any given calorific burning opportunity.

I've a hand-built Pashley cruiser, perhaps in some way, it's a little reflection of myself, casually sat back in the saddle, taking in the scenery, happy to detour if distracted by some appealing sight, sound or smell, arriving when I get there.

Such a laid back attitude toward life, can only be good for one's blood pressure and therefore, one's health and longevity.

I'm not some 'Tour de France' type cyclist, pedalling at break-neck speed as fast as the wind will carry me to my next destination. Nope, I'm more of a 'Bobbin Bicycles' cyclist, built for comfort not speed.

However, in the last four months whilst riding out and about, I've had more expletives thrown at me from impatient motorists, than I've had whilst driving about in my car in a year! My usual response toward such ignorant people is to smile, whereupon, said person/prat simply bears their teeth even more so; ho hum.

Last Sunday no such incidents happened, as the roads leading from Tower Hill to Buckingham Palace and back, where closed to motorists, as 65,000 men, women and children took to the streets of London for the annual 'Skyride.'

The average speed here in London by car is twelve miles an hour, that's slower than I can pedal!

I'd be tempted to cycle to my clients at their various West End hotels, but fear I might end up looking like a drenched cat dragged though a hedge backwards, should the skies suddenly decide to open, as they're apt to do here in London and throughout the UK.

Come spring 2010, I'm considering taking my bicycle to the 'Champagne' region in France, via Eurostar. Now, that would make a memorable holiday, weaving merrily along the dusty lanes from chateau to chateau, stopping off for liquid sustenance, a nice piece of squishy Brie and tearing at a freshly baked baguette.

Yes, food and bicycles, what a splendid combination: see, I'm not all 'Rock n Roll:.

What I'm reading in bed...

Now we are Sixty: Christopher Matthew.

149.

2009-09-14T23:34:00.054Z

Sprawled across the sofa, 'Bunny' (my affectionately named cock) and I lay thoroughly knacked i.e. sexually exhausted; what...you don't have a pet name for your cock?

The reason...we'd both just finished entertaining not one, but two couples, plus one of my regular client in less than twenty four hours! Now, if you do your sums right and stretch your imagination a tad, you'll realise that's twelve bunny holes.

I'd been corresponding with A and D for a few weeks and although this wasn't their first threesome, it was with one such as I. They'd booked into the Guoman hotel (bog standard toiletries) at Tower Bridge, just a five minute walk from my apartment; marvellous!

We met for drinks and an ice breaking introduction in the hotel's bar, which sports a fine view of the river and Tower Bridge itself, quite a sight when seen lit up at night.

Having now got acquainted and fantasy's (soon to become reality) discussed with diplomatic precision, we retired to their room. A, was the male Dom, D the female sub; roles they were both comfortable to play.

The evening's shenanigans went something like this...

Frances fucked A;
A fucked Frances;
Frances fucked D;
Frances & A both fucked D i.e. double penetration (DP);
Frances fucked A whilst D sucked her partner off;
A fucked Frances whilst D sucked Frances off;
Frances & D together sucked off A; Bingo!

A successful threesome needs the timing, precision and coordination of an 'Oxford vs. Cambridge' boat race.

All participants have to be pushing and pulling on the right stroke in the right direction and at the same time, otherwise, you're rowing against yourselves. Get it wrong and you'll all come tumbling down, usually over the side of the bed and into a fit of giggles, with the potential of some seriously bent tackle and broken oars.

Here's a little tip: if ever you have to cross a dance-floor full of people twisting and twirling, the trick is...dance across it, swerving and weaving between the bodies. This way, you're swaying with the rhythm/current of the crowd; walk across it like some robot and you'll be smashed against the waves.

The next evening saw me entertaining another couple at the Marriott Hotel (Molton Brown toiletries) Grosvenor square. D called at 6pm requesting that I be there in half an hour; 'I don't think so, this is rush hour, this is London!' I arrived at 7pm.

The door of the suite cracked open, I was greeted by a strong, cheery Aryan looking blonde (Austrian), an Annie Lennox look-alike sporting a black satin basque and knickers. 'Come in Frances, lovely to meet you,' I was shown to the bedroom.

There upon the super king-sized bed betwixt crisp white cotton sheets, lay a man with an obvious erection, pointing skyward; I didn't blink but I did think...'hmmm...haven't I seen this chap on the TV and in the movies?' We shook hands whilst accepting a glass of champagne in the other.

Not wanting to bore you with a blow-by-blow account, night manoeuvres went pretty much as they had the evening previous. Whilst getting dressed I casually enquired of D if he was living here in London. 'No Frances, I live in Switzerland now, tax reasons and all.' 'Aha I thought, a tax exile, that figures.'

They'd booked a table for 8pm at the fashionable restaurant downstairs from the hotel. The restaurant's GM, being a friend of mine, I thought I'd pop by and say hi. 'D, don't think me rude, but, discretion being the better part of valour, if I should see you in the restaurant I'll ignore you.' 'Thanks for that Frances, we'll call you next time we're in town.'

At 11pm, C, who must be my longest serving client, arrived at the Office. I donned a black a cocktail dress and we danced about the apartment together to a little light music; it was nice to do something a bit different, just the three of us, C, Bunny and I.

148.

2009-09-07T03:16:00.023Z

Perhaps I'm fortunate, but in this my present vocation, I've rarely encountered a situation where I've found myself uncomfortable.

My first line of censorship is the website, informing, presenting and hopefully, projecting who and what 'Frances' is as an individual; it's also an indicator as to the kind of person I wish to attract.

Yes, 'I too ' have a preference in regard to the kind of person I wish to entertain; following that I have the phone calls and emails to vet.

As to screening calls, it's all about listening behind the conversation, between the lines, discerning what's not said as much as what is. I can usually twig within ten seconds if it's a genuine enquiry or some 'tyre kicker,' by sixty seconds I've the red or green light; this evening appointment was curious, I wasn't quite sure?

Arriving in Islington I parked the car and approached a blue, sun bleached and metal gated front door. It wasn't a good vibe and I was feeling apprehensive. Now, the occupier may have their reasons for high security, but stood outside, one didn't need to be of a spiritual disposition to sense the lack of a glowing hearth like welcome inside.

It was now dusk, dirty grey net curtains and not even the flicker of an indoor light, only reinforced this abodes neglect and lack of hospitality; anyways I was here now, should I knock?

I tapped at the door twice then immediately span around on my stiletto heels, heading back to the security of my car and a short drive to an assured friendly welcome at the bar '69 Colebrooke Row.'

Five minutes later I received a call from my prospective client; 'Frances, was that you who just knocked?' I explained to X my apprehension regarding the situation and that I'd knocked to prove I was genuine and had actually turned up.

We talked for several minutes as X tried to persuaded me to come back; he sounded nice enough, but I needed to impressed upon him that ultimately, I'm responsible for any situation I might find myself in and that this wasn't to be one of them.

X has since text me to come visit him again, offering to increase my tribute, I've replied that I'd be quite happy for him to visit me here at The Office. As of yet, he hasn't taken me up on my offer and well, I guess I don't need the money that bad.

147. Part 2.

2009-08-20T12:34:00.034Z

Exiting the arcade and out onto Burlington Gardens, I walked the few paces into Cecconi's for a celebratory glass of bubbles, two actually, at the insistence of the GM.

As does the Wolseley, Cecconi's now cater for the popular/trendy 'Power Breakfast', served from 7am for those who want to seize the day (and their prospective clients still half asleep vulnerability).

The only reason you'll catch me up at 7am is for a trip to the loo, before scampering back beneath the duvet; I'm actually not a breakfast person, I'll just have a pint of water and a spoonful of yogurt, I'm more of a brunch gal.

'Ciao Bella Frances, you need to come in more often,' 'I will, I promise,' and off I toddled.

To Gerry's of Soho, London's alcohol emporium. Their strap line 'At Gerry's you can buy almost any drink under the sun,' is no overstatement; they were the first supplier to bring Britain: Absinthe from the Czech Republic, Cachacha from Brazil, and Pisco from Peru.

I however, was in pursuit of a bottle of 'Meukow' Vanilla Cognac.

Personally, I can’t abide the taste of Cognac, which is a bit of a shame because it means I’m missing one of the ‘Three C’s:’ Cigar; Cognac; Conversation. However, this vanilla Cognac just about gets me in the club. OK, so purists will scoff and I'll admit, yes it's a bit girly, it's like claiming Southern Comfort is a Bourbon.

The last time I bought a bottle must have been eighteen months ago; why, because I drink the damn stuff. It's simply far too moreish to have about the place, thus I avoid it as best I can.

My next port of call was the French House, where I sensibly ordered a Virgin Mary with a dash of sherry along with a cigar, I was really milking this parking ticket victory.

Now, you're probably thinking, 'But hey, that's not a Virgin Mary, it's got alcohol in it.' Well let me tell you, it's far easier to ask for it that way than saying, 'I'll have a Bloody Mary, ehhh...without the vodka but with a dash of sherry; see?

The club at where I host Lola on a Wednesday was just around the corner (Romilly Street) and so I popped by to say hello; a group of men were sat in the ground floor bar drinking, in their mist was the venue's PR lady, looking a little overwhelmed.

Whilst sat up at the bar amusing the staff with my 'David takes on Goliath' adventure said PR lady came over; 'Frances, would you do me a big favour; those men over there are from the press, they're doing a piece on the club, can you do your magic and entertain them, I'll take care of all your drinks, oh please?'

Well, never one to leave a young damsel in distress or indeed, pass up the opportunity of a free bar tab, I took up the gauntlet that had been thrown down before me. 'Hello boys' (instilling a sense of youth and mischievousness amongst them).

Two hours and an empty bottle of vanilla Cognac later (I like to share), amongst other various alcoholic beverages, they were now mere putty in my hands. I found myself in a similar situation this time last year (see Blog 118), when I did the stag party for the curator of 'Tate Britain', just me and fifty men; very nice.

Somewhere, lost in the passage of time, it was now 10pm; I took sustenance in the restaurant upstairs and charged it to the club, I'd earned my supper. Tempted to pop into Buddha Bar for a nightcap, the homing device in my head went off telling me to jump a cab and go home; it's never wrong.

In the last two weeks, the Metro newspaper (distribution 100's of ,000's) has ran not one, but two favourable reviews on both Club Lola and the restaurant 'Andy @ 23' on the first floor. All in all, I'd have to say that today was quite a result.

147. Part 1.

2009-08-09T15:26:00.060Z

Painting by Margaret Pepper.

I'd been in court for all of five minutes before the judge announced, ‘I’m sorry Madam, but I’m dismissing this case on a technicality.’

Lewisham Council had screwed up, having not presented their evidence against me in sufficient time for me to fully prepare my defence i.e. my ' Human Rights' had been violated...yes!

Having prepared my 'Bring on the revolution' speech, taken photos of incomprehensible road signs and even bringing along a little die-cast toy 'Mini,' with which to re-enact a scene from the 'Italian Job' atop the adjudicators desk, I was fired up and ready to rip!

If I'm honest (and I always am), I was a little disappointed at how swiftly 'The case of the Century' had concluded; like some damp squib, my parking ticket (PCN) appeal failed to even leave the ground.

Sure, a victory for me but a hollow one, having been robbed of my chance to perform a ten minute sardonic hatchet job upon the ‘Jobs-worth’ official from Lewisham council.

Ah well, I was free to fight the unscrupulous Traffic Wardens of London town another day!

It was now 9:45am, a glorious summer's morning greeted me as I skipped down the steps of the court; I was ravenous! All that unspent adrenaline had induced an appetite; there was only one thing for it, a celebratory full English breakfast at The Wolseley.

Dressed in a 50’s polka dot dress with frilly petticoat (would one attend court and flutter one's lashes otherwise?), I strap-hanged the tube to Green Park, bright as a button amongst a sea of grey; I was offered a seat several times but politely declined, choosing to vogue it.

Being smiley of face and chirpy of disposition, I looked ready for a big night out, either that or those brow beaten commuters thought I was retuning home after an all-nighter and yet strangely, still looked incomprehensibly fresh and amazingly intact?

'Is everything OK Madam,' enquired my waiter,' 'Yes, thank you, this black pudding is marvellous, where do you get it from?' 'Eh, we're told to say Scotland Madam but Shhh...(looks around), it's actually from France.'

A friend called, 'Hey what you up to?' 'I'm celebrating my lucky escape from five years hard labour in Siberia, come and join me, breakfast is on me!' He didn't take much persuading and arrived in under twenty minutes; we parted a little after midday;

Walking directly across Piccadilly I entered 'The Royal Academy' to browse amongst their bookshop. I considered buying a wonderful book of Pre-Raphaelite prints, but it was rather heavy to be carrying around all afternoon, as I intended enjoying my day out for a few hours yet; and anyway, don't we buy those expensive books from Amazon now?

A right turn out of the 'RA' and right again brought me into Burlington Arcade for a little window shopping; it costs nothing to look, and at these prices thank goodness!

146.

2009-07-26T18:02:00.018Z

The week.

Saturday.

To the opening of a new bar called 69 Colebrooke Row, it's owners, one being Tony Conigliaro are seasoned Pro's.

Tucked away down a side street and far from the maddening crowd, you'll find this 'destination bar' i.e. you'd have to know where to find it or chance upon it in a serendipitous moment.

A lot of the smaller boutique bars prefer this option, affording a Members club like feel with a selective and eclectic clientele, one that can hold their liquor too! Doors are closed at Midnight, but with a 2am licence, the evening/morning doesn't necessarily end once they're locked.

Sunday.

To a delightful corner pub I've recently discovered in Greenwich. As there's no signage outside to signify it's a pub (as with 69 Colebrooke), it makes for a more genteel clientele. It's benevolent Landlord sets out an impressive spread of fine cheeses and bread as well as the Sunday papers.

Along with a monthly live Jazz session, this is how a pub should be, free from televised football. Several hours later, I cycled back home in a somewhat zigzag fashion, whereupon, I performed culinary alchemy, a Thai beef and coconut curry.

Monday.

Lunch with a client at Imperial City over in The Royal Exchange; boy can this chap talk a lot; my plate was empty by the time he'd stopped to gasp an intake of air!

Typical of this business expenses establishment, who should be sitting at the table next to me but one Melvin King, Governor of the Bank of England. Yes, I was tempted to lean over and tap him on the shoulder...'Melvin darling, would you mind awfully, lending me a million till the weekend?'

Tuesday.

Unwittingly got involved in a 'Platinum' scam, worthy of its own Blog (coming soon).

Wednesday.

The electrics at 'Lola' blow due to three months of rainfall in just three hours; I get a call at 5pm that the club will have to shut. As we normally open at 7pm this leaves me with just two hours to email, text, phone and place announcements on various Internet chat-boards, that we'll be closed.

I frantically ring around various Soho clubs to ask if they'll let my crowd in for free, otherwise they'll be turning up in their glad rags and stuck with nowhere to go. A sign is pinned to the door with a list of alternative venues.

Still, I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of 'Mother Hen' and so go into town to make sure everyone is taken care of; a thoroughly exhausting evening I trust not to be repeated.

Thursday.

Today the mercury level touched thirty one degrees, causing my phone to over-heat with enquiries and yet, nothing transpires. Perhaps I should've mentioned the making out in a cool running shower option?

It was even too warm for a jog and being high summer, I'd most likely catch the sun and so lose my much worked on paleness. Things didn't cool off until 9pm, by which time I'd gone off the boil with regards to exercise and anyway, it was now 'Pimms o'clock.'

Friday.

To the Ritz hotel (Floris toiletries) to entertain a client I've seen before. He'd requested I bring along another girl and was looking forward to a long and sensual massage, yes, like a real massage. M, my companion for the evening, is a pretty Anglo/Spanish girl, 5ft 10inc, olive complexion and long flowing hair; perks of the job.

The suite was large enough to house three families quite comfortably and each with their own bedroom. Alack, 'A' lost a point, as many often do, by not offering us a refreshment upon arrival, water would have been fine; but he gained one back with his more than generous gift.

Producing his own massage oil from his shaving bag, we retire to one of the smaller/large bedrooms. Whilst they strip off I take care of the room's ambiance, turning down the lights and finding some appropriate relaxing music, I hover about the bed until it's my turn to take the controls.

A requested that I have my wicked way as he lay on his back, I obliged as M brushed her soft dusky breasts across his face. I don't think we were there more than fifty minutes; we left to the sound of gentle snoring; his, not ours.

What I'm reading in bed...

The Lady in The Van: Alan Bennett

145.

2009-07-17T22:13:00.029Z

Due to its bombastic calorific count and depth charge affect upon my tummy, I don't eat curry too often.

Up until I was twenty seven I ate like a horse and could easily pack away three a week, curry's, not horses, and still weighed a mere seven and a half stone; I'm not doing too bad, I'm only nine stone (126 lbs) now.

I was still buying my clothes from the children's department until the age of eighteen!

I dated a man once who didn't like curry, I should have seen the writing on the wall, this was a doomed relationship. A man who couldn't handle a curry, good God, that's not a man, that's a mouse!

And so, after treating myself to this occasional indulgence, I was deeply disappointed to have been delivered a dreadful takeaway. Herein is the missive I fired off to them with their reply...

Dear Sir,
this evening (28th June) I ordered a meal from your takeaway branch on Brockley road, amongst other things, a chicken madras. Having dined at your excellent restaurant before (Babur), I thought I’d follow this by ordering from 'Babur 443.'

Oh how woefully disappointed I was. It’s been a long long time since I’ve had the displeasure of eating such a rubbery, spongy piece of chicken; it was so rubbery that it squeaked ever time I tried to chew it, as my jaw sprang up and down during mastication.

