sexymaylondon

Clients going well beyond the call of duty

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Just back from an overnight in Brighton that didn't go to plan...apologies for length (well, if I really were I'd make it briefer, but hey...).

Yesterday - doing errands at full pelt in the morning before getting the train, I first realised that there was a scaffolding pole in front of me when I bounced off it using my head, landing on my tailbone. This hurt a lot, and it was a shame that doctors removed the pointy tail I was born with, as at least I'd have a bit of cushioning down there still. Bugger, says I, this overnight has been planned for months, the chap sounds sterling, I want to see Brighton, cash would be handy...things will be fine. Just a swelling bump on the head and a sore arse ain't going to stop me.

Not like that time I was really looking forward to a junket in Spain, and pretended that the stabbing abdominal pains would subside in the weekend before jetting off - which involved calling an ambulance and getting treated with intravenous antibiotics for 10 days in a crappy hospital to stave off organ failure. Ooooh no.

I potter round the flat, placing my bits and bobs by my bag but failing to put them in. I can't find my ibuprofen. I can't find the dress I wanted to wear. About to give up, I realise I have already put it on. I am already about two hours late. I pay the taxi driver using a £100 Scottish note for a £12 fare. I get my first class tickets, but sit in standard class for some reason. Amazingly, I manage to connect t'internet and conduct some sort of conversation with two people on here, but I can't recollect exactly with whom, or what I was spraffing about.

I arrive. My hold ups are falling down. The bows on my ankle boots keep unravelling as I can't tie them properly. I feel like John Prescott's excrement.

Client lovely, didn't seem annoyed in the least, soothes a distrait May; we go to the restaurant where, if chaps who have met me are reading this, I HAD ONE BEER. Something was very wrong.

At the hotel, I fail to drink any of the wine the client has brought me, and after a half-hearted bj, he strokes my back how I like it. I fall into the sleep of death, not my usual light nappyness at all. In the morning I feel like J.Prescott's excrement microwaved. I feel nauseous and chunder a few times. He runs us a hot bath for my back after stroking it again, feeds me tea, ibuprofen and cocodamol (?), and I feel vaguely less poo-like.

Offer full refund, and pshaw, no no. He had some lovely dreams about me, and my snoring was cute. My swag bag included a special edition of my favourite whisky, some chocolates, his painkillers and a book of Lorca's poetry. Cabs with me to the station, helps me walk, buys me some water, and thankfully was watching me from the turnstiles, grabbing me before I was about to board a train to Bedford.

When we meet in six weeks time he is going to get the seeing-to of his life. I have encountered tons of sterling clients, but OMIGOD. Sitting back in the flat having chundered some more, I feel very moved - and rather sad as I don't think any of my personal flings would have gone beyond the call of duty like this.

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Lovely story. Hope you're feeling better soon, Hun! x

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Lovely story. Hope you're feeling better soon, Hun! x

Thanks HS. Cracking name by the way...

An amendment re personal flings, unfair of me to say so at least. But, this chap - doing this, having only exchanged emails with me - say if a personal fling booked an overnight with a girl, and she was me - unlikely the tale would have ended like it did!

On another matter, I could return to this post a little later and discover that it consists purely of gobbledygook. I am not trusting a concussed prat like me to leave the flat today...

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Just back from an overnight in Brighton that didn't go to plan...apologies for length (well, if I really were I'd make it briefer, but hey...).

Yesterday - doing errands at full pelt in the morning before getting the train, I first realised that there was a scaffolding pole in front of me when I bounced off it using my head, landing on my tailbone. This hurt a lot, and it was a shame that doctors removed the pointy tail I was born with, as at least I'd have a bit of cushioning down there still. Bugger, says I, this overnight has been planned for months, the chap sounds sterling, I want to see Brighton, cash would be handy...things will be fine. Just a swelling bump on the head and a sore arse ain't going to stop me.

Not like that time I was really looking forward to a junket in Spain, and pretended that the stabbing abdominal pains would subside in the weekend before jetting off - which involved calling an ambulance and getting treated with intravenous antibiotics for 10 days in a crappy hospital to stave off organ failure. Ooooh no.

