I become an escort again in my 50s.
*
“Was it really that long Christina?”
“Yes I was just out of uni.”
“When was it?”
“Er I was twenty five so it was nineteen ninety.”
“Jesus nearly thirty years ago. It’s gone so quickly.”
“It seems to as you get older.”
“That’s true I’m in my sixties now.”
“You don’t look it,” I said sipping my wine.
“Neither do you look as if you are what, fifty four now is it?”
“Yes.”
“Still got the lovely blonde hair and of course those smoky blue grey eyes.”
“Well you don’t lose such attributes do you?”
“No but some lose their figure you seem almost the same as you were. Here let me try and recall. Thirty four B cup, twenty four waist and thirty six inch hips.”
“Impressive some memory, but thirty six now.”
“And who could forget those legs that also don’t seem to have changed. Thirty inches aren’t they?”
“Stop it you are embarrassing me.
I was at a cocktail party for the launch of a new model agency and had met an old friend.
“But then you never did, did you?”
“What?”
“Look your age?”
“I suppose not.”
“Actually several of the punters called you their Lolita.”
“No chance of that now?”
George the guy I was talking to owned the agency that employed me when I had a spell as an escort.
“So what you up to now then Christina?”
“Just got divorced, again.”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks but no need, I’m pleased.”
“He was a banker wasn’t he?”
“No Harry was my first husband, Bill was my second, he owned a printing company that went bust.”
“Sorry to hear that?”
“Yes that has sort of buggered things up a bit as all of our money has gone.”
“So are you working?”
“Well I turned part of the house that I own into a studio and I rent that out and so some boudoir stuff and occasionally pose for a shoot, but I am getting past that now?”
“Why?”
“Too old George.”
“Don’t be silly old is in nowadays.”
“How do you mean?”
Looking me right in the eye he said quietly. “I am on the lookout for mature escorts, any interest?”
A week later George phoned.
“He’s twenty eight from Holland. We know him well and he’s generous and respects the escort.”
“Where’s he staying?”
“The Marriott in Grosvenor Square.”
And that is how at the age of fifty two I became an escort again.
*
Paul, the Dutch guy, was waiting for me in the lobby of the Marriott when I arrived at twelve-thirty. As always I was dead on time. The plan was for us to have lunch at Scotts and then spend the afternoon in the hotel.
I had dressed carefully following George’s suggestion that Paul is stylish and would probably appreciate an elegant tartish look. As a result, I wore a figure hugging, black sheath dress with a fashionably, very pronounced silver zip up the back. It was low cut and gaped a little when I leaned forward and the pencil skirt was tight across my stomach, hips and bum. I wore black, lacy top holdups and a matching black bra and thong with four inch killer heels. I threw a cashmere wrap round my shoulders and was ready to leave just as the car arranged by George arrived outside.
“He usually books a girl for all night, but torbalı escort he is leaving early Thursday morning so it’s just an afternoon job,” George had explained. “Ease you back into it gradually Chrissy.”
“Hi I’m Christina,” I said walking up to Paul who I recognised from the photo George had emailed me; his agency is fastidious with their checking of clients.
Paul put his hands on my upper arms and kissed me on both cheeks. “And I am Paul, it is lovely to meet you Christina.”
He was quite good looking, with an athletic build and straw blonde hair that was rather unkempt and a little like that of Boris Johnson. He spoke perfect English and we got on very well; he was easy to talk to and easy to like. In Scotts I felt a little embarrassed as I was sure people stared at us assuming that I was the older woman with her toyboy; little did they know that I was the older hooker with her client!
After a really lovely and horrendously expensive lunch washed down with even more horrendously expensive white wine I imagine with the fish that we both had we left the restaurant at just after four. As we walked along Mount Street Paul took my hand.
“This ok Christina?”
“Yes Paul perfectly I replied feeling nicely wanted.
When I first started doing escort work all those years ago I used to wonder why the, generally, super guys with loads of money paid for sex. Why not just get a mistress I thought? Over a time I found the answer. It was twofold.
One, mistresses are too risky. ‘No matter what they say at the start, they always want more as it goes on and then that can fuck up everything including the marriage,’ I was told several times, usually just after sex.
Time was the other reason. ‘It just takes too long to find, get to know and then trust someone,’ one of the guys explained.
The other aspect of my profession that I found intriguing was why they did it and what they were after? The clients were all successful in their own spheres, they had to be to pay the outrageously wonderful fees demanded by the agencies, most were happily married with a family and they were usually good looking and sexually, at least pretty proficient. They had plenty of money and opportunity so why ‘buy me?’
Again it was twofold. Firstly the reassurance that they could still make it with a young bird or in my case now an old biddy and secondly, which may be more important than the first, they wanted affection. On the wish list that the agency put to them, kissing and cuddling, was their top priority as part of the sex process.
George had instilled it in me the first time I worked for him and had reminded me very clearly over the past of weeks that the clients were not primarily buying sex. If they wanted merely that they would go to a hooker and have a quick fuck in a flat somewhere. What they wanted, what George was selling and what they were buying was a girl-friend, a lover a companion for the period for which they bought me.
So I was happy to hold his hand and even to stop for a moment or two and kiss him.
“Would you like a drink in the bar first?”
“Not really fussed Paul that wine was lovely at lunch and I feel a little woozy already.”
“Well I can’t have you passing out or falling asleep on me can I so perhaps urla escort we had better go to the suite?”
