Taste of Fizzy Wine

My first real money making night came during my first week, where I was paired up with a charming, petite, middle aged blond English girl, and sent over to sit with two Russian men.  Both men were middle aged, and one was actually okay to look at, the other whom I sat with, not so great, and didn't know but a string of English words. I was convinced it wouldn't work, but the other girl showed me how easy it was, and we then had our first bottle of the cheapest pink champagne. The menu price was £280, although it was just fizzy wine, and probably cost them about £8 at the most. Immediately £50 was made for each of us, and then it was a matter of reaching the £500 mark to get commission thereafter, even though it would have to be split. I recall drinking the majority of what I had of the first bottle, as I knew I had a very high alcohol intake level, and it was much easier to get rid of it that way. The two men only drank their spirits, so we were doing all the work of getting rid of it. Shortly after, we had a second bottle, and then finally a third. 

Our conversation with the Russian gents was fun, even though it was minimal, it really is amazing how you can hold conversations regardless of a language barrier if you try to communicate. One of the little flirts we did with the men was unbutton a few of their top shirt buttons... and then run our fingers across their chest. I can recall my Russian male being plump, and maybe 35 years of age, whilst the other was slimmer and similar age. I had my legs crossed near him in a very tart like, with my dress hemline raised high, and I was actually wearing the same dress and heels every night since I started- as most girls did. I found him quite charming, and sweet, and the mysterious Russian appeal set in. I then let him run his hand, as shy as he was whilst doing it, across my chest. His watch got entangled in my fishnet tights, and caused a rip, but I didn't care, I soon learned it would be common practice for me to replace my short life hosiery on a regular basis.

As the two Russians left, I gave mine a nice hug, and actually was slightly sentimental, thinking I would more than likely never see him again. I was satisfied with my earnings, yet I was letting myself be quite bubbly, and full of life, as a result of me allowing the champagne's effect to be noticeable in me. I can quite easily hide the effects, even when I'm on the level of being ill, as I always can walk a straight line, and my speech is unaffected. Yet, on this instance, I was enjoying myself, and felt like I was in a nightclub! Oops.

I learned the next day not to do that again, as I had imagined the following day I would be told off for drinking. Indeed I was correct, and the Mediterranean receptionist scolded me and stated "first and last warning" with a nasty smile. He was also the only person running the place and serving the drinks, which gives an indication as to how small and not busy the place was on the whole. I can recall getting very upset after he said this to me, and almost cried. I was very quiet the duration of the evening. I just kept thinking to myself, I am so desperate for a job in this huge city, and someone like myself, who was not just some stupid uneducated girl,was being told off for simply drinking a bit, and I then realized how much of a little fish in a big sea I was, so to speak.

First Step Into the Adult Industry

My dressing area at my flat - I spent a great many hours here before going to work.

To keep it as condensed as possible, I will briefly describe my first experiences, which happened over a year ago. I don't recall precise details of who was my first client, which surprises me, but I believe it was someone I met whilst working at a gentleman's club in Mayfair. It had to have either been him, or a charming London based young man I met off the independent escorts website I joined and listed myself on, which was around the same time.

When I moved to London from the countryside, rather than fighting amongst 100's of east European immigrant applicants for the same very boring, and dull, waitress position, I recall walking past a gentleman's club in east London, and thinking how glamorous and fun that would be. As a mater of fact, I was on my way to a job interview for a barmaid position at a small Asian nightclub in the east end when I passed the first ever gentleman's club I'd come in contact with. I vividly recall the mature, porkly, bald doorman who stood proudly before the club's entrance- he was dressed in a typical black tux with black bow tie, very much an English "old crumble." After returning home from what seemed a boring interview, I then looked up via search engine, what gent's clubs there were in the London area. I literally took the first one that came up, and read on their website they were also searching for new girls to join, and no appointment was necessary. 

I made myself up as glamorously as possible the night I went to apply, having spent probably over an hour straightening my excessively long and thick brunette hair, and also applying very detailed, what I refer to as, "porn star" makeup. My attire comprised of a black jersey tulip hem v-neck dress, just something I purchased at one of the trendy high street chain stores, I wore it beneath a black shiny cotton tails jacket, which was in the style of a shrunken gentleman's tailcoat, whilst my accessories were black lace patterned tights, and sparkling jewellery. All in all, I looked smashing, but appeared far too dominant, powerful, unapproachable, and intelligent, for such a crowd as I was trying to be a part of, I was unaware of this at the time. And whilst I was getting ready, I ensured that every last detail was taken care of, down to putting some foundation powder on my scars. I was certain the standards would be so immensely high, considering it was a huge city, etc.