I potter round the flat, placing my bits and bobs by my bag but failing to put them in. I can't find my ibuprofen. I can't find the dress I wanted to wear. About to give up, I realise I have already put it on. I am already about two hours late. I pay the taxi driver using a £100 Scottish note for a £12 fare. I get my first class tickets, but sit in standard class for some reason. Amazingly, I manage to connect t'internet and conduct some sort of conversation with two people on here, but I can't recollect exactly with whom, or what I was spraffing about.

I arrive. My hold ups are falling down. The bows on my ankle boots keep unravelling as I can't tie them properly. I feel like John Prescott's excrement.

Client lovely, didn't seem annoyed in the least, soothes a distrait May; we go to the restaurant where, if chaps who have met me are reading this, I HAD ONE BEER. Something was very wrong.

At the hotel, I fail to drink any of the wine the client has brought me, and after a half-hearted bj, he strokes my back how I like it. I fall into the sleep of death, not my usual light nappyness at all. In the morning I feel like J.Prescott's excrement microwaved. I feel nauseous and chunder a few times. He runs us a hot bath for my back after stroking it again, feeds me tea, ibuprofen and cocodamol (?), and I feel vaguely less poo-like.

Offer full refund, and pshaw, no no. He had some lovely dreams about me, and my snoring was cute. My swag bag included a special edition of my favourite whisky, some chocolates, his painkillers and a book of Lorca's poetry. Cabs with me to the station, helps me walk, buys me some water, and thankfully was watching me from the turnstiles, grabbing me before I was about to board a train to Bedford.

When we meet in six weeks time he is going to get the seeing-to of his life. I have encountered tons of sterling clients, but OMIGOD. Sitting back in the flat having chundered some more, I feel very moved - and rather sad as I don't think any of my personal flings would have gone beyond the call of duty like this.

This client put's us all to shame... What a gentleman!!!! I am so taken by that story, I am considering changing sex and becoming a WG just to see him...Do you have his number :eek:

He treated you better than A Loving married husband would!!!

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Sorry to hear about your misadventure. It sounds like concussion and you should not take Ibuprofen (or Aspirin) if you have concussion. They thin the blood and can increase bleeding/fluid build up on the brain. If you are still drowsy or vomiting you should see a doctor or go to casualty.

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Sorry to hear about your misadventure. It sounds like concussion and you should not take Ibuprofen (or Aspirin) if you have concussion. They thin the blood and can increase bleeding/fluid build up on the brain. If you are still drowsy or vomiting you should see a doctor or go to casualty.

Thanks muchly Wyke, shall stop taking now but what should I take instead - paracetomol OK? Client more worried about the egg that appeared on my forehad this morning, co-codamol for the back....

Last concussion fun, I was nauseous too but the memory loss confined to immediately before and after my prang, not spaced through the day.

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Thanks muchly Wyke, shall stop taking now but what should I take instead - paracetomol OK? Client more worried about the egg that appeared on my forehad this morning, co-codamol for the back....

Last concussion fun, I was nauseous too but the memory loss confined to immediately before and after my prang, not spaced through the day.

I hope your ok babes...keep us all informed...

hugs and kisses

xxx

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Can i just say that never before has the use of the words John Prescott been used in such an apt context. Take a bow fair lady and get well soon.

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Sorry to hear about your misadventure. It sounds like concussion and you should not take Ibuprofen (or Aspirin) if you have concussion. They thin the blood and can increase bleeding/fluid build up on the brain. If you are still drowsy or vomiting you should see a doctor or go to casualty.

I recall from my schooldays that the nurse would give any child milk if they had bumped their heads on the premise if you threw up it was concussion. Im not sure of the medical merits of this and given I hate milk I was misdiagnosed on numerous occasions.

May, I hope the swelling goes down soon and you return to your normal self, if that is not an oxymoron!

tof

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He was a true fluffy .... May ... :eek: I hope you are feeling better and when you see him next give him the seeing-to ... he deserves ... :rolleyes:

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Just back from an overnight in Brighton that didn't go to plan...apologies for length (well, if I really were I'd make it briefer, but hey...).

Yesterday - doing errands at full pelt in the morning before getting the train, I first realised that there was a scaffolding pole in front of me when I bounced off it using my head, landing on my tailbone. This hurt a lot, and it was a shame that doctors removed the pointy tail I was born with, as at least I'd have a bit of cushioning down there still. Bugger, says I, this overnight has been planned for months, the chap sounds sterling, I want to see Brighton, cash would be handy...things will be fine. Just a swelling bump on the head and a sore arse ain't going to stop me.

