The Secret Sex Agent

Rooney apologises

2010-09-12T11:10:00.008+01:00

Well OK, Wayne Rooney may have gone too far by bringing escorts back to his house while his pregnant wife was away.

In general though, every time a sportsman, politician, actor or anyone else in the public eye is caught paying for sexual services there is an outcry because he (usually it's a man) has broken the arbitrary no-sex rule that our uptight society imposes. He then apologises publicly, like a political prisoner in a Stalinist show trial, and people who know nothing about the subject express their outrage and sadness that this goes on at all. Olivia Cole in the London Evening Standard wrote:

Any city's red light district is a grim and frightening spectacle. But here in London, some of the city's best restaurants and nightclubs are full of what people euphemistically term young girls and their uncles.

It's only in Hollywood that the uncles tend to look and act like Richard Gere. Or that hookers have as fabulous a time as Truman Capote's Holly Golightly. If you want to be put off your food, go and have dinner at ... well, a number of big-name West End restaurants and clubs. The idea of the good-time girl paid to have a good time alters when you take a hard look at very old, very fat men entertaining swarms of breakable Eastern European teenagers. They look less like Julia Roberts or Audrey Hepburn than small, broken birds with dead eyes.

Of course. As an Evening Standard op-ed writer, Olivia Cole must have often found herself being put off her dinner in West End restaurants by the presence of old, fat men exploiting numerous dead-eyed Eastern European teenagers. I mean, who hasn't? I can't say I have, to be honest, but perhaps I lack Cole's journalistic observational skills. Notice that the men's age is a factor in putting Cole off her West End dinners. Also notice that she mentions grim and frightening red light districts for no other reason than to set the scene for the disgusting spectacle of older men buying dinners for young women. I have no doubt that red light districts are often grim and dangerous, although I've never seen one and don't particularly want to. None of this has anything whatever to do with any celebrity hooker scandal.

What would happen, I wonder, if just for once the celebrity in question - or even his wronged partner - could stand up and say, "It's only sex, for heaven's sake. You should try it."

Save money in the recession by shopping around for sex

2010-08-01T13:15:00.001+01:00

I'm congratulating myself on managing to have sex only once in July, resulting in an under-budget month that only cost me £120 (and I don't regret that hour with Anna - a 40ish real woman and complete sweetheart who seriously knows how to fuck). Now Barbara who I saw briefly last month (train delays adding to my frustrations) is offering an hour for £50, and she's a sweetheart as well. Of course the temptation is to have more sex rather than save money, so we'll have to see how this month goes.

Sex, Lies and Creative Reporting

2009-01-24T13:07:00.022Z

In a recent post about what seems to be a new puritannical urge among policy makers, I mentioned this article about the alleged success of Sweden's sex ban. It was written a couple of years ago but it is typical of reporting on the subject.

A lot of things bothered me about the article, but the part I keep finding myself thinking about appears in this section, intended to give the reader a glimpse of the harsh reality of street prostitution:

It's 9 p.m. in Stockholm and Malmskillnadsgatan Street is dead. The road, infamous for being one of the city's main drags for street prostitution, used to be packed with women, but tonight only three women are working the street.

For a long while, nothing happens, but then an older man with alcohol on his breath comes up the escalator from the Högtorget subway station. He pauses briefly in front of one of the women. Then she walks about 10 meters away and signals to him to follow her to a more discreet spot.

Never mind for now that it evokes the harshest, cheapest street hooker scene, a small part of the sex trade, in order to make a total ban seem welcome. Never mind the subliminal placing of words like dead, infamous and working the street to increase the sense of despair and brutality (later in the article he uses the word "john" to impress us with his street credentials) or even the fact that the client is an older man (yuk, who'd want sex with that?) What really bothers me is "with alchohol on his breath".

How did the Spiegel reporter know that the older man had alchohol on his breath? He was watching the street "for a long while" so he couldn't have passed him on the subway escalator. I doubt that he was watching the street from a position near the woman, as the john wouldn't have approached her. He did not interview her afterwards or he would have mentioned it, doubtless with some suitable quote along the lines of "I do this to support my heroin habit and three children and avoid a beating from my pimp" to bring the point home. I can only assume he was watching the street from a position somewhere between the subway escalator and the hooker, and the man passed close enough for the reporter to smell his breath.

Or, he just made up parts of the story, or all of it, to support his conclusion. I can't help thinking that the second explanation is the more likely one.

Sex workers are safer in massage parlours

2009-01-11T13:44:00.011Z

Recently I was at a massage parlour being treated to a blissful and much needed forty minutes of curvy female company with a girl called Krystal, who sweetly let me have it for the price of thirty. (It was the first time in a month - I've been good.) Nearing the end of our time, as we were getting dressed, there was a knock on the door and a woman's voice asked "Everything alright in there?". Krystal called back a cheery "Fine, thanks."

