Unsexy Times...

This is probably one of the most common questions I (and I am sure other sex workers) get asked... My answer is always the same... So I thought I'd post it up here. This is a mix and match of a few different pieces I've written over the years for People Mag...

Q: Do you ever have times when you just can't get in the mood for sex? I'm sure you're not “on” all the time. And what if the guy is really fat and ugly? What do you do then?

Surprisingly enough, even a super sex goddess like myself has down days. We all do. It's a part of life. You know those days when you hate everyone and want to avoid human contact wherever possible. Where no matter what anyone says or does they're just irritating and in your way and you wish you were like one of those lizards that can flash bright, warning colours so other creatures know to stay away. Or those blue days when you just feel low for no reason and even shitty ads on TV make you want to weep.

For me, those sorts of days are never anything too serious, I'm generally a pretty happy and positive person and usually reserve those sorts of moods for when I'm having my period. But every now and then, sometimes for no particular reason, I have a bit of a blah moment. 

Like I might wake up with a horrible red pimple right in the middle of my face or feel bloated and sluggish from something I ate the day before. My hair might be having one of its fits and morphed itself into an untameable crazy-cat-lady style, or I could just get up on the wrong side of bed and be in a “Don't-talk-to-me-til-I've-had-my-coffee” kind of mood. Whatever it is, there are some days when I look at myself in the mirror and think “ugh, what happened to you??”

It helps if you're able to recognise these moods because there's usually something you can do to make yourself feel a bit better, and it also helps if people around you can spot them too.

Of course, if you're anything like me, you'll probably want to rip the head off the person who even merely suggests you might be in a bad mood, but at least they'll know to steer clear, or bring you chocolate, or not completely hold a grudge when you go mental at them for chewing their toast too loudly. 

When I was working and having one of those days the last thing I wanted to do is work. I don't think it would be fair of me to turn up and give a half hearted service or be irritable and unfriendly towards the client. Not only would it be completely unprofessional of me, it would also be a waste of my clients' time and money. The whole point of my job, and the most important aspect of it, is making the client feel good so I usually won't take any bookings if I'm feeling lack lustre. Of course, considering I often worked late into the night, there have obviously been a couple of times where I've felt tired and over it but have a job booked, so there are certain things I can do to help me perk up a bit.

The first thing I try and do is eat the right food for the right moment. For example, if I know I'm going to be at a job for more than a couple of hours then I make sure I eat bananas or Weetbix or some other low GI food before I leave, which keeps my stamina up for the job. I also try and make sure I have something like a bag of barley sugars or jelly snakes in the car. The quick sugar fix is great for a quick burst of energy, especially at 3am when it's just too ridiculous to think of having a coffee or energy drink.

I should point out, however, that I am very lucky in the fact that it doesn't take a lot for me to want to have sex. Getting “in the mood” isn't something I have to work too hard at, I'm almost always up for the suggestion. I can't really explain it, I've always been this way. If I could bottle it I would and not only make myself rich, but make millions of people around the world happy and satisfied.

But, in saying all that, sometimes it's not me at all. Sometimes, no matter how “in the mood” I am something about the job just turns me off.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don’t have too many expectations when I go to a booking. I know not every job is going to be with a super-spunky, mega-rich playboy in a suite at the Hyatt and that’s okay. I genuinely enjoy meeting people. I really do. I like people, and people are short, tall, fat, thin, bald, hairy, old and young. I honestly don’t give a crap about that outer stuff. I've met enough good looking guys who are idiots and not-so good looking guys who are fabulous to know that the aesthetics don't count.

You could be a lawn mower or a lawyer; eighteen or eighty, it really doesn’t matter. The only thing I expect, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask, is that A) you are friendly, and B) you are clean.

As for the first part, I luckily haven’t come across too many total fuckwits - it’s not that easy being a bastard when a gorgeous girl has your cock in her hands - but when it comes to the latter, there have been a few times when I've turned up at a job and the guy is unclean and totally smelly.

Just so you know, I’m not really talking about those been-out-all-night-drinking-and-dancing smells, those are the inevitable odours of a night on the town and, although they don’t compare to baking bread or fresh brewing coffee, I can usually handle them. But there’s one smell that gets to me and makes taking my clothes off the last thing I want to do, and that’s the rancid, sour smell of stale sweat.

You know the one that lingers in stifled peak-hour trains in summer and seems to permeate and take up residence in your nostrils so that even when you've got off the train and back into the fresh air you can still smell it? Yeah... That's the smell I mean.

I could understand if I was to get to the client's place at 5:30pm and, because he's just finished work, he is still in his work clothes and hasn't had time to shower or change, but I’m talking about those times when I get there around 9pm and he's still in those clothes. The sweat patches have dried to these greasy, yellow-looking stains under the armpits and around the collar, there’s a bit of lunch still on the front of his shirt and everything he has eaten and drunk since waking up is still on his breath.

I mean come on. It’s not like they didn’t know I was coming over, like I just turned up unannounced on the doorstep looking for a booty call. They've called and arranged the specific time for me to arrive and, not only that, they've called for the sole reason of getting as physically close to another person as one can get. Surely there was enough time to jump through the shower or at least change clothes.

Usually I can avoid being rude or causing embarrassment by suggesting we start the booking with a shower or, if available, a spa. Even if they're not all stinky, it’s a great way to start a sexy session anyway. If that doesn’t work then I’ll go to plan B: A sensual massage with aromatic oil. It’s not as effective as actually washing, but it does an okay job of masking the smell for the hour or so I’m with them and, just like the shower, it’s a fun way to get things going.

But really, Guys, if you're reading this, the next time you arrange for a sexy visitor to come over, give yourself a bit of a sniff or, better yet, once you’ve made the call, just go straight to the shower to have a wash and clean your teeth. It’s really not that hard and, most importantly, makes it a better night for everyone involved. And by everyone, I mean me... I know you'll have a good time, no matter what!

Breaking the Mould

Stereotypes are interesting things. On one hand they can be a way to define certain groups and types of people, but on the other hand (and most commonly), when you delve deeper into it, they are usually completely wrong and are often quite damaging to the person being defined.

Like for example, all Asians excel at the violin or all blondes are stupid or, one of my favourites, all hookers are skanky, heroin addicts who hate the world, hate men and, most of all, hate themselves.

It just isn’t true. I mean, yeah, in every situation you’re going to get some people that match the stereotype (that's how stereotypes are formed), but you’ll also find a lot of people who couldn’t fit into the mould you set, no matter how hard you try to squeeze them in.

We are all guilty of doing it. Assuming things because of what someone looks like or where they come from, and one thing this job has taught me (apart from really useful things like how to use a strap-on and which angles and lights I look hottest in) is to never do that, no matter how obvious it may seem.

The first thing I needed to learn was to not judge clients as a whole. Before I started working in the sex industry I pretty much assumed that most guys who called for the service of an escort were desperate, unattractive, pervy old men. You know the ones, they ogle you at the bus stop and make lewd comments when you walk past them but I have to say, to date, I haven’t come across many guys like that at all.

