adore amy

what’s a nice girl like you…

Well, an update as promised; the Rogue Tooth is to be removed next week and in the meantime I have some of the dreaded antibiotics for company – cue dry mouth, faint nausea and a generally giddy feeling (which is more than likely linked to the fact that I have eaten practically nothing bar grapes, a butterscotch Angel Delight with chopped up banana and tomato Cup-A-Soup since Wednesday). I should add that in a fit of food-nostalgia I have been to Costcutter and appropriated a Bird’s trifle along with a packet of Smash to eat secretly in front of the television later, whereupon my mood will no doubt improve no end although judging by the list of ingredients, I cannot realistically say the same about my general health.

Huge apologies once again to those who have missed out, particularly the gentleman whose appointment today I had been looking forward to – rescheduling will be eminently possible by this time next week, and I will be tentatively taking short incalls from Monday assuming things calm down and the painkillers work – no guarantees. Until then I will be remaining safely on the couch, with possibly a gentle detour to the swimming pool, since the left side of my head already resembles a flotation device. By way of passing the time (since I have been home alone now since last week, and am running out of reading, viewing and knitting material) I have pondered on a question I am commonly asked which arose yet again whilst in London: ‘What’s A Nice Girl Like You Doing In A Job Like This?’

Firstly, I am well aware that my chosen vocation is not the only one which inextricably generates the most gratuitous stereotyping – we have all heard that accountants are boring (mine isn’t), builders are cowboys, and that lawyers and estate agents couldn’t lie straight in bed (no comment) and so on. Shelf stackers are the new thick (when I was at school it was emptying the bins, a singularly desirable and well respected occupation nowadays) and everybody knows that bankers are the new scum. But my job would appear to be the only one where even our customers, those who – lets not forget – are paying us significantly large sums of money, seem to be genuinely surprised when prostitutes turn out to be nice?

The word ‘nice’ can encompass a lot of things, and to clarify a little, on the occasions I am asked it is usually after I have opened the door and welcomed my guest not dressed like an extra from a Max Hardcore film, demonstrated my ability to not only string a sentence together but actually hold a conversation, spent at least ten minutes in a room with Mr Punter without scowling, moaning or texting anybody and probably even smiled a bit, as is my general demeanour when presented with folk who have picked me out, come along to make mischief and have a jolly time. None of this presents a particular stretch to me, and what I have always wondered is that if my gentleman visitors were not expecting me to be chatty, friendly, obliging and generally a good egg, yet were STILL prepared to turn up and hand over a couple of hundred quid – what exactly were they expecting?

Now, I can only speak for myself, but it is worth pointing out a couple of things – I, whilst generally fairly placid and amenable, am most certainly not Nice all the time as anybody who has got on the wrong side of me will testify. I am not educated (doing well at school being another trad Nice Girl trait which is why I mention it, since it seems to be a misapprehension laboured under by a significant proportion of those who meet me) and whilst I have over the years encountered ladies who would give a privet hedge a run for it’s money in terms of cognitive ability, this has made no difference at all to their personal qualities or their ability to do their job. Virtually every successful prostitute I have ever met has been nice, far nicer than most civvy people, and bar a couple of jaw-droppingly greedy, bitter and mercenary examples putting in an occasional appearance on some of the industry message boards (and sometimes under the guise of the most sickening butter-wouldn’t-melt posting personae) this has held true, and the latter tend not to stick around for long. Thus it could almost be said, albeit from my limited experience, that our being Nice was virtually a given? Particularly since other desirable qualities in an intimate partner – however temporary – would surely be sensitivity, tolerance, compassion and humanity, amongst others?

This is not a snob subject either – OK, I don’t offer short or ‘on-demand’ appointments, I do screen clients mainly by the way they approach and communicate with me (and yes, the text speak aficionados do go in the bin) and naturally I am at my best when in the company of people who behave kindly and respectfully; I don’t think this is a result of Niceness, just self-preservation, but I suspect that it alters the way prospective punters view me, and more tellingly themselves – I only see Nice prostitutes (or God preserve us, ‘escorts’), therefore I must be Nice too. More importantly, of the ladies who do encounter the punters I do not, their many positive reports would seem to suggest that they are the nicest of all – I believe (without checking) the current statistics on Punternet show that over 90% of FRs are positive, and whilst obviously many punters have never heard of reports and this is only one site (plus naturally not all of these positives will be attributed to Niceness per se) it doesn’t exactly suggest an industry packed full of cold, uncommunicative robot-women either. I should also state that I am talking about the people who do their jobs properly, and we all know there are plenty who do not; to say that prostitutes are all miserable, deceitful witches because of this is like saying that all window cleaners are useless because they leave streaks on the windows – they don’t, just the bad ones.

It could be argued that since I do not fill my advertising, blog or correspondence with tawdry, contrived rubbish about how I spend all my free time playing with my tits and can’t wait until I next get my hands on a massive cock because I am so horny (and when was good old British ‘randy’ relegated in favour of this abomination anyway?) all the time that I may come across as Nice in the ‘prim and proper’ sense (which is probably fair) but if I did I would still be the same prossie only with a bit of unimaginative desperation thrown in, plus there are undoubtedly people who both want and actively seek that kind of thing. My advertising would in my view be very boring, although it’s worth pointing out that this is practically de rigueur on Adultwork, and a blog with no cheerful tragi-touting would be an odd one indeed. Most crucially, none of this makes said bloggers, touts and anybody else who has ever made up a load of simplistic soft-porn cobblers hoping it will win a few more over any less NICE. As the song says, it ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it…

Anyway, I have rambled enough for now and my trifle-with-a-cheeky-side-of-Metronidazole awaits. If the gentlemen who have asked over the years are reading, I am aware that this doesn’t answer your question but it has given me something to do (until I next get my hands on you-guessed-it, haha) and for that alone I am eternally grateful. Time for rest, bringing-of-the-quilt-to-the-settee, and a quiet evening. More soon.

 

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