My suspicions were confirmed by the uniformed cubes of meat floating in the curry sauce; chickens aren't made up of precisely standardised bite-sized squares. I know this because I've actually seen a real live chicken.

This chicken is obviously bought in frozen, and then thawed (thus the watery spongy effect). Indeed, it's most likely this chicken is pre-cooked too, then simply stirred into a warmed sauce, well that is how it tastes; having once worked as a chef, I know these shortcut tricks.

The word 'bland' isn't sufficient to describe the non-taste of this ehhh...mechanically reclaimed cardboard. Honestly, have you ever tried it yourself, if you have then you’d have no option other than to agree with me.

I treat myself to a curry once a month and am always curious to try somewhere new, in the hope that it might be the best I’ve ever ate; alack, your takeaway has to be bottom of my taste bud experiences to date. Well OK, there was that earthworm I once ate, but that was for a bet and it was free.

I’ve tasted better microwave curry's than this pap!

Had I owned a dog I'd have offered it to him, however, I wouldn't have held it against him for turning tail and running away, whimpering. I'm genuinely puzzled; surely, an award-winning establishment such as yourselves should be consistent across the board.

Whilst I accept a takeaway meal is never going to be as good as restaurant food, due to chefs, speed of delivery etc, I wonder why you'd even chance this reflecting upon the quality of your restaurant food?

Considering all the curry restaurants in this area, surely, it’s suicidal for you to even consider offering such dreadful fare?

Fortunately, I first experienced your excellent restaurant food, had it been the other way around, then I’d have been sure not to go within a country mile of your restaurant, based on this evening experience.

Armies march on their stomachs, people vote with their stomachs, followed closely by their wallets. I’d happily consider eating at your restaurant again, but I'll certainly be giving 'Babur 443' a wide berth, and doing the honourable thing, I shall advise my friends to do likewise.

Yours Disappointed

Frances.

Their reply...

Dear Frances,
I am truly sorry to learn of your recent unfortunate experience at our home dining. We have based our excellent reputation on fine food as well as quality service, and it come as somewhat of a discouragement to learn that we have missed the mark by such a margin on this occasion.

Having investigated the matter, I can only offer my most sincere apologies, and reassure you that we have redoubled our efforts to provide food of the highest standards and certain measures have already been taken to avoid such incidents in the future.

With this in mind, I wish to thank you for taking the trouble to write and explain the circumstances in detail and hope that my assurances will encourage you to order again in the near future.

Please use this email as a gift voucher for a nice bottle of wine when you visit Babur Restaurant as a good will gesture to recompense for the disappointment caused.

Regards

Emdad Rahman.

Well that's a bit of a half-baked reply; surely, a meal for two would have been the honourable thing to do, instead it's the offer of a bottle of house red plonk.

What I'm reading in bed...

Adolf Hitler. My Part in His Downfall: Spike Milligan.

144.

2009-06-25T13:37:00.037Z

It's 9am as our train pulls out of the magnificently restored St Pancras station.

To think, they actually wanted to demolish this place back in the 60's, thanks to ' John Betjeman' they didn't; we're headed for 'Gay Paree' and a few days of well earned R&R.

Arriving at Gard de Nore, we tear down the platform to be first in line for a taxi; dilly dally along now and you'll find yourself at the back of a queue for some forty minutes; we waited just the five.

Due to our early arrival at the hotel, Park Hyatt Vendome (Blaise Mautin toiletries), the room wasn't yet ready. No matter, we decide to take a stroll and have ourselves some brunch but not before meeting with the hotel's GM for a personal welcome; much fawning and bending over of the back did ensue, as well as a major room upgrade.

You see, N holds a 'special card,' presented to him in gratitude of a selfless act of generosity toward the staff of one their hotels several years ago. 'Frances, see this card, its paid me back a hundred times,' and it continues to stand him in good stead.

After brunch I decided to make use of the hotel's spa but oppps, I've forgotten to pack my swimsuit. Now, I can be quite dexterous with a towel in the steam/sauna, but sitting in a Jacuzzi with a towel wrapped about myself, well, that's just plain odd, nor would it be too popular with the spa staff.

And so, I walked the block to 'Galeries Lafayette' to buy a swimsuit. Riffling through the racks, I was surprised at how expensive they were; I thought, hang on a minute, this is France, the country that gave us topless bathing.

I settled on a pair of bikini shorts, thus saving myself 50% on the price of buying both pants and bra; I'm frugal. Of all the days I used the spa I saw just one person in there, it was nice having it all to myself; it also gave me the opportunity to take lots and lots of toiletries, unnoticed.

But the biggest kick I got whilst in Paris was...pedalling about on a bicycle! These are dotted all over the City and if you can return it to a bike station within half an hour, that's all you pay; this is pretty easy to do, as there are several thousand bikes and many parking stations.

The scheme 'Velib', is not meant as a profit making exercise (listen up London) but rather, to encourage people to get out of their cars and commute about town in a greener/healthier way; it seems to be working.

So inspired was I, that when I got back to London, I went straight out and purchased myself an English built Pashley bicycle. Not only is it fun and usually faster than a bus, but along with my jogging, it'll help keep me fit; and everyone said 'Amen' to Frances' toned legs, thighs and bum!

However it has to be said, breaking in that Brooks leather saddle has left one feeling...ehhh...a little tender and I'm not so sure about the Lycra shorts look, well I mean, it just might give the whole game away, if you get my drift?

143.

2009-06-19T14:01:00.019Z

Oh the scandal...!

I met X down at Lola a few weeks before the MP's expenses scandal broke. X, Conservative MP for a Southern Shire, had stumbled upon the club by chance...hmmm?

'So, how did you find us,' I enquired, 'Oh...I was just walking by and saw it;' not likely I thought to myself, but he was here now and that's all that matters.

We engaged in conversation for some ten minutes before I said, 'Forgive me, but I'm just having a bite to eat up in the restaurant, do you mind if I pop back down in twenty minutes?' 'Well I've not ate yet either, can I join you,' and so we continued our conversation over dinner.

X was curious to know about me and the club, then proceeded to tell me about him and his various business interests. Funny that, I thought, where does he find the time to trek off abroad to look after these business's, isn't he suppose to be looking after the interests of his constituency, the one's who voted him in; isn't that a full-time job?

I asked for the bill; 'No no, please, let me get this Frances;' the government picking up the tab for my dinner, sure, I can deal with that!

We retired back downstairs to the club; whilst he mixed and mingled freely, me being the good host, went off and worked the room. I sometimes have a photographer who'll take pictures for the Lola website, however, he's under strict instructions to ask peoples permission first, as I wouldn't want to compromise anyone's identity.

X was happy to be photographed with me, I asked if he'd mind if I put it up on the site, he was fine with that. Before leaving, a little before midnight, he gave me his card and asked if I'd like to join him for lunch at the 'House of Commons' the following week, I promised to call him after I'd checked my diary.

My morning routine is to first read my mail, check if all my sites are up and running and then go to the BBC News website to catch up on the all latest. This morning however I jumped; splattered across the front page of the news was a photo of X, he'd been implicated in the expenses scandal, oh my.

Not wanting to compromise either he or myself, I went straight into the Lola site and took down his picture; I didn't relish the thought of some journalist raking about for a back-story...X + Lola + Fransexual = yet another scandal?

Oh dear, so does this implicate 'me' in the present MP's expenses debacle...marvellous! Well, I guess that free lunch gratis of Her Majesty's government has been knocked on the head then, damn!.

What I'm reading in bed...

Essays: Francis Bacon.

142.

2009-05-30T17:45:00.064Z

It's 1am and in my darkened bedroom and a damn mosquito is buzzing around my ear; I switch the light on, it hides, I switch it off and the bloody thing goes in for the bite again; it's me or it!

With a can of bug killer in one hand, a torch in the other, I go mozzie hunting around the room. Scanning the ceiling I spy him sat on the ceiling cornice; I make my move and extinguished the enemy; now perhaps I can get some sleep?

I'd only got to bed at 7am that morning, due to a late gig then chilling out with 'The Frantastics', I'd taken several naps throughout the day to get me by, but now I'm restless and mozzie hunting hasn't helped any either.

At 1:30am my phone rings; 'Hello, is that Frances; I'm sorry it's late, but I just got in from Australia this evening and I'm jet lagged; is there any chance you can come over to my hotel for a few hours; I'm staying at Blakes (The White Company toiletries) in South Kensington.'

I think to myself, ah what the heck, I can't sleep anyway and he sounds a nice enough chap; 'Well, it's going to be about 2:30am before I can get to you, would you still like me to come over?'

Blakes is a small boutique hotel, favoured by the music and film set; N being the former and a big cheese in Australia's music business. He was stood outside the hotel having a smoke and taking in the cool night air, cool enough for me to not need a coat, just a light floaty gossamer dress, heels and stockings.

'Hello Frances;' greeting me with a handshake and kiss on the cheek, 'very classy, very discreet.' 'Ha, did you expect me to turn up looking like something out of Pretty Woman,' I reply.

We enter the lobby, the concierge at the front desk acknowledges us with a nod; this hotel has a reputation for keeping schtum regarding their rich and famous guest’s comings and goings, thus the reason it's popular with them.

The suitcases scattered about the suite were half-unpacked; N, having just landed had obviously dashed out to some business dinner (or he was a messy pup), in this case, to Mr Chow's.

A bottle of fizz sat chilling in an ice bucket; good man, that'll do nicely I thought.’ Do you have a curfew Frances, can you stay until 7am, I just want to have a good time and relax,' enquired N.

With a wrap of coke and a bag of dope next to a half drunken bottle of beer, his mission to chill looked pretty much on course to me! Cracking open the champagne he poured me a glass then rolled a dollar bill, 'would like a line too Frances, 'not for me thanks; I'm happy with the bubbles if you don't mind?'

The CD's supplied in the room weren't much cop, so I popped out to the car and got something better to listen to; I now keep a selection of music in my dedicated 'Hotel visits bag' for future occasions.

We spent some four hours talking; massaging each other whilst laid out across the four-poster bed; took a shower together for no particular reason and played a little.

N had conference calls to make back to Oz at 7am, so we did a room tidy before I left. I disposed the remnants of his dope smoking down to loo; folded up the clothes spewing out of his suitcases and neatly stacked several thousand dollars that had been thrown upon the desk and coffee table:

I tell you, Australian dollars are strange things, wipe-clean (spilt Fosters?) and impossible to tear, they've a waxy greaseproof paper texture with little clear plastic windows you can peek through, most strange.

It was 8am when I finally crawled into bed, accompanied by a long and well deserved glass of champagne. As I was driving I couldn't glug the whole bottle, and so took the remaining half of it with me; I sure didn't have any trouble dropping off to sleep after that.

What I'm reading in bed...

The Uncommon Reader. Alan Bennett.

141.

2009-05-26T00:48:00.035Z

All aboard, all aboard!

Living this serendipitous life of mine, I often find myself in some rather unusual situations; it also affords me the opportunity to get up to some pretty cool stuff too!

The latest fun thing was to be invited for a day out aboard The Orient Express.

(Click Here) to view the video.

T (see Blog 127) was back in town for a month's holiday, spent riding 'First class' up and down the country on trains; I’d like give that a whirl myself one day; Britain’s countryside, seen from the window of a moving train has to be one of natures most beautiful views (it's all that rain).

I’m no early bird, though, I’m told as one gets older one needs less sleep; might it also be the dread of snoozing away one’s autumn years? Anyways, I had to be up at 7am for to be at Victoria station, as our train was due to leave at 9am.

Eleven 1920's Pullman coaches stood ready to depart and whisk us away on a rambling four-hour journey to the great spa town of Bath. We'd be taking the slower scenic route; first south, then west, before heading northward toward Bath.

As the train pulled slowly away, daily commuters alighting on the opposite platform smiled, some waved, a few scowled, envious and disgruntled with the whole affair, but hey, who could blame them?

Grey suburbia past by our window, clumps of bluebells along the cuttings cheered the view. At 9:30am a champagne breakfast was served to our table; what a civilised way to slip into the day, I thought. The scene had now turned rural, spring lambs (they do actually spring) jumped and suckled in the green and pleasant fields of England.

We were encouraged to walk the length of the train and view all eleven coaches. Now, although they may look uniformly the same from outside, in their distinctive chocolate and mustard livery, within, each carriage is unique.

The lamps and fittings (brass or chrome) are original 20's Deco, the walls richly panelled and veneered. The loos are panelled too (and creaky), with mosaic floors depicting some bygone Roman Emperor. Funny that, the faces of the once most powerful men on earth, relegated to a toilet floor upon which commoners like me, stand upon for to take a wee...hmmm.

Arriving in Bath sometime after 1pm, we were given the option of a two hour Tour Bus; somehow the lure of sitting on a bus didn’t quite cut the mustard after four hours on the Orient Express, so T and I opted to kick about the historic streets.

Bath is a City; you need to have a cathedral to be called a City, Wakefield in West Yorkshire being the exception; I lived there once, very sleepy.

I take great umbrage with any 'House of God' that would charge me to enter, either to admirer the handiwork or to simply worship and pray. Yes, I’m well aware of running costs and maintenance, and I’m quite happy to give a donation on my way out, but if they insist I pay to even get in, I spin on my heels and walk the other way.

This particular cathedral suggests a donation, but it's not compulsory for admittance, I like that; sadly, I take great umbrage with Westminster Abbey (C of E) charging £15 to enter and pray, so I go down the road to Westminster Cathedral (RC).

We took afternoon tea in the splendid Georgian Pump Room; I had a glass of the warm spa water which comes straight up from the ground; it tastes rather odd, like boiled kettle water gone cool; I'm sure it would taste better chilled?

4pm and we were back on the train Orient Express, T had arranged for a chilled bottle of champers to be served as soon as we pulled out of Bath station; it was a four hour journey back to London.

An hour into the ride, and a four course silver service dinner later, we nodded off awhile, sinking deeply into our sumptuous cushioned winged armchairs. The combination of arising early, daytime drinking and the gentle clickity clack of the rail track is futile to resist...yawn.

We pulled into Victoria station a little after 8pm; the Maitre D took my hand and helped me down from the train. 'Did you enjoy your day Madam,' 'Oh yes, it was wonderful, but I'd rather hoped to find a dead body.' 'Well Madam, if you'd cared to look around you may have noticed a few,' referring to some of the more elderly passengers; a bit cheeky I thought, but an amusing observation.

T wanted a memento of the occasion, a photograph, I thought we could do better than that. 'Oh look,' I said, as we walked out through the station, pulling out a genuine Orient Express teaspoon from my pocket, that'll make a nice memento.' 'Oh Frances, you're incorrigible,' T replied.'

Flying Easyjet is never going to be quite the same again.

140.

2009-05-09T15:16:00.044Z

The last time I saw E, some eight months ago, he was busily engaged in a foursome.

A girl I occasionally entertain with had suggested to the others flagging there, 'Let's call Frances, she'll get things going;' and so I was invited to join in their little soiree/orgy of three girls and E.

The girls looked weary from four hours of partying, coke and champers; E however, was still in his stride. I injected a new twist into the proceedings and a welcome distraction, before bringing things to a close.

Being in a room full of coked up people can be quite amusing, observing everyone scurrying about like ants on the move, racing around both physically and emotionally; in this instance, naked ants.

Of course, those who indulge themselves are quite oblivious to this, being high they're beyond seeing the larger picture or the finer detail of what's actually going on around themselves.

I like a drink, but I'd never drink to the point of compromising my situation or integrity, where I was no longer in control or couldn't see below the water line. It's not that I'm some control freak but rather, I've lived my whole life in one role or another, as both provider and protector.

E and I had been trying to link up since then, but with one thing and another, we just couldn't find a date to settle on. 'Frances, I'm flying into City airport next week, what's the chance of me coming over Friday teatime?' ''Sure E, consider it done, I'll put it in the diary right now!'

Sixty-something, tall, distinguished and speaking in a plumy voice, E looks like he could be a Tory MP; I later found out that he did run for Parliament, but wound up as an adviser in the Thatcher government.

'Do you like caviar Frances,' said E as he handed me a bottle of champagne and a black and gold box, 'Ohhh yes, but lets crack this bottle first; I'll put this in the fridge for later.' We sat on the sofa and caught up on the news.

‘Do you know any girls who might like to join us,’ E asked. I went through my list of suitable girls; V couldn’t make it as she had a prior engagement; M wasn’t answering her phone and N must have changed her number, as all I got was a dead line. ‘Well E, it looks like it’s just you and me kid.'

It was just as well we didn’t get anyone over, as we’d only been in the boudoir some thirty minutes before he'd blown his gasket. ‘E, I jokingly scolded, there was at least half a dozen other position to do before blowing your top!’ ‘Oh dear I’m sorry Frances, please take it as a compliment;’ I accepted the compliment.

I went and fetched another bottle of champers from the fridge. ‘Are you hungry Frances,’ ‘Yeah, I’m famished, lets go get something to eat; there’s a wonderful Michelin star Indian just around he corner, Cafe Spice, lets cab it there!’

I can’t eat Indian food more than once a month, it’s so heavy, but the food at Cafe Spice doesn’t leave one feeling like that, it has a lightness to it; although it’s rather heavy on the pocket.

Having polished off a bottle of pinot noir over dinner, I'd began to wane; E didn‘t look like he was up for a 100 yard dash either, so kept me amused with tales of shenanigans at Conservative party office and strange goings on behind the doors of 'Number 10.'

Let me take a moment here to give you a little tip...unless one cares to look like Shane MacGowan, a gal should never drink anything heavier than a pinot noir whilst out in public. Having met Shane on many occasion down at Gerry's, with hand on heart, I can vouch the look is not becoming.