Yeah, okay, so I’ve seen old guys, desperate guys, sleazy guys and unattractive guys, but all that unsexy goodness rolled into one? Not that many at all.

After switching my thinking about the people who use the services of sex workers, came the learning curve of not judging individual clients by what they looked like or where they were from. It didn't take long at all, but there were some interesting experiences along the way that instantly taught me to never judge a book by its cover.

The first of these experiences was with Karl.

Karl was a bald headed but bushranger bearded, super-scary looking bikie. He had tattoos of skulls and guns all over his arms and back and a well-known biker’s club patch on the back of his jacket. His voice was raw and husky from too many cigarettes, his body gnarled and covered in scars from things like knife attacks and fist fights and he even had a shotgun hanging up in the wall of his bedroom. I’ve gotta tell you, I was a little freaked out. In fact, if I didn't already have all his credit card details and my awesome burly driver waiting outside in the car I may well have made some excuse and left.

I was really glad I didn't. Not only was he was polite, gentle and funny. He was so much fun! He kicked my arse in strip scrabble and played me some beautiful music on his guitar. That first night I spent about three hours with him, laughing and mucking about and fucking and generally having a really good time. He became a regular client and a friend too. In fact the only reason I stopped seeing him was because he moved interstate.

Then there was Billy. A middle-aged, bespectacled accountant who was wearing (no shit) a brown suit with too-short legs and white tennis shoes when I met him. I expected missionary sex and to be shown his stamp collection. I was completely wrong.

After a few hours of wild sex, in which we enjoyed many different positions and toys and which had me shaking and panting all over from multiple orgasms, we sat on the couch and went through pictures of his last mountaineering expedition in the Himalayas . He went every couple of years and was even hoping to one day conquer Everest. He showed me a video of his first solo sky dive and told me all about the base-jumping holiday he was going be taking in Canada the following month.

Not all black guys have humongous cocks, not all Asians have little ones, Indian men don’t always smell like curry and I have yet to come across an Englishman who never showers. And, one of the most important and totally surprising things I learnt in my first few months of working was, not every booking involves sex. There's dinner and events and cuddles and conversation. Sometimes I don't even take my shoes off let alone my clothes. There is such an amazing array of people and situations I have found in my working life that sometimes the anticipation of a new client and an unknown hour or so is even more exciting than the jobs where I know I'm going to have fabulous sex.

In fact, just about the only thing I can guarantee on a job is, if you do end up booking me we are going to have a bloody great time and if you do use some of that time to fuck me, you’re gonna have the ride of your life.

Condom Conundrum

In response to a reader's comment last night about the fact that I don't mention condoms in my blog...

There's actually a reason for this and I wrote about it a few years ago for People Mag... This is taken straight from the archives of my old People Mag file. I haven't edited it or re-written it, it's pretty much exactly how it was in the magazine...
Hope this explains things!
xxDB 

  Someone pointed out to me the other day that I don’t talk too much about condoms in my stories. That even though they are full of fucking and sucking and various positions and parties, the guys never seem to be sheathed.

Well, let me assure you all that I never work without a rubber. Ever. It’s just bloody common sense really.

I have, on some nights, fucked up to six or seven guys and, as much as I enjoy losing myself in tingling ripples of pure pleasure, there is no way I would ever get so lost I’d forget something as important as that.

I suppose the main reason I don’t mention them very often is that, even though they are a necessary part of my job, it just isn’t the sexiest thing to slot into an erotic tale. I just don’t think it’d work. Like this…

John sat beside me and watched hungrily as I lay back, naked and smooth, against the pillows.

My skin buzzed as he nibbled at my neck and teased my throat with his fingertips before moving to linger at my nipples, teasing them til they were standing up hard.

He continued down, running his hands and tongue all over me until, cupping my arse firmly in one hand, he pulled me up off the bed towards him and pushed a couple of fingers from his other hand deep inside me. He rocked me back and forth and I couldn’t help but make little noises and move my hips in rhythm with him.

Then, pushing deeper still, he raised me even higher off the bed and began to pull me slowly towards his mouth where he began to lap ever so gently against my soft folds and my eagerly swelling clit. The soft sliding of his tongue blended together with the hard fucking of his hand was an amazing combination and my body tensed and shuddered as the two extremes took over.

His cock throbbed next to me and I reached over, holding it in my fist, feeling each pulse run through my body like an electric shock ending at my pussy, which ached to be filled by him...

I rolled away for just a second and reached over to my bag, where I rummaged around for a little bit, finally pulling out the little square packet, tearing it open and pulling out the lubricated condom. I held it over the head of his cock and, squeezing the tip gently, rolled it down over his shaft, trying hard not to catch the pubic hairs in the tight sleeve…

See what I mean? Something in the telling just takes away from the story and, as much as nearly everything I have ever written about in this column is true, I don’t think there’s that much harm in omitting certain details. Of course, I can’t omit them when I’m at work so I just try and incorporate it into the fun. In fact, I can put a condom on better with my mouth than I’ve ever been able to with my hands… But that’s another story. 

Added Comment about oral sex on me (which I used in my response to reader's comment):
Oral sex is a tricky one, there are dams but I find them to be quite useless to be honest. I use my own discretion when it comes to allowing natural oral on me. Over the years one becomes quite good at subtly looking for anything that could be detrimental to my health.

No Bang For Your Buck

It’s almost inevitable that a Buck’s party will end up at a strip club, it’s like an unwritten law, but Paul wanted something different for his best mate, Brian, something kind of extravagant.

The receptionist at the agency told me that this guy wanted something a bit left of centre and wanted to know if he could speak to me directly as it was a bit long-winded. Always up for a new experience and curious as to what left of centre could mean, I got his number and gave him a call.

In that first phone call he was a little bit evasive. Not in a bad or sneaky way, I could just tell he wasn't to comfortable trying to ask me all the questions he wanted to over the phone, so he asked if we could meet up before the night in question so that he could explain his idea to me properly.

About a week before the job was going to happen I went along to a small cafe in the city to meet him. He was a really good looking, young guy. Probably in his mid twenties. He looked very professional in an expensive suit and was very well spoken and polite. He told me that his mate, Brian, was going to be the last of their group to be married and, for the last hoo-hah, Paul and their other friends had decided to organise a show Brian would never forget; a live sex show, performed by me and a male escort, Sam, who worked for the same agency as me. I thought it sounded like fun and agreed to do the job. Sam had already been briefed by the receptionists at the office about it but, as our paths had never crossed before, we arranged a time to meet before the job so we could plan out the what's and where's and all the details.

The basic idea was this: Sam was going to be Paul’s “cousin”, and a last minute addition to the party. He was going to join them on their night out, and then later, they were all going to come back to the office where most of them worked where they would meet me. I was going to be the “stripper”, hired for the night to perform my routine but, as a twist during the show, I’d pick a member of the group to have sex with in front of the rest… Sam. Easy! And not only that, it sounded like fun too!