This is exactly why the government is wrong to try to ban massage parlours. In a flat with a couple of girls and a maid, a girl gets some backup, not to mention some company. What if things had not been alright, if I'd been some aggressive creep wanting more than he paid for? I don't know who else was at that place but there would have been at least two women to chuck me out. A creep might not even try anything if he knows there are other people around.

Of course you will read sensationalist reports of women being locked up, beaten and drugged by pimps, of under-age sex and people-trafficking, but I have never seen any evidence of this. Of course the gun-running people-trafficking pimps would want to hide this from the customers so perhaps I should not expect to see anything, but I still find it hard to believe they could hide so much abuse so well, or that the girls could be so cheerful, friendly and enthusiastic under threat of gang violence. The phone is almost always answered by a woman. When you arrive you are almost always let in and shown to a room by a woman. In fact I have only ever come across one massage parlour where a man answered the door (and the girl I saw there told me she was leaving because the hours didn't suit her, unusual I would think for victims of people trafficking and drug addiction), and I find reports describing, for example, male brothel owners making misogynistic comments to researchers about the availability of dirty Thai bitches and the like quite unrepresentative of anything I have ever seen myself. In any case, pimps are surely less necessary now that we have the Internet. I don't need a pimp to find me some female company. I can just browse for services on the web and book them myself.

I mentioned Harriet Harman and the idiocy of the government proposals to Krystal, to be immediately cut short with "You're not going to talk politics, are you?" and I realised I had lowered the tone. I made my excuses and left.

Norway bans sex

2009-01-01T11:54:00.002Z

I read with sadness this morning that Norway has banned sex (along with and Finland, Sweden and possibly Estonia.) Not all sex, perhaps, but for Scandinavians in sexless long-term relationships with no secret affair on the horizon it might as well be, since it is now illegal to pay anybody to have sex with you. If you are a Norwegian citizen in this situation, the options available to you now seem to be:

Go without sex for the rest of your miserable life.
Get back on Friends Reunited and have another go at starting an affair.
Leave the family home and financial security behind you to go and live in a bedsit and look for a new partner who's as nice as the old one but fancies a shag now and again.
Continue discreetly paying for sex once or twice a month, but now risking arrest and criminal charges that could very well wreck your life as completely as the bedsit plan.

Good luck with that.

A lot of what you fancy

2008-10-09T06:44:00.016+01:00

What a world we live in. My dream sex scenario is kneeling behind a gorgeous curvy girl, lovingly fucking her big bottom after first enthusiastically exploring it with my tongue. With all you read in the media about fast food junkies and the obesity epidemic you might think this would be easily achievable, and yet most available women are frustratingly slim. Couple that with bottom sex not being to every girl's taste and it becomes a lifetime ambition that may not even be achievable.

I managed to make it to Curves Unlimited recently. It's rather out of my way but the site had been tantalising me for some time with its promise of all-curvy company, and I managed to find the time to make the trip. Boy was it worth it.

Sam was friendly, funny and welcoming on the phone, and just as nice in person when I found the place. She offered me a soft drink and led me to the cosiest bedroom I've seen for a long time. She's blonde and very curvy, more than I was expecting even, but hey, in for a penny, in for two hundred pounds. I asked (light-heartedly and respectfully of course) how she felt about bottoms and having hers played with, and sadly she told me that wasn't something she was into. Bummer. Never mind though, there was plenty more of her to explore.

As often happens, after I'd handed over the cash she told me to get myself naked while she had to disappear for just a minute. I told her that I'd quite like some help with that, at which she grinned and said she'd love to. I mean, isn't that one of the best bits? The fingers exploring your waist and then your fly, unbuttoning, slipping down into your pants, ever closer, so that when they finally find you and close around your straining erection it's already an adventure. They did, and it was. Meanwhile my fingers had found the patch in her knickers between her legs that was hot and felt good.

Then she had me on the bed, and with my last stitch of clothing tossed away that big girl went down on me like my cock was a free jumbo custard muffin. She kicked off her knickers and as she was kneeling to my side I was finally able to slip a fingertip into her pussy, which was hot and wet as she sucked me like an angel. I believe in angels. Sam's one and boy are her blowjobs heavenly. In the unlikely event of there being a Heaven and my ever going there, I just hope the girl angels suck as sweetly as Sam.

After coming up for a cuddle and smooching (no proper kissing, sadly, but there was plenty more of Sam to kiss) while she stroked my lucky cock some more, I slipped down between her big open thighs to enjoy licking her like a sticky banoffee pie. How much of it was put on for my benefit I don't know, but she felt responsive and appreciative and I loved it. Then she asked if I'd like to fuck her. I told her I'd fancied her since the minute our eyes had first met across, well, the hallway outside and I was desperate to fuck her, a lot, which I did, as usual assisted occasionally by Gordon Brown who I think about when I need to cool down for a moment. Sam laughed. That man has helped me a lot. I came in the time-honoured missionary position because we were just too comfortable to move, and I wanted to look into her eyes as the cum came out of my balls and into her.