It was 9pm; E flagged a cab and dropped me back at the Office before continuing on; I took a hot shower in the hope it might revive me, it didn't; so it was on with my jim jams and to the fridge for a glass of milk before bed.

But look...oh dear it's the caviar, I’d quite forgotten all about it. In the sealed Caviar House black box was a weenie 30 gram tin of Beluga, I picked it up and read the receipt, £150...ouch! Right then, that’s breakfast sorted, caviar and the remainder of last nights champers; very nice.

139.

2009-04-19T16:40:00.037Z

Now that was a night and a half!

Arriving at LOLA at 7pm, I set about sorting the music for the evening, a task simplified by the fact that I‘ve a designated 'ipod,' loaded with 24 hours of continuous lounge music, all ready to go at the press of a button.

The wonderful thing about this is, it then leaves me free to work the room, meeting, greeting and encouraging the timid newcomers from out of the corners and introducing them into the fold (I was there once).

Next, I popped round the corner to the Gay Hussar restaurant, where a few of the girls were having a pre-LOLA meal, amongst them, Turner Prize winning potter, Grayson Perry, dressed in a 'Little Bo Peep' number; so nothing new there then.

I’d a pre-arranged appointment at the Office for 10pm, this left me with two hours to play hostess, before returning again later. The club began to fill up at 9pm, by 9:30pm it was chocker; I asked Dick to hold the fort whist I was away and to tell anyone enquiring after me that I’d be back in a little while.

Arriving at the apartment, I make haste up the staircase, switch on the music in both the sitting room and boudoir, then repair my lipstick smudged cheeks from greeting guests; a quick spray of Chanel No 5 down my cleavage and I'm ready.

S was bang on time; he'd earlier asked if he could orgasm more than once, ‘Hey, if you come ten times in an hour, then count this one on me,’ I replied. But, like most men, he found his desire was bigger than his ability, he didn't even come twice. ‘Hey look, why not join me down at the club for a nightcap, I’m buying.’

‘A G&T for my guest please Dick, thank you.’ ‘What a marvellous place this is Frances, I love it, I’ll certainly be paying a visit next time I’m in London,’ said T before eventually heading back to his hotel.

Sat up at the bar suited and booted Colonel T, a client of many years and now retired. At 72 he's still one of the sharpest, smartest dressed men I know, sporting a head of dashing silver grey hair.

T. 'So, are you going to pop by later Frances, I've not seen you in awhile.'

Me. 'Ah, but you've not called me in awhile.'

T. 'Do I have to; you have my number, you know you can call me anytime.'

Me. 'Well, I wouldn't want you to think I'm bothering you.'

T. 'Of course you'd not be bothering me, that’s why I asked you to keep my number.'

Me. 'OK, I promise to pop by later, but it's going to be quite late by time I'm finished here.'

T. 'It doesn't matter what time you come, just as long as you do.'

It's now 1am; I'm sat in the deserted upstairs bar, collecting my thoughts after the end of another successful, albeit exhausting evening. My phone rings; 'Hello, Frances, I got your number from the Internet, is it too late for you to visit me at my hotel in Docklands?'

I pull up outside the Hilton (bog standard toiletries) at 1:25am; the marble floor of the deserted lobby amplifies the sound of my heels as I glide toward the lift. M, is a thirty something New York banker; after a long and stressful evening of meetings he's in need of some indulgence.

'So, have you met people like myself before,' I ask, 'Oh yes, in NYC.' 'Was it by accident or design?' 'Oh, most defiantly by design,' M replied.

Some forty minutes later, I tuck M up in bed and switch out the lights, leaving a contented young man with a smile upon his face. Right then, that’s two deliveries of Frances’s magic fairy dust done, one more Tinkerbell visit to go.

And so for the fifth time that evening, I drove past the Tower of London, making it to my Lieutenant for 2:30am;

T had already gone to bed so, having a set of door keys I let myself in, disrobed in the sitting room before slipping into bed beside him; 'Thank you for coming my darling Frances.' 'Well, I'm all yours until four o’clock, then it's carriages for me.' I got to bed at dawn.

What with all the events of the evening/morning and though my body was weary, my mind was wide-awake, I tossed and turned until the clock chimed 6:30am. The following day was a write off, but no matter, I think deserved the day off after all that.

138.

2009-04-07T13:13:00.020Z

After the end of a successful gig in London town with the The Frantastics, I wondered off into Soho for a little of my own entertainment.

The Café de Paris were hosting a Burlesque contest, all fans and feathers and the suchlike; the bouncer on the door called out to the clipboard Nazi, ’Guest list,’ before I wandered down to the balcony area surrounding the stage below.

Burlesque was massive just a few years back, it seemed any fashionable club worth its salt dedicated at least two nights a week exclusively to it. Its influenced, having been adopted by many bright young things, seems to have encouraged a more flamboyant dress sense amongst them. However, Burlesque has since peaked and people are already looking for the next big thing?

‘Nice outfits don’t you think,’ said then man next to me leaning on the balcony. ‘Yes, I really like that one in the royal purple outfit, it's my favourite colour,’ I replied: hmmm…isn’t he the man off the telly I thought to myself?

‘So, you’re here for the show,’ he asked, ‘No, I’ve just finished a gig, I’m having myself a bit of downtime, and you?’ ‘Oh really…I’ve just finished a gig too, one of those after dinner speech things over at Grosvenor House.’ ‘And did you enjoy it,’ I asked, ’It was OK, some sports personality of the year award; Rory Bremner’s spot was good, he’s always good.’

Ahhh…I thought to myself, I got it now, he’s that suave ladies man sports presenter.

‘Oh I’m sorry, I’m C, would you like a drink,’ ‘Thank you C, I’ll have a spritzer;’ we retired to a booth and exchanged small talk for what must have been nearly an hour?

‘Would you like another drink Frances,’ I don’t think so, it’s too noisy in here, we could go onto my club if you like?’ ‘We could do that or…we could have a quiet drink back at the Grosvenor, they’ve given me a nice suite for the night.’ ‘OK, lets do that' I replied; 'look, why don’t I meet you at my car say in five minutes, I’m parked in Jermyn Street, just outside Waterston’s.'

I couldn't remember if I'd seen any photographers outside and so I thought it prudent not to be seen walking out of the club with him, as his sexuality had been the subject of much media attention in the past; I’d no intention of sparking that off again and nor was I in need of any resulting exposure myself.

Before driving off I turned to C; ‘Look, before we go there’s something you should know; well…I’m not quite all the woman I appear to be, I mean, there’s more than meets the eye.’ ’Good, I was hoping that, lets go,’ replied C. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, I turned the key and off we drove to Mayfair.

‘A glass of champagne Frances,’ ’just the one, I’m driving.’ It’s funny how people believe that just because someone is famous, they must have a super human libido and the sexual prowess of Casanova; I can tell you categorically, this is not the case.

I'm reminded of Elvis's later girlfriends, how he would sit there in bed wearing his pyjamas and have them read to him until he fell asleep; I guess you can get too much of a good thing?

‘What’s that mark on your arm Frances, you don’t do drugs do you?’ I’ll admit I was a little miffed by this remark and I made clear in the tone of my reply. ’No C, it’s where I got my smallpox injection as child, look, see, just like the one on your left arm.’

It was now 3am, we both lay there drifting in and out of a light sleep; C got up and went to the bathroom.

‘Frances, I think I’m going to head back home, why don’t you stay over and order yourself some breakfast, it’s all charged to the room.’ ‘Thanks C, but I’ve got and early appointment in the morning, I think I’ll head back too; do you have far to go?’ ‘No, just a few miles west,’ Well, give me a minute and we’ll leave together, I’ll drop you off at home.’

I’m still not quite sure why I accepted C’s invite, it’s not like I ever go looking for casual sex, after all, I’m the kid with her own candy store in that department! I suppose I was just curious to see if those rumours were actually true? Well, it would seem this ladies man does like his ladies served with a little something extra on the side too.

137.

2009-03-23T18:00:00.042Z

Last week Rebecca, a female Dom, called to ask if I'd assist her with a client who wanted to be 'Sissified;' this involves dressing a man up in woman's clothing, before having one's wicked way.

The Dom thing isn't really my department, a bit of slap and tickle is more than suffice for me. I remember the first time a man took me over his knee (1993), it was at the Intercontinental hotel (Molton Brown toiletries) on Park Lane: he was to become my partner for seven years.

C placed me over his knee and rather big knees they were too, he'd once played a season with the New York Giants; the top of his thigh being the size of my waist (at the time), he was built proportionately, although the old saying 'Big feet big...' didn't equate. Actually, I felt a little silly about the whole thing, but I guess he thought (wrongly) I'd get off on it, can't think why; we never did do it again.

I arrived at Rebecca's dungeon; ropes, pulleys, restrains, handcuffs and various queering chairs were dotted about the room. She briefed me on the requested scenario and explained I wasn't to do anything I was not comfortable with, for me that's anything unsafe. Like a good Sub should, the client arrived bang on time; a big burly Polish man, over here for business and not a little pleasure too!

We set about dressing him in stockings and heels, a corset and French knickers; these didn't stay on very long as one of his requests was to be shaved. With a BIC razor in one hand and a bowl of hot soapy water, R set about denuding his appendage; I much prefer the denuded option, after all, who wants a mouthful of coarse hair whilst enjoying fellatio?

Now freshly mown, we moved over to a leather topped table, where R set about whacking Mr Polish on the bottom with a large leather paddle; he wasn't allowed to speak unless spoken to.

It was my turn next. With Mr Polish shackled to a flatbed swing, suspended by chains attached to the ceiling, I set about helping myself to his virginity. I was careful not to thrust too hard, otherwise he’d go sailing off on some awkward tangent, or God forbid, to the other side of the room!

I continued on for as long as I could stand upright in thus position. Moving back to the table it was time for me to be fucked, well, that was the plan but so aroused was this newly broken virgin, I'd barely lubed up his cock before he exploded in my hands; so that was the end of that then.

I rode into town and had myself a little supper at Alistair Little; it was only 10pm but now replete, content and tired, I resisted the temptation to go bar hopping on the Dean Street shuffle. Instead, I toddled off home to an early night, a mug of steaming hot Horlicks and a good book: hey, it's not all rock n roll you know!

136.

2009-03-15T17:46:00.034Z

Well there we go, another year older another year wiser and without cynicism; sadly, age has that effect on some people.

The day started early for me, rising at 8:30am, I wasn't about to snooze away my birthday, I couldn't have anyway, as the doorbell rang five times between 9am-11am.

First up, a large bouquet arrived, so big that I had to separate it into two vase's, amongst the colourful spray where two of my favourite flowers, daffodils and lilies, my third being bluebells.

Shortly after, UPS delivered a large box containing a DAB radio, so now I can listen to birdsong, the roar of the sea, the howling of the wind and a thunderstorm as it slowly builds up to a crescendo; I'm a romantic.

Next, a case of Jacason 2000 champagne arrived via Theatre of Wine, very nice; I'll lay some of that down for a few years. That was followed by a packaged containing a cashmere twin-set, I already have the pearls, I just need the country manor to complete the look. Last but not least to arrive, a hamper from Fortnum & Mason.

As on every birthday, I determined to go for a jog. I headed over to the Office, donned my running gear and I was off. First over Tower Bridge, along the South Bank, across London Bridge, through the Bloody Tower, St Katharine's Dock and back to my apartment.

Halfway through my run C called, 'Sure 4pm is good, oh...and I'm actually out jogging if you're wondering why I'm puffing and panting?'

Club LOLA was on this evening and having only just launched it I thought it best to pop by, as people would be expecting to see me there. I arrived at 7:30pm and stayed for an hour, before heading off to join half a dozen friends for my birthday dinner at Elena's L’Etoile.

Much hilarity and joviality ensued between courses and yet more presents were gratefully received. Costas, the GM, was as ever, both gracious and generous toward our party.

We arrived back at LOLA a little after 11pm, things were swinging along to the smooth Rat Pack soundtrack playing in the background. Someone had spread word of my birthday, as strangers showered me with good wishes, kisses and the chinking of glasses.

Sometime around 1am a few of us tumbled out and wobbled around the corner down to Gerry's for a nightcap; I jumped into a cab sometime after 3am, my fuzzy head hitting the pillow not long after.

What a wonderful day it had been: I'd received some marvellous presents, took a little exercises, entertained one of my dear clients, shared dinner with good friends and finished the night/morning with dance; could one ask for more, me thinks not? Anon.

What I'm reading in bed...

Soho Society. Berni Katz

135.

2009-03-03T14:41:00.052Z

'Isn't this so cool, we're still sitting here after an hour, looking out over Hyde Park and talking intelligently,' said L; 'are you OK with this Frances, I mean, we could go down to the bar if you'd rather?'

'I'm here to see you L, not a gaggle of wannabes in some dimly lit bar.' Once upon a time The Met Bar was the hottest place in town, now it's just full of starstruck wannabes.

And yes it was a splendid view, high up in his suite at the Metropolitan hotel on Park Lane (Invigorate toiletries). Across the lane in the park, lampposts flickered and lights danced in the trees blown on the breeze, to the left stood Number One London bathed in a warm amber glow.

L is 50 something and in advertising, yes he was wearing a black T-shirt and yes, he has taken up the guitar; I promised to bring mine along next time and have a bit of a jam.

I was surprised by L's eagerness to bare his soul in regard to who he really was, 'compelled to,' were his words; well I'd never ask! Now, whilst I found his honesty commendable, I do wonder what if he'd given this information to some unscrupulous person, the press would have one heck of a field day with it!

Sat upon a brown leather lounge chair, sipping bubbles, I recited Wordsworth and Betjeman, L (reluctantly) read a chapter from his bestseller on brands and branding and supped on a bottle of beer, it was neat listening to an author read their own work.

'Have some nibbles, have some chocolate?’ ‘Aha, so you're trying to get me addicted to the brand huh,' I joked. 'No not at all, our client is the other brand,' he laughed. We retired to the boudoir some one and a half hours after my arrival.

'Hey Frances, look, I'm here every month, would you like to meet up for dinner, just say anywhere you want to go, Le Gavroche, you choose?' 'Ohhh...and I could wear stockings and suspenders and you could let your hands wonder beneath the table,' I replied. 'Now Frances, that definitely sounds like a plan!'

I dressed, pulled on my raincoat and turned up the collar, 'What are you doing L?' 'I'm seeing you to a cab,' 'Don't be silly, there's no need to get dressed, I'll see myself out, you go to bed,' 'No, I insist on seeing the Lady to her cab!' We kissed goodnight on the pavement outside the hotel, promising to meet up again next month...

I've a birthday coming up soon and I'm wanting one of those smart DAB radios, as I'm spending more time tuning into Radio 4. What's really clinched it is the ability to listen to stations such as Birdsong Radio, live.

So, last week I popped by John Lewis and checked out a few of these DAB radios, they had about ten on display. I then set about tuning all ten of them into Birdsong Radio before whacking up the volume, ha, everyone in the store looked utterly confused, scratching their heads in wonderment at the sound of this invisible aviary.

I slunk out and made my exit, chuckling to myself along the way like some mischievous school kid...

'LOLA @ The Green Fingernail' continues to be a great success, I might be onto something here, 'LOLA' the brand perhaps?

134.

2009-02-23T14:13:00.053Z

♫ I met her in a club down in old Soho where you drink champagne and it tastes just like cherry cola ♫

Wednesday the 18th saw the launch night of a new weekly lounge club night that I'm hosting called 'LOLA @ The Green Fingernail'.

Over the years I've been asked by both club promoters and the T community, to open and host a club, truth is, I don't hang out on the scene much these days, nor have ever come across the right place or people to make a go of it.

A few weeks ago, friend and ex-barman of the Colony Room Dick Bradsell, approached me with the offer of hosting an evening at his new venue '23 Romilly Street' Soho. Right location I thought, good venue and indeed top barman, 'Sure, let's give it a whirl,' I replied.

Our first night was a resounding success, though I'd been on tenterhooks throughout the day wondering if anyone would really turn up, my worries were quite unfounded.

I agreed to launch the club with conditions...

It was to be a dance/disco free zone and I'd have carte blanche on the music, lounge music. Also, it wasn't to be exclusively T Girls, as the girls themselves wanted something more mainstream in which to mix and mingle. Oh...and I'd be requiring a cab to and from the venue, a bottle of champagne and a tab for guest drinks.

What inspired me to launch this club was the lack of options T girls have. Stereotypically, it's either a Gay club/bar playing dreadfully loud dance music, or venues aimed more toward playrooms, both fine if you're into that?

However, most of the girls I know want to strike out into a world far removed from that, most certainly the 30+ something’s do; indeed, it's one of the reasons I myself moved on from the scene, having outgrown its limited available options.

Being Hostess with the Mostess is an enjoyable though demanding affair, flitting from table to table as one meets and greets whilst making people feel welcome; it's nothing more than what I do each week, but distilled into five hours.

I also needed my antenna up with regards to the music levels, the lighting (the bar wasn't a problem, real Pros there) and one eye on the staircase as new guests arrived.

I've committed to giving the evening four Wednesday's of my time, after which, I'm hoping it will have gained its own momentum and so only needing me to pop by in order to check all's well and that they're sticking with the brief.

I'm reluctant to associate this as 'Frances' Night,' as I can't promise to be there every Wednesday and after all, I do have other distractions to occupy me.

Having done the majority of the donkey work (still needs a few tweaks), it's now up to the girls to make this work, because 'If you don't use it you'll lose it' and so girls this is your evening, it's over to you now.

♫ It's a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world except for Lola ♫

133.

2009-02-11T20:57:00.003Z

Let it snow let it snow let it snow...