Sam and I instantly warmed to each other. He was funny, smart and really, really cute with dark, wavy hair, big brown eyes and a gorgeous body. He seemed as excited about the night as me, and it really did seem to be the perfect job. The guys were friendly, the venue spectacular (a top floor office in a tall city skyscraper), and the money was also going to be amazing. Team that with the fact that Sam was a total hottie with a great personality to boot, and I was sure nothing could possibly go wrong.

Paul was right. It was going to be a show his mates would never forget…

The night started out fine. It was around 11 pm when I got to the party and met the guys. They were all very nice, Sam had fitted in well and no-one had doubted the story of him being an out-of-town cousin. We all shared a drink and chatted for a bit and then Paul put on a CD of sexy music and the show began.

On a night where nothing could go wrong, things started to go wrong.

I probably should have thought about it a bit more beforehand, because it's something I know very well about myself: Although I’m one hell of a fuck, I’m not a great dancer. That whole line of being able to tell how good someone is in bed by the way they move on a dance floor is, in my opinion, total bullshit!

So there I was, in front of a group of guys, with slow, sexy music playing on the CD player, trying to move all sensual and snake-like while wearing these ridiculous spike heels that I could hardly walk in, let alone keep a beat with. And it was only then I realised with horror that not only was I supposed to dance in them, I had to undress in them too. All while keeping this seductive dance going! Concentrating hard I sort of wiggled my hips a bit and tried to take off my shirt.

Salome I was not.

I think If I’d unbuttoned it properly it probably would have worked better, and it took me almost a full minute to untangle myself, completely stuffing up my hair, smearing eyeliner down the sleeve and losing my balance a couple of times in the process. But, just as it all seemed lost I managed to regain composure, fling my shirt across the room in a haphazard but totally sexy way and find the beat in the music again.

Relief was short lived. I now know why strippers wear things made with easy-pull-apart velcro sides. As I delicately shimmied out of my skirt one of the stupidly high spike heels got caught in the bottom of it and I stumbled again, falling onto my hands and knees as a heel got caught in my skirt. I cleverly disguised the fall as a sexy move and slipped the offending skirt off the heel. There was a nasty ripping sound as it caught on the hem, but I soldiered on and luckily the guys hadn't seemed to notice.

Feeling awkward and clumsy I got back up, now just in my bra, knickers and stupid shoes and beckoned to Sam, pulling him out of the circle and into the middle with me, telling the boys that this show was going to be a little bit different.

Sam smiled as he let me undress him. It was definitely easier getting his shirt and pants off than it had been getting my own clothes off. I smiled to the boys as I slid down his boxer shorts, and then I knelt down in front of him, licking my lips.

There I encountered the next problem in the “perfect job”. Sam was as soft and limp as cooked spaghetti and no matter what I did I could not get him to grow. I tried everything. Long slow licks, delicate kisses, tender hands and fingers running up his legs. I ran my hands over his chest. I put him (soft and limp) into my mouth (so not a sexy thing, really.) But still nothing. Not even a twitch. It was something I had never encountered before in my life! Sure, there have been guys with beer droop and drug slug and guys with other erection issues, but never had I come across someone so unresponsive to me in every way. When I did sneak a glance up at his face he looked bored.

After about five or so minutes of my futile attempts to get him hard I stood up and whispered in his ear that maybe he could try going down on me. At least then we could give the guys who were paying us a shit-load of money to be there something to watch to give them their money's worth. Sam shook his head, replying that he didn’t really like doing that and maybe we should just give up.

I was pissed off! Not only was I feeling about as sexy as a lump of wood, I was really mad at Sam, who was getting paid the same as me but was putting in absolutely no effort whatsoever to make this job work.

In the end I gave up and apologised to the guys. They were surprisingly fine with it. They laughed and said it had been a great show and a fun experience and that they were all massively turned on by me and my dance routine and would I mind if they called me again for private jobs with them. I said I'd be happy to, and then, after getting dressed back into my ripped skirt, and make-up smeared shirt, left the party and got my driver to drive me back to the office where I told the receptionist everything. Her response totally shocked me, but at the same time explained everything.

“What do you expect?” She laughed. “Sam’s gay! He only ever works with other men! I can’t believe he didn’t tell you that. I guess he thought in a room full of blokes it’d be easy to get hard.”

It wasn't too long after that night that Sam called me to apologise. He even offered to give me the money he made that night. When I refused, he made me promise to at least take half, which I did, and now have some awesome new boots to show for it. And I have also regained my sexiness (and ego) with a few regular bookings with Paul, and other members of the group where I had absolutely no problems getting them to respond in the way I wanted.

So, in the end, I guess we were right. It was a night to remember… I just kind of wish I could forget.

Testing Testing 1 2 3...

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Diary of an Aussie Call Girl

A few years ago, when Belle Du Jour's book and then the Billie Piper's TV show "True Confessions of a London Call Girl" came out, People Mag asked me to write my own version of a diary... So I chose one of the weekends that I am often the busiest and documented it...

Thursday 9am.

Wake up with loud buzzing in my ears. Don’t know what it is, but it’s bloody annoying! Pillow over my head works, but now I can’t breath properly.

Fuck it. May as well get up.

Open the window and the whining hum infiltrates my kitchen.

It hits me. I must have been living in a bubble this past month to forget what the date was.

That one time of year when the city becomes the ultimate bloke’s Mecca, and I get to spend the whole time in swanky, high-class hotels…

Grand Prix.

Call the agency. Am pretty much booked solid for the entire weekend, starting at 7pm tomorrow.

Friday 5pm

First client wants me to wear stockings and boots and bring toys.

Easy

Mirror check. Dressed and made up. Smooth and smelling gorgeous. I look fun and sexy, but definitely not trampy.

Perfect.

Lights off, Lock up, double check I have all I need, and I’m out.

7pm

Get to hotel, it’s one of my favourites, I don’t have to go to reception first.

Arrive at room and meet Roger. Business stuff out of the way I turn to him and smile.

“So, you like toys huh?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I love watching chick’s play with themselves.”

Awesome. I love these jobs.

I pull out my little black bag-o-tricks. “Would you like to choose one?”

He chooses the dolphin. They usually do.

A light purple vibrator with a thick shaft full of pearly beads that spin and twist inside it, and a small rubbery attachment shaped like a dolphin that buzzes and pulsates.

It’s a good choice.

Sitting on the bed facing him skirt pulled up, my stockings and boots still on, I start to play.

He’s watching intently. His hand wrapped around his own cock.

That turns me on a little more and I press at the buttons, making the beads spin faster and the little dolphin buzz. It feels fantastic and I push it deeper into me.

He’s pumping his cock nice and hard now, watching the slick vibe move in and out of me.

My body tenses up, and the delicious tingly orgasm waves over me.

I see him come too, moaning and shuddering in his armchair across the room.

Share a smoke and have a shower. Accept his thanks and a nice little tip.

Say goodbye. Sign out. Make way to lobby and car and to next job.

9pm

He’s an octopus. Hands all over me as I walk through the door.

“Just let me make this call,” I say through gritted teeth, swatting his hands away with what he thinks is a playful slap.