The whole experience with gorgeous Sam was amazing, and I can't understand why there are not more curvy women out there in the world of secret paid sex. Perhaps massage parlour owners recruit leggy girls with the skinny model looks they think men want, when in fact there must be thousands of men like me who long for some curvy company and can't find it anywhere.

Prostitution Turns Women Gay

2008-09-27T12:30:00.019+01:00

Don't you hate radio phone-in radio shows when you are driving and you can't phone in yourself? Especially when even if you could, you would risk giving away your secret identity, with potentially disastrous results for your marriage and career.

I caught the tail end of a show where one of the subjects being discussed was prostitution and Minister for Women Harriet Harman's proposed prohibition law. (Do polititians never learn from history?) One caller, who described himself as a former bouncer at a brothel, made some reasonable comments about how he never saw anybody forced to work there, and while the girls may not have thought highly of the customers it did at least pay well and they were happy enough to get on with the job. Then the host of the show read out a text message (you can text the show - maybe that's what I should try) that went something like "I've known a few working girls, and most of them ended up becoming disillusioned with men and seeking out the company of other women for love and affection." This was read out with barely a comment, then on to the sport and travel.

How about that. Going through the daily misery of having sex with men turns working girls homosexual. I wonder what the official stats are on that. Does it also go for gigolo-type male escorts, becoming eventually disgusted with all that sex with women and turning to other men for love and affection? What about rent boys - does it turn them staight? The Sarah Palins and Harriet Harmans of the religious right would love that, wouldn't they - not only do the sins of working girls lead the poor lambs in their disillusionment into another sin for which as Christians we should pity them while noting how it proves they were wrong to have had all the sex and God was right, but another group of sinners is healed of their unnatural gayness by exactly the same process. Halleluiah!

More seriously, notice the assumption that sexuality is affected by environment. If disillusionment with men can turn straight women gay, then homosexuality is a choice in the first place, or at least something you can be driven to through circumstances, and this justifies a judgemental view of it. If being gay were simply like being left-handed or female then judgement would be irrelevant: you're made the way you are and that's that. If commercial sex could make you gay then homosexuality could be a sin.

What is of course more likely is that the text message to the radio show was made up by someone who believes this old wives' tale because he or she wants it to be true.

I mentioned this to my regular reasonably priced working girl next door Katia next time I was doing the thing the prohibitionists would have me criminalised for, having a bloody sex life while incidentally maintaining a marriage that would otherwise be unsustainable, and she laughed in astonishment. Seriously, anonymous text messager, visit a real working girl rather than one of your made up ones, ask her if she's started to turn gay at all due to all the sex with men, and let me know her reaction.

Cheating on your regular prostitute

2008-09-01T07:26:00.014+01:00

I've seen Katia several times now, and I really like her. She's the girl next door you secretly fancy, but also (unlike in the straight world) secretly fuck. Most recently we tried an early morning session - a first for me. I got up extra early and arrived at her place freshly showered, teeth brushed, and as it happened, mildly hung over (not sure how that happened - I blame that last glass of wine). At my suggestion (she's up for anything, the sweetheart) she sucked me till I came, then after a nice cuddle and a chat while I recovered, we went for a doggie-style fuck.

That sounds great, but maybe I'm not an early morning person, maybe it was that last glass of wine, but I couldn't manage to cum the second time. To tell the truth, the first one hadn't been that great either. It was certainly no fault of Katia, my sweet, affectionate, enthusiastic, reasonably priced girl-next-door, and I'll be back and she'll be great. Maybe it'll even be better because it wasn't perfect last time. It'll be like having a girlfriend, making love to someone you like and have missed all week and want to please, rather just dropping by to get the VIP treatment from whoever's free.

The thing is, the next week I went to a new (to me) place where a girl called Natasha with the peachiest bottom and the dirtiest grin opened her legs to let me suck her before fucking me senseless. It was so great I went back the next week for another thrilling session, finishing with me kneeling behind her in the canonical position, cumming perfectly up her peachy bottom. Now how's that for the real girlfriend experience? It gets samey and loses its thrill, then you fancy someone new and (in the normal world) wonder whether to end a perfectly good relationship every time this happens, with all the hurt and heartbreak that will bring, or whether to try your chances at a secret fling, while reflecting on how shallow and pointless your life has become.

In the other world of paid sex, though, none of this matters. If I want to fuck Natasha's bottom I can drop by on a Tuesday. I'll keep seeing Katia again because I like her and she's great and I don't want to lose the friendly familiarity we've got now, and sometimes I'll sneak over to Natasha's place, or try somewhere new to see what other kissable peachy bottoms are on offer. In the scheme of things it's ridiculous to feel bad about it - it's not like there is a relationship built on trust and honesty here, I'm paying Katia by the hour and the press will be quick tell you she secretly despises me, but all the same it's another layer of deception. Welcome to the Real Girlfriend Experience.