And oh how it snowed, a good ohhh...six inches thus paralysing the world's capital, its effect not being dissimilar to the Blitz; guess it was that 'Once in every twenty years' thing that caught us out?

I was back at HQ when the snow began softly falling late Sunday evening. Being a meticulous (some say anal) person, I went out at midnight to clear the snow from off of my car windows, thinking I'd have less ice to remove come the morning. When morning did arrive, my now white and softly contoured car was as indistinguishable as every other one on the street.

Oh well...the Office is going to be quiet today, I thought as I looked out upon a Christmas picture postcard setting. Nothing could get in or out and public transport wasn't an option, it was simply non existent. As children, we lived for days like these, 'Hello Mrs M, this is Saint Columbus school, please don't send Frances in this week, as there aren't any teachers here.'

So, slipping into something baggy and loose I made a roaring fire in the fireplace, kept burning all day and evening with several bags of the 400 year old wood I'd been given a few weeks earlier, having come from the belfry of Saint Barnabas, a local church who were hanging new bells.

Actually, I used to be a Campanologist i.e. a bell ringer.

Half a dozen friends came by after lunch; whereupon, we went out into the garden for a snowball fight before making a giant snowman. I brewed up a large pot of hot cider with apple, ginger and cinnamon sticks, which we gleefully drank as we thawed and warmed up around the crackling fire.

It was Wednesday before I even attempted to head over to the Office, I thought I'd busy myself with various sock draw tidying duties, as there wasn't going to be much action in the boudoir this week; several disappointed clients had already called to postpone their appointments.

Come the evening I felt a bit of a temperature coming on and so was away to bed by 11pm, a hot mug of Horlicks in one hand, British Railway Modelling magazine in the other; and I'll bet you were hoping I was going to say 'cock in the other,' tut tut tut.

Ring ring...'Frances, it's J, sorry it's late but I've just got in from Switzerland, I'm wired and jet lagged, I'm staying over at Claridges (Asprey toiletries), any chance of you coming over for a few hours? I was all cosy and toasty but J, perhaps sensing a slight lack of enthusiasm in my voice, proposed a generous tribute that I'd have been silly to refuse.

Arriving in furs a little after midnight, the doorman pulled open the heavy ornate Deco door and dabbed his topper, 'Have a good evening Mom.' Hmmm...and just what kind of a 'good evening' was he suggesting after midnight? Far too professional and discreet to even hint but yet, he'd managed to suggest my possible options.

I feel sorry for J, he feels sorry for himself and you would too if you were 6 foot 8inches tall! He once told me, 'Frances, I've put my Osteopaths two son's though college on my back.'

Having just got back off the wagon for the whole of January and being complimented the previous week from three different girls, 'Frances, your skin looks amazing,' I had to think twice about the chilled bottle of Krug in the ice bucket. This winter weather doesn't do one's skin any favours, combined with running a temperature I declined; I'll kick myself next week.

I suppose due to J's jet lag, soon after his orgasm he fell sound asleep on me (or is it just a man thing?), I left my arm under his head for fifteen minute until it began to go numb. 'J, I think I'll slip off into the night and let you get some rest.'

By the time I'd stepped outside and into my car, it'd begun to snow heavily again. Driving home I considered yet more sock draw duties for the remainder of the week and so it was so.

132.

2009-01-28T20:25:00.038Z

If one is going to have their contact details out there on the web for all to see, one has to accept that there's bound to be a few Time wasters coming your way, especially if those details are of a sensual nature; Richard is one of them.

I'd received a mail some two weeks earlier, 'This is my first time, could we first meet for lunch and after my business meeting I'd then like to visit you.' That sounded fine to me, as long as he understood that I don't do interviews, my time is my time, we agreed on this.

The day before our meeting he asked if we might bring another girl on board, I replied that it was his prerogative, however, having never met him, the onus was on him to make arrangements with the girl, as I wasn't prepared to carry the can for a prospective client I didn't even know possibly not showing up?

Indeed, I can make such arrangements, but only if I've met said person before.

That was the first flag, a bit of an usual request I thought, for someone who'd never done this before. He replied to say he'd just leave it as it is then. The second flag was his request for 'A picture of your extra parts,' a genuine client wouldn't ask that. Now, call me old fashioned, but surely they’d already be up on my site if I did such photographs; second flag.

We'd not as yet spoken on the phone, that usually sorts out the boys from the men in the email department, I'd specifically requested that he confirm by phone on the morning of between 9am-10am, to which he agreed.

I'd already had a mind to go into town on Monday for a spot of shopping and so the lunch appointment would work out just fine. It was now midday and still no phone confirmation, 3rd flag, I checked the reservation with the restaurant, 'No, I'm sorry but there's no booking under that name Madam,' said the receptionist, 4th flag, this wasn't going to happen.

I wouldn't even fall out of bed with all those flags up, but my worse case scenario would be, I'd be buying myself lunch, no problem there then. So, being the curious type and as it wasn't out of my way, I stopped by the bar of the restaurant at the agreed time.

Well what do you know, he wasn't there.

I now have a smart piece of software that can tell me where an email is sent from within a half mile radius, marvellous!

My curiosity satisfied, I jumped the tube to Convent Garden when who should be sitting across from me but Edmund, friend and dinner/drinking companion. 'Lovely to see you Frances, where are you off to?' 'Oh, I'm just off to do a bit of shopping.' 'Ohhh...shall we do lunch, it's on me!' 'Yeah, that's a splendid idea,' I replied; that's serendipity.

After lunch we parted, promising to catch up when I was drinking again. I'd not been out in town since before Christmas, what with being on the wagon and all it best avoided.

Whilst strolling through Soho, I spied Dick, barman extraordinaire, we embraced. 'What you up to Dick,' 'I'm running a new club just round the corner, want to come see it?' He took me through the four floors of the townhouse (circa 1740) and out onto the rooftop.

The view across the chimneys tops of Soho was reminiscent of a scene from Mary Poppins, a perfect moment for us to dance a jig and sing a chorus of Chim Chim Cher-ee, causing us to fall about laughing so hard we had to hold our sides.

'So, what do you think, you like it?' 'Yeah, it's bloody marvellous, and I love the concept of all the different rooms.' 'Well Frances, you're going to be one of our first members and I'd love you to get involved with the music side of things.' 'Sounds like a plan,' I replied. I toddled off as pleased as Punch, as one door closes (Colony Room) another one opens.

I picked up a few bits and bobs before popping into the Algerian coffee store (circa 1887) on Old Compton Street. Whilst eyeing their exotic range of teas my phone rang, 'Hi Frances, it's J, I've not seen you in months, will you be around about sixish for a couple hours of fun?'

'Ah yes...I'll take the finest tea you have thank you.

131.

2009-01-14T19:40:00.036Z

P had seen my ad in the 'Forum' magazine, it's just a small lineage ad but as cheap as chips to advertise in, plus, it's one of those magazines that lays around or is passed on for months if not years, this one ended up in India!

'Frances, I'll be passing through London in a few weeks, would it be possible to visit me in Heathrow?' I pencilled it in but didn't hold my breath, so I was a little surprised when he did call to say he'd be arriving the following evening.

After confirming the surname (recognized it from somewhere?) to the hotel booking I set off, arriving at 8pm. Greeting me at the door, towel wrapped about his waist and sporting a large glass of wine, he beckoned me in; a forty-something, thick set and about my height.

'Please, join me in a glass of wine, I make it myself, it's a 1999 Chardonnay, tell me what you think of it?' I'm not big on Chardonnay; it's usually oaked to compensate for its lack of ageing and depth, I took a big slurp. 'Ohhh, it really is quite nice, thank you.' 'Well then, you must take a bottle with you before you leave,’ said P.

I picked up the bottle and read its distinctive label...ahhh...so that's where I recognised the name from; I buy his wine occasionally. The business was started in the late 19th Century and has succeeded under its present owner (P) to become one of the most respected wines coming from and beyond the Rhone valley.

He had me down to my stocking and suspenders within minutes of arriving, a Pro in the art of seduction; but hang on a minute I thought to myself, this is suppose to be my job! You've heard about men whose eyes were filled with lust, well this was one of them.

‘Frances, can you stay for more than two hours,' ‘perhaps, let’s just see how it goes shall we, I replied. He was on the large, or rather, thick side down below, which, to coin a phrase, can be a real pain in the arse, unless one goes real slow and uses plenty of lubrication.

He informed me that he'd cleansed himself thoroughly before my arrival (we like that) and that he'd like to be fucked every which way, of course, I obliged. But alack, no matter how hard and fast I plunged into him, I just couldn't seem to give it to him hard enough; first I was on top, then I was on the bottom, I took him from behind then on his side, we finished with me standing; we did every position bar hanging off of the balcony.

Even after climaxing, he was still as erect as a freshly baked baguette.

Retiring to the bathroom I disposed of the evidence. The trick is not to simply drop it down the loo, as they tend to float, but rather, wrap it up in a wad of tissue then flush down the loo, it’s the only to get rid of the damn things.

Having repaired and reapplied, I was ready for our next bout, but twenty minutes into round two he began to wane, and thank goodness too!

By now we'd both worked up a rather healthy appetite, P asked if I'd ate already, I'd not and so we ordered dinner. Room service arrived and served us whilst we sat in bed. P promised to call the next time he was passing through town which he did, just a few months later.

What I'm reading in bed...

Rain Later, Good. Peter Collyer.

130.

2009-01-11T13:04:00.029Z

As you might imagine, from time to time I'm asked for one of those more unusual request, if I can accommodate then I surely will, but I instinctively know the one's that are going nowhere.

Occasionally I'll have someone read off a checklist, describing graphically the things they'd like to engage in, these people are pure fantasists and voicing themselves to a stranger is one of those fantasies.

I deal with such calls by either letting them ramble on a bit, having first gently placed the phone down then toddling off for a minute or two, or I'll say, 'Look, why don't you write it all down and mail it to me, if it's do-able then I'll reply,' that'll usually kills it dead in the water.

J had called the night before, asking if I could visit him at the Hilton Metropolitan (bog standard toiletries), but didn't confirm until 1am, by which time I'd gone off the boil and my head was in slumberland mode, so we arranged for the following evening.

He'd asked me to bring along a Bible, some lipstick and a dildo, funny combination I thought but hey, who am I to question?

I don't like the Metropolitan, it's clean, but a large proportion of it's guests are pilots, cabin crew, office party types and gaggles of trashed hen night girlie's, wobbling about the lobby and corridors, clutching the remains of cheap fizz and close to resembling road kill.

Suffice to say, if you're ever considering staying at a London Hilton, I'd give this one a miss, it has as much charm as an airport transit hotel.

J was a tall attractive twenty-something from Lebanon; he'd moved to London to escape the stifling laws of his homeland. 'Frances, I want to become a Christian, can you tell me how, can you read the Bible to me,' and so I read a few chapters from the gospel of Mark and expounded on the Christian belief.

'And Frances, I want to become like a woman, how can I be like a woman?'

'Now hang on a minute J, wanting to become a woman and simply dressing up in women's clothes for sexual kicks are two very different things. Do you really want to go through all the surgery and expense, I'm guessing you don't.' And sure enough by time I'd finished explaining the massive undertaking and commitment, he didn't.

'Did you bring the dildo and lipstick with you (the wanting to be a woman bit),' 'Yes, I have it right here,' I replied, pulling out a slick eight inch crystal affair and a spare lipstick. The excitement was all too much, J's cock was as sensitive as a hair trigger; it took just six strokes before he was all spent.

Whilst leaving the hotel, swerving perilously to avoid the hen/stag night casualties and having left J both physically satisfied and mentally stimulated, I thought to myself, that was more like a school lesson, not a decadent moment.

If only my school teachers had been that helpful, I'd be an 'A' class Student!

129.

2009-01-02T19:58:00.047Z

That was the week that was (TWTWTW) Part 2.

Dec 24th.
Its 9pm back at HQ and I'm sat around the kitchen table with five friends, having prepared a supper of bangers and mash with onion gravy, all nicely washed down with several bottles of red wine. At 11pm we wrap ourselves up before strolling up the hill to the local church for midnight mass, carols and mince pies.

Back home at 1am we sup warm mulled wine around a roaring fire before retiring, each to their own bed.

Dec 25th.
Arising at 9am we assemble in the sitting room for 10am; it takes a good hour for us to open all our presents, then a light breakfast before taking a walk in Greenwich Park, some wearing their new hats, gloves and scarf’s; it's a bitterly cold day but no white Christmas this year.

I spend three hours in the kitchen preparing dinner for eight, which I love to do, we sit down at 4pm. Lamb, chicken and salmon is set down on a long table decorated with candelabras and holly, there's red wine, white wine and champers too; cigars are handed around after the pudding. Adjourning to the sitting room some two hours later we play board games, cards and charades, television is banned on Christmas day.

Dec 26th-Dec 27th.
Off I go to spend a few leisurely days on X's country estate.

Whilst driving south, I hear the man on the radio talking of the horrendous queues for the Sales, I'm grateful to be driving in the opposite direction of the hell that is London's West End. My bedroom (one of ten) at the manor house, overlooks a vast ornamental garden and a frozen fountain, beyond that I see deer in the fields and sheep grazing, idyllic. At eight we all dress for dinner followed by party games, which are played all over the house; I turn in at 1am leaving them to it.

Saturday morning I'm taken for a spin around the local village in a 1923 Humber 8-18, all wrapped up in scarf and hat I feel like Mr Toad having just stepped out of the pages of 'Wind in the Willows. But what's this...even more fun, our host records me playing the 'Chartroom' song on his Edison cylinder Phonograph and then plays it back, thus creating a 19th Century recording of a 21st Century song...bloody marvellous!

As many of the other guests didn’t get to their beds much before 8am, the following night was a sedate affair, spent sprawled in front of an enormous crackling log fire, just four of us remaining of the original fourteen guests.

Dec 28th.
A quiet leisurely day all to myself at HQ and a chance to play with my Scalextric slot cars.

Dec 29th-Dec 31st.
To Brighton with my good friend B, for two days RnR and with whom I was to share my last bottle of 1988 Salon champagne because, like sex, somethings really are better when shared; bought for 100 pounds in 2001, the 1998 now sells for 1,400 pounds a bottle; I should have bought a lorry load of the stuff!

We checked into the lovely boutique Bed & Breakfast Brighton House a stones throw from the beach, a beach without sand.

Taking in the rolling hills of the South Downs one is reminded of just how beautiful England is, despite its ever increasing urban sprawl. Although Brighton might be on the coast, there's not an awful lot of choice in the seafood department and fish & chips don't count. The owner of the one fish restaurant we did visit in 'The Lanes,' was so surly toward us that I sharn't be returning there anytime soon.

Dec 31st.
10:30pm finds me performing at a Masquerade ball for 300 twenty something’s in the City. They'd all pushed the boat out with their flamboyant dress, as for the few who didn't make much of an effort, they found themselves looking like lemons. I do two fifteen minute sets, during which I notice an extremely pretty and leggy blonde who's beaming at my whilst I'm singing, a potential groupie? I make eye contact mid song and give her a wink, she lights up like a Christmas tree and moves closer to the stage.

Finishing my set I take a bow, retreat to the loo and repair my glowing face. I'd loved to have followed up on the blonde, but I've a 1am gig at Cipriani's in Mayfair...damn!

The staff and management at Cipriani's are dancing and cavorting with the diners, obviously having hit the bottle early, but everyone is in such high spirits they're all past caring. It's half an hour before I'm on and I can see the piano player has lost interest, having already played some three hours of lounge/pop songs, his audience are drifting away too.

I do my turn; there's a visible sigh of relief and excitement that I'm not about to inflict any more lounge muzak upon them and oh how they jumped!

'Frances, I wish you'd come play earlier, that music he's playing is driving me f**king nuts,' says M, the general manager. However, I like it this way, come in when it's hitting a low, do a fifteen minute sting and then leave them wanting more. Yes, it's cunning I know, but it's a proven technique and...it keeps me in drinks and a few meals for the rest of the year.

By 2:30am the last of the guests have left, now the fun begins proper. A few cases of Dom Perignon are cracked open, though most of the male staff are on beer, out comes the guitar again, the tables are pushed back and away we dance until 4am. I crawl beneath my bed sheets sometime after 5am, tomorrow I'll be on the wagon for the whole of January.

128.

2008-12-24T00:04:00.039Z

That Was The Week That Was (TWTWTW) Part 1.

Dec 18th.
To Blacks for dinner with a friend and of course, it being the season to be jolly, I took along my trusty ukulele. This didn't go unnoticed by ten young twenty something's celebrating Christmas drinks there too. And so, doing the honourable thing I entertained them, that is, I got the ball rolling and they just took it away. So loud was our merry making that the neighbours complained, so we adjourned to the basement and continued our frivolity until kicking out time at 1am. I now have a new fan base.

Dec 19th.
To the Officiall last night of the Colony Room Club, after 60 years in existence, it's all very sad. However, it did go out with a bang, a verbal fisty cuffs slagging match between the old school and the new splinter faction, a violent water gun fight, oh and someone got a bloodied nose.

I was stood at the Formica covered bar drinking with actor Keith Allen (father of Lilly) and Zed, of the terribly loud hard rock band Zodiac Mindwarp, before collectively deciding to abscond the now imminent riot/bar fight, slinking off next door to the Groucho, with trusty 12-string guitar in hand.

Upon entry, one of the managers (the grouchy one) spied us ascending the stairs to the top bar. 'Ehhh Frances, you sure you don't want to leave that guitar in the cloakroom, it's really packed up there.' What he was really trying to say was, 'Oh God...I predict a riot.'

