here <\/a><\/span>for an overview and please do contact me with any queries.<\/p>\nPictures to follow soon!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Apologies to those who have been patiently awaiting my regular missive, but the unprecedented onslaught of the last couple of weeks has prevented me both physically and mentally from adding anything remotely coherent or sensible, and as many will know, however my written accounts of busier moments may portray a veritable model of calm, poise and brisk efficiency (in the manner of a Boden-clad television advert lady), the unappealing truth, is more the manner of a bedraggled, travel-fatigued and sleep deprived 37 year old woman under the influence of far too much of whatever we are calling the bitter yet oddly flavourless, cardboard-clad fawn liquid which currently passes for coffee at railway stations. Oh well, some you win, some you lose… …which leads us nicely onto the news of the week – I am proud to announce that on Friday night, SAAFE (Support and Advice for Escorts) won Best Website at the Erotic Awards despite some seriously stiff competition from Kink.com and I Feel Myself (warning: music), both fabulous sites. It is a real honour, and the ladies (and gents) of SAAFE are very proud indeed – the site is now in it’s fifth year (the forum I moderate in it’s third, and getting busier by the day) and to be involved in running something set up purely for the purpose of helping others is a very good feeling indeed. As for the evening itself, as a good few of you will know already, the Night of the Senses ball is a fundraiser for Outsiders, a charity which helps people with disabilities find partners (long term, or just to get their end away), and included the Erotic Awards as well as a cabaret show by some wonderful performers and one of the best baked potatoes I have ever had from the caf\u00e9 outside. Three of us attended, and photos will follow as soon as received; the nature of the event means that non-official cameras are not permitted inside, and although thanks to an over-subscribed cloakroom we were stuck with the bags all evening, there was no question of sneaky snapping. I will (for those who have asked), be wearing my lovely home-made ballgown for some pictures in the more usual setting and yes, I did end up cutting the underneath out of the leotard bit, rendering it quite possibly the only blood red, rose-covered crotchless ballerina outfit in London, at the time of wearing, at least. Anyone expecting a breakdown of the erm, other, activities mooted for the evening will not get one here, I\u2019m afraid. I am being as diplomatic as possible, as my feelings about the awards and the wonderful cause supported are nothing but positive, but contrary to the apparent belief of many, working as a prostitute does not make one \u2018up for\u2019 anything, and the ghastly pastime of \u2019swinging\u2019, or whatever repulses me utterly \u2013 I have always been of the belief that if I was with a partner who was so bored of me that he was happy to see me passed around among strangers like a tray of party snacks I would not be with that partner for much longer, and Friday evening has done wonders to reinforce that belief. It wasn\u2019t particularly surprising to me that the main contingent of (heterosexual, decidedly jaded-looking and predictably middle class) paying guests just appeared bloody uncomfortable, given that the atmosphere was marginally less sexy than the average visit to the garden centre (actually considerably less so, if taking into account those large and sumptuous garden centres with the beautiful hothouses), and like the art, films and people who try so desperately hard to be funny, shocking or otherwise reaction-provoking that they inevitably have the opposite effect, any purported eroticism fell, well, a bit flat. The overall impression was deeply British and therefore rather quaint (not least because of the freezing cold, which must have been a technical hitch), and the only even faintly appealing prospect in the building had I had any urge to de-tutu and give it a go was the barman, primarily because he looked rather like a certain past-but-much-adored Mr Amy whom I have always been fond of and haven’t seen in years. However, my own individual feelings are irrelevant; anyone who has met me will be well aware of my loathing of prejudice, and needless to say it came as a considerable shock to me to be informed that gay partners were not being admitted to the ‘couples’ room – surely if an event is to be promoted as an open, accepting and welcoming celebration of each and every sexual preference and peccadillo the law allows then that is what it should be, and to apply homophobic and discriminatory rules to people who have paid considerable sums of money to support your cause is nothing short of a disgrace. I have no way of knowing what was going on in the ‘rooms’, since the source of baked potatoes was the furthest I ventured, but suffice to say I have no intention of ever finding out; each to their own, however, and anyone who is keen to know more can visit the event website here. For me personally, two of us and a flat(tish) surface will do fine – undivided attention is the order of the day here… Back to this week, and after the fuss and dashing about of the last ten days or so, I can confidentally state that due to sheer frazzled nerves and tiredness my availability will be extremely limited; I am already spoken for on Friday and Saturday and Tuesday is fully booked. The chances of me taking\u00a0 any more appointments are slim, to say the least but as ever I am a bit of a pushover open to offers presented in an engaging, appropriate and charming way, plus I am arranging appointments for my Aberdeen trip on the 19th. There are some booking conditions attached with this visit and for good reason; see here for an overview and please do contact me with any queries. Pictures to follow soon!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[16,80,81],"class_list":["post-2002","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-my-diary","tag-london","tag-saafe","tag-scarlet"],"aioseo_notices":[],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2002","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2002"}],"version-history":[{"count":91,"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2002\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2096,"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2002\/revisions\/2096"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2002"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2002"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.adoreamy.co.uk\/blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2002"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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Apologies to those who have been patiently awaiting my regular missive, but the unprecedented onslaught of the last couple of weeks has prevented me both physically and mentally from adding anything remotely coherent or sensible, and as many will know, however my written accounts of busier moments may portray a veritable model of calm, poise and brisk efficiency (in the manner of a Boden-clad television advert lady), the unappealing truth, is more the manner of a bedraggled, travel-fatigued and sleep deprived 37 year old woman under the influence of far too much of whatever we are calling the bitter yet oddly flavourless, cardboard-clad fawn liquid which currently passes for coffee at railway stations. Oh well, some you win, some you lose…<\/p>\n