“So, what do you like?” I asked, “what sort of things turn you on the most?”
In my year of being on the books at Babes of London, I’d learnt that this was the first . . . and most important question . . . that I should always ask.
Most important because, of course, every gentleman caller is different. They all have different desires, different turn-ons, different circumstances and different times for when they are available. Asking that question, and the way I would phrase my reply, was a skill I’d quickly developed and mastered. And from all the positive reviews that had been posted on my profile page at the Babes of London website, I could tell it was a skill that was certainly appreciated by lots of the gentleman I’d met.
I had worried when I’d first joined the Babes of London agency, that I wouldn’t be as popular as lots of the other girls on the agency’s listing. They all looked like glamour-models, with absolutely gorgeous photographs on their portfolios, and vital-statistics that made me feel that perhaps my curves were all in the wrong places.
But my reviews kept growing and growing, my mobile phone rung more and more . . . and I was soon being told that I was one of the most sought-after escorts in the agency.
“Is there something special you would like me to wear for our meeting?” I continued.
“Red heels and a leather skirt” came his immediate reply . . . assured and confident . . . and in a tone that implied he certainly knew what he wanted.
“Mmm, I like a man who knows what he wants!” I purred back.
We agreed a 7 p.m. appointment. I politely declined his request for an all-night booking. “Not on a first date,” I giggled, “let’s see how we get on, and how we both feel after we’ve got to know each other a little better!”
The postcode he gave me was certainly very exclusive! Chelsea . . . the posh end! An apartment, not a hotel. I’d visited there before, not the apartment, but the square itself. Probably the other side of the small, fenced green. But I knew exactly where to direct the taxi driver . . . pondering to myself, as he chirped on and on about the weather, if my date for the evening had really chosen my number from my on-line profile or if perhaps I’d been personally recommended by a near-neighbour.
I always wonder as I wait self-consciously in a hotel lobby, or shuffle nervously from foot-to-foot in a lift as it glides me upwards, or as in this case . . . I cautiously ring the front door bell . . . just what the face behind the voice-on-the-phone will be like. At least the gentlemen I will be meeting will have already seen my photographs, know my hairstyle, the colour of my eyes and the shape and size of my curves.
But I like to think that, over the course of my eventful year at Babes of London, I’ve developed a sixth sense, almost an instinctive x-ray-vision to sketch in my mind’s-eye just how he will appear as that door first swings open.
Tall, well-trimmed short dark hair, confident friendly eyes, square jaw and a firm . . . hand ???
Would I be disappointed with my date this evening? And would my date be disappointed with me?
Well . . . you’ll just have to read his review at Babes of London won’t you !!!
Xxx – K
