See, here’s the thing. Aged 21, I was Dublin’s top call girl, head hunted by agencies and busier than an abolitionist with an off shore account. There was only one downside to that, I was shit. As is typical of many twenty somethings, I hadn’t a clue about good sex, but then anyone hiring a 21 year old is hardly expecting The Congress of the Crow. At forty, if you look back to sex you had at twenty as being the best you’ve ever had, it’s time to panic. And paint a large neon ‘Exit’ sign over the front door by way of subtle hint for your partner.
Perhaps it’s a backlash against my upbringing, but I’ve never had any hang ups when it comes to frenetic frolicking. To go from the girl terrorised by nuns into not wearing patent leather shoes (knicker reflection) to a woman who now considers leather a work uniform, that’s quite a journey. But the last time I checked, sex is supposed to be fun, not shameful. That doesn’t mean that I favour being rogered in the cable ties aisle in B & Q or talk about it incessantly, either. On my days off, when I’m prostrate on my sofa in a onesie with the cat, I promise you, I wouldn’t get a boot in a stampede.
With an acceptance of yourself as a desirable person, comes confidence. Confidence which swiftly bogged off when I made the recent decision to purchase sex. I did that for several reasons. I wanted to see what it was like to be on the other side of the transaction, I wanted to position myself as a buyer should it be required in a test case and obviously, I wanted to annoy the antis. I didn’t have to look very far to find my chosen companion. As a huge fan of Twitter, for the last couple of months I have been chatting animatedly in private message to a Glasgow based male escort. I say chatting, I mean flirting outrageously. In my defence, that was a two way street, and brightened up my evenings stuck in hotel rooms dealing with emails and calls from those who should never be let out alone.
The day of the appointment was pretty standard for me, I travelled back from Belfast, straight into a photo shoot and then off to meet my escort. I was labouring under the illusion that if I was sufficiently busy beforehand I wouldn’t have the time to get nervous. Nope. It’s fair to say that as I parked the car I was absolutely certain that everyone else would notice my heart doing it’s damn hardest to leap out of my very best lace bra. It’s ironic, had he been paying me, I would have flicked my hair and sashayed into that hotel like I owned it. On this occasion , I willed one foot to go in front of the other. What if he didn’t like me ? What if he thought I was a terrible kisser ? WHAT IF I AM A TERRIBLE KISSER ??
A consummate professional, he swept into reception. “It’s lovely to meet you at last !” He was dressed immaculately in a crisp suit and smelled like heaven on earth. We went to the bar and chatted for a while before retiring to our room for the evening. What followed was less 50 Shades, more Carry On. I was so nervous that as he moved closer to me, I edged further away, such that we ended up in a Benny Hill around the bed chase type thing. Eventually, I lay down so he could give me a massage, and the rest ? Well, if you don’t know what happens by now, you’re on the wrong website. It was perfect.
Was there consent ? Well, far be it from me to judge anyone else’s state of mind but he gave his consent (rather enthusiastically) several times that evening and once more the morning after. Make of that what you will. Do I have any regrets ? I’m really not sure. I’ll come to a decision after I’ve seen him again next week.