'Nah...we're taking it upstairs,' snarled Keith back at him, Keith is known for his snarling character, both on and off screen. And of course a riot did ensue, as we encouraged the singing of bawdy rock n roll takes on Christmas classics. Some, danced upon their chairs whilst I stood aloft on a wobbly table, having commandeered it as my stage, bating them and stirring up a festive hornets nest.

The word incorrigible comes to mind; it remains to be seen if I've now been banned from the Groucho?

Dec 20th.
The Unofficial last night of the Colony Room Club. As the entry-phone had been smashed up in the brawl the night before, access was now by secret text, that is, for those who even knew there was to be a Part 2.

The Colony was infamous for its libertine drinking habituates and there was a heck of a lot of booze in its cellars to be polished off. I witnessed some folk knocking back industrial amounts and yet still they didn't fall over, such was the resolve of a Colony Room member.

Boy, my head hurt for them already in anticipation of their ensuing hangover.

We danced and oh how we danced, I even danced the doce-do to myself as they played the 'Chartroom' song, it felt quite surreal and yet gratifying, me dancing to me, that was a first. I left a little after 2am, the last one left at 2pm...ouch!

Dec 21st.
Had to give The Blockheads gig at Shepherds Bush Empire a miss, I was all out of juice and was now beginning to sounding like Lauren Bacall. 'Come on Frances, you're a triple AAA,' said Lee, their manager. 'I'm sorry Lee, forgive me, I'll have to 'Pass Go.'

Dec 22nd.
'Hey Frances, I like this new sexy voice,' says R, one of my regulars who'd popped by to indulge in his Christmas present from him to him. 'Well I don't care for it R, I'm singing for the staff and my supper at Hawksmoore tomorrow night,' I replied

Dec 23rd.
I can't do Hawksmoore's thrice cooked chips with my 400g rib eye steak anymore, it's simply too much, so I now have it with just a salad on the side. And oh how I love a place where my money's no good, but welcome to leave a tip, although even that can be a bit of a fight. The staff looked knackered after the Christmas onslaught, so, unlike last years sing-a-long with 70 odd diners, we had an intimate jam, after first kicking everyone out.

And now dear reader, all that remains is for me to wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

127.

2008-12-20T16:02:00.036Z

T and I had corresponded for several months before his holiday in London from the US, indulging his passion with trains, both the real and model variety.

Now, spending ten days travelling up and down this country on a train, might sound like hell to you and I, however, he'd be doing it in style, First Class all the way whilst soaking up the views.

This would also be T's first visit to a gal such as I, though not without a little doubt and an awful lot of trepidation toward our encounter.

Sometimes this can get to be a little like fishing, you want to land them but if you're too keen and go tugging on that line too quickly you've a good chance of it snapping and them swimming away. I don't care for the hard sales pitch, 'Oh...well if you don't do it now your chance will be gone forever,' rather, I simply let them know I'm here and in their own good time they'll eventually arrive.

Of course, some require a little more encouragement than others. Perhaps they doubt they'll be able to rise to the occasion, deliver the goods, or worry they might be the only person in the world with such sexual urges, desires and curiosities?

Now let me assure you, paying me a visit isn't quite like appearing on 'The X Factor', nor a visit to the dentist, it's not at all painful and nothing more is anything expected than to have ourselves a jolly good time.

I once had a gentleman call me every month for a year, promising that he'd visit me. I'd actually given up any hope of it every happening, but he was always polite and courteous on the phone and so hey, it took a few minutes of my time. I'll admit, when he did eventually arrive I was pleasantly surprised.

As we grow older curiosity gets the better of us and things begin to stir, we become aware of all the other sexual options out there, not just the usual vanilla, but is it not so with all things?

There are two options; you give it a whirl and perhaps find yourself pleasantly surprised or, you lay there on your deathbed and think, 'Damn...I wonder what it would've been like?' Come on now, this is not quite like jumping off of Beachy Head, one can choose to do it or not again, it's nothing final.

T arrived a 'Doubting Thomas' but left as a true believer, Hallelujah! He returned (with flowers and perfume) the following week and we spent four blissful hours together; now that's what I call a convert, Amen!

Ohhh...and he also left with a rather expensive pair of four-inch topped laced French stockings, the one's I'd been particularly requested to wear; but then, 'It is more blessed to give than it is to receive.'

126.

2008-11-30T14:52:00.048Z

And so it's off to the House of Parliament, to meet and discuss with several supportive MP's and a committee from the ICP, our united objection to the introduction of a new bill the government are trying to usher in.

Supposedly, this new law will stop the sex trafficking of vulnerable women, the government claim that 70% of all Escorts are East Europeans forced into work, a statistic that's been plucked out of the air, when actually the research shows it's only 1.8% of women here in the UK, what a wonderful flight of fancy.

The House of Parliament is a very cold building indeed, it being vast and made of stone, though it must feel wonderful in the summer with an ice cream in hand. Wisely, I'd chosen to wear my embroidered frock coat, thus keeping myself toasty warm, though I did have a mind to tell the staff, 'Oye...will you turn that bloody heating up,' after all, I pay my taxes to keep this place and the clowns who allegedly work here, standing.

I enter a large oak panelled room, the vast stone fireplace to one side (not lit) being large enough to stand inside, no flat pack here matey, this is your 19th Century real McCoy. Some sixty people were sat around long oak tables that ran the length of the room, across and back again.

For two hours we debated this useless and un-enforceable charade of a bill. Having examined it more closely, it's nothing more than a foot in the door towards a total no tolerance of Escorting be it legitimately or otherwise. Presently, as the law stands here in the UK, the exchange of monies for sexual favours is quite legal.

However, every other year along comes some jumped up MP, obviously not busy enough (why?) with ministerial duties for and toward their constituency, who gets the hots for their fifteen minutes of fame and so proposes a bill to stamp out the 'Oldest Profession.'

Now, I'm no rocket scientist but, if the Greeks failed in stopping this, the Romans and the Church too, what hope has some upstart from the Shires in turning around history? Have they forgotten why we actually voted them in...to get the bloody traffic moving and our trains running on time (just like they do in Europe), not to pass judgement on our private lives!

Of course, they'd have us believe this is a moral crusade and sure, that's all good and well if one so chooses to live by the same moral codes of conduct as do our MP's and let's be honest here, they're suspect even at the best of times.

'You what...PM's and MP's screwing around behind their husbands/wives backs...good God man perish the thought!'

And hang on a minute, isn't that D chap an MP?

125.

2008-11-24T13:29:00.029Z

Monday evening saw me at the Mandarin Oriental hotel (Aromatherapy Associates toiletries), entertaining a rather timid Arab chap.

I used to frequent this hotel's cocktail bar, that is, before the smoking ban came in, as it had a wonderful selection of cigars. Sinking into a lounge chair, Patagas D in one hand, Caparinia in the other, I'd chill to the sound of the jazz trio playing up at the bar.

I should add, I never engage in liaisons in such places, it’s purely downtime for me, unless of course I've pre-arranged to meet someone.

Upon entering M's room I spied 'Al Jazeera' news showing on a ridiculously large plasma TV, it didn't look very nice (rarely does), scenes of war and carnage. Commandeering the remote control I tuned into Jazz FM, 'There that's better, a little more congenial don't you think,' he nodded meekly.

'Right then, do you mind if I just go use the loo, back in a minute.' I plucked half a dozen tissues from a silver box, grabbed two large flannels and a bottle of moisturiser; I popped a small boxed posh hotel soap into my handbag (leaving many more), they help keep my lingerie draw smelling sweetly; perhaps you've noticed?

'That's a nice looking bottle of aftershave you have there,' I said in way of conversation. 'Would you like to try it Frances?' Me thinking he means I should smell it I say yes, he then proceeds to spray it all over me...aghhh!

M was both pleasured and gratified in little more than twenty five minutes, so much so that he'd fallen asleep straight after climaxing; men!

I took a shower, scrubbing the aftershave from off of my skin, dressed and repaired my lippy, he was still asleep when I came back to the bedroom. 'Eh...I think maybe I should go now,' as I gently stroked his shoulder in the hope of awakening him. Oh, oh sorry Frances.' 'Not a problem M, tell you what, why don't you climb underneath the covers, I'll tuck you in and switch off the light on my way out;' click.

Harvey Nicks being just across the road, I nipped in and dosed myself liberally with Chanel 5, escaping before one of those death mask like beauticians could catch me and so avoiding a ten-minute sales pitch.

Thursday 11am found me at St Brides church in Fleet Street for a thanksgiving service of recently departed friend, David Chipp. We'd been requested not to wear black and so I wore my riding outfit.

I first met Chipp in a wine bar (officially) near his home in Belgravia, 'Champagne...champagne's not alcohol,' he roared, I knew then that we'd get on and for twenty years we did. A Leander man and Stewart of the Henley Royal Regatta, he'd often arrange my badge for the Stewards enclosure; priceless! And, if on the odd occasion I was a tad worse for wear to be driving back to London, he'd make room for me at the riverside bar/hotel, The Red Lion.

Being the first Western journalist allowed into Communist China, he had a wonderful story of his meeting Mao Tse-Tung before then stepping on his foot, rather than being sent to the firing squad, he was given his own Chinese name by Mao.

After the service a few hundred of us retired to Stationers Hall up on Ludgate Hill for the reception and to indulged in Chipp's favourite tipple. A Quartet performed his favourite pieces from up in the gallery, while the waitress's weaved amongst us bearing large silver platters of food and bubbles.

A throng of journalist where in attendance, a few gossip columnists I recognised approached me (separately). 'So, how do you know Chipp (digging for dirt), I never knew him to be a ladies man?' 'Ohhh...we were just drink champagne and fall over kinda friends,' I replied. 'What, nothing more?' 'Well if we were I'm not about to tell, so there.' This only served to fire their interest even more, I took their cards, but I'll be having no need of them.

I'd talked to Chipp just a week before his departure, we'd arranged to do lunch. He was a fan of the Blog and as I'm hoping to put it in book form next year, I wanted to bend his most knowledgeable ear on the matter; alack.

Last week I finally deleted his name from my phone, it felt a little surreal to be prompted 'Do you really want to delete this contact?' it was like pulling a trigger, closure. And so there goes one of my finest drinking partners, I'll miss those long liquid lunches at the Ivy and all the banter.

124.

2008-11-12T07:47:00.082Z

Dawn breaks over London town as I skip down the steps of the Berkeley hotel (Asprey toiletries) and into a chill November morn.

'Morning Madam,' smiles the doorman, exhaling a warm breath of air as he taps his top hat. Now, if I'm sharpish, I'll get back to the Office before the Congestion charge/tax kicks in at 7am; vroom...

I used to frequent the hotel's Blue Bar years ago, that is, before Madonna discovered it, followed by a deluge of Star-fucking, tap water drinking, groupies and voyeurs; it's secret was out and so I left the building along with all the other regulars.

Celeb endorsement is often the kiss of death for many of these 'Best kept secret' bars. Once the fickle Celeb and their entourage move on, the place has been so denuded of its once original character and regular clientele, they've either got to re-invent themselves or go bust!

Exposure doesn't equate longevity, quite the opposite, there's only one direction to go after being the hottest or latest place/thing/person in town and that's down. Sadly, I've seen this happen to several of my cherished drinking haunts.

I've never been a follower of fashion nor trends, rather, preferring style; but oh Lord, the price I paid for it at school...ouch...there're times I'd swear I can still feel those bruisers.

Anticipating an early morning call (8am) I'd left my phone on after going to bed.

Ring ring...bleary eyed, I look at the illuminated bedside clock, 4:42am, I hit the straight to voice-mail button; the phone flickers, an answer-phone message. Now lying there awake, curiosity gets the better of me.

'Hi Frances, this is D, sorry it's so late (so early me thinks); I'm staying at the Berkeley, if you get this, please call me back, thanks.' I do my sums; well I guess I could go and then sleep in a few hours more in the morning; I return the call.

'Sure, I'll come over, I'll be there for 5:30am.'

SHOWTIME...into the shower, makeup and lingerie on and off I whizz. It being that time of the morning I breezed along the Embankment, having hardly hit a red light I arrive at 5:23am, now that's grease lightning!

'Wella wella wella, tell me more tell me more!'

D greets me at the hotel entrance before escorting me up to his room; it's obvious his mother never made him tidy up his bedroom. 'Can I get you a drink,' 'oh, just a glass of water thanks,' not even I drink champers at this time of the morning!

I locate the remote beneath a mound of pillows and tune into Classic FM; nothing quite like a bit of baroque sex, a marvelous combination. Dimming the lights I stripped down to my stockings; D was keen, nay, eager, oh alright then...pleading, that I screw him. 'Well, I do have the technology,' I replied. And so I obliged and then I obliged again, this time from behind.

Whilst in the bathroom, repairing myself for the journey home, one is mindful not to frightening the reception desk with a look and visage of fresh road kill (bit of a giveaway that), D enquired if I'd stay another hour, I agreed and so fucked him twice more (that has to be at least a 500 calorie burn)!

If it wasn't for the fact that he'd a 10am flight to Dubai, I doubt I'd have been home much before midday! I promised to visit him again on his return in December, that rather cheered him up.

My 8am call didn't transpire (thank God), just as well as I didn't fall out of bed until 1pm.

123.

2008-11-03T15:08:00.074Z

The death knell is ringing up at The Colony Room; come Christmas it will be the end of 60 years of 'Rush up, Drink up, Spend up and Fuck off!'

Here's a recent article (Click Here) about the club that'll give you some idea as to what made it unique and why it will be sorely missed, not only by its members, but Soho itself.

I was first introduced to the club some thirteen years ago. A framed photograph of a naked torso hangs upon one of its walls (see Blog 46) and the mystery...is it me? 'Oh come on Frances, tell us is that you?' 'Well, I really can't say, I mean it's got no head, what do you think,' is my reply. It certainly throws the member's guests.

Why, only last week I strolled in with a ukulele under my arm and ended up performing a twenty minute rock n roll duo with David Soul AKA Starsky & Hutch, that's a typical serendipitous moment up at the Colony; boy will I miss that!

There's now a splinter group (Save the Colony) who want to reopen it at another venue round the corner and though their intent is good, I've a gut feeling it's not going to work. I'm a firm believer that it's the members who make a club what it is, however, there's a strange alchemy about this room that intrinsically makes it the Colony; probably all those ghosts?

Thirteen years ago I ran a Club/Drinking Den called the Tatty Bogle in Kingly Court, that's how I became infused in the Soho scene, a sort of osmosis into its not so obvious twilight nether world, the tucked away side of Soho.

Rules of the club were simple; we don't care if you're rich or famous, how much you made today or whether you were on the telly last night, leave your baggage and ego at the door and come down, we're all equals here.

The blend was eclectic, Lords & Ladies, singers who'd earlier just stepped off the stage of the Royal $Opera House, now looking for a drink and a bawdy singsong (we had a grand piano). Musicians, barmen and Maitre D's from the Savoy / Ritz and other such establishments, Trannies, actors of both stage and screen and occasionally (well behaved) gangsters who'd enquire, 'Frances my darlin, I hope no one's been givin you any trouble...or else!' Death perhaps?

We had our very own exclusive West End show and oh how we'd dance; come 4am people were reluctant to go home and I'd have to cry...'You don't have to go home but you can't stay here!'

I'd often send people home early; if after telling me they'd a very important interview / audition in the morning, I'd give them one last drink and that was it, home! 'You can't do that to me Frances, I'm a member,' 'Yes I can, I'd reply, I'm the boss in here, I don't want you losing that job just because of a hangover, now scram!'

They'd inevitably come back the next evening 'Frances, I got the job, thanks for not giving me another drink last night.' I guess I became a bit Mother Hen working behind that bar as the members became endeared to me and I to them.

Sadly, with the recent cleansing and gentrification of Soho, such places are becoming extinct, there's maybe half a dozen left and certainly no shortage of people wanting to join. The golden age of Soho's louche drinking clubs are nearly over.

122.

2008-10-25T15:36:00.111Z

My London.

Frances on eating, musing and pleasure.

Where do you live and why?
Tower Hill and Greenwich. The Office is ideally located for entertaining, a mere fifteen minutes from the West End and just twenty minutes from HQ, where the views rival those of Hampstead Heath, north facing vista.

What have been your most memorable meals?
1. The River Room at the Savoy. I thought it odd that my partner of 7 years felt the need to impress upon me, 'Frances, I admire you because you're such a strong person, you've come through a lot and you'll continue to come through.' I'm thinking...'What the heck is he banging on about (he having promised to look after me forever and ever amen), why does he suddenly feel the need to be saying this?' Alack, I was dumped just a week later, 3,000 miles away via telephone. Men are really crap at dumping people...

2. (see Blog 52)

Where did you spend your last holiday?
Spain; a villa up on the NE coast. I spent five days eating, drinking, reading and swimming in the pool and snorkelling in coves. I'd swim wearing a big straw hat, sunglasses and a buttoned up white shirt, so as to avoid catching the sun. People must have thought, 'Oh dear, it's one of those English eccentrics!'

What's your earliest London memory?
Coming here aged eleven on a Cub Scout holiday weekend. I remember the fairground in Battersea Park and late night pillow fights in the dorms against the rival Scout packs; we always won.

What do you miss when you're out of London?
The weather; four seasons in one day.

What advice would you give to a tourist?
Look up and avoid Oxford Street. As for those scary looking Punk Rockers, bless, they're actually a mild mannered bunch of people.

What's your favourite home comfort?
That'd have to be my bed. I promised myself the best mattress I could afford, so I blind tested a dozen. Having decided on The One, I flipped over the card to see the price...ouch...I bought it; it's like sleeping on a cloud. I hope they have beds in heaven, nothing quite beats a nice long lay-in and I'm about due for one.