Sign in. Hardly hung up and he’s pulling me into the bedroom.

Okay fine. He wants it quick?

Clothes off, quick suck, straddle him, ride hard…

He comes.

He looks ready for sleep

Good.

Shower, dressed, sign out, say goodbye.

Oh, and look at the time! Still only 9:30pm, I’ve got time for a coffee.

10:30pm

A Bi-fantasy booking in a flash hotel, he musta been inspired by the Grid Girls at the GP.

Meet Veronica in the lobby and go up together.

Guy seems shy. Doesn’t know where to look. Poor thing.

Veronica calms him with a back massage.

He wants to watch us kiss, so we do.

I like working with Veronica, she seems to enjoy it as much as I do.

Her hands travel down my sides and the client moves over to watch us play.

Her breasts are small and firm and her nipples are hard in my mouth.

Her fingers are cool as she slides them into the warm wetness between my legs.

The client wants to fuck now, so Veronica obliges on all fours. Kissing me while he thrusts into her from behind.

They both come hard. I’m little envious.

Shower. Sign out. Say goodbye.

Veronica and I leave the lobby in opposite directions.

Midnight

On route to next booking the agency calls.

The client has cancelled but there’s another job waiting.

12:30am

Get to the hotel and go to reception. Hate that.

Client’s a normal looking guy in his 40s. He smells like car fumes, stale whiskey and cigarettes. 

He pours himself another drink, makes me a cup of tea and we sit on the sofa.

Grand Prix highlights on the telly. He’s really into it, telling me all about the race and his day at the track.

I relax back on the couch, my feet on his lap as he rubs them nicely.

Have been sitting on couch for almost 40 minutes. Explain to him our time is nearly over.

“Just call and extend,” he says. So I do.

Another whiskey, another cup of tea.

I offer a massage, he declines.

I offer to move into the bedroom, he declines.

“It’s not you,” he says. “I just want to hang out. Is that okay?”

“Absolutely,” I tell him, and settle back to watch Letterman.

3am

Why is it that the only thing to eat at this time of the morning is Maccas?

Finish my cheeseburger (leaving the pickles on the paper wrapping) and head off to next job.

3:30am

I think the guy is on coke or a pill or something. His eyes have that “I’ve been awake for three days look” and he can’t shut up about the damn Grand Prix.

The sex is awkward and jittery and he can’t really keep it up.

He doesn’t seem to notice though.

He finally comes through a hand job and, when I get back from the shower he’s fast asleep. I let myself out.

5am

Last job of the night, please, please let it be a good one.

Bill has just got back from a night out and is slightly wobbly on his feet.

In the bedroom he is having a hard time getting hard.

‘Can I go down on you?” He asks

His tongue is soft and warm and he laps at me eagerly. I lie back and enjoy it, letting the sensations wash over me.

I come nicely and he gives me a moment to recover while he gets himself a drink.

“Can I do it again?” He asks on his return.

I reply with a smile and lie back against the pillows.

What a perfect way to end the night.

7am

Finally home.

In my Jammies.

In my bed.

And of course, those bloody cars have just started up again.

Love Me, Love My Kink

This is a People Magazine piece that I've re-jigged and is part of a chapter in my book.

Do you have something sexual you're unable to discuss with your partner? How do you deal with it? What do you do?

 

Fantasies and fetishes, we all have them, it’s just the way sex is. Everyone has that special little something that helps them reach total sexual fulfilment. If you’re lucky you find a partner who shares your fantasies, or one who at least allows you to indulge, and you never have to worry about unsatisfying sex ever again... But, of course, things are rarely that easy.

Because of the way mainstream society makes the general public think about any kind of sex that isn't straight, hetero, missionary style sex - as in it is dirty, wrong and shameful - people are forced to keep these things inside, quite often to the detriment of their health and happiness

When it comes to marriages and partnerships and commitments it never ceases to amaze me just how many people are afraid to tell the person they love just what it is they need and desire. I always thought one of the best things about being in a relationship with someone was the sharing. The getting to know them. The working out what makes them tick. But, when it comes to sex and fetish, so many people tend keep it to themselves and find alternative ways to satisfy themselves, usually meaning they end up lying, cheating and generally being deceptive to the person they're committed to.

Take Clint for example. He was a guy I used to see almost fortnightly, who absolutely loved it when I'd wear cowboy boots and sit on his back pulling his hair and slapping his arse. Okay sure, to some people that might seem silly (and to be honest it did feel a little silly to do) but it gave him a fantastic orgasm and sense of satisfaction and, when you think about it, it’s totally harmless.

Clint was so afraid his wife would think he was a freak that he kept it to himself and spent hundreds of dollars for me to do it instead. To be totally honest, I think his wife would be better off yanking on his thinning locks and shouting “Yee-Ha” every couple of weeks rather than discovering their hard-earned superannuation was paying my school fees… But hey, maybe that’s just me.

Actually, from the number of people I see who keep similar secrets from their partners, I know it pretty much is just me, and it’s sad to think there are so many people out there lying and sneaking around because their (supposed) soul mates don’t understand or refuse to accept them.

Yes, of course in some instances there will be that moment when someone’s secret, kinky desire swerves off the “normal” tie-me-to-the-bed-and-spank-me path, and there may well be a moment where you do a double take and have to put on your very best poker face, but I honestly don’t know if that’s worth ridicule, contempt and in some cases divorce. I mean sure, if it's really something you're not into yourself and cannot possibly see yourself doing, there are other options and, as part of a committed relationship, these sort of things should be discussed together and then a solution worked out. But I'm an idealist, and I know when it comes to sex, that is rare.

Gary had a greying moustache, a beer belly and lots of tattoos. He looked like he'd have been most comfortable on the back of a Hog, tearing up the country side with a bikie group and pictures of him around the place proved that he was. He was really friendly and chatty when I arrived, offering me a beer and making sure I was okay and, when I was, he asked me if I minded him slipping into something more comfortable.

Since he was in baggy trackies, Ugg boots and a t-shirt I didn’t think he looked uncomfortable but I just smiled and said “Of course not.”

I used the phone to sign on at the agency I was working for at the time and then went into the bedroom where he said he'd be waiting.

I found him reclining against a stack of brightly coloured pink and purple pillows, wearing a beautiful red lace teddy, thigh-high fishnet stockings and suspenders, and a pair of fabulous red heels.

“Great shoes,” I said, sitting next to him on the bed.

“Aren’t they?” he exclaimed, lifting his foot and turning it around to show me every angle.

That evening we spent about three hours together. We painted each other’s nails and watched Pretty Woman, which, at the end, had him sobbing, “That could so be you one day, Babe.”

He told me, as I brushed his hair, that his wife had left him after he’d confided in her and revealed his secret. He said it had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to say but he felt he owed it to her. Felt they had been through enough. Felt that the time was right and together they could work through anything. Not so.

He had told her in the morning, had cried and confessed and begged her to understand. She said she needed some time to think so he had gone out to run some errands but when he'd come home a couple of hours later, she was gone. He had not seen her since and that had been two years ago.

