The Walk-Out

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‎I had just begun to write one of those irritatingly reflective, “thought-provoking” posts typical of female bloggers, but then I asked myself: what better way to escape present misery than to re-live past glory? So I’ll save the self-piteous rambling for another time and instead recount my experience of that most dreaded of escorting incidents (OK, probably not the “most” dreaded, and, to be honest, not something I’d been dreading at all, as I never thought it could happen to me): the Walk-Out.

‎I had the place to myself for three days – something which had never happened before and which I was sure would never happen again – and this meant I could do three in-calls, as I wouldn’t be able to leave the baby more than once each day. I had dozens of requests, so I had to choose wisely. My choice for the first night was Cherry Popper – a great choice, which led to one of the loveliest evenings of my life. My ‎choice for the next day was the Edge – another clear winner. I was less sure about the last day, as the person I was considering had somewhat ambivalent feedback. The best thing about AW, in my opinion, is the feedback, but, like everything else, it isn’t perfect. For one thing, there tend to be few caveats – the reviews are either unequivocally laudatory or just as vehemently damning, depending on whether the reviewer wants the client in question to return, or stay away forever. But this was a puzzling case, for while the feedback was mostly positive, rather than the usual “sexy gent extremely polite a real pleasure girls treat him well cum again soon xxxx“, there were strangely curt reviews like: “Not your usual meet“‎, “Interesting” or the particularly curious: ‎”Different.” Even more worrying, he had a negative rating from someone complaining that he had seen her smoking outside her apartment before the booking and walked out. A smoker… understandable, perhaps? I wasn’t sure, but I don’t smoke… so maybe I was safe? And he had paid me such lovely complements, commending me on the “startling eroticism” of my photos. Finally, I accepted his booking.

So there I was, pacing the floor in my high-heeled shoes, freshly straightened hair, and ridiculous Ann Summers crotchless underwear set which he had requested from one of my profile photos, with the halter-neck bra strap clearly showing above my dress, waiting for that idiot to arrive. I could hear him coming up in the lift, and then foolishly continuing on to the wrong floor, and then shuffling down the stairs, while I stood at the door to welcome him in. Well, he took one look at me, asked, “Are you Julia?”, and then, when I told him I was, said, “I’m afraid this won’t work. So sorry.” And left!!

I stood there… totally stunned. It’s not that I think I’m so desirable that no man in the world can resist me – not at all. I just had never thought I was so hideous that a man would literally run from the sight of me! And you know the worst part? My time is not my own – I had left my daughter with the babysitter, whom I would have to pay for three hours (the minimum booking). So not only did I have to pay to be humiliated and insulted, but, in addition, I had wasted my one child-free opportunity for the day on this sexless encounter. One of my three precious in-call days had been entirely wasted and ruined by this inconsiderate cad!

‎I briefly considered going out somewhere on my own, but I felt completely crushed, so I just recovered my daughter, paid off the babysitter, and went shopping. I was still kind of moping, buying nothing, mentally going through all my defects and wondering which of them could have provoked this brutal reaction. I could only think of one which would have been both readily visible and potentially serious enough to merit this treatment – my ethnicity, which was possibly not entirely obvious from my photos. It had to be that; still, it plagued me to think that I’d never be sure. And then, heaven-sent, a message from the Walk-Out.

Dear Julia,

I feel I owe you some explanation for what happened this morning. When you said in your profile that you were 32, I was not expecting someone who looked as young as you. As you must have noticed, I am no longer in the first flush of youth, and I would not have felt comfortable in the presence of someone so young.

My sincere apologies for the inconvenience.

The Walk-Out

Well, you can just imagine my delight! I practically skipped through Primark on my way out. It was like winning the lottery – really! I couldn’t have been happier. Certainly, a compliment like that was worth well more than my hourly fee! I wrote back to thank him for his explanation, even if, I added, it was just a lie to spare my feelings. I also told him my real age – I couldn’t resist. He replied, “Had I known that, I would have stayed!” And then he had the nerve to ask if he could come back!! I rather gleefully informed him that he had wasted my last in-call availability ever. In fact, though I was ashamed to admit it, even to myself, I’d been somewhat taken aback by him, too. I hadn’t been expecting him to be quite so… frail. I couldn’t imagine kissing him, let alone anything else. In a way, he’d done us both a favour.

So I could never have expected that a few weeks later, I’d be climbing the stairs of some random cat-owner’s apartment in Camden, in that silly crotchless underwear beneath my black dress, having surreptitiously changed out of my running clothes at a neighbouring café. The Walk-Out greeted me at the door.

“Where are the cats?” I asked nervously, being deathly allergic to cats.

“There aren’t any.”

“But I thought you said you were cat-sitting?”

“This is a different friend’s place. I’m just flat-sitting here.” Damn! I need more friends. “So,” he continued. “It says on your profile that you like being told what to do. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I demurred. It was correct, of course. But it doesn’t say that anywhere on my profile. How strange!

“Good. Unzip your dress, and lower the top of it down.” I did as he said, and stood there, awaiting further instruction. “Now take off your bra.” He approached me with a couple of clothes-pegs in his hands, and clipped them onto my erect nipples. Then he laid a towel on to the sofa. “Now listen to me,” he said. “I don’t want you to climax, so if you’re getting close, I want you to tell me, and I’ll stop. Do you understand?” I nodded. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t need to tell him to stop…

Ten minutes later, I was tripping gaily down the stairs, licking his come from my lips with a satisfied smile. He followed behind me, to let me out. We said good-bye, I stepped out on to the street… and then, suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back inside.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Do I have something…?”

“Yes,” he smiled. “Turn around.”

My dress! It was still unzipped, hanging completely open from the back, with my red ribbon and black lace bra strap on display for all to see. I flushed with embarrassment as he zipped me up and gave him a grateful peck on the cheek before fleeing down the street as quickly as I could. Should I bother changing back into my running clothes? I hesitated, then finally darted into a café – a different one, this time – for a quick coffee and a complete change of appearance. Running back across Primrose Hill, I looked just like any other fitness freak. And, just as I was nearing home, whom should I come across but my family, returning from a walk in the park!

“Did you have a nice run?” they asked, kindly.

“Lovely,” I smiled, as we walked home together.