A London Transsexual Escort. 256.

Welcome to a chilly London town and a bright shiney New Year, it'll sure to be an interesting one for us here in England with Brexit looming. 
I dined at a rather posh hotel restaurant the other week, The Stafford in St James's. The room's fitted in luxurious knee-deep carpet, but I do wonder, carpet on a restaurant floor? Its clientèle were composed largely of people on expense accounts or rich overseas visitors, the food was excellent, the service reverent, fawning and stuffy.
Two tables over sat a young woman, seemly oblivious to the not mind-boggling etiquette of keeping it down a bit. I was tempted to suggest, politely, perhaps a little more hush, but then I’m English, stoic and very good at just sucking it in. I really did try tuning out of her frequency, but it was like trying to ignore the sound of a dentist's drill: engaging in comfortable conversation with my companion was a bit of a challenge.
Matters weren't helped any that some interor creative type, had the illuminating idea of dotting about the room, several enormous (and very fine too) displays of fresh lilies. I think lilies are beautiful, but in a restaurant, with their overpowering scent distracting from the food, I think not. So, not only were my ears being assaulted, but my nose too.
A few days later I ate at Scott’s in Mayfair, whilst the waiters were less stuffy and suffocating, they possessed that annoying knack exclusive to waiters, of looking up, down, left and right, but never your way when needing their attention; yes yes, I accept it’s a first world problem I’m dealing with here.
The place was filled with Suits ‘doing the deal,’ for them the food was a mere sideshow, why not just have yourselves a sandwich on a bench, I thought. Amongst all the men in suits were a smattering of ‘Uncles & Nieces,’  who were a lot more entertaining to be amongst and watch.
I received a call at 7.50am, hmmm…someone's an early-bird I thought. Could I get to Canary Wharf asap, yes, I reckoned I could be there for 10am?
I was to head to the Tesco, above which the client lived and call him upon arrival, he’d then come down and let me in. I arrived at the agreed hour and called.
Me: Hello, I’m here.T: OK I’ll come down.Me: (5-min’s later) I’m still here.T: I came down but couldn’t see you. Me: Well I’m most defiantly here.T: Ahhh…you must be at the wrong place, you want the other Tesco by the river, a few minutes further down.Me: Hi again T, I’m here.T: OK I’m coming down right now.Me: (5-minutes later) Well, I’m here where are you? T: I couldn’t see you, are you by the river, by the floating restaurant?Me: No, no floating restaurant here but there’s a Tesco and a river.T: Oh sorry, you want the Tesco by the restaurant.Me: Arghhh…how many Tesco’s are there!
It transpires there are three of these bloomin stores within several hundred yards of each other. It'd now been a half-an hour since I first arrived and what’s more, I’d developed a stocking malfunction during all the to’ing and fro’ing, as one of my hold-up stockings were no longer holding-up and had begun ever so slowly but surely, to creep down my thigh.
l eventually found the right one; T came down to the entrance apologising for the confusion. Oh well, at least it was a bright winters morning, it could have been a dark wet one, small mercies.
T, who now lives in Amsterdam, was staying at a friend’s apartment for a week whilst he was away. He’d been up all night partying on the nose candy, thus his early morning call due to an inability to sleep.
‘Could you stay for three hours, oh and would you like a line and some vodka,’ ‘Not for me thanks T, but you go right ahead.’ We talked awhile about Amsterdam, a place I’ve only visited once, but from what I saw I think I could spend some time living there. Though a Londoner, he had no intention of moving back, as he too was so taken with the place.
We retired to the bedroom, where T requested l give him a back rub. Looking tired and obviously on a come-down, he went off every 10 minutes to do another line and a shot of vodka; then he dipped. ‘Do you mind if we climb into bed and just have a cuddle, I’d really like that,’ ‘Sure, we can do that,’ I replied and so we did, for more than an hour.
I woke him gently from his slumber, ‘T…shall I just tuck you up and slip away now, let you get some rest,’ ‘Oh, eh sorry about that Frances I dropped off there.’ ‘Not to worry, you've been on it all night,’ I replied. I fluffed up the pillows, rested his head back down and pulled the covers up around his shoulders, fetched a large glass of water and placed it on the bedside table. ‘You stay there in bed, I’ll let myself out.’ It was noon and I'd still the whole day ahead of me; first things first, go buy a new pair of stockings.  What I’m reading in bed…
The Road to Little Dribbling: Bill Bryson

Post new comment

The content of this field is kept private and will not be shown publicly.
  • Web page addresses and e-mail addresses turn into links automatically.
  • Allowed HTML tags: <a> <em> <strong> <cite> <code> <ul> <ol> <li> <dl> <dt> <dd> <img> <br> <object> <embed> <p>
  • Lines and paragraphs break automatically.
Image CAPTCHA
Copy the characters (respecting upper/lower case) from the image.
Your Ad Here