Roger had been an attentive lover and I agreed to hook up again with him in the near future though I knew that he wasn’t ‘the one’ that I was looking for. Whilst we had plenty in common in the bedroom, and I certainly couldn’t complain at the lusty action I had enjoyed with the old soldier (his stamina and technique had been impressive – and I even enjoyed his jokes during sex: “practice makes perfect”, “an old un but a good un”, “one in the chamber and one up the spout” had me in fits of giggles) – we just didn’t have that much in common when we weren’t rutting like wild animals. I’m a North London girl through and through and sex is very important to me but it can’t sustain a relationship. I would have sex in North London with Roger again but I told him that next time we cut to the chase, forget dinner and just hit the sack. He seemed pleased enough with that.
My North London escort friends were beginning to despair of my pickiness, “you enjoyed great, epic, hot, lusty sex with a horny soldier... what more do you want from a guy?” I told them I wanted the full package, the fairytale, the lot.
My third and final date was with Damien, an ex public schoolboy who worked in the city, didn’t have time to socialise and meet a girl – or so he said – and who drove a silver Porsche Boxster. He arrived at our date at Vertigo 42 in the International Financial Centre in Broad Street. It was packed to the sky high rafters with hot North London girls, dressed to kill in six inch stiletto heels, micro dresses revealing ample amounts of flesh and clutching expensive designer bags. I felt a little self conscious as the sexy girls paraded around the bar, supposedly chatting innocently to friends but in reality scouring the room for eligible bachelors. This was city territory and you could almost smell the money. Still, I kept reminding myself that I was as sexy as an escort for hire, a hot North London girl who could hold her own with any of the babes in the room.
Damien was definitely sure of himself: he arrived ten minutes late and without even a hint of an apology for his tardiness. He was dressed to the nines, an expensive dark grey Tom Ford suit, a crisp open necked white shirt and unmistakeable hand-made Berluti brogues in a dark red leather. I took in his well honed physique and his confident, cheeky smile and he immediately won me over even before the first bottle of Krystal arrived at our booth. He looked good enough to eat and I had already decided that he would be a lucky boy later with plenty of tales of the taboo to recount to his friends in the investment bank...