The Wisdom of Whores and The Enduring Allure of Hooker Sex

2008-07-26T15:56:00.004+01:00

While browsing Elisabeth Pisan's "Wisdom of Whores" site, I came across a link to the Sex Workers' Outreach Project blog. This had a link to a great article on The Enduring Allure of Hooker Sex by Pondi Road of The Jamaica Observer:

The hooker fills the important void between fantasy and reality; she is our collective dream weaver. What "normal" man will admit to wanting to spend an evening licking a woman's toes, being walked on in heels, being ridden like a horse, living out sadomasochistic impulses or participating in dom-sub verbal play? The list of our secret desires is endless. With the hooker, he only needs to be able to pay, and she (unlike his wife or girlfriend) will never judge. As a goddess of the underworld, she has already seen it all. She is both a solace and a testament to the normality of his "abnormal" sexual fantasies.

Katia

2008-05-11T14:26:00.034+01:00

I first saw and liked Katia's AdultWork profile almost a year ago. Her photos showed a nice looking girl-next-door with a deliciously peachy bum and a long "Likes" list that included everything I need. What marked her out though was her personality, which shone from her comments and description of herself, and even more from the feedback posted by men who'd visited her - all of them taking great trouble to describe not just a great fuck, but someone they'd obviously liked and hoped to meet again. They mentioned her sense of humour, the instant feeling of familiarity ("like having great sex with an old friend", someone wrote: another said Katia had mentioned possibly giving it up and getting a boyfriend, adding, "wish it was me"), the feeling they would be happy to meet her any time for a drink and a chat. Through a couple of friendly emails, however, I found that the times she was free were never going to match the times I could make - she also had a part time straight job, she could only have visitors when her flatmates were out at work, her place was a little out of the way for me, etc - and I thought I would never get to meet her.

Then recently I happened to look at her profile again (it's nice to look at), and it had an announcement that she had got her own place at last. The new place was even a little closer. Barely able to believe my luck I got back in touch, and sure enough she could see me the next weekend.

She let me into the hallway with a smile and a friendly kiss. She led me up to her room apologising cheerfully for the clutter which she would clear up once she was more settled in, although it was actually pretty tidy. She had iTunes on her computer and a couple of band posters on the wall, and it turned out we both liked a lot of the same music, particularly the Cocteau Twins, of all things - I thought it was just me that still remembered them. We chatted easily, moving to the bed, occasional brief kisses testing for a reaction, getting one, her fingers slipping under my shirt.

Soon we were kissing more confidently, then passionately, open mouthed sweet tongued hot girlfriend kisses, the kind they tell you escorts don't do. They know nothing. But she's a friend I've fancied for a year, kind of, I just happen to have slipped her some cash - it barely counts. Then my shirt's off, we're groin-grinding, her fingers are slipping down my pants, then she pulls those off and I help her out of her remaining clothes, we're touching and exploring all over, and I briefly admire and lick her cute arse before she makes me lie back and goes down to suck me like an angel.

Then she got up to stand over me on the bed, and gracefully squatted over my face, so I could just open my mouth and put out my tongue to kiss and suck whatever she chose to place there. That has been a fantasy of mine since as long as I can remember, that had never come true until Katia squatted so beautifully over my mouth, on her bed.

Some time later - I've lost track of all we did in the meantime - she slipped a condom on me and mounted me. Somehow I managed to half-concentrate on the Prime Minister's recent tax policy announcements enough to avoid orgasm for several minutes while Katia thrust harder and harder. I tentatively poked first one, then two moistened fingertips into her bottom and she kissed me and moaned more and thrust harder, finally coming for me while - thank you Gordon - I still had more to give. I wish I could make it like this every time. Maybe if I practice more with Katia. I snaked around behind her to kiss her arse, and she generously reached back to part her buttocks for me to stick my tongue up it as far as it would go, which I'd been longing to do since we hit the bed. She even handed me a camera for her private gallery. Then - the ultimate sex act for me, pretty much sacred in my fantasy world - I gently slipped my straining cock very gently into her cute bottom (no sudden movements, always checking she's comfortable, just letting it find its own way in) and we were finally fucking for real.

This is sex, this is really fucking, everything else is just foreplay, I gasped into her ear, bent over her. I know baby, I know, she whispered back, the girl with my cock up her arse. At first she started to thrust back, but she let me steady her so I could work on her at my own pace. I needed to feel the orgasm coming with her around me, feel it break over me like a wave, feel the pulsing cum jets from the tip of my penis into her arse.

Then it had gone and I was just a guy kneeling behind a girl, with his penis in her bottom and freshly emptied balls. Katia reached back tenderly to hold me as she changed position to lie flat on the bed, me on top with my cock still held in her bottom, and we lay there chatting, giggling, holding hands, enjoying the closeness and the sheer taboo naughtiness of what we'd just done together.

Well, I always knew I would like Katia. Now I have a new friend I can turn to whenever I need to be thrilled with passionate kisses and a sexy arse, which I can fuck lovingly to the dreamily ambient soundtracks of the Cocteau Twins. A million kisses, Kat, and I'll see you again soon.