Not like that time I was really looking forward to a junket in Spain, and pretended that the stabbing abdominal pains would subside in the weekend before jetting off - which involved calling an ambulance and getting treated with intravenous antibiotics for 10 days in a crappy hospital to stave off organ failure. Ooooh no.

I potter round the flat, placing my bits and bobs by my bag but failing to put them in. I can't find my ibuprofen. I can't find the dress I wanted to wear. About to give up, I realise I have already put it on. I am already about two hours late. I pay the taxi driver using a £100 Scottish note for a £12 fare. I get my first class tickets, but sit in standard class for some reason. Amazingly, I manage to connect t'internet and conduct some sort of conversation with two people on here, but I can't recollect exactly with whom, or what I was spraffing about.

I arrive. My hold ups are falling down. The bows on my ankle boots keep unravelling as I can't tie them properly. I feel like John Prescott's excrement.

Client lovely, didn't seem annoyed in the least, soothes a distrait May; we go to the restaurant where, if chaps who have met me are reading this, I HAD ONE BEER. Something was very wrong.

At the hotel, I fail to drink any of the wine the client has brought me, and after a half-hearted bj, he strokes my back how I like it. I fall into the sleep of death, not my usual light nappyness at all. In the morning I feel like J.Prescott's excrement microwaved. I feel nauseous and chunder a few times. He runs us a hot bath for my back after stroking it again, feeds me tea, ibuprofen and cocodamol (?), and I feel vaguely less poo-like.

Offer full refund, and pshaw, no no. He had some lovely dreams about me, and my snoring was cute. My swag bag included a special edition of my favourite whisky, some chocolates, his painkillers and a book of Lorca's poetry. Cabs with me to the station, helps me walk, buys me some water, and thankfully was watching me from the turnstiles, grabbing me before I was about to board a train to Bedford.

When we meet in six weeks time he is going to get the seeing-to of his life. I have encountered tons of sterling clients, but OMIGOD. Sitting back in the flat having chundered some more, I feel very moved - and rather sad as I don't think any of my personal flings would have gone beyond the call of duty like this.

I wish you better May, and this guy was a true gent.:eek:

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was it JRC?

just kidding, hope your getting better, and hats off to such a true gent indeed.

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How lovely was to read it. Just confirms my views that being in this rather "controversial" profession is not bad at all.

Can safely say that 95% of the clients that I've met have been absolutely

wonderful. I don't do less than an hour bookings, but most of the time they do extend to 2 hours. So much healthy fun, excellent sex and food for thought.

Thank you for sharing happiness and hope you have healed well by now.

Wish you all the very best. :eek:

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Best wishes to May and let's hope she feels better soon. Not the sort of experience we wish on anyone.

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Awwe May you poor thing, thank god there are some really nice men out there. I can think of one or two that wouldn't have been so nice or appreciated the fact that you went through with the booking when feeling so rough, and one or two girls that would have let him down come to that.

I do hope you make a quick recovery and have a great time on your return booking, sounds like it should be a good night all round.

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Thanks muchly Wyke, shall stop taking now but what should I take instead - paracetomol OK? Client more worried about the egg that appeared on my forehad this morning, co-codamol for the back....

Last concussion fun, I was nauseous too but the memory loss confined to immediately before and after my prang, not spaced through the day.

Yes, Paracetamol is OK, but don't forget Co-Codamol already includes paracetamol when calculating your max daily dose.

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Awwe May you poor thing, thank god there are some really nice men out there. I can think of one or two that wouldn't have been so nice or appreciated the fact that you went through with the booking when feeling so rough, and one or two girls that would have let him down come to that.

I do hope you make a quick recovery and have a great time on your return booking, sounds like it should be a good night all round.

IT WILL BE THE BEST, BONK-FRAUGHT ENCOUNTER OF HIS/MY LIFE.

Fluffiness - would I be willing to go "that extra mile"? Hell yes, he couldn't have treated me kindlier. People who disparage "fluffies" on this forum don't know what they're missing. May will do her very best. Bear in mind he's not a poster, but I feel terribly rotten how good he was/how feeble I was. He had to help me walk to the train for God's sake!

