Safe ports?

I hate get to place soaked but with this weather in London you are actually lucky if you ever manage to arrive on time.
And ‘be on time’ time is something people demand a lot when you get paid per hour of fuck. Yes, I meant to write it because more and more I am realizing how people act differently when it comes to sex. If you have someone coming over to visit you it is very unlike that you will be watching the clock every other minute. But apparently when people get ready to have fun, their mind sort of set to a specific time and when things happen (tube delays, bad traffic due road works, etc), clients can get a bit nasty.
I think partly it is because most of people paying for sex also have a parallel life, usually with someone that represents a safe port but not exactly up to everything in bed.

It is important to have those ‘safe ports’ I guess but in order to keep sane, people have a bit of extra fun. I wouldn’t call it an affair. It is just fun. Paid fun. And because those people eventually have to go back to their safe port they want to make sure they will be on time so the other half won’t think they are fucking (or getting fucked) by someone else.
Last night a small stormed made London as chaotic as possible through the rush hour and a client complaint about my 15 minutes delays.

I still think 15 minutes can’t be considerate a delay – as well because I make up for it at the end anyway – but he said that dinner was going to be served at 7.30pm and he should be at home by this time because his wife would be very upset for cocking the whole evening and have to wait for him.

I thought of telling him that it wasn’t my fault if London transport are crap, that his wife set the dinner time too early and that he set the fuck too late as we could have done it lunch time with less hassle. But I let it go and gave him a very good time – to make up for the delay and also to tempt him to keep the habit of ‘eating’ out.

As my friend Daniel would say:
‘some people have someone else to cook for them but the best things to eat come just raw’

Holland Park

Sunny days, sunny days.
Honestly it was about time to the sun come out in London. Yesterday I went to work in Holland Park. I love the area, the big houses and even those poor old ladies with 300 plastic surgeries walking with their dogs and having tea at 3pm.

They usually have big sunglasses, tons of jewellery and lipstick as an extension of their lips.
I saw one talking on the phone, loudly, explaining to someone that she was tired of walking with Blair and she was heading back to get someone to look after the dog because she was already 15 minutes late for her appointment with a manicure.

As I passed by, playing with the dog that jumped happily towards my bag the lady looked at me with a puzzled face of curiosity. It think it is an achievement for people with so much botox still manage to have facial expressions.

I think the dog could smell my bag and track the smell of my strawberry flavoured condoms. Dogs love them. Once a client had to call a vet because the dog got one from under the bed and ate it!
I bet the lady wondered what a young man would be doing at this time walking down the road. At this time the average people are a) working, b) studying, c) at home applying for a job or wanking.
The most fortunate, able to pay, ones do it with a bit of help and call me so that is why I was wondering in Holland Park, 3pm. We could say I was on my way to work.

The guy was extremely clean, one of those that smell hospital sanitizer and wear impeccable white socks. His house had air purifier everywhere and those little hand gel wash in every top of furniture what made the lounge looks like a messy pharmacy. I like it, I mean: clean clients, but

I can avoiding thinking that it is also a bit weird someone so obsessed with germs and bacteria.
On my way back, just 45 minutes later, the lady was still on the phone while the dog was having a croissant. I had to stop and look back again.

There is nothing wrong with dogs eating croissants.
I just found amusing that he was doing it on the table, from a nice expensive square plate and a big bowl of some dark liquid that I suppose was tea or coffee.
I wanted to get a picture. I wanted to ask what was inside the bowl. But I didn't.

No one seemed to care.
In Holland Park, even dogs get lucky.