Over the next few months Paul had me, literally and by bookings, several times and I never found out what he did or where his money came from and of course I didn’t ask. Escort girls learn not to ask personal questions; if a client wants you to know something, sooner or later they will tell you. Whatever his occupation, he was good looking in a ‘Third Reich’ sort of way, had impeccable manners, great style and oodles of money. He was generous, highly articulate, interesting, fun to be with and a bloody good fuck. When such a number of boxes are ticked by a client, being an escort girl, or if you prefer a whore, ‘why not call a spade a spade’ I often smiled to myself, can be quite pleasant.
As we strolled across the large lobby to the lifts he slid his arm round my waist. I half expected an advance from him in the lift, but he was far too cool and sophisticated for that even though he was softly rubbing me near to my hip bone despite several others being in there.
“So,” he said as we went into the suite. “Had enough to drink or could you manage some champagne?”
Smiling I said that I could and lo and behold there was a bottle on the sideboard of the lounge chilling in a silver bucket full of ice. I wondered when he had ordered it.
Standing in the centre of the lounge, we drank that and then we kissed. He kissed well. Not overly passionately or too much open mouth stuff to start with, but enough to show his enjoyment. His arms were round me and he whispered.
“Is this ok Chrissy I have been dying to do it since I first saw you,” as he took hold of the fob of the zip and slid it down.
“My pleasure Paul,” I smiled back.
I was now not nervous at all as I had been when we met and in Scotts. He was a pleasure to be with and I was enjoying myself. Like all good hookers I am able to put ‘normal’ life out of my mind when with a client. For the duration of my time with him all that exists is him, me and where we are. I don’t think of the dubious morality of being about to fuck a perfect stranger for money or of anything going on in my real life. No when I sell myself to a punter I am totally his body, soul and mind.
The dress came off and he made nice noises about my underwear and body. I enjoyed that. I tentatively at first, as an escort needs to be careful about taking the initiative after all he is paying and for that gets to have things the way he wants them, undid the buttons on his shirt. I recalled that some guys love the girl to take over whereas others like to be totally in control. Paul was fine with me undoing the buttons and he shrugged the shirt off. I kissed his chest and sucked a nipple.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go in the bedroom.”
We stood beside the deliciously large bed that had been turned down ‘ready for sex’ came into my mind.
He took me in his arms again and I whispered.
“Do you want to undress me or watch me undress?”
“Mmmm hard choice that.”
Smiling I said. “Well I am pleased. How about we take these off,” as I fiddled with his belt.
“Now that is a good idea.”
I undid the belt, pulled his zip down and between us we removed his trousers that I hung neatly over the back buca escort of a chair as he removed his sock.
“You have a great physique Paul,” I said softly and truthfully.
“Thanks Christina, not so bad yourself.”
“For an oldie,” I added slipping my fingertips into the elastic waist of his underpants. “Shall we?”
“Please do and not so much of the oldie.”
“Well I am aren’t I?”
“Yes you’re in your fifties George tells me.”
“Yes fifty two.”
“I asked for an older woman I find them more exciting.”
I was now totally into this with him and any vestiges of guilt or thought that it was client and escort had gone. We were boy and girl friends, sweethearts and soon to be lovers.
His cock was nicely shaped and of average length and girth and he had big balls.
“Why don’t you get comfortable on the bed while I undress for you,” I said huskily.
I turned the TV on and tuned it to a radios station and did a slow strip of my bra and panties. Although I had shaved and had landing strips in the past at the time I was natural and had a full bush of brown hair that slightly blew the gaff on my claim to be a natural blonde!
“Oh yes Christine you look gorgeous.”
“You like hair there?”
“Love it.”
I pulled my stockings up a little and looking right at where he was slowly stroking his cock I asked.
“On or off Paul?”
“Please leave them on and get on this bed quickly.”
We had some foreplay with him licking me very well and I sucked him. This did not go on for very long, though, as he told me he wanted to fuck me. The first one was quick and rather urgent, but I managed to cum. Later it was much smoother, easier and longer. And just before I left at around eleven we had our third fuck, this time doggy and it really was very good.
George’s agency collects the basic fee and pays that over to the girl a few days later less their commission. For an afternoon and evening like that he charges six hundred pounds and I get five. Paul pressed two fifty pound notes into my hand as I was leaving and gave me Harvey Nicholls bag that I opened in the car that was taking me home and found two sets of Janet Reger underwear and stockings with a handwritten note that said. ‘Just in case anything got spoilt. Love P’
At home just after midnight I worked out that I had earned six hundred pounds and got the best part of one hundred pounds worth of underwear.
“So it went well I hear,” George said when I phoned him from the car as we were going through St Johns Wood.
“Yes it was fine.”
“Did you like Paul?”
“Yes I did.”
“Good as he has emailed me and asked for you again on Friday, all night. Ok?”
“Er yes, sure, how much do I get for that?
“As he is such a good client our fee is twelve instead of fifteen hundred and you get a grand, but his tip I am sure will be a couple of hundred.”
So that is how it all started again some twenty five years after stopping in my twenties. I have to say though that now it is far more enjoyable.
I have been married twice and am far more experienced. Sex means different things to people, especially women as we get older. It is not the precious gift it was when younger and there is less guilt about one-night stands, fucking strangers or trying more outrageous experiences such as BDSM, bisexuality and joining swinging circles being prime examples. More and more women in their forties, fifties and sixties are getting divorced, having affairs or enjoying one night or afternoon stands. Some are even becoming escorts!