What's your life philosophy?
Be kind to yourself, you're worth it.

What would you do if you were Mayor for the day?
Round up all those dodgy traffic wardens and drill them on the rules of fair play, as only the English know how (think bus queue); when in Rome.

What are your current projects?
I do believe this very Blog is coming out in book form sometime in 2009. It will include stories that you won't find here on the web, so you'll just have to go out and buy it then won't you!

What's your favourite street in London?
Jermyn Street; you'd swear you were back in Dickensian London.

What are your favourite late night hangouts?
If we're talking sunset-sunrise then it has to be Trisha's or Gerry's; you'll not get in unless you know the secret knock. Suffice to say, if Simon Cowell 'et al' turned up at the door, waving their Titanium Amex, they'd be given their marching orders for being so ostentatious; like that.

What are your favourite restaurants?
Alistair Little for faultless cooking, Elena's L'Etoile for people watching and Hawksmoore for the ultimate steak and cocktails.

What is your favourite comfort food?
A boiled egg with Marmite smeared soldiers.

What was the last album you bought?
The Best of Bobby Darin. No one can touch his rendition of Mack the Knife.

What are your favourite shops in London?
Daks and Favorbrook for quintessential English clothing. Fortnum & Mason for epicurean foods. Any guitar shop on Denmark Street and Hatchards for books.

What are your extravagances?
Taking myself out to dinner a few times a month.

What perfume do you wear?
Chanel No 5 or Dior Diorissimo.

What's the most romantic spot in London?
On a rowing boat in Richmond or Battersea Bridge at 3am on a summers morning, hot-dog in one hand half empty bottle of champers in the other, along with London's Cabbies and various after party flotsam's, as we all watch the sun rise in the east.

What was the last show you saw?
The 39 Steps, a hilarious pastiche on the 1935 Hitchcock movie. Four actors play some 150 roles, with cut out cardboard scenery and back projection. Bloody marvellous, bravo bravo!

121.

2008-10-13T11:02:00.098Z

Let me start by dispelling (and perhaps disappointing) one of the most commonly perceived myths about Escorts.

We, or rather I, do not rise in the morning, apply full makeup, slip into a pair of seamed silk stockings, four inch stilettos and some gorgeous satin lingerie, only to sit there all day, phone in hand waiting expectantly for it to ring.

We actually do have many other things to be busying ourselves with in a day.

It never ceases to amuse, that a potential client will call and ask, 'Eh...would you be available in about twenty minutes?' Now, I know all about spontaneity and yes, sexual urges can strike as quick as lightening, but really! Even more preposterous is...'Can you be at my hotel in half an hour?' I honestly do wonder if people think I'm sat in a car on some West End street, engine quietly idling and ready to scramble, as if I were an RAF airspace interceptor pilot?'

I know all too well, those girls who claim they can be there in a New York minute, rarely if ever make it on time, often turning up an hour or more later than promised; but hey, if a client's daft enough to believe them, more's the fool.

I'll often get a call, 'Frances, I've just had an appointment cancelled,' or, 'I've finished my meeting early, any chance you might be available?' Now, there's a good chance I might be, in which case, wonderful, but I'm not about to get myself a speeding ticket zooming from HQ to the Office.

And what of HQ...?

As an individual I'm consistent, but things are different at home; this is where I get to refuel, step back awhile from the audience, Mayfair / Soho and tripping the light fantastic. As a mere mortal, I too can only give out as much as I have within. The alternative, my being all poured out or worse, burnt out, is a false economy and ultimately detrimental to both myself and my Escorting.

Here, I can indulge in a spot of gardening and rummage around the potting shed; I may sprawl across my heavenly bed to ponder my past, my present and what might become of the future? Perhaps I'll read The Beano, The Dandy, Railway Modellers World or a book from my childhood that I've found on Amazon?

Often, I'll sit at the piano and compose a song that may never be completed (I've a lot of those), because I feel it's either too silly, too personal for the public domain or I've simply got bored with it now.

Perhaps I'll cook, spending several hours in the kitchen with just the radio (BBC R4), a copy of 'Country Life' and lashing of hot tea for company; I enjoy my own company. If I'm in Super-sloth mode, I may indulge in a bit of telly, usually cookery or fishing programs, soaking up the visual tranquillity of an English riverbank (I'm a romantic); the prospect that one might catch a fish is nice, but not essential.

Last night I spent 3 hours watching 'The Victorian kitchen garden,' showing how they'd grow and tend the food for the big house on some country estate, wonderfully idyllic stuff; almost made me what to be a tweedy gardener.

Nothing Rock n Roll there then; ahhh...but it's the stepping back that keeps me sane, the balance in my life confirms I've got it right.

Sadly, the Escort world is littered with burn / fall out casualties. The temptations are many, money, free drugs, all-night partying, drinking and exotic travel. But with this comes the crushing disappointment of yet another unfulfilled romantic proposition or promise (perhaps well meaning at the time) from a client during the brief and heated infatuation of a moment.

I thank God for HQ, it makes a day / evening in the Office much more fun becuase it keeps it real.

What I'm reading in bed...

Midnight Adventure (for the 100th time). Raymond Briggs.

120.

2008-10-06T10:25:00.055Z

I'm fond of F, really I am. He's warm, generous, a Gentleman in every way and a lot of fun to be around, I just wish he'd not call me at 2am in the bloody morning!

We were first introduced more than a year ago (see Blog 85), by a rather mad albeit lovely black escort girl, who’d called me in need of reinforcements with another client. Remembering me and needing to inject some new stimuli into her current scenario (clocking up her sixth hour with F), she contacted me again.

F has a very large house facing Harrods, which makes it awfully convenient for a bit of shopping after our tryst. His pride and joy is to play bartender in his own cocktail bar on the first floor; with walk in humidor!

'Blimey F it's 1pm in the afternoon, well done, you turning over a new leaf then?' 'Frances baby (Arab men insist on using this 60's phrase), I've a nice girl here who'd love to meet you, can you come over?' 'Sure, I'll be there for 3pm.'

Jumping the tube at Tower Hill, I move along to the middle of the carriage, a young man stands up and offers me his seat, I graciously accept. The tube's a wonderful place for people watching, and ohhh look...there's D, a client of mine, strap hanging with two of his colleagues.

Reaching into my handbag I pull out my sunglasses, not to save myself any embarrassment but rather, saving D the awkward predicament. Considering how big London is, it's surprising how often I'll bump into or almost, my regular clients whilst out and about in town.

However...the onus is on them to first acknowledge me, it's not that I'm being rude, but for obvious reasons it's the best policy.

I press the polished brass bell and am buzzed into the large marble floored hallway, 'We're downstairs darling' calls F, who's sat naked upon a large floor cushion; next to him is S, an attractive mature blonde lady in black knickers, suspender belt and stockings. The massive wall mounted plasma screen is showing Transsexual porn and very nice porn it is too!

F pours a glass of champs into a large crystal flute, before offering me a line. 'You know I don't do that stuff, so all the more for you two,' I reply.

S has been here four hours already and but for the assistance of Colombian stimuli (not coffee), is obviously on the wane. Nothing more than fondling ensues, they're too far gone to engage in anything more adventurous; S excuses herself after an hour, looking like she sure could use some sleep. We kiss, embrace and hope to meet again soon.

Sitting upon the over sized leather club chair, glass of bubbly in one hand, stroking F's head with the other, which is now busy beavering away between my thighs, I watch a pretty damn hot Transsexual being fucked on the screen. This, combined with F's oral skills, means it's not long before I climax.

The coke has caused temporary atrophy of F's willy (never!), so no fun to be had there then. 'Are you hungry Frances?' 'After that...I'm bloody famished,' I replied.

We don satin bathrobes before heading up to the kitchen, a kitchen to shame any celeb chef. 'Right then, olive oil, onions, garlic, tomatoes and Parmesan,' I shouted; 'yes Chef,' laughs F, as he runs about fetching the ingredients. 'F, you take care of the pasta and oh...I'll use this chorizo sausage (obviously not a devote Muslim) too if you don't mind?'

I slip off my bathrobe, slip on my heels and into an apron, in honour of the 'Oh la la' effect more than anything; it finds much favour, amusement and a slapped bare bottom too.

In 25 minutes we've knocked up a feast fit for a King, cooked with humour and warmth. F sets out the table in the dinning room, me thinks the gold plated cutlery looks a bit OTT for such a simple dish. ‘More champagne Frances? ' ‘Not for me thanks F, I’m not too big on drinking in the afternoon, I’ll be asleep by 8pm and anyway, I’m off to Harrods for a spot of shopping compliments of you!’

We sit down to eat at the ten foot long dining table. 'And now Frances, I present to you my piece de resistance; Voila...a white truffle!' It's the size of a walnut, by time he's finished grating it over our meal it's the size of a pea, that's a mighty lot of truffle!

'Did I ever tell you I used to be a Chef?' 'No Frances you didn't, but it's not hard to believe, lets do this again next time?' Before I leave, F presents me with a gift, 3 bottles of truffle oil; I've been drizzling the stuff over my scrambled eggs ever since.

119.

2008-09-25T20:56:00.077Z

To the Marriott hotel (Bulgari toiletries) County Hall, not to administer Frances's calming balm (did that here last week), but to contribute as a talking head for a TV program coming out later this year on Channel 5, entitled, 'Help I've got a high maintenance sex life.'

I agreed to appear, but with one caveat, no references to my being an Escort; I was however, happy to talk about decadence, posh sex, seduction and my bi-annual shopping trips to Paris in pursuit of lovely lingerie.

They'd mocked up the suite to resemble a sitting room, rather than some beige soulless hotel room i.e. a sofa, television and mini bar. There was a production team of six, lights, cameraman, sound, interviewee etc. We had to re-shoot a few scenes, due to some of the crew laughing out loudly at my candid answers to their probing questions.

After the cameras had stopped rolling they asked, 'Go on, tell us what you get up to being an Escort and Ohhh... what do you think about all this Max Mosley business?' 'Max Mosley, ha, I've about ten of those stories, but I'm not about to kiss and tell.' They sighed in disappointment, 'Not to worry, there's plenty to amuse you in my Blog,' I replied.

A warm westerly breeze blew across Westminster bridge, as I strolled northward toward the oncoming tide of camera totting tourists flowing south against me; Big Ben chimed 11am. Ah...still early enough to pop up to Fortnum's and have myself The Full English, I thought.

With a noticeable skip in my step, I bounced along through St James's Park in my daffodil yellow dress (no black or white for the telly), my handbag swinging like a pendulum do. Mature, well-dressed Gentlemen, out on their morning walk, nodded with a smiling approval as I sailed on by. I noticed (it's hard not to) The Queen's Guard marching down the Mall in their tall bearskins and scarlet tunics; I felt for them on this already warm morning.

'And what about a glass of champagne with your breakfast Frances,' enquired J (a store manager at F&M); I waddled out replete some 1½ hours later, having been taken care of far too well. I could say, 'Oh...I hate it when that happens,' but that'd be quite disingenuous of me.

It's now 8pm and as I'm about to leave the house for dinner, I slip on the carpeted stairs, perhaps the combination of new shoes and my earlier champagne breakfast? I come crashing down landing on my bum and right thigh, phew, a softish landing me thinks; it might have been softer still had I a bigger bum (always wanted one of them).

Next morning whilst taking a shower, I glance the large wall mirror across the room to see...crikey...a massive black and blue bruise the size of a saucer has appeared on my thigh, you'd have been forgiven for thinking someone had taken a large wooden mallet to me; it actually looked far worse than it felt.

And so, for the last two weeks I’ve felt obliged to pre-empt and explain any queries regarding my self abuse (it's now waning), as neither ultra wide laced stocking tops nor satin suspender belt, have been able to fully disguise it. Silly girl.

What I'm reading in bed...

Inside the magic rectangle. Victor Lewis Smith.

118.

2008-09-15T17:11:00.059Z

I'm in a small room surrounded by fifty or more high spirited and slightly inebriated gentlemen, all of whom, are waiting for me to entertain them; I think to myself...am I up to the task?

A Stag Night is being held at the Colony Room for a Curator of Tate Britain art gallery, I've been asked to provide the fun element of the evening i.e. encourage a boisterous sing-a-long with accompanying guitar.

Upon entering the room, I clock both puzzlement and relief upon the men's faces; 'what's this, isn't it supposed to be a female free night?' James, who'd organised the evening, greeted me with a glass of champagne and a kiss; 'Frances darling, thanks for coming, lets have some fun!' 'Sure, I'll just have this glass first and then set up, give me ten minutes,' I replied.

‘Oh and let me introduce you to Toby, he’s the chap who designed those I’m a Princess T-shirts, he's made a bloody fortune,’ said James. I held out my hand, ‘Nice to meet you Toby, well…I’m thinking of designing a T-shirt that says I’m a Prima-donna.' ‘Hey, what a great idea he replied, I’m on it.’ ‘Well, I'll want my 10% for giving you the idea,’ I fired back.

Plugging in my guitar I stand up to the microphone. 'God bless the man who invented hold-up stockings, I say, before reaching into my left stocking top and producing a plectrum; I mean, where would we put them otherwise?' A roar of laughter and applause went up; by the time I'd finished my first song, Folsom Prison Blues, they were shouting 'more more more!'

I had them in the palm of my hand and that's a bloody lot of hand jobs; even if I were to work both hands at once!

Dick Bradsell, friend and legendary bar guru whispered, 'Better a Stag Night than a Hen Night, ohhh they're dreadful, at least men maintain some measure of decorum when pissed.'

But for me, most amusing of all was when I sang two slow numbers, Crying and Can't Help Falling in Love. Everyone became seriously soppy as they crooned along, a few got out their cigarette lighters, slowly waving them from side-to-side. It was quite touching, watching those grown men melt and become so tender.

I dragged the condemned man over to the microphone and had him do a few numbers with me, Suspicious Minds being one of them; that gave everyone a right laugh as he tried, without much luck, to sing in tune.

Taking back the microphone we launched into For He's a Jolly Good Fellow, before I advised him not only on the benefits of marriage, but of keeping a Mistress too, that went down well with the alpha males.

I'd only planned to do one set, however, I'd have been lynched had I not done another; I only managed to escape by promising to do a few songs at the wedding reception too! I retired next door to the Groucho Club, where some of the Stag party eventually decamped too. Courtesy of them, it was champers on tap until 2am; I fell out of bed sometime Sunday afternoon, not quite firing on all cylinders.

What I'm reading in bed...

Eating for England. Nigel Slater.

117.

2008-09-02T18:43:00.109Z

10 things to do before you die; 1. Have sex with Frances.

M is dying; at just 47 years old he's resigned to it as best one can. I'm on that checklist of things to do before he ascends to that great tax-free zone in the sky.

M had survived a previously bout of cancer, but this time he's lost; though still able to get about (bits haven’t begun to fall off yet), no new parts are being made nor old ones replaced. I’ve been here before.

My wife died to cancer, barely 38 years old.

She lay there in her Hospice bed, having now been in a coma for some two days; 'Well darling, it's 2am, I really must go get me some sleep. I've painted your nails a nice red and I'll just sing you a song before I go, I'll be back again in the morning;' I sat on the bedside and began to play.

She blinked open her eyes mid-song, gazed and acknowledge me, before slowly closing them again. She exhaled heavily, as one would in a moment of enormous relief, followed by one...two...three...four long slow intakes of breath, as if one were about to blow out the candle on a birthday cake. And then...a deep deep sigh, as her body expelled what little life remained in its still beautiful but now fragile shell; I always loved that retrousse nose of hers.

I was confused; do I put my guitar down and hold her in my arms as she forever slips away, or...do I finish the song I'd already begun to sing?

The line from the quiz show 'Mastermind' came to me...'I’ve started so I’ll finish,' she expired mid-song, just before I'd reached the last verse; damn! I wrote that (Loving You) song for her some twelve years earlier; I can’t think of a better way she'd have wanted to slip off of this mortal coil.

And yet, there are still times when I ponder, perhaps I should have stopped and held her; I did afterwards, as I lay there beside her.

'We don't have to have sex said M, we could just sit here and talk if you'd like?' 'I'm your guest, your wish is my command,' I replied. And so we talked of death, what a bummer it was and how it always seemed to come about at the most inconvenient of times; I was only theorising, alack, M wasn't.

'I feel much better I'm talking about it Frances, I've not laughed in awhile.' The fact that we were both so irreverent toward death certainly helped.

'Would you make me up?' 'Sure, do you have any make-up? 'Not much, but let me go get what I've got;' M scurried off to retrieve a bag under his bed. 'Help yourself to a Guinness in the fridge,' he shouted! 'Guinness, Yuk, no thanks, I'll stick with my juice!'

'I'm sorry Frances, I hope you don't mind, but I did a line before you arrived.' 'Bloody heck M, you're dying, go for broke, I don't care!'

We didn't do the make-up thing in the end, we did stripped down to our stockings and knickers though. 'Frances, do you mind if I suck your cock?' 'Eh...why do you think I've kept the blooming thing, of course you can!'

'God, I wished I'd tried this earlier,' mumbled M between mouthfuls, 'Well, you've only got three months left to catch up, you'd better get a move on then,' I replied; we laughed so hard that my cock slipped out of his mouth.

'Can we do this again tomorrow, I'll pay you a deposit now,' asked M. 'No, that's silly, lets see how you feel in the morning? But hey, why don't we do lunch in town first...if you'd like,' I suggested. 'Yeah, that sounds cool; just talking to you on the phone I knew I'd like you,' said M. 'Lunch it is then, I’ll send you off of this mortal coil with more than a bang matey!'

Our laughter and joking wasn't quite conducive to things of a sexual nature, thus distracting us from continuing any further.