She’d been the love of his life for nearly thirty years. They had seen the world together, raised a family and a bunch of dogs. They'd built their dream home together and had suffered through the loss of a child together. And then, after his confession, she’d gone, just like that. A lifetime of love and happiness demolished in the flutter of a false eyelash.

I couldn't help but wonder that perhaps if Gary (like Clint and so many other people I see) had snuck around, and lied, and cheated, he would still have the love, companionship and support of the woman he married for better or worse, in sickness and health… But apparently not in racy red heels.

Sad really. Just very, very sad.

Fetish Fascination

Some of my favourite Sophie columns for People Mag were the "Sophie's Choice" ones where I got to research and list all sorts of fun things from my favourite sexual positions, to the best sorts of vibes to buy, to which silver screen hookers were my favourites...
This is one I wrote on some of the more left-of-centre or more interesting fetishes I've come across or heard about... 
It's short and sweet and I hope you like it.

(PS I do have many more in-depth articles and pieces on fetish. This is just a basic look, so please don't jump down my throat for being "surface" based. I am very aware fetish is a much more complex thing than just "liking something cos it feels good"... Thanks and carry on!)

 

I have a real thing about fetishes. I don't particularly have any myself (unless you include my fascination with other people's) but I come across them all the time through work and they really do intrigue me.
The most common ones would probably be the foot and shoe fetishes but over the years I've seen and heard of some pretty funky and interesting ones. Here are a list of some that have really stuck with me, if not just cos of their different-ness

 

1. Plushophilia

Also known as “Furries” these are people who get turned on by soft toys and people dressed in furry character costumes. As much as it might seem like it, this fetish has nothing to do with children or under age sex at all. It's usually all about the softness of the toys and the feel of the fur on their skin.

 

2. Hybristophilia

You hear about it all the time. Some random girl sends letters to and falls in love with a psychopath in prison. This whole fetish is about being aroused by criminals, and usually pretty nasty ones at that. I dunno. It certainly explains my strange crush on Chopper Read.

 

3. Macrophilia

This is something I actually once saw on a Jerry Springer show. People who get totally aroused by fat people. I'm not talking girls with curves, I mean really, really fat people. Some of these Macrophiles were literally force feeding their partners to this obese extreme size to satisfy this desire. I've gotta say, it was one of the more gross ones I've come across.

 

4. Sitophilia

This one goes really well with Macrophilia. It's when you get sexual arousal from food. Eating food, smelling food, being covered in food. It doesn't matter how, what or where, there just has to be food around and the party can begin.

 

5. Frotteurism

I reckon peak hour trains are full of these people. That's when you get excited and aroused from rubbing up against a complete stranger without their consent. It's a bit gross and it's also illegal but it's also kinda hard to pick when your wedged like a sardine into a hot overcrowded carriage.

 

6. Aquaphilia

Forget sex in the shower... When you're an Aquaphiliac sex is the shower. Being in and around and touched by water is what gets these fetishists off. I once had a job where the guy just wanted to pour water over my back. It was fun in a no sex kind of way.

 

7. Phalloorchoalgolagnia

A lot of you blokes will cringe at this one cos it's about sexual excitement derived from receiving a good ol kick in the nuts, or pain to the genitals. I think I know where the "Oorch" bit comes from... Surely that's the sound they make!

 

8. Toonophilia

Yes we all think Jessica Rabbit is hot, and some of those Manga girls, with their big eyes and long legs, are totally sexy too, but if you can't get into sex without thinking about cartoon characters or you get wood whenever you see woody woodpecker, then you're a toonophile.

 

9. Agalmatophilia

Remember the movie Mannequin? Well that guy kinda had this. It's being in love with, and sexually aroused by, mannequins, models and sculptures. It's pretty much harmless unless, of course, you decide to act upon in in the middle of Myers or the Gallery's sculpture garden.

 

10. Maiesiophilia

Love the shape of a pregnant woman? Get a bit tingly thinking about her round belly and swollen breasts? Then this is the fetish for you. Whereas a lot of pregnant women end up feeling big and fat and totally uncomfortable during the last stages of pregnancy, Maiesophiles find this to be highly arousing and completely horny.

Stolen Identity

(This is something that happened to me about five years ago, while I was still working loads and was also writing the Sophie Loves Sex column for People magazine. Unlike most of my Sophie tales where certain details have been changed to protect the (not-so) innocent, this one is practically word for word what happened, and I haven't really changed a thing. You'll see why. Read on...)

 

Something happened the other night that has left me feeling quite uneasy and, I should also say, a little pissed off. It takes quite a lot to upset me and piss me off so, when it happens, it's usually because something really fucked up has occurred. This is one of those times and the only real outlet I have to set the record straight are the pages of this magazine so that is what I am doing. I can only hope it gets to the right people.

Let me set the scene for you.

A warm summer night. Two bodies tangled together in the sheets. Skin sweaty, breath uneven. His hands running over my back, my body still feeling the buzz of orgasm running through it. He reaches for a smoke and a drink, lights one for me, sits up in the bed and smiles.

“That was fantastic,” he says with a grin “You’re the second girl I’ve been with since I’ve arrived in town and I can’t get over the calibre of you city chicks.” He drags on his cigarette and trails a lazy hand down the curves of my body. “And not just that,” he continues. “But you all seem to really enjoy your work.”

I return his smile and take a drink. “Yeah,” I say. “Work’s pretty fun.”

Then he says something I’m really not expecting.

“Hey, do you ever read People magazine?”

I look at him. Not too sure where it’s going, not too sure what to say, so I shrug and say, “Yeah, sometimes… Why?”

“Oh,” he says, his eyes shining bright. “Cos there’s this chick who writes a column all about the sex trade, and how much she likes it and stuff. Sophie is the name she writes under. Have you ever read it?”
Again I am kinda speechless. “Yeah, a couple of times… Why?”

And then he says the thing that knocks my socks off and completely throws me.

“I met her,” he says with a star-struck look on his face. “That other chick I told you about. The one from the other night. She told me when she was here that she actually writes it!”

“What?” I nearly drop my smoke on the bed

“Yep,” he says, almost proudly. “She doesn’t use Sophie as her working name of course, but she was telling me all about it and it just sounds brilliant. I mean, she gets to work in a job she loves, and then gets to tell the world about it! Lucky girl hey?”

“Extremely,” I say through gritted teeth.

The rest of the booking was spent listening to him go on and on about how it was like some sort of dream come true, like meeting his favourite TV star or hero. And I just had to sit there, smiling and nodding, and wondering if I should actually say something.

I decided against it. I think I would have looked silly protesting that no, Sophie is really me, and not some bitch who has no imagination of her own. I mean, would he have even believed me? Or would I have just come off like some sort of tosser? And not only that, would it make him think that probably neither of us were in fact Sophie after all and ruin his warm-fuzzy feelings about working girls and a character he quite admired?

I decided, yes. It probably would. So I didn't say anything.

