I’ve moved my blog to its own domain:

You can find everything over there.



When I arrived in London, it was made clear to me that the sky is falling. The stock market dropped, we’re entering a recession, and the American downswing will bring Europe down with it. The current president is just shy of nominating his horse as consul and the egregiously overpaid managers of funds – who form the bulk of my clientele – are about to have a good reason to cover their conspicuous displays of indulgence. There’s been something in the air for a year now, but it’s getting a little darker. It just feels like we’re due for a backlash, a backlash against disproportionate wealth (maybe rightly so) and with it, a backlash against whoredom.

The other night I had tiny filets of water buffalo and red deer, followed by red berries cast in a pomogranate gelée with champagne granita. Later that night, he jerked off over my body and sprayed my tits and neck with his come. He was aiming for my necklace, a gift from someone else, possibly a rival in his industry.

It feels a little too decadent out there. Something’s going to happen, I think. When there’s a downturn, politicians start looking for scapegoats and whoredom becomes an easy target because it’s always been associated with both conspicuous consumption and moral decay. When people lament a feeble economy, they lash at out at the well-paid clients and then they lash out at the sex workers themselves. If history is any indicator, and it is, then something’s going to happen. Maybe a year from now.


While I wait for the moral apocalypse, someone’s coming by my hotel room tonight to lick my pussy. He’s someone I met four or five trips ago, and he makes me realize that one of the great benefits to being female is that men seem to have no trouble with the spontaneous “Hey, I’m in town,” phone call, or the subsequent, “Come by and lick my pussy” text message. Men are great that way.

If it were the other way around, if a man swept through town and expected women to come by and service his sexual needs, he’d be an insensitive, inconsiderate fuck. And maybe I’m an insensitive, inconsiderate fuck too, and maybe men just put up with me. I just know that I have the great fortune of coming back to my hotel room to indulge in a long bath, and then I’ll towel off, curl up on the sofa with a book, and eventually receive a near-stranger who will enter, kneel, spread my thighs, and lick my cunt. It’s nice. I’m lucky. And it’s probably further indication that the sky is falling.

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