What I'm reading in bed...

Toast. Nigel Slater.

116.

2008-08-22T14:56:00.024Z

I did this talking head for a TV program called Citizen Smith earlier in the year for the BBC. It was after watching it that I deemed to get my eyes done (see Blog 109) ASAP; though it didn't help any that I'd only four hours sleep before the Sunday morning shoot in Mayfair.

And here's a poem from a client, inspired after seeing me on the telly. He tells me, 'I was sat there eating my TV dinner when suddenly you popped up, I nearly choked, as my wife was sitting next to me on the sofa;' oh dear.

For Frances...

I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places
In your pink breeches and red braces you'll look fine
With a big cigar a champagne glass and sparkling wine
I like your style that lovely stay awhile smile

I'll be seeing you again when the sun it shines
Alfresco you and I will dine
First to lunch then perhaps some fun
I'll tell the waiter you were once a nun

You strummed upon your Uke for fun
You sang a song on BBC Four not One!

Simon.

The Bank Holiday weekend is coming up and unsurprisingly, things will go a bit quiet, a good excuse to sort out my sock draw. It's so quiet that when I switch my phone back on at 8am, there's not a single 2am-8am booze/drug fuelled 'Hi Babe you're hot' missed call in my received box.

I took a suspect call last evening; a young man (20's) asked if I would come to his apartment and do a role-play. He was to open the door, whilst I forced my way in and have him submit to me. Now, a bit of role-play is fine by me, though I'm no RSC Player; however, role-play should start on the private side of the door, not the outside.

I receive a lot of enquiries in a week, some obviously aren't going anywhere, some may but not today, whilst others are a dead cert. In the shortest of time I have to discern between what's genuine and what's not, this I suspected was not?

Let me explain...

1. X interrupted me several times whilst I was explaining things, he simply wasn't listening and the playing of very loud music in the background is plain rude.

2. He was blasé about my gift i.e. money wasn't a matter for him (bad sign); he'd book me for two hours. Now, even wealthy people are careful about their money, that's why they're wealthy!

3. The forced entry scenario may well have been him setting up an unwitting friend, oblivious to the scenario / prank?

4. He said that he'd text me the address details; why couldn't he just give them to me whilst on the phone?

5. 'Oh, and can you destroy all my contact details,' he asked. 'But of course, once I'm back on neutral ground,' I replied.

6. I told him I'd confirm in five minutes (I needed to mull this one over); I sent a text asking for his landline phone number, as I always do with home visits. Having told me that he'd just pulled up my site on his home computer, then he'd need a landline number; he failed to send a number back.

All in all, something just didn't smell right and so I proceeded to bed with a good book and to catch the Shipping Forecast (00:48pm), where I was bound for anyway.

One can't teach discernment, it's beyond the obvious, it's something you read and hear between the lines. Having taken thousands upon thousands of phone enquiries, I can pretty much tell within ten seconds of a conversation if it's going anywhere and most certainly by thirty.

Of course, there are many other subtle nuances within a phone call that I pick up on, the which I'm not about to disclose here, but things are learnt and retained over time; distilled, this becomes wisdom. Wishing you a restful / playful holiday weekend.

115.

2008-08-17T23:35:00.014Z

Saturday morning 11:30am: I've only had five hours kip and I'm giving pleasurable head at the Metropolitan Hotel Park Lane (Invigorate toiletries); its £350 to buy on the Monopoly board.

Meanwhile, my own head is feeling far from pleasured, it's suffering due to quaffed one too many glasses of champers the night before...ouch!

Walking into the sub-zero air-conditioned room, I broke out in goose bumps, having just stepped out of a humid London summer morning; a few moments later my skin was smooth again, settled and acclimatised.

S, emphasised that this was his first time, which might account for the ultra low lighting in the room, relying on his sense of touch rather than sight? But hey, I'm cool about this stuff; the AC making me even cooler.

I proceeded to rub, knead and massaged every part of his torso, but for his groin...until it began to rise to attention. All was going well before I heard a knock at the door; must be room service I thought, it being that time of the morning; but S was an awfully long time at the door?

Whilst waiting for his return I scanned the room. Yup that figures (International gambler), dozens of £50/£100/£250 chips stacked and scattered upon the bedside tables, sideboard and desk.

Wait a minute…is that the maid coming into the room and here's me, with an unmissable erection and breasts too!

'Frances, this is Mia, she's my masseuse (they seemed to have a rapport);' OK I thought, I'll just role with this one. M was a Taiwanese lady, late 20's with curves and a big smile; we shook hands before she reached into her large handbag pulling out a bottle of massage oil. S, lay on his tummy as M proceeded to strip off.

'Over to you then' I said, she straddled him and began her magic. I knelt to his side, stroking his legs and thighs. Some ten minutes into it, M flipped him over and taking his cock in her hand (I'd become a redundant voyeur), she brought him off and it was all...his tummy. I excused myself to the bathroom, freshened up and bid my farewell.

It was pelting with rain outside, so I popped into the Rendezvous Club just a few doors along from the hotel where I'm a member, I use it occasionally should ever clients wish to go gambling?

Although open, at this time of day it was dead, it's more a late night destination; I abided my time whilst waiting for the rain to stop, sipping an orange juice up at the bar. Twenty minutes later it was raining even harder still; I had the doorman flag a taxi and take me to the Wolseley for a highly calorific full-on English breakfast, medicine for my poor sore head.

Now replete I strolled down Piccadilly, not so light headed but still muddled; it was still raining. A nice pot of tea at Fortnum's and some of those candied orange peels in chocolate can only help matters I thought? It did help, well, a teeny weeny bit anyway.

Now, what about a nice hot chocolate at Cecconi's, just a few minutes walk away in Burlington gardens. Ahhh, now that's better, my head no longer felt like a size 10 foot crammed into a size 6 shoe, all that remained was my body’s need for sleep.

When it rains, taxi's are like Policemen, never there when you need one and then three come at once, usually when you've no need of them. The incessant rain drove me down to the Underground, stepping out at Tower Hill station, it was now glorious sunshine.

It's 3pm, I had an 8:30pm gig at the Colony Room and then a 10:30pm birthday party to attend over at Shoreditch House; between now and then, I was in need of some very serious shuteye.

114.

2008-08-04T17:09:00.042Z

Ring ring it’s 10am; someone’s keen me thinks, as I stir from another dream drenched night of slumber.

The movies rolling in my head last night were particularly bizarre, perhaps brought on by the exotic spicy food I’d eaten the night before; I'd been to the soft opening of Buddha Bar on the Embankment.

The management had invited myself plus two friends, to trial run their extensive / expensive menu; gratis. Come the end of the evening they compt our drinks bill 50%, which was just as well, as one of my friends (a sommelier) chose three rather fine bottles of wine and one of champs.

Early morning calls (10am is early for me) are usually from my regulars, heading into town for meetings and keen to make a cinq a sept appointment; for which is a particular busy time.

Still sleepy, my assumption was wrong as I didn't recognise the voice, but what I did detect was that it was a rather young voice; we agreed a 4pm rendezvous at the Office.

Arriving punctually, C had to be about ohhh...22 years old tops, nervous and shaking like a leaf on a tree. Though standing six-foot something, he sported a rather weak and wispy goatee, his testosterone levels had yet to peak.

This being his first-time, perhaps he was being cautious with the ‘Mrs Robinson ' option, someone hopefully a little more understanding than the wham bam pneumatic babe option? And yes, I was extremely gentle with him.

C was in town for a job interview in the City, only a month out of Uni with his freshly acquired accounting degree.

I explained the rules; nothing was expected of him other than to have a good time and that we’d take things at his pace; happy with that, we retired. ‘Are you going to leave your socks on,’ I enquired?’

Now listen here men, making out whilst wearing socks is a sexual faux pas! Yes yes, I understand that it may be a terribly English thing to do, but that's no excuse, we're in Europe now.

Please...if there’s one thing you go away with after reading this Blog, let it be this…wearing stockings is one thing, the wearing of socks is quite another; in the name of all things sensual, I implore you not to keep them on!

C was happy with me holding his cock and obviously even happier for me to suck it; once his nerves had settle a little, he was happy holding mine too.

But...straddling his chest, my erect cock ever so slowly inching its way towards his mouth, he failed to open up, tilt forward and engage. I read this as 'I'm not quite ready to go there yet' and so seamlessly, I inched back down his torso until one erect cock engaged with the other.

He did however fuck me, keeping his eyes wide open, beholding me rocking back and forth as I sat atop. Coming to a climax he let out a soft sigh, not a deep ginormous grunt as some might; his was one of sweet resignation, having just been conquered.

C didn’t stay around too much longer; I sensed a little cloud of guilt descend upon him. I’ve little doubt this will lift again come bedtime, as he lays there wanking off over his fantasy now realised.

It’s something we’ve all had to work through; for him, as it was me, it’s part of growing up, this learning to accept oneself. Each to their own persuasion, yearning, fantasies and of course desires.

113.

2008-07-22T12:35:00.004Z

A little tea and sympathy is all some clients seek; not for them the chinking of champagne glasses, whilst I swing from the light fittings in four inch patent heels.

I'd not heard from P in a year, I recognised the voice yet couldn't conjure up the face; unusual for me. I was just winding up rehearsals with The Frantastics when my phone rang.

'Hi Frances, can you do 3pm?' 'Ohhh...3:30pm would be better,' I replied. 'Hmmm, that's going to be a bit tight, perhaps next time then?' The phone rang again ten minutes later; 'Frances, I've managed to move a few things around, is 3:30pm still OK?'

This gave me just 45 minutes to drive from HQ, jump in the shower, apply my makeup and slip into something fetching; no need for stockings and heels, as barefoot was requested. P arrived five minutes early; fortunately I was ready.

Ahhh...now I remembered him; not so much a shy man as hesitant and doubtful, we'd spent his last visit examining his guilt complex; 'Why am I here Frances?'

'A soft drink or some bubble perhaps,' I enquired. 'Oh, a nice cup of tea would do me fine Frances.' ‘Well, I've Assam, gunpowder, jasmine or Earl grey;' we went for the robust Assam. One lump for P, one click of saccharine pour moi.

Having finished tea, we retired to the boudoir; 'You're going to have to take those trousers off if you don't want them all creased' said I, P was sat fully clothed upon the bed. 'Tell you what, I'll take this off if you take those off,' as I pointed to my silk slip and then at his shirt and trousers.

Whilst undressing P asked, 'You know what I'd love, a cuddle, a nice long cuddle.’ 'Well, we have the technology,' I answered. And so there we lay, my arm cradling him as he rested his head upon my breasts and slowly combing my fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

Some twenty minutes and an awfully numb arm later, I enquired if he was happy nestling there? ‘Quite happy Frances, but I think I may have dozed off for a minute?‘ ‘You did, I heard you snore; more tea Vicar,’ ‘oh yes please,’ he replied.

P took a shower and arranged himself; I slipped into a short silk dressing gown and black Marabou bedroom slippers, before making us a nice pot of Jasmine tea.

'Am I odd Frances, I mean, not wanting to do everything?’ ‘No, not at all P; I went out to dinner last night, I didn’t have everything on the menu, I just ordered what I fancied; nothing odd about that.’

‘Well...and this might sound silly but, if I don’t come to climax then...I don’t feel I’m cheating’ ‘Listen P, we each of us have our own codes of conduct and moral judgment, it's not for me to say what’s right or wrong for you. My life, my circumstances, they're very different to yours, only you can be the judge of your own!’

'This is what I believe; if it helps someone and harms no one, where's the sin?'

‘That’s alright then, as long as you’re not offended Frances, because I do find you attractive.’ ‘I’m not offended at all P, really I’m not, this works just fine for me.’ Before leaving, I gave him the three-point check; wallet, phone, watch, pecked him on each cheek and sent him off with a cheery goodbye.

What I’m reading in bed...

Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders. Gyles Brandreth.

112.

2008-07-16T18:16:00.054Z

It's always handy to have friends in 'The Press.'

There's S, once editor of the UK's largest selling newspaper; K, war correspondent for a tabloid, D, ex editor bloggins of a rather large news agency and C, who sits on the board of the PCC.

It's amusing to read and hear their moral conservatism in the media, whilst knowing them to be not a little adverse to a spot of decadence in their own private lives.

Now rolling toward their autumn years and a nest egg to secure, it's not surprising that these once men of the people, change and optimism, have now themselves become the establishment.

All four know one another and yet, are blissfully unaware that either one knows me; it's a funny old world.

S, asked if I'd chaperone him to 'Stunners,' a club just across from Limehouse station, east of the City. This is one of the most decadent places in town (apart from my own), there's no need for an imagination here, as nothing is left to it!

As is usual of these establishments, they've a friendly air about them; 'Ted's Place,' a Thursday night Trannie club in Fulham, being similar.

There's a large main room with a bar to one corner and a DJ booth to the other, spinning tunes for the girlies grinding away on their stilettos, hoping to attract an admiring male or another TV? Porn movies are projected upon the back wall, encouraging the temperature to rise that little bit more.

Crossing the dance floor, easy chairs to one side, you walk through a dimly lit corridor. To the right is the playroom come bedroom, with a harem theme; it all goes on here, as bottoms bob up and down like ducks on a pond.

Ahead is another darkened room, I’m not sure what’s in there, I’ve never looked, but I've heard many a pleasurable groan emanating from within.

On your left is a room with red walls and a large metal-framed bed, a few shackles and what looks to be a rubber mattress (wipe-able). The toilets come changing rooms, are to the end of this narrow corridor, doubling up as a quieter getting to know you area.

And should it be your thing, there's the opportunity for a spot of cottaging in the individual cubicles too!

Displaying my own sexual prowess in public isn't...well quite me, thus the reason I decline offers to perform in porn movies (though not averse to watching them); it’s the boudoir for me, or the shower if it’s an unbearably warm day.

But hey, each to their own; I live and I let live. Whenever I find a spider indoors, I'll carefully place it back outside, set free to crawl another day; as for flies and mossies, I’m sorry, but the only option is death!

And talking of displaying oneself in public, I’ll be performing this Saturday (July 19th 9:30pm) with my new band ‘The Frantastics!’ Along with the wonderfully lavish ‘Magic Theatre,' it's set in Bloomsbury ballroom; do say hello if you see me.

S and I spent our time there as voyeurs, happy just to watch the hanky panky unfolding all about us; after a few hours of Roger Moore-esque eyebrow twitching, we left.

It's comforting to know...God forbid, that S, K, D and C have offered to pull a few strings and dampen any flames, should I ever find it necessary? As I said, It's always handy to have friends in 'The Press.

111.

2008-06-30T18:40:00.070Z

And so to Manchester, to perform with The Frantastics at ‘Sparkle,’ a yearly gathering cum celeb-fest of all things Trans.

That said, I'm rarely on the Trans scene these days, perhaps at the request of a client or, to catch up on friends? I’m not above it all, rather, having done my time I’ve moved sideways, it having less and less relevance to my everyday life, who and what I am now.

I'd booked First class for my sojourn up north, with 'Virgin on the ridiculous’ trains. The journey itself was comfortable enough, but so much for the QUIET ZONE i.e. mobile free.

I really didn’t much care to hear all about the screaming queen's dirty laundry from across the aisle...’Ohhh I just hate him...Ohhh...well I’m not going if he’s going!’ Why the affected voice two octaves up? Darling, if you really must air your laundry, then step out into the corridor or go the loo for heavens sake!

The train crew had obviously taken a pact, to meter out a Trotskyite left wing attitude upon their now captive posh / first class customers (thus biting the hand that feeds). Their attitude was surly, impatient, see if we care mate?

As we pulled out of the station it was announced, ‘Ehhh…please choose from the ehhh…menu and be ready with your choice of ehhh…meal, we'll be through shortly, this is so as we can ehhh...speed up our service to you.’

Oh no it's not, it's so as you can then all skive off ASAP to the back of the train, sit on your arse’s and gripe about your job / life / customers / the crap Chardonnay and Richard Branson.

God forbid I might have been dyslexic and needing more time, help even? No matter, the trolley Nazis trundled along some five minutes later.

‘Ehhh…ave ye chosen ye meal,’ she barked. ‘No, I haven't actually, what’s available,’ I replied. ‘Aven’t ye lucked at de menu, I’ll be back later when you’ve chosen;’ and in a New York minute she was gone. Not quite Hell's Kitchen material, but she’s working on it.

The Dalek returned...

‘I’ll have the jacket potato please.’ Plonking it down in front of me I sheepishly asked, ‘Does it come with anything else (extermination perhaps an option)?’ ‘A banana or a piece a cake,’ she growled, ‘Ohhh…a banana would be nice and perhaps some orange juice?’

Next up, the tea and coffee man came bumbling along, giving a very convincing imitation of a Storm trooper; ‘Tea coffee, tea coffee;' gone!

It wasn’t dissimilar to the Doppler effect of a Police car. I heard it coming from a distance, it flashed loudly by before tapering off into the distance. So, no tea or coffee for me then, nor anyone else I suspect?

They came through just one more time, in the whole two and a half hour journey.

‘Juice water, juice water anybody?’ Ms Dalek, came through a little slower this time, affording me a one in three chance of a surprise ambush...gotcha...thus acquiring a bottle of water.

The service back wasn't any better...

'We'd like to welcome you aboard the 9:15am Liverpool to London train; due to staff shortages we will not be serving breakfast. There is however, a choice of sausage or bacon sarnies; we apologise, but these are circumstances beyond our control.'

Is this what I paid a premium fare for, a buttie?

Now, I'm no rocket scientist love, but let me suggest something that might be within your control...'employ more staff then!'

