Tuesday, 12 February 2008


MINISTERS want to block the phone numbers of prostitutes who advertise their
services in newspapers and telephone booths in an attempt to stifle the illegal
sex trade. Police forces would identify suspected prostitutes to the telephone
companies, which would be required to cut off their numbers. The proposal has
emerged in a six-month review of prostitution laws by ministers from three
government departments. They are also considering making it illegal to pay for

The hard-line view is that delinquency finds its origin in prostitution, the truth of the matter is that the potential for the abuse of “illegal sex” is absolutely horrendous!


And so I caught sight of my bottom the other day. I can’t remember the last time I inspected it. But it looks fabulous! My cheeks are beautiful (and have the added advantage of being British). Indeed, the last time I saw a gynaecologist, he was clearly enthralled. Not with me necessarily, but with bottoms in general.
“They motivate men more than anything else in the world,” he said, (somewhat flustered).
“They appeal to suckers like mangos to flies." I retorted.

Men are unbelievable. If the worst problem in the life an a junkie is no dope, the most terrible affliction in the life of any man is no sex. Men will fornicate with anything that is soft, warm, and has anything like a perceptible pulse. A daily shag, to most of them, provides everything you could possible want out of life. It's as enticing as snorting coke and as physical as a game of rugby. It's also pleasurable, environmentally sustainable and something you can do at home.

As a social entrepreneur, I, of course, always looking adorably feminine in diaphanous knickers around the house, or in those little see-through hot pants from Agent Provocateur, throwing elegant not-working dinners to boost my career. I also spend my free time trying out fluffy little cashmere numbers. And perfumes. That's something I do understand. But how can I go out without looking like a load of soft porn. I mean, I don’t want to seem like a pushover.

Little late in the day, you might think.

Red lips, bright eyes, faux-tanned skin. I always make sure I look the height of seasonal glamour. You have to understand that the accessories are an integral part of whoring. They tend to be part of the retail deal. Let’s face it, as a general rule, you can be sexy and still have class. And I, as a matter of principle, am all for guaranteeing savour, bloom, charisma and the carnal allure of my gender, but it’s impossible for me to be cool, stylish and fashionable, and not look like every man’s favourite fantasy. Sometimes I feel like the biggest C in town; rather like a West-End production, with everybody wanting a part in it. Which is why I get laid a lot. And I do recognize the needs of the penis, needless to say, except, I’m not so sure that male and female libidos are not altogether mismatched. For every man you jerk off, there’s two dozen priming their barrels. Unless, of course, they already have their dicks up each other’s ass.

Most important, men simply adore me. And I love men. Not all of them, but the majority of them. Love, after all, is not a power to be ignored. Women - no matter how luxurious - are not my first choice. Don't get the wrong impression. I love a pert pair of breasts. In fact, I often receive girls' appreciations of my ass. And, of course, I love it when chicks rub my boobs or explain to me why Guerlain’s Divinora eye-liner is best laid on with gently overlapping strokes (because of a needle-thin brush, since you ask). Indeed, the affection I hold for them is all the sweeter because such advances have been rather tantalizing up to now.

Or let me put it this way, I’m in need of no rest!

As you can see, I have plenty of spirit and am not averse to a little luxury. Blonde is definitely not the colour of submission. So, when I got to my client last night, a crimson Ferrari 355 GTS was parked in the drive. Then the front door opened. This guy made Brad Pitt look like a fruitcake. I glanced at him and felt horny. He ushered me into a black-and-white tiled lobby and a barrage of slavering kisses. Then the deal was closed by him groping me and handing me a cheque for five-hundred pounds! (I think he was glad to see me.)

I was mush! I fancied it, in fact, more than just a little....!

To be continued....

Watch this space, for your very personal instalment tomorrow: MIND GAMES


Richard Madeley said...

Is it just me or is it warm in here?

Jonathan said...

It must be lovely to be widely adored by the opposite sex. Or perchance it suffocates?

We males are indeed driven by the need to unite with flesh. I wonder: is this because we incline more towards the abstracted, the disembodied? Is the frenzied skin spasm of connection skin a required stabilisation?

I think our emotional inarticulateness may also play a role; the flesh is easier to negotiate than subtle, weird things such as emotions.

Zestily gearing up for Valentines Day?

Jonathan said...

I meant to write:

'Is the fenzied skin spasm of connection a required stabilisation?' So just the first skin.

Bretwalda Edwin-Higham said...

I imagine Valentines Day will be rather interesting for you, Selena.

Anonymous said...

You are right - or whatever - I did not read it all. Obviously. Is my usual still on this Friday at 8.00PM ? I hope so - don't forget the stilettos!!

Selena Dreamy said...

It must be lovely to be widely adored by the opposite sex. Or perchance it suffocates?

Very apt!

It's the celebrity syndrome: If nobody wants you, you feel alone; if everbody wants you, you want to be alone!

Selena Dreamy said...

... don't forget the stilettos!!

ahh...Mutley, and don't forget the whip!