Little Tania

2008-04-25T07:35:00.026+01:00

I love this. Of course, it's not ideal, it can never be all I want, it's expensive, it's limited, if I'm honest I don't know what effect it has on peoples' lives, including mine, and it might even be dangerous - but there is something incredibly uninhibited about it. The simple knowledge that both of you are there for sex is a great icebreaker.

I knock on a door. I'm a little early. I wait, knock again. After a while I hear soft footsteps, then a young woman lets me in, grinning, naked, wet and soapy. I realise I have got her out of her bath, and I apologise. We both know I have come to have sex with her. I am getting a hard-on. I get payment out of the way. We have sex, enthusiastically, for an hour. We dress, freshen up, and leave together, since I am taking the bus home and she is going to the shop on the corner. She is cheerful, chatty and playful, and tells me I'm naughty.

This would not be possible out there in the normal world. Two people could not meet up just to have sex, just because it feels good and they need it, just to feel alive, unless you believe in fuck buddies, and frankly I have more faith in the tooth fairy. Even a fuck buddy - if such a thing even exists - is a friend you fuck when you need sex, which is a relationship that could easily become complicated. Tania, and girls like her, keep it simple.

Tania is a sweetheart - and in the flesh she's quite little, it's just her bum that's big. And that's a good thing (I like big butts and I can not lie). She laughed easily, smiled a lot, kissed me freely. Being shorter than me has its advantages, as she unzipped me and crouched to suck my cock. We had an hour to ourselves, so we could take our time. I kissed her, went down on her, found her bumhole, licked it, found myself in an anal 69 as sweet Tania gave as good as she got, then I spread her thighs and pussyfucked her till she came for me, rolled her over and slipped between her wet buttocks to fuck her properly up her beautiful arse, and it was all wonderful.

Big Tania

2008-04-24T07:56:00.004+01:00

Today I am going to see Tania, who has the sexiest Adultwork profile I have seen in a long time. I've been good (or, I haven't had sex, depending on how you look at it) for three weeks now - I had been sort of trying to go till the end of the month, but when I saw Tania's profile I knew I wouldn't make it. We exchanged friendly emails and it's a date. I wanted to try writing about it first so that I can come back later and describe how it went. Maybe I can't quite believe it's real.

While on the subject of Adultwork profiles, another big gorgeous girl called Mimi is auctioning her anal virginity - I love that idea. I'd seen her profile before but noticed my favourite thing wasn't on her "likes" list, and did wonder if she was the kind of girl who might give it a go once she's really turned on. She's also raffling 30 minutes of just oral and a 2-hour session. That girl should be on The Apprentice.

Poetry

2007-10-05T18:09:00.010+01:00

I don't normally go to massage parlours, as I think it's nicer to see an independent escort - someone I can get to know a little, build up a rapport with, swap text messages with, look forward to seeing. It's more of what's known as a girlfriend experience (GFE), or at least secret mistress/fuck buddy experience. I wonder if those really exist. Anyway, there is a massage parlour in my local high street, five minutes' walk from my home. It's been there for years, a blank-fronted shop at the end of the high street, after a takeaway pizza place, a picture framers' and a newsagent, opposte Waitrose. The sign outside says "Massage". I was scared to go in there for years because I was afraid it was an actual massage parlour. I read that they were busted on vice charges some years ago but they must have reopened under new management, because my little gentrified suburb still has its high street brothel.

You push open the blank street door and enter a lobby with a locked door ahead of you and a reception window on one side, like a post office. There is a suspicious looking woman at it, and behind her half a dozen young women in tight white labcoats and high heels sitting around on armchairs doing their nails, watching TV. One is just finishing her lunch. You pay a small fee to get in, and the receptionist takes your name (first names seem to be enough) and enters it elaborately in a book. The girls all look at you cutely. You have to pick one. It should be a dream come true but it's mostly embarrassing and weird. I look for a curvy one but they are all skinny. I choose the one in the middle of the sofa because I like the way she smiles at me. She gets up and she is the skinniest one there. She picks up a neatly folded towel and leads me upstairs. I ask her name. She tells me 'Susanna', in an Eastern European accent, maybe Polish. She asks me my name, she must have missed it downstairs. Oh, like the poet? That's right. You write poetry? Well, not yet. I may do one day.

A dingy room contains a bath and a massage table, on which Susanna spreads the towel. I pull a curtain aside to take a peek outside. Waitrose in the rain. I suppose at this point a council inspector could still be convinced this was a therapeutic massage service. She asks what I'd like to do and once again it's a bit awkward as we establish that I want the regular, you know, normal, straight, full service for about half an hour, and this will cost £60, which I hand over. I should have put it more poetically. She steps out of her white labcoat to reveal a delicate, slender body in glamour underwear.