Upon arrival I ventured down a squeaky staircase into the basement where the club was located, all very dimly lit, for ambiance sake, though done in a very tacky manner. I awaited at the tiny reception desk for some sign of life, and heard speaking and giggles of girls in the adjacent main room, which I was unable to see into through use of privacy glass. I didn't dare poke my head around the door, for I was unsure if I would be immediately escorted out for doing such, thus I waited a few minutes and finally someone appeared. In came a rather short, Mediterranean, older male, who was inquiring to my visit, and stated the boss was not in and would want to see me for the interview. Also he mentioned that he had too many girls that week, due to the fact that their nearby sister club was closed for renovation work. I was told to wear a very sexy dress, and asked if I knew what was expected of me, which was said in a very dark tone, as though bad and illegal deeds were imminent. My reply was a simple yes, with a strong tone, yet gentle smile. However, I really had no idea, and at that point began to believe a blow job was part of the nightly agenda.

This did not put me off, and instead, I promptly returned the next week on a Monday, dressed to impress, yet having slightly altered my ensemble to just the same dress, with fishnet stockings, as opposed to the classy lace examples, and had eliminated the stylish female tailcoat, thus instead covered myself in my well loved black wool, belted and flared, knee length coat, not forgetting the black stilettos of course. Upon arrival a rather attractive and youthful, dark features beauty met me and inquired. I stated I had come previously but was told that the "boss' would want to see me, so should come back. She seemed puzzled by this, but still showed me in very professionally through the doors that I had not yet had a glance behind. I'd had my first visual of the club, yet I didn't pay much attention, instead this female pulled out a chair for me at a small table and presented me with a document to complete, which was just legalities for working. I already admired her presence and sophistication within those few moments, and felt a strong sense that she and I shared similarities- which would ultimately cause me grief and loss of clients as I will describe later on.

I was then shown into a dark arch in the wall, with only centimeters of headroom to spare when I stood up, and it can only be best described as a private alcove area. On the leather chesterfield sofa sat a very mature, overweight male dressed in a suit. I ensured my attitude was bubbly, yet used my good upbringing through my proper etiquette and manners, to better fuel my chances of having one above the rest so to speak. He seemed friendly enough himself, and I immediately got the sense he liked me. I always addressed him as "sir," and smiled gently throughout our conversation.

The interview comprised of questions such as what would I do if I discovered other girls were selling illegal drugs, or I was asked by a client to leave with them for the evening, etc. This seemed quite appropriate and not in the least suspicious, as the first male receptionist had led me to believe- perhaps he was just the type to be "colourful" with his stories. Naturally, I answered them all with the correct answers. One remark he made through the interview was that if I kept addressing him as "sir", I would be alright, and cheekily placed his hand for a moment on my knee which was prominently positioned as my legs were crossed. He also addressed me as "young lady." This made it greatly obvious that he had a connection within the BDSM world. Not once was I examined, or inspected, to determine if I was up to the standard, so clearly the just accepted anyone who came along.

Awaiting for an interview just several feet from us was a very tall, slim girl, with long blond hair. I immediately thought to myself- "that's my competition," yet I smiled and waved at her, and she did the same back- in a nice way actually. That girl, whom was interviewed on the very same night as I,  would later become one of my few very close and dear friends in life.

I was then told how the girls made their money, which was basically through just selling champagne and having it with them over conversation. The pay sounded decent, £50 would be given if you were "booked" to sit down with them through the sale of bubbly, and if you were lucky enough to sell over £500 worth, then 10% commission would be awarded to you for anything over that amount- this seemed like a definite possibility as the champagnes started at £130 per bottle, and went as high as £750. He said I would receive "training" for all I would need to know- which was far too posh of a word for what I did get! Basically one of the regular girls, a beautiful blond English young lady with posh accent sat down with myself and another new girl that evening and explained the champagne menu, and just walked us around the club showing procedures, etc. I can even recall asking her how to pronounce some of the names of the champagnes- not one single girl I showed around later in my position there had asked this question. How can you ask a gentleman to buy you overpriced champagne because you claim you "like that one"- if you cannot even pronounce the name of it?

I started that night, there and then. The changing room, again far too good of a word for such, was another arch in the thick brick wall, hidden behind a curtain, no larger than fifteen feet long, and rather narrow, with very low ceilings it was impossible to stand up fully. Only one mirror, with three yellowy small hot lights was available to get ready against. Still, I carried on.

The lighting in the club was kept so incredibly dark, it meant that you could be sitting next to an ugly girl, and find her attractive. Yet for those of us who were actually blessed with nice fine features- they were not visible, so it worked against me. The system was that whenever a client came to the club, a strobe light would flash several times to alert the available girls to head to the very small dance floor, which had four poles positioned on each side, and a mirror ball spinning in the center. And we had to dance amongst ourselves solo to the loud random music play lists. I found this incredibly silly and a stupid idea, none of the girls, except for one, could do tricks on the poles, either.

I should also mention that the system at the club was the girls were not allowed to actually drink the champagne, or at least not more than a few sips, and instead had to continually venture off to the ladies grubby toilets throughout the duration of their client's visit, taking their large wine glasses full of nice bubbly, and pour it all into the sink, then return with a glass refilled with ginger ale or ginger ale with a splash of cranberry juice to resemble pink champers. It reminded me of Marilyn Monroe in the film Bus Stop, where she has the gentleman buy her about half a dozen "whiskey shots," which actually turn out to be tea.