To be honest, I was being greedy. I wanted the money, I wanted to have lunch in Momma Cherrie's in Brighton, I wanted to take snaps of Heather Mills' new vegan place VBites, having forgotten to initially - it's odd though - everything is substitute, "chicky, beefy, fishy" whatnot in a bap/curry/salad - or sodding cupcakes, hardly an advertisement for veganism if she has to come up with substitute meat product one would have thought - I wanted to go shopping and build a sandcastle on the beach, never having been before.

Piss. Seeing to of his life he will have, and the book he got me splendid.

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Just jeep reading the Lorca

My swag bag included a special edition of my favourite whisky, some chocolates, his painkillers and a book of Lorca's poetry.

Cada canci

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I wanted to go shopping and build a sandcastle on the beach, never having been before.

If you can build a sandcastle on Brighton Beach you are a better man than I.

:eek:

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Wow, that must have been more of a blow than you imagined. Sounds like your client is a gentleman that all of us punters should emulate. His "going the extra mile" is something we all need to do more often.

Hope you get better quickly.

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May.

A true gent, real style... I know I'd have failed that test.

But... a useful tip... in case you ever walk into another post. (I've done it a time or three myself, so have some knowledge, alas.) If you're with a friend, ask them to stay with you for a couple of hours. Every 15 mins or so do some mental gymnastics (such as counting down from 100 in sevens). Instruct the friend that if your talk becomes incoherent, you become unsteady, eyes move rapidly.... two of you need to get to casualty dept double pronto. After you part arrange to phone at agreed intervals for a day or so. So your friend can tell if you're "normal self".

If not with a friend... phone one, and arrange to phone them, tell them what's happened and phone them from every couple of hours for a day or so.

Reason for all this? (Knocks on head can very occasionally lead to serious cerebral bleeds... no real problem even then if you get prompt treatment. First sign you may need to get to hospital quickly is difficulty in being able to talk coherently. Or as my friends say "In your case, Jack, even more incoherent than usual".)

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The poor guy is probably quaking in his boots, wondering if he's going to survive the return match or not

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I wanted to go shopping and build a sandcastle on the beach, never having been before.

If you can build a sandcastle on Brighton Beach you are a better man than I.

:eek:

Pebble Jenga then. And contrary to rumours, I may drink, eat, swear and shag like a bloke but I'm not one. Either that, or the boys in Bangkok did a great job.

Reflecting on good turns clients have done me - helping me move flat, not getting pissed off once when we turned up at Heathrow minus my passport....sheesh. One ex-fling couldn't be arsed helping me carry up a bookcase up several flights of stairs, chaps in the know - the wooden, glass case in my bedroom - had to do myself using ropes. Bondage rope gifted from one client. Sheesh x100.

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May.

Every 15 mins or so do some mental gymnastics (such as counting down from 100 in sevens). Instruct the friend that if your talk becomes incoherent, you become unsteady, eyes move rapidly.... two of you need to get to casualty dept double pronto. After you part arrange to phone at agreed intervals for a day or so. So your friend can tell if you're "normal self".

Eyes moving rapidly, general incoherence due to my strange vocab, inability when at full mental capacity to count down in sevens (32%, the second lowest in the year for the math mock exam, I tell ye) - oh dear. That's me pre-brain jarring.

Thanks JD. I knocked my head on the kerb after an unfortunate encounter with a speeding hit and run car right outside my flat - a disgruntled ex or ex-client? Who knows - and I had no idea how bad I was, having sounded lucid on the phone to the neighbour the ambulance people made me call as I actually came clean about living alone, despite wanting to crawl off and die in my own bed, so tantalizingly close. He was half-asleep, and being beardie and rucksack-wearing prone, had been stopped by the police so many times on the tube he half-arsedly thought it was the cops who'd stopped me...until he visited me the same day later with some shopping I'd asked for. Then (no recollection of this), I turned rather violent when he called another ambulance.

Ooopsie. A girl and her bed should never be parted forcibly when she's feeling crappy. He called for back up, but they all decided not to bring me to the boil and took turns sleeping in my spare bed, checking up on me, as I was refusing to leave my flat...

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Pebble Jenga then.

Well if you do go to Brighton beach, don't forget to pay a visit to the 'interesting' end, if yer know what I mean :eek:

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