She undresses me sweetly. Nice jeans. Thanks. My jeans seem to be a hit with prostitutes. I'm going to call them my fucking jeans from now on. Her touch is warm and gentle, and feels good. I check where I'm allowed to touch. Anywhere, she says coyly. Not inside. I can kiss her on the cheek. It's all beautiful. After a little while, I check whether I can kiss this, my fingers between her legs. Sure, she says, sitting back on the massage table and gracefully opening her legs to let me suck her.

I spend five minutes or so enjoying licking her delicate pussy. She seems to like it, though she doesn't cum. She does moan softly and fondle my ears. You have nice ears. Thanks. Always I look for boyfriend with nice ears. Are you into ears? I am now.

I work my way back up, we switch positions, she wanks me with lotion for a while, intensely pleasurable (I have to stop her a couple of times - sometimes I think handjobs are the best bit) then slips on a condom and sucks me. I can never feel enough through the damn condom, the real downside of this relationship I guess, but nice all the same. Then she checks if I want to be inside her. Yes, a lot. She gets up on the massage table with me and demurely assumes the position. She guides me in. I love holding a buttock in each hand and gazing at her cute bumhole (I didn't check if that was available) while I work my cock into her. We start off awkwardly at different paces - Susanna faster, me slower, like a poet - before merging into one.

After we've dressed and had a little hug and one more kiss on the cheek, and she's led me downstairs and let me out of the door, I'm still trying to think of a poem. I finally piece something together in the gym later, and I think about stopping off at the massage parlour on the way home to deliver it. I wonder if she is back in her spot on the sofa. Do the girls talk about they guys they've been with? I guess they must do. "So did he smell?" "Not too bad. He had nice jeans. Is Countdown on yet?" I look at cards in the minimart, the only place still open, but am I really going to get her a "Just To Say..." card with roses or a teddy bear on it and write a stupid poem and hand it to the suspicious receptionist? The moment has passed. I'll just write it here. Susanna, you are a sweetheart.

Susanna, your lips are like honey
and your smile makes a rainy day sunny.
I wish you were mine
to kiss all the time
but your handjobs are well worth the money.

Paris, Bermondsey

2007-10-04T11:30:00.002+01:00

Last year I came across Ace Massage, which is a site for escorts and escort agencies to advertise on. I think it's just one guy who'll take some photos and put up a website from a template for a monthly fee. From the main site you can browse by area, see what's new and so on. Some of the agency sites there look like glossy, professionally run fronts for ruthless people-trafficking gangs. Others are more like cottage industries run by a small group of women, and others again are independents. (OK, so I haven't researched the economics of this stuff: maybe there is a pimp in the background with gold teeth and a purple Cadillac. Maybe I should ask next time.)

Anyway I digress. I was going to write about Bermondsey Babes. This was a flat situated conveniently a couple of tube stops from Canary Wharf, and I came across it on the Net via Ace Massage. (It isn't there any more, since they got served with an ASBO.) I was nervous when I called the number, and I'd had to walk around a while to find a spot where I could have the conversation without being overheard. A friendly sounding woman gave me directions and made sure I was clear about the flat number and the orange sticker by the bell. She was a bit cagey about the exact services on offer but confirmed that prices started at £40.

I went there in my lunch break the next day, found the place easily enough, and rang the orange-tagged doorbell, conspicuous in my suit in an ex-local authority housing estate, and frankly terrified about what I was doing. The maid let me in (hey, that's what they call them - no she wasn't dressed up as a maid), showed me upstairs to a small bedroom and offered me a glass of fruit juice. Soon an attractive young woman came in wearing glamour underwear and high heels, introduced herself, and left. Then another. I started to relax a little. This is nice, I thought. Everyone is so friendly, and they are dressed for the warm weather we're having.

After four girls had introduced themselves, the maid came back in with my fruit juice and asked which girl I wanted. I wished I'd been paying more attention to their names. "Or would you like all of them?" Umm, the last one, I said, pathetically. Actually the last one, whose name (I was reminded) was Paris, was particularly gorgeous: tall, part Caribbean if I had to guess, with a golden all year tan and a cheeky grin. So my first Babe was Paris. I wonder if it was like this for Toulouse Lautrec.

She cheerfully asked what I'd like to do, and of course I didn't know what to ask for, so the poor girl had to list some services and I had the feeling she would have preferred not to. I settled for hand relief (still nervous about the whole brothel experience, or whatever we're calling them). It turned out to be a great choice and I'd recommend it to anybody. It's cheap and it's safe, skin on skin without a condom, intensely intimate and pleasurable. It's quick, if you're worried about the time, and you always cum, if you're suffering from performance anxiety or anxious that you might. My advice to anyone is to go to a prostitute and get yourself professionally wanked.