He did say a couple of things that made me smile though. The first was that he got the impression she enjoyed the talking about writing it more than the actual doing it. And that, even though she was hot and sexy and fun, he had always expected her to be a little more “into” the client and not so much “into” herself... And the other thing he said that made me feel a little better was that he’d always pictured Sophie a little slimmer, more like how I looked.

But all that aside, as I said before, it’s left me quite unsettled. Firstly because of the obvious reason of having someone pretend to be me and take credit for my work, and secondly because I don't want people to think the things I write in here are lies or exaggerations or that I don't love my work as much as I say I do in these pages. So, to set things straight, I’ll just say this.

I don’t go on about this column when I am at work. I just don't. You might be lucky to find out if the conversation heads that way, but I don’t make it a habit to boast to every guy I see. It's tacky and unprofessional and just is not something I do.

So I'm really sorry, guys, but if you do happen to make a booking with “Sophie”, I'm going to tell you now, you really most probably aren't. A good test is to ask her the title of next week's unpublished column, or the week after that. She won't know. The real Sophie will know, and will tell you. I promise you that.

So, Nadia (Oh yes, I'm calling you out by name), if you’re out there reading this getting some new ideas for crap to spin, just know this: I’m on to you. I know your game. And not only are you making a bit of a fool of yourself, you should really be aware that there's only one of me. Only one Sophie. And nothing and no one but me will ever live up to the real thing.

 

Coming Clean

This is an old story from my People Magazine Days... Has been re-edited and changed a little... But is essentially the truth... As is everything I write.

Not so long ago I did something on a job that I've never, ever done at work before. In fact, it's not even something I really like to do all that often in my personal life either and I have to admit, when the receptionist told me about it, I was a bit taken aback.

“He wants me to do what?” I tried to keep the shock out of my voice

“He wants you to clean,” she said, stifling a laugh.

“Like actual scrubbing and stuff?”

“Yes,” she said, not hiding her mirth any more. “In the nude.”

When I got to his house he led me into the bathroom. It was a huge room with a spa, a two-person shower and even a bidet. Everything was white and sparkling. The taps and knobs were gleaming gold and the fluffy white towels and bath mat looked like they'd never soaked up a drop of water in their entire lives. On the bench top was a spray bottle full of water, some sponges and a pair of yellow rubber gloves that I could tell were going to be too big.

He sat on the edge of the spa as I got naked. Slipping off my dress sexily and stepping out of my underwear. He didn't seem to be that interested at all, until I started to pull on the gloves.

Because they were so big, I kept getting my fingers all mixed up in the floppy, rubber hands and, as I twisted and pulled and tried to get them on, I noticed him beginning to watch me intently, his cock growing harder with every pull and wriggle.

When I finally got them sorted (and by sorted I mean each finger in each finger-hole. They still looked over-sized and ridiculous) he breathlessly passed me the spray bottle and sponge.

“Can you do the shower first?”

I stepped into the cubicle and sprayed the glass around me, wiping the sponge over the glass and watching him through it. He was really enjoying it, sitting forwards, his eyes on not on me but on the sponge against the glass, his hand gently stroking himself.

I reached up to get the top of the screen and he gripped himself a little harder.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do the top. Get it sparkling”

I had to hold on with one hand and kind of lean my body up against the glass to balance myself. It was cold against my nipples as I stretched up and across cleaning along the top. I figured he would be enjoying the show of breasts moving against the glass but no. His eyes were still on my hand, wiping the sponge back and forth across the glass.

“Mmmm, yes,” he murmured between little grunts and sighs. “That looks fantastically clean. Really sparkling. Now come and do the spa.”

I went over and sprayed inside the tub, wiping my sponge slowly along the bottom. It really was a huge spa and reaching over to the other side was almost impossible so I got in, on my hands and knees, my arse to him.

As I scrubbed back and forth I rocked my body with the motion, moving like I was being fucked from behind by an invisible person. I'm always told what a great arse I have and what a fantastic view it is so I thought I'd give him something to enjoy.

He didn't. “Could you turn around a bit so I can see what your hands are doing?” He asked.

I obliged by turning around and wiping the sponge against the tiled wall next to him.

“Yes, yes. So clean. So very very clean.” Was all he would say. Over and over, tugging at himself and intently watching my hands. As he pumped harder and his breath got shorter he started to speak in short staccato sentences.

“Spray it,” he breathed.

I sprayed the wall with the water bottle.

“Yes. Yes,” he said. “Now wipe it. Wipe it clean.”

I wiped my sponge against the tiles.

“So clean,” he murmured. “So very very very clean...” The last word was like a drawn out moan as he came with a splurt onto his belly and hands.

You know, I've never really been all that good at cleaning but, considering the tip he gave me, and the fact he asked me to come back the following week to do the vacuuming, I guess I can't be all that bad. And I suppose it'll do me good to get some practice in if I ever decide to do it for real at my own house.

Sex Screen

Sex is a funny thing, and I mean that quite literally. I think the term “bumping uglies” is one of the most accurate when it comes to the actual act itself.

Sure, you can go on about the romance of “making love” and the idealism of “seeing fireworks” and all those flowery terms, but really, when you think about it, the sweaty, grunty, almost desperate act of sex and the (hopeful) end result of orgasmic climax is quite often bloody hilarious.

Unfortunately, though, a lot of people get so caught up in these romantic ideals that, when sex doesn't match up to their expectations, they can end up feeling a bit empty and lost and, in the worst cases, totally turned off and feeling like they're doing something wrong.

Part of the problem comes from the images and information we are constantly fed by magazines, TV and movies. Soft lighting and Vaseline lensed cameras showing beautiful people moving slowly together in a passionate and sensual embrace is all very well for entertainment's sake but it really doesn't give a realistic view of what sex actually is.

It doesn't show the sweat soaked, brow-crumpling concentration face that guys often make when they're in the throes of passion. It doesn't show that awkward legs and elbows “hang-on-a-minute-while-we-change-positions” moment and it most certainly never shows the “stop-what-you're-doing-and-put-a-condom-on” part. In short, it's a big old lie and really shouldn't be taken seriously.

This all became even more obvious to me the other day when I was at home watching a movie. I can't remember the name of it, it was one of those Midday movie tear-jerker things where the main character (usually played by some aging has-been old sitcom star) is searching for her kidnapped child, or running away from her abusive husband, or is the small town girl trying to make it big in the scary city (or maybe she was a small-town girl in the big bad city searching for her child who's been kidnapped by her abusive husband... You know the ones) . Anyway, in one part of the movie she was having sex with this guy (not the abusive husband) in the shower.

I'm sure you can picture it. It was all wet and steamy with lots of slippery soap action and close up shots of water beading on skin and hands running over curves. So anyway, they were going at it, pushing up against the fogged up glass, when suddenly the shower screen broke and shattered on the bathroom floor. The passionate couple looked at it, laughed a bit, and then went right on fucking, as if nothing had happened. I think it was meant to be a slight bit of comic relief in what was essentially a heart-wrenching and depressing film, but it just didn't sit right with me.

