A London Transsexual Escort 239.

‘This smells nice’ said M, stepping out of the shower, ‘Yes, it’s Floris (toiletries choice of The Ritz), however, I’m not sure what your wife will make of it,’ I replied. ‘Oh, is it really that noticeable,’ ‘Eh yes, probably best you hop back into the shower and use that non-fragrant shower gel.’
It’s always best to err on the side of caution in these matters methinks, the clue is in the word ‘non-fragrant.’ On occasion, I'm requested not to put on any perfume at all, and so I oblige. 

See, I do look out for you chaps, this is why I suggest we do the sign of the cross before you leave the apartment: spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, oh and phone of course. How much longer before we drop the word 'mobile/cell' when referring to these things?
Last week two regular clients enquired (not at the same time), ‘Frances, I enjoy the Blog, so when are you going to mention me,’ well that’s easily sorted. Some ask specifically not to be mentioned in my Blog,’ and so they aren’t.
However, it must be said of these vignettes, all of which are true, both the reader and often the client, have no idea whom the person might be; I like it that way and obviously most of them do too. 
I’ve entertained C for some 8 years now (there you go, you're in), he first visited me at my previous apartment next to St Katherine’s dock, beside Tower Bridge. What I like about C is, he almost always gives me plenty of notice, by which I mean at least a few hours, not half an hour. 
Of course, I understand desire is often impulsive and spontaneous and not just sex, compulsive buying, for instance, we've all done it, more's the pity. The problem is, I’m not usually found poised on the edge of my sofa, watching television anticipating a call.
I may perhaps be pottering about back at HQ, cycling, jogging, gardening, out to lunch/dinner, gigging with my band, away on the occasional holiday, but you'll rarely catch me out shopping. I'm fortunate to have most everything I want and need more stuff like I need another hole in my head, I don't, a hole that is.
C's chest hair looks a little like a twister, it starts from his navel, a tapering, curling, wispy tail travelling up the middle, before spreading across his athletic chest like a cumulus cloud. I have him marked down as a noisy wriggler, when it comes to climaxing, not that that’s a problem, the boudoir is sufficiently soundproofed.
As to me, well...I’m more of a cool gentle breeze in that department, always have been, guess I always will be, it takes all sorts.
What I’m reading in bed…
In Pursuit of Love: Nancy Mitford.

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