Paris kissed me, undid my belt and trousers, and slipped her hand down my pants. I've been to other places where they just tell you to take off your clothes and lie on the bed, like some kind of medical examination without the nurse fantasy. Paris kissed me and felt down my pants and it was beautiful. Then she helped me out of the rest of my clothes, reached for the lube and sat on the bed in front of me. She worked my now hard cock like a milkmaid, grinning as if at the naughtiness of it all (or at what a loser I was, but it was a nice grin either way), and playing along by gasping in sympathy with me. As I looked down at her sweet face, her parted lips, her fingers working my erection, at her cleavage and her knickers, soon I felt that delicious moment of letting go approaching, and I came hard through her fingers, cum dripping over her tits. She handled the final moments well too - a lot of girls seem to think you just keep up the same rhythm, when for me at least I want it to slow down so I can savour it, cum slowly if that's possible, have the last drop squeezed out of me. Also there is a sudden sensitive feeling that appears just as you've cum, and having your cock yanked about goes from feeling great to intensely uncomfortable in an instant. Wanking is an art.

The other great thing about a handjob is that it leaves a little mystery, something for next time, a tantalising glimpse of a cleavage and a pantie-covered crotch, so you leave with a kiss on the cheek and a spring in your step and a new fantasy about getting into Paris' pants, getting her naked, spreading her legs and fucking her properly maybe one day next week, possibly Wednesday. Something to look forward to. I still have that fantasy, because Paris was one of the nicest and sexiest escorts I've been with.

Unfortunately I managed to mess that one up by missing her (turned out she was only there on Tuesdays), and as it happened I never saw her again. Damn.

Letitia

2007-10-03T11:28:00.010+01:00

One day sexual frustration finally overtook fear and I called a number I'd copied down for a local no-rush body-2-body busty massage, posted in wobbly handwriting in a local newsagent's window between ads for a man with a van and intermediate guitar lessons. I was off work and my wife was out. A woman's voice said, hello? Nervously, I said I was calling about the ad for the massage parlour. (Parlour? Where the hell did that come from?) I was terrified I had the wrong number, but it was OK. She gave me the address of a block of flats a short walk away. Yes, in 20 minutes or so would be fine. Call me when you get there.

I found the place. It had a gravel parking space in front, and steps leading up to a door with reinforced glass and an intercom system with about 50 doorbells. I called her again. She just needed a minute. I felt a bit awkward standing there, loitering as it were, where anyone might see me and wonder what that man was doing. Stupid of course - why wouldn't I stand there waiting for my friend, legitimate business contact or perfectly respectable family member?

I decided to take a walk around the block. Thinking about it though, as I walked, perhaps it wasn't really a block I could walk around in a moment. It might be miles. The phone rang. Strange to see that number lighting up the Incoming Call screen. Where you going darling? Take the lift to the second floor. OK.

The door buzzed and clicked as I reached it. Inside, it was dim, deserted, echoey, clean. A lift at the end of the corridor on my right. I pressed the button to call it. A distant hum, lift arriving, echoing ping, doors rumbling open. Silence again. I get in, press 2, doors close. A moment later the doors rumble open with a clear ping that hangs in the silence. It is still deserted. The corridor has a bend in it so I can’t see all the way to the end, but I hear a single unmistakable click of a door being unlocked. I follow the sound. Around the corner, one door is ajar. A friendly looking black woman in her late thirties is standing in the doorway, wearing only a basque top and a big smile. Hi darlin’, she says, welcoming me in with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

The small front room has a double bed and a large TV. She explains in her sweet Caribbean accent that she is a qualified masseuse and will be happy to give me a relaxing massage without touching me anywhere I don't want to be touched. Or, if I like, we can talk about extras. Umm, yes, extras sound like what I was after. Well, she continues, perhaps a little relieved that I'm not there for some stupid massage therapy after all, the VIP service includes protected oral then straight sex, all positions, no rush, £60. And so that's what we do.

We get payment out of the way. She touches my leg. I'm turned on already. I swear some people have just got something about them. It's not about being a supermodel. Smiling, she undoes my belt, unzips my jeans. Nice jeans, she says. Thanks. Her warm fingers slip inside my boxer shorts and find my erect penis. Oh god, I may have gasped, that's what I need, that's what I don't get at home. It's true. It's the best feeling in the world to be undressed, wanted, felt, explored. Found. Squeezed.

She put on a porn DVD, I can't say it really helped, then after playing with my cock a little while, put a condom on me and knelt to suck me. I couldn't feel a lot through the condom but it was still nice, like maybe having a foot massage in your socks. It looked good too in the full length mirror she'd got set up. I guess she'd done this before. Then she helped me out of the rest of my clothes, sat me on the bed and straddled me, oh my god, eight years of frustration, disappointment and porn, and my poor straining wank-weary erection at last slipped between a real woman's thighs. I felt the warmth of her pussy around me, the smoothness of her back with my arms, the gentle wiriness of her hair against the side of my face as she held me. Then I was on top, her legs drawn up high, my hand gripping her firm bottom. I told her how gorgeous she was, and meant it, thrusting hard now. She seemed to be getting excited, moaning about how good my cock felt and how my wife was missing something special. OK, she might have been faking a bit but did it matter? This was more enthusiasm than I'd experienced in years.