First through was the 'Tea coffee, tea coffee' Doppler effect chap, followed by another holding orange juice, it kinda sounds like this...'ojojojOJOJOJOJOJOJojojoj' as it faded into the distance.

I did my sails on a windmill impression, effectively breaking the glazed stare upon the face of OJ man. In his haste to serve and be rid of this inconvenience (me), he poured half a cup of juice over the table (smooth running train) leaving me to mop up his mess!

A bird would find it hard to drown in one of those glasses!

I took the sausage buttie option, sans HP sauce, it wasn't offered; a culinary crime in some circles, mine being one of them. Have they never heard of strawberries and cream, David and Goliath, Fred and Ginger?

The chap across the aisle trilled merrily on his mobile as staff served him the bacon buttie option...in the QUIET ZONE; nothing was mentioned nor pointed out. Though to his credit, once he saw me taking my call into the corridor, he did so too; well done my son, well done.

An hour into the ride I desired...SHOCK HORROR...a bottle of water; is that really too much to ask? 'Excuse me, could I please have a bottle of water?'

The burly forty something 'Tea coffee tea coffee' rugby prop forward, come bouncer / hit man, stopped, stared in amazement, looked right through me and without acknowledgement, walked off. Was I just a figment of his imagination, had I become a figment of my own; I’d begun to doubt my own existence.

Half an hour later, I tried it on again with OJ man; 'Ehhh...I'm not sure, I'll see what I can do,' he replied. By now it'd descended into farce, then the inspiration for a Blog came on; yes, this Blog!

I now felt little more than an extra straight out of Oliver, 'Please Sir, may I have some more...water?'

Mr Big, now know to me as Bill Sykes, did eventually turn up with my water, some twenty minutes before our arrival into London. I suppose that’s not bad really, one hour and twenty minutes to walk two carriages to the kitchen and fetch me a bottle of water.

However, we did arrive on time; perhaps I'm just too fussy?

And what to make of the quote on their web site...'Virgin trains Love every second.' Well believe me I tried, I really did try!

110.

2008-06-24T17:00:00.040Z

King Abdullah and his flunky road show rolls into town; at his behest or possible beheading, so too does Sheik M (no prizes for the guessing the M word), an infrequent client of mine.

These diplomatic jollies / freebies are imparted upon both family and those who may have fallen into the King's favour, i.e. work done for the Kingdom. The entourage is holed up across three exclusively fortified floors of the Dorchester hotel, 6th, 7th and 8th (Floris toiletries).

Previously, M has taken an apartment in Mayfair, but this time around having to shadow the King, we'd arranged to rendezvous first at my place and then at his hotel.

We had a three hour window at the Office, as the King popped out to Jack Barclay to buy another dozen or so Rolls Royce's (gifts); I heard they chucked one in for free.

The understated option, a Bentley, is not an option. It has to be a Roller, usually in white and adorned with a garish gold Flying Lady; a Middle Eastern owner / driver giveaway if ever there was one.

Alack, our time spent together was little more than me being a sponge, a sounding board and sympathetic ear to all his burdens, that of having to now provide for four families back home in Saudi.

When a male family member dies i.e. brother / uncle, it falls upon Sheik M to support both the wife and children of the deceased.

If it weren’t for the fact that M was animated, moved and talked, I'd have sworn he were a chimney...twenty cigarettes in three hours!

'Ohhh...I've you're favourite, Johnny Walker Black label' said I. 'Not with the King in toe Frances, sighed M heavily, and now I must go; tomorrow at 10pm then?'

I stayed at the Dorchester for a week a couple of years back, when J, for whom I'm more of a companion (see Blog 52), came into town for a holiday. 'Gee Frances, waddya think of the Dorchester, you like it, you wanna stay there?'

'Ehhh…yes J, it’s rather nice, but we must get a suite with a view over the park;' and so it was done.

Security is tight at this hotel, yet subtle; this evening it was...well, subtle...ish. Dusky men in suits, with curly black plastic bits protruding out of their lugholes, mooched nonchalantly about the entrance and lobby.

One lift had been dedicated solely to the 6th, 7th and 8th floor, so I needed to check in at the desk, before making a phone call up to M's room.

I was escorted to the elevator; 'left out of the elevator and then right madam', said the man in the suit, whereupon, he swiped a card a pressed 6, before stepping back out.

As the doors closed, a tall dusky man with moustache scanned me up and down; I wore a demure outfit, a hem that came down to my knees and covered up my arms.

Stepping out of the elevator, I saw two rather bored look-alikes of the man downstairs, sat upon chairs. Giving me a polite and respectful nod, I acknowledged them, smiled and breezed past.

M was in his dressing gown watching CNN, which is about as informative of current world events as is the newspaper USA Today, i.e. 48 hours out of date and America centric.

Reading or viewing either of these oracles, one would be hard pressed to believe there was actually another world outside of the USA.

'Frances my darling (Arab men like using the word darling and baby), how are you, come, sit down on the sofa. I'm sorry I can't offer you any champagne baby, they've cleared all the mini bars of alcohol.' 'No matter, I replied, a fruit juice will do fine.'

I too slipped into one of the Dorchester's one inch thick, half a ton of cotton bathrobes; walking about in it was akin to a workout!

We spent the next three hours talking about Arabic culture, whilst massaging each others feet with Floris moisturiser; nothing more nothing less.

It was now 1am, M and the entourage were scheduled to have lunch with 'The Queen' (HRH), and so we called it a night.

M. Frances baby, open the safe and take your gift.

I punched in the combination...XXXX

Me. Hmmm...seems you're the keeper of the purse then (spying some £100,000 in fresh £50 notes).

M. It's for emergencies darling.

Me. Is it best I count it out in front of you?

M. Take whatever.

Me. I'll take whatever we agreed.

M. No, take more darling…take XXXX.

Me. But...but that's way more!

M. It doesn't matter baby, please...I’ve been so miserable and you've made me feel happy; I insist!

Me. Ehhh...well OK M, if you insist; thank you.

Walking out onto Park Lane and into the cool late evening air, I reflected on how different our previous meeting together had been.

We’d danced and banqueted four nights on the trot, ordering out from the wonderful Lebanese restaurant Al Hamra in Shepherds market.

M drank his Johnny Walker with cocaine, whilst I glugged copious amounts of Dom Perignon and I drew upon my Partagas No 4 cigar.

Ah well...and who says money is the answer to all their troubles?

109.

2008-06-04T20:00:00.018Z

'Ole blue eyes is back!' Hmmm...that's not right; 'Younger blue eyes is back;' there, that sounds better.

Now, if I were a rocket scientist people might, perhaps, maybe, comment, 'Ohhh what a lovely brain Frances has.' However, being in the entertainment world, I'm usually judged by how I look and not my IQ; you can decide on the IQ bit should ever we meet?

And whereas a farmer may go out and buy himself a new tractor, I have to invest in the shop front that is my body / visage. So, it's off to my surgeon Dr Nick, for a Blepharoplasty (that's an eye lift to you and I).

Recovery means taking ten days out of the Office, think panda eyes, battered, bruised and eleven rounds with Mike Tyson...and guess who won?

One is also left constipated and it takes at least ten minutes to spend a penny; these are the side effects of morphine upon the body. Taking painkillers, simply means that it takes longer for the body to recover; I passed on the painkillers, I'm a trooper.

As for the general anaesthetic...well now, that could become addictive!

First, there's an icy cold rush from the toes up; then, your head goes all fuzzy and buzzy, before the giggles kick in. You awake in bed with the dull ache of a catheter stuck in one arm and a saline drip in the other...ouch!

They wheeled me down to theatre at 9am and I was back home before 5pm, returning again four days later to have my stitches and bandages removed; who says I don't suffer for my art / vanity?

The privilege of an overnight stay, 'inclusive of hospital breakfast,' would have cost me an extra £800...that's the price of twenty champagne breakfasts at The Wolseley! Also, the no brainer option of going to sleep, then waking up in the comfort and security of my own bed, well, you'd be daft not to.

And so, the last few days have been spent mooching about the parks, museums and galleries of London town, hiding out behind a pair of Jackie O sunglasses. I've also managed to sort and organize my sock drawers, between bouts of sofa sprawling, listening to BBC Radio 4.

With all this time to contemplate my navel (a noticeable lack of blue lint), the arrived conclusion is...yes, I do rather like my lifen.

What I'm trying to read in bed...

On Beauty. Umberto Eco.

108.

2008-05-19T15:20:00.030Z

To the Opera, for to see 'The Merry Widow;' of course, I'll be needing a new frock.

D, one of my longest standing clients, often calls in the hope that I've a new frock acquisition; so this was a chance to kill two birds with one stone.

Red is a colour I've always avoided wearing; so vibrant against my pale skin, it'd be like putting the Mona Lisa in a gilded ornate frame, all you'd see is the beautiful frame, not me!

Anyhow, a red 50’s style Prom dress caught my eye whilst out shopping. What I didn’t realise was, I’d also need to buy a full petticoat to give it that lift, along with red peepy toe shoes to match and red gloves to finish off the whole look. The buck stopped at buy a matching red handbag, that dress had now cost me twice its purchase price; no small sum.

Looking in the mirror, I was pleasantly surprised to see that it actually did complement me, the red a flattering colour against the combination of pale skin and blonde hair.

I’m still on a learning curve, after all, I’ve only had 16 years experience at it. Born females have had their whole life to get it right and yet, many still get it so fantastically wrong.

Being an ex Dandy does have its advantages.

I intended going onto drinks after the show, and so left the car at home. It was a beautiful balmy evening, so I thought I’d take the tube into town; it also gave me the chance to show off my new look; well...it’d be a crime not to!

As if on air, I glided past the dockside bars leading toward Tower Hill, and against the flow of people heading home. The men beamed at me, a few gentlemen doffed their hats, even the women, clad in their charcoal black, approved as I bounced along on my heels, head aloft.

I was having myself an Audrey Hepburn moment.

It being rush hour, the tube was packed as sardines. A few people move back to give the fullness of the frock some room, but I too soon became part of the human sardine can, wedged snug against the train door.

The doors slid open at Monument station, one person squeezed out whilst an even larger body squashed in.

Today I'd learnt something new, red and I actually do like each other; and I was soon to encounter another first…'Frotteurism!’

A Hasidic Jew, complete with Hombre hat and long black cashmere coat, about 50 years old and sporting a grey beard that touched his chest, squared off to me. I'll make no bones when I say; he was about ripe for a shower.

I looked up at him, he being some ten inches taller than I, then down to about the middle of his chest. A minute into the journey, I felt something rubbing up against my groin area; must be that suitcase of his I thought, unable to look down; no matter.

I moved a little to my right, nope, OK let’s move a little to the left then, nope it was still there. And then, outside of my dress, petticoat and knickers combo, I felt what seemed to be a circular motion going on; nah can’t be?

We pulled into the station; the sensation disappeared; the train pulled out and it started again…hmmm? I looked up, trying to make eye contact with him; but he was simple staring straight over my head.

How incredible I thought, and what a nerve, he’s not even acknowledging me. Baffled and amused, that's what best summed up my feelings for the next five minutes of Frottage; i.e. groping.

It dawned on me, the potential hilarity of the situation; what if he detects a bump where he’s not expecting to find one; will he recoil in horror...ohhh...I do hope so!

Alack, with so much satin, lace and silk between my cock and his hand, it was unlikely he'd detect it, as I always tuck it back anyway. Arriving at Temple station, he alighted; neither looking me in the eye, nor offering a cheeky smile of gratitude, just turned and walked away; bizarre!

The Opera was OK...ish, but after my own drama earlier, my thoughts were somewhere else; I'm sure it was an excellent show but it quite escaped me.

PS.

Something for your amusment...enjoy.

107.

2008-05-04T23:44:00.004Z

And what of flavoured condoms?

Well, in this enlightened age of healthy safe sex, it also being my client’s prerogative, one is occasionally asked, ‘Frances, do you mind if we use a condom for oral?'

Not at all...!

Without hesitation, flavoured condoms are the preferred option over the spermicidal treated ones; a taste sensation not dissimilar to sucking upon a large green Hunter Wellington boot; at times the smaller green Wellington boot too.

That of course is a metaphor, as 'I've never actually inhaled' upon a welly, large, small, or otherwise; to date.

And so...for my own amusement, I'll recite, as would a well drilled 'Gordon Ramsey' waiter, 'Le menu du jour.'

Vanilla: I'm sorry Sir, but we don't offer the vanilla experience here; surely, you've not travelled all this way for that? Should Sir care for a vanilla experience, might I suggest the 'Angus Steakhouse' just down the road?

Chocolate: Seriously; does this cock still look like it belongs to this creamy alabaster body of mine? The aesthetics...they're all wrong; I can't wear that!

Blueberry: Good God man, look at me, I'm an English rose; I'm not some 'breakfast muffin to go' with a coffee latte!

Mint: Shall I compare thee to a bottle of mouthwash? Now don't you start gnashing on me, mistaking it for some toothbrush…ouch!

Banana: Hmmm...that could be fun, let me go fetch some double cream to dip it in.

Strawberry: Yeah...now we're talking; Wimbledon, cricket at Lord's, Pimms, strawberries and cream, the Last night of the Proms: that's the one!

I ask you; what could taste finer than an English 'cock in a frock' on a summers day?

106.

2008-04-24T17:18:00.003Z

J is a darling man, and always arrives bearing flowers (lilies). These, along with daffodils and bluebells are my favourites.

Now a retired pilot (minus Biggles moustache), he's the quintessential Gentleman. It has often crossed my mind to greet him, resplendent in a glamorous 50's style air hostess outfit with a little pillar-box hat.

Then, dragging him off to the boudoir I'd shout, 'Chocks away,' before a mutually jolly good rogering. And I will one afternoon; the outfit I mean, we've long consummated the jolly good bit...

Due to land on my doorstep at 12:00 hours and always punctual, the doorbell rang at 11:50am. 'Hmmm...ten minutes early' I thought, as I buzzed him in.

Excitedly, I was ready to greet him dressed in my new corset (purchased in Paris), six clasped suspender belt (metal clasps of course darling), frilly French knickers and seamed stockings...oh la la!

I composed myself and counted down; 3...2...1...before flinging open the front door. Throwing my arms up into the air and striking my very best statuesque pose, I let out a 'Tarrah!'

And there it was, that now familiar sight; a bouquet of glorious white lilies!

Hmmm...but then a little beetroot face with big saucer eyes, a face I didn't recognise, meekly peeked out from behind the large spray.

He. Ohhh…ehhh...Ms Frances?

Me. Ehhh...yes?

He. Ehhh...ehhh...these are for you…could, I mean would you...ehhh...just...just sign here please; thank you.

Me. How lovely...these are for me? (Holding my head aloft and acting as normal as normal could under the circumstances, having actually gone into embarrassment meltdown).

Then, handing me his notepad and pen, I lent nonchalantly against the hallway wall and signed some ineligible scribble, just as Doctors do on a prescription.

Me. There you go, thank you.

He. Not at all; ehhh...enjoy your flowers.

Me. Thank you, I shall!

And with that, ever so gently as one would a newborn baby, this impressionable youth placed the bouquet across my outstretched arms.

His eyes danced; up, then down, to the right to the left but never straight on. Then, as if in the presence of some dignitary, he stepped slowly backwards, respectfully and away.

As one might hold their bladder for excuruciating hours upon end, before finding a loo, I collapsed upon the sofa in a fit of mirth, brought on by relief.

One can only begin to imagine the story he told back at the flower shop? And I'll wager you this; that tale will keep him in drinks for a while yet!

Ding-dong (12:00 hours); ’Frances, J here.’

Greeting J at the door with a kiss, his opening line was, ‘Did your flowers arrive darling; I rang and ordered you some?’

105.

2008-04-14T15:40:00.040Z

Hurrah, spring is here again!

Well OK then, officially it’s spring i.e. nice weather for ducks.

Working hard as I do to stay a lighter shade of pale, I've no objection to Blighty's lack of sun; and being a Pisces we rather like things moist.

I determined many years ago, to avoid greeting any birthdays with an ‘ O ' in it, looking like weathered rhino hide; I’m pleased to report that my master plan has worked out rather well…to date anyways.

And so, in the spirit of giving, here's a little image of spring; as this may be all the spring you'll get to see this year?

Photo-shoots bore me rigid, and not the nice kind of rigid either; half an hour in and my mind's already wandered elsewhere; but they have to be done, twice a year tops?

This shoot was for a feature in some Woman's magazine, something like, 'The Woman who crossed the gender divide,' or some such twaddle; however, they paid well.

I'm not a big fan of my own image, perhaps I did something naughty to a camera when I was younger; they don't seem to like me much, nor I them.

So, if and when a client kindly comments, 'Ohhh...you look much prettier than you do in your photographs,' it simply reinforces my suspicion of having once been a camera abuser?

Periodically, I’m asked to appear / perform in porn movies (usually shot in LA because of the light, the tax breaks and lack of rain), or to pose nude for some ‘Pay Per View’ site; it interests me not.

I mean, what mystery is there left if you’ve seen it all already?

Let's be honest, we’re all pretty much standard issue; one head, four limbs. If you’re male you have one sticky out bit, if you’re female, two sticky out bits; and if you‘re me...hurrah…you’ve three sticky out bits!

We're simply taken with variations on a theme; taller, shorter, bigger, longer, younger, mature, whatever? Variation is what we find attractive and I delight that I'm as different as the tall, sultry, exotic brunette next to me.

And though personally I don't care to do porn, I put my hand up and admit to watching Transsexual porn on occasion; all in the name of research of course!

Well, its turned out nice again, so I'm going to go tiptoe through the daffodils before it chucks it down again. Will the last person out please turn off the rain; thanks.