In my cynical, and not to mention logical, mind I thought, hang on. What about the broken shards of glass all over the bathroom floor? What about the danger of slipping on all the soap that was lathered over them and the floor? And what was stopping them from falling and splitting their heads on the towel rack or sink now that there was no wall to stop them?

Surely someone had pointed this out to the director?

Surely Oc-Health and Safety had been over it with them?

Surely it was just common sense that the audience would find this unrealistic and insulting to their intelligence.

But then I started to think of some of the other movies I’ve seen where the viewer is supposed to be so swept away by the romance of the situation they forget that, in actual reality, it isn’t the sexiest of positions or places to do it in at all and I realised it's not just the cheaply made Midday movies that expect us to believe the unbelievable when it comes to sex scenes.

Take Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze for example. In that famous “Ghost” scene, with The Righteous Brothers crooning away in the background. They made pottery look like the most sensual and sexual experience you could ever have, but did you ever stop to think what would happen if they actually got to the bit where he went to put his hands, covered in half drying clumps of clay, down her pants? Yuck! Could there be anything worse?

Well, actually, yes. You know that timeless and classic image of Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster rolling around in the surf in “From here to eternity”? Well, let me tell you how completely wrong and misleading that is (and I am sure anyone who has ever attempted sex on a beach will agree with me). There is no shot of Deborah picking her sand-riddled bathers out of her butt, or Burt choking on a mouthful of seawater as the waves roll over them, and neither of them can be seen wincing as sand rubs where sand never should, or limping off at the end with a terrible chaffing rash.

What about that foggy, backseat of the car scene with Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet in Titanic? Sure it's all “put your hands on me, Jack,” and sweaty hand trails down the window, but in reality, well, have you ever tried to have sex in a car that wasn't a fully decked out Sandman panel van? Apart from the lack of room to stretch out and the very real possibility of bashing your head on the roof, the gear knob is sticking up and into your most sensitive bits and it's most distracting when you accidentally hit the radio button with your foot and suddenly get blasted with the football commentary.

Having sex in a swimming pool is depicted in many movies (in fact the pool sex scene in Showgirls has been voted the all time worst sex scene ever) but the reality of it can actually be quite dangerous. I'm not just talking about the whole looking as if you're drowning thing (and if you've actually seen Showgirls, and I promise not to hold it against you if you have, you'll know what I mean) but the actual act of getting water thrust up inside your vagina, which is bound to happen when you're doing it in liquid, can be very bad for your health. In the same vein, sex in a sauna is not comfortable, and shouldn’t be attempted if you have a heart condition, and there is no such thing as surreptitious sex on the dance floor or in a public place. You might think no one knows what you’re doing, but trust me, we do.

Of course, don’t get me wrong. I’m not some “sex must be in a bed” kind of girl, and I’m not saying that doing it in the back of an Oldsmobile is always going be a bad experience, but if you’re looking for sex tips in movies, and would rather spend the time enjoying yourself and not figuring out the logistics of comfort and where limbs are going to go, then you might be better off going the Jenna Jameson way, rather than the James Cameron. You never know, you might even learn some new, and do-able, tricks!

But I really should make it clear. Although you might get some ideas of positions and costumes and different places to put things and the like, porn is definitely not something you should look at for realism in terms of things like penis size, endurance, the number of orgasms someone can have in the space of five minutes, or the ease in which a pool cleaner or girl serving at the milkbar will have sex with you.

In fact, in all reality, you shouldn't compare yourself, or your partner, or the sex you have to anything. It should be fun, enjoyable and mutually satisfying. On your own terms, in your own way and for your own reasons. Because, let's face it, sex is funny, it's a bit ugly looking and it can be a bit awkward. But if, at the end of it, your toes are tingling, your tummy is buzzing and you're ready to fall into an orgasm coma, who cares about the rest of it!

Happy Sex Lives To You All!
- Deliciously Bad. Writer of Stuff

Star Struck

With the fun of my #CelebritiesIHaventRooted Tweets the other day I got quite a few emails etc asking about the ones I had. Now, as a professional I really cannot (and will not ever) reveal that... But I did write a column about it a while ago!
This "celebrity" is a blend of about three people and written in a way that no-one will ever know... Except me. 
Enjoy!

 

When they were giving out self-confidence, I think I must have accidentally stepped into the line twice. I have a lot of it. I don’t get nervous often and I rarely have those I-hate-myself days. To me the expression “lost for words” usually means I’ve been dealt only vowels in Scrabble. I can slot myself into any situation and get along with almost anyone. It definitely helps me at work. The conversation flows and my client’s feel relaxed and at ease. Well, usually...

It was a regular night like any other. I had started work around 9pm and within a couple of minutes I'd been given my first job. It was in the penthouse of an inner city apartment block. I'd visited a client at that building a few months ago so I knew what the place was like and could only imagine how spectacular and ritzy the penthouse would be, considering how nice a second floor place had been.
I travelled up in a beautiful elevator, got to the entrance lobby of the penthouse and rang the bell. The heavy oak doors slid open and the man who had booked me for the next few hours stood silhouetted in the doorway.

He stepped into the light where I could see his face.

“Holy shit!” I said, before realising I’d said it out loud.

Now, as embarrassing and pathetic as I know it is, there really is only one thing in this world that makes me so nervous that either my feet leap into my mouth at every opportunity or I just can’t speak at all, and that is when I meet someone famous. And, worst of all, it doesn’t even have to be someone super-famous like Brad Pitt or Madonna, it has been known to happen when I’m at the pub and the person sitting at the table next to me is the chick from a K-Mart ad.

Yes, I know it is pathetic, I know it is “so high school”, but knowing that doesn’t stop the dribble that seems to flow out of my mouth when I try to speak.

The guy smiled at me. “Hello.”

“Holy shit,” I said again. “You’re the guy from that show!”

He laughed. “Yeah, I am.”

I couldn’t stop myself. “Wow! I was so in love with you when I was younger, I had posters of you all over my bedroom!”

Ignoring the slightly bemused look on his face and the screaming in my brain, ‘Filter! Filter!’ I ploughed on“I even named my pet fish after you!”

I wandered around his living room in a kind of ecstatic haze studying photographs of him with various singers and movie stars. “Oh my god, that's you and Kylie? Holy shit, you know Tom Cruise?”

After a little more “fuckwit” from me, we finally made it into the bedroom and, as he lay me down on the bed and began to kiss and touch me, I thought I was going to faint. It was completely surreal, a fantasy coming to life and, oh wow, it was good! He knew how to touch, how to move, what to say. His hands were soft, yet firm and his body felt amazing next to mine. I have to admit I closed my eyes for a moment and pretended we were in one of his movie scenes. It was even more fantastic than those late night masturbation fantasies I'd had of him as a teenager, because it was real! He was there! I was actually fucking him! Oh my god.

Afterwards, as we lay there entwined in the sheets, I was still unable to stop myself; “If you give me your autograph I absolutely promise never to tell anyone how I got it.”