After I came between her legs (more a sigh of relief than an explosion of physical pleasure to be honest, a sense of achievement almost, a promise to myself finally delivered) and she tidied up, I mentioned I had a thing about bottoms. Oh, do you usually fuck guys? she asked matter-of-factly, rolling up the full condom in a tissue. Umm, no, I replied. Hey she said, I don't judge. I'd immediately liked her when we first met but suddenly I felt a huge respect for her. She didn't judge. She didn't have an attitude, she didn't play games, she didn't care if I was gay or straight. I came to her wanting sex and she gave it to me honestly. She saw nothing wrong with a guy wanting sex. Why wouldn't I? She seemed to think it was quite natural. This was not like the real world, where you have to keep pretending you don't, as if it's the very last thing on your mind. What, rip your panties off and fuck you senseless? Why, the very thought had never occurred to me. What do you take me for. I felt liberated. Letitia set me free.

As I got dressed she explained the procedure to me. The number I'd had on my phone for months was the old one, and she gave me the current one she used for work. I started to type her name into the phone and she stopped me. A strange woman's name on my phone could get us both into trouble. My wife can barely operate her own phone, let alone mine. All the same, she could find a way if she got suspicious, trust me darlin'. Put in something ordinary, like (she looked around the room), "Jeans". I typed in "IT Support". She would never call me. She wouldn't answer the phone to women or withheld numbers. She stayed out of people's private lives. I told her she would make a great spy. She was pretty sure that she would.

I saw Letitia several times over the following months. It was a professional relationship of course, and I respected that, but it was always friendly as well. She would be pleased to see me and give me a big hug and a kiss when she opened the door to me. She said I was a nice guy. She always asked after my wife. One time I got there and she was locked out - they'd changed the security system and she didn't have her swipe card on her, so we had to wait for someone to come out, then I helped carry her shopping up the stairs because the lift was out of order. Once I lost my erection and couldn't do much (hey, it happens) and we just lay side by side, holding hands, telling each other about our lives.

Then I got a new job that left me less time, and I came across Ace Massage and found a place near work called Bermondsey Babes where somebody cute would do pretty much whatever you liked to you in your lunch break, and so I didn't get around to phoning Letitia for a few months. When I did, the phone was switched off. I kept trying and it was always off, then the message changed to "you have dialled an incorrect number." Maybe she gave up sex work, maybe she moved and changed numbers, but I never saw her again. I really hope she is OK. I miss Letitia.

Thrillers International

2007-10-02T11:26:00.001+01:00

It didn't exactly start with Letitia. For a long time, probably for several years of sexual frustration, I fantasised about paying for sex but didn't quite have the guts to actually try it. I even wrote down a couple of phone numbers from the handwritten Busty Massage ads in the local newsagents' windows, and one for a more professional-sounding outfit called Thrillers International, but couldn't bring myself to call them. It seemed scary and a bit creepy, and perhaps on some level an admission of defeat. What would I say to them?

I finally called Thrillers International one evening. I must have sounded a bit weird myself but I guess they've heard it all before. An older woman's voice answered, efficient and businesslike. I mumbled squeakily about wondering where they were based and what they offered, and she rattled off an address and a list of prices - hand relief I think, French, VIP and so on. I wasn't sure what that meant. She said she had to answer the door and I heard her ask someone if he'd been before, then send him to a room telling him a girl would be free shortly. I was terrified. I left it.

Obligatory Rambling Intro

2007-10-01T18:00:00.001+01:00

This is going to be about me, my feelings about sex and the women I meet. Will I keep it up? (The blog, that is.) Is Secret Sex Agent a good name for a blog? I'm having doubts already and I'm still on my first post.

I should mention that I'm a not particularly creepy straight guy with a sex life I can't generally talk about because I'm semi-happily married to someone who doesn't know anything about it and would be understandably shocked. She isn't really all that interested in sex, which frustrates the hell out of me. So, what would be fun, I'm thinking, would be to write honestly about what I get up to when I can afford sex.

Yes, paying for sex in secret while married is probably bad. It certainly isn't how I expected my marriage to turn out. Yes we tried self help books and couple therapy, no they didn't help on the sex front, although I would recommend couple therapy to anyone. The only alternative I can come up with is to leave her and start again, which isn't a great plan either with me being the sole breadwinner. I actually told her I wanted a separation a few months ago but in the end it kind of blew over, mainly because I realised I couldn't afford to pay for two homes on my salary (the one we have that she would need to stay in, and the cheap flatshare I would have to find for myself), not the mention the fact that my wife is my best friend and I love her. Yes I am extremely careful to stay healthy. But anyway I digress. Some more background in the vanishingly small chance that anyone is interested is in this post on dearcupid.org.

If anyone else wants to read this, then hi and welcome. I promise to keep each post as short, sweet and readable as possible. I will describe scenes of an adult nature but I'll post a warning.

To begin, I'm going to get warmed up by describing some of the encounters since this all started about a year and a half ago, beginning I guess with Letitia.