78
A Week In the Life...
Welcome to a chilly London
town and a bright shiny
New Year, it’ll sure to be an
interesting one for us here in
England with Brexit looming.
I dined at a rather posh hotel
restaurant the other week,
The Stafford in St James’s.
The room’s fi tted in luxurious
knee-deep carpet, but I do wonder, carpet on a restaurant fl oor? Its
clientèle were composed largely of people on expense accounts or
rich overseas visitors, the food was excellent, the service reverent,
fawning and stuffy.
Two tables over sat a young woman, seemly oblivious to the not
mind-boggling etiquette of keeping it down a bit. I was tempted to
suggest, politely, perhaps a little more hush, but then I’m English, stoic
and very good at just sucking it in. I really did try tuning out of her
frequency, but it was like trying to ignore the sound of a dentist’s drill:
engaging in comfortable conversation with my companion was a bit
of a challenge.
Matters weren’t helped any that some interor creative type, had the
illuminating idea of dotting about the room, several enormous (and
very fi ne too) displays of fresh lilies. I think lilies are beautiful, but in a
restaurant, with their overpowering scent distracting from the food, I
think not. So, not only were my ears being assaulted, but my nose too.
A few days later I ate at Scott’s in Mayfair, whilst the waiters were less
stuffy and suffocating, they possessed that annoying knack exclusive to
waiters, of looking up, down, left and right, but never your way when
needing their attention; yes yes, I accept it’s a fi rst world problem I’m
dealing with here.
The place was fi lled with Suits ‘doing the deal,’ for them the food was
a mere sideshow, why not just have yourselves a sandwich on a bench,
I thought. Amongst all the men in suits were a smattering of ‘Uncles &
Nieces,’ who were a lot more entertaining to be amongst and watch.
I received a call at 7.50am, hmmm…someone’s an early-bird I thought.
Could I get to Canary Wharf asap, yes, I reckoned I could be there
for 10am?
I was to head to the Tesco, above which the client lived and call him
upon arrival, he’d then come down and let me in. I arrived at the
agreed hour and called.
Me: Hello, I’m here.
T: OK I’ll come down.
Me: (5-min’s later) I’m still here.
T: I came down but couldn’t see you.
Me: Well I’m most defi antly here.
T: Ahhh…you must be at the wrong place, you want the other Tesco
by the river, a few minutes further down.
Me: Hi again T, I’m here.
T: OK I’m coming down right now.
Me: (5-minutes later) Well, I’m here where are you?
T: I couldn’t see you, are you by the river, by the fl oating restaurant?
Me: No, no fl oating restaurant here but there’s a Tesco and a river.
T: Oh sorry, you want the Tesco by the restaurant.
Me: Arghhh…how many Tesco’s are there!
It transpires there are three of these bloomin stores within several
hundred yards of each other. It’d now been a half-an hour since I fi rst
arrived and what’s more, I’d developed a stocking malfunction during
all the to’ing and fro’ing, as one of my hold-up stockings were no
longer holding-up and had begun ever so slowly but surely, to creep
down my thigh.
l eventually found the right one; T came down to the entrance
apologising for the confusion. Oh well, at least it was a bright winters
a fl y on the wall account of
a ‘London Transsexual Escort’
morning, it could have been a dark wet one, small mercies.
T, who now lives in Amsterdam, was staying at a friend’s apartment
for a week whilst he was away. He’d been up all night partying on the
nose candy, thus his early morning call due to an inability to sleep.
‘Could you stay for three hours, oh and would you like a line and
some vodka,’ ‘Not for me thanks T, but you go right ahead.’ We talked
awhile about Amsterdam, a place I’ve only visited once, but from what
I saw I think I could spend some time living there. Though a Londoner,
he had no intention of moving back, as he too was so taken with the
place.
We retired to the bedroom, where T requested l give him a back rub.
Looking tired and obviously on a come-down, he went off every 10
minutes to do another line and a shot of vodka; then he dipped. ‘Do
you mind if we climb into bed and just have a cuddle, I’d really like
that,’ ‘Sure, we can do that,’ I replied and so we did, for more than
an hour.
I woke him gently from his slumber, ‘T…shall I just tuck you up and slip
away now, let you get some rest,’ ‘Oh, eh sorry about that Frances I
dropped off there.’ ‘Not to worry, you’ve been on it all night,’ I replied.
I fl uffed up the pillows, rested his head back down and pulled the
covers up around his shoulders, fetched a large glass of water and
placed it on the bedside table. ‘You stay there in bed, I’ll let myself out.’
It was noon and I’d still the whole day ahead of me; fi rst things fi rst, go
buy a new pair of stockings.
Read further adventures
of ‘Frances’ at
www.Fransexual.Blogspot.com
Frances
Petite busty English blonde
Pre-Op Transsexual, with
a touch of class and style.
London/City/Docklands
07989
287 451
www.Fransexual.com