He turned to me, his eyes twinkling. “Only if you also promise me that the next time I see you, you don’t act like a star-struck groupie, and you don’t name any more pets after me.”

I did see him quite regularly after that and, true to my word, I learnt to treat him (and other celebrities I meet) mostly like normal people. It can be tricky, especially if I am a fan of theirs, but I'm definitely not as ridiculous with it now as I was in the past which is good, for them and for me, and one knows the real story behind the hand signed poster that sits over my dresser.

Well, no one but me and the teddy bear that shares his name. Teddies aren’t pets are they?

Write and Wrong

This is an extended version of the original that went into People Magazine... You'll see a difference from the others I've posted, as this is going from a 500 word article like the others are, to a 900 word story.
I like the extended versions better. They're more detailed, and are more like this in my book.

Franco lived on the 10^th floor of an old apartment block in the city. Although I'd not been to see him before it was the home of many a single man and a place I knew well. It was one of those old fashioned looking buildings with gargoyles on the corners and musty old carpet in the lobby and one of those rickety old elevators that shake and creak and threaten to plummet to the bottom if you so much as sneeze when you're inside. Not that I had to worry about that on the night I went to visit Franco.

That night, which of course happened to be one of those horribly muggy summer nights, the lifts were broken and I had to walk up ten flights of stairs. No shit.

Now, I’m not the fittest person. I despise exercise even more than I hate coriander - and let me tell you that's saying something - but I am lucky and manage to keep in shape by the grace of good genes and of course lots of fucking. So, after walking up ten flights of stairs in ridiculous shoes, not to mention thick, unbreathable air, by the time I got to his floor, my lungs were ready to explode, my legs felt like jelly and I wanted to pass out.

I spent a good five minutes or so leaning up against the wall in the stairwell trying to stop my nose from running, and gasping and wheezing and cursing the cigarettes I'd smoked on the drive over. As soon as I could manage to breathe without pain and noise I rummaged around in my over-filled bag and pulled out my little mirror for a quick check.

Okay, so my face was bright red and I had little beads of sweat on my forehead and nose, but my eyeliner was intact, my lipstick was still on and I had good hair. Small mercies! Trying to rid myself of the rosy-cheeked glow, I fanned myself with my hands as I walked down the fluorescent lit hallway, counting off doors until I found his and knocked.

The door opened a crack and Franco peered out. “Ah yes,” he said in a thick accent. “You girl, yes?”

“Yes, hi,” I replied. “I'm Sophie.”

He was a tall, fat guy with messy Einstein-style hair, wearing nothing but a loosely tied, faded dressing gown from which tufts of grey hair poked through, and a pair of torn socks.

“Elevator is bitch, yes?” he asked me when we were inside. “You right?”

He brought me some water and sat at the kitchen table looking at me while I called the agency and signed in. Once that was all done I went and sat at the table with him. It was a cluttered mess of papers and magazines and I moved a pile aside so I could put my glass down.

“You right?” he asked me again, leaning forward and looking at me closely.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.” I thought about my marathon stair climb and wondered if I’d missed something in the mirror. An ugly sweat stain perhaps, or maybe a booger (Oh God, please don’t let it be a booger!)

“No, no.” He motioned with his hand. “Write. You write?”

“Oh!” I laughed, relieved. “Yes, I can write.”

“Good,” he said. “You write for me.”

He motioned to the stack of papers I'd pushed aside and on closer inspection I saw they were those contact magazines. You know, for mail-order-brides, partner swapping and that kind of thing.

He opened one of them to a photograph of a naked woman, her boobs thrust out, thighs spread wide, and a painful expression on her face that I think was supposed to be orgasmic. It said she was called Nora, lived in Germany, loved fucking and sucking, and wanted a big cocked, warrior-type lover to take care of her.

“Her,” he said, pointing at the picture. “I want you to write to her.” He pushed a pen and notepad towards me. “I want you to tell her this: ‘I want to fuck you. You come here, live in house and we will fuck. You look after me like good woman should and I will fuck you good. I am much better than warrior. I have big cock for you so come here.’”

“Seriously?” I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

He nodded. “Yes. You write that.”

I have to tell you it was one of the easiest, not to mention funniest, jobs I'd ever had. I spent the next 2 hours (at $300 a pop) writing out these ridiculous letters to mail-order-brides and international call girls, the irony of it completely lost on Franco.

To all of them he demanded they must come and live in his house and do all the things that a woman should do, crapping on and on about his big dick and how privileged they should feel because he was going to fuck them with it.

I think the funniest thing about the whole situation was that I’d caught a glimpse through his open dressing gown earlier and I knew the truth; there was really only one big dick in the room, and I have to admit I laughed about it... All ten flights down.

Art Appreciation

I wrote this piece originally for Australian People magazine when I had my column "Sophie Loves Sex." This is it in its original form...  For the longer, more descriptive and even sexier version... Well, you'll just have to wait for my book to be published!

Enjoy! 

Simon was an artist who lived in a little upstairs studio in the city. Nearly the whole flat was covered in brightly coloured canvases, and easels containing half finished works.

“Do you like them?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’re very talented.”

“I’m getting a bit tired of the old canvas,” he said. “I really want to try painting on other mediums.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He paused for a minute, thinking. “Could I paint you?” Before I had a chance to respond he added, “I mean paint on you. Make you my canvas, I’ll use body paint.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

He led me to a table covered in a white sheet. I slipped off my clothes and lay on my tummy, my chin resting on my hands.

He dipped his hand into the paint. It was cold at first, making my body tense up and little goose-bumps appear, but after a few strokes I got used to it and began to enjoy it.

His hands smoothed the paint across my back, over my bottom and down my thighs, warm and strong.

After about twenty minutes he stopped and stood back to admire his work, pulling over a large mirror so I could see as well.

It was amazing. My back, all the way down to my knees, was covered in these bold shades of blue and purple and silver, all blending into each other to resemble a kind of magical stormy sky - the curves of my body complementing the swirling paint and adding depth and shadow to his work.

He walked around the table, inspecting it from all angles. “You are one sexy piece of art,” he said.

He pulled me back slowly til my feet were on the ground, my elbows still resting on the table, and I turned my head so I could see in the mirror.

He stepped out of his jeans, exposing his hard cock, and came up behind me. His hands slid up my body as he pushed into me, leaving a trail of slivery-purple up my belly, and over my breasts, his slippery fingers pinching at my nipples, making me push back harder onto him.

The paint from my back streaked over his chest and stomach as our bodies slid against each other and by the time we both came, in a slippery, paint-smeared heap, the magical storm had gone, replaced with a greyish mess.

After sponging each other off in a warm soapy shower we shared smoke and a glass of wine.

“I wish you’d taken a photo of it,” I said. “I would have loved a copy.”

“You were so sexy, I couldn’t help myself.” He reached over to a pile of small canvases and pulled one out.

It was a beautiful whirl of spirals and curls all blended together in different shades of green, and just looking at it turned me on again.

“As a reminder,” he said, handing it to me.

I still have it. I’m looking at it now. And considering the tingles I get when I do, it’s definitely still doing its job.