I kicked my black lace panties off last night with mixed emotions before I slid my naked self under the old silk duvet. The day had been unusual yet I was in no frame of mind to understand if it was the good kind of unusual that might end with a game of French boomerang.
As you know, I launched this blog for two reasons. The first was to introduce people to my erotic fiction which, I’m happy to say, they are now buying in their droves.* The other reason was to make new friends. Now I say that knowing you probably think that just because I write erotic fiction and work in London I have a wide circle of friends. I simply don’t. I might have had my share of grenadier guards, minor royals, and catalogue y-front models but I've definitely been missing personal contact with people who don’t want to duck immediately under my dress and recite tongue twisters. By blogging, I hoped that I’d meet a few new friends with whom I could discuss something other than my alabaster body with firm 36DD breasts.
Imagine, then, how I squealed with delight (‘eeeeeeeeh!’) when an email arrived yesterday from somebody claiming to be a new friend. Not only was it a new friend, it was a new friend in Spain!
Before I tell you more, I think it’s only right that I don’t name my new friend. I’ll simply call him Barry, though I suppose his surname should be something exotic and Spanish sounding. I’ll call him Barry Burro…
So, I exchanged a few emails with Barry Burro and made small talk about food, the English weather, and then Barry picked up on my use of the phrase ‘meagre coppers’ in order to compare British policing with that found in Spain. It seems that Barry has made quite a study of what he charmingly refers to as ‘the rozzers’ and ‘the filth’. His opinion of policing methods in the UK is surprisingly forthright and he had some particularly choice things to say about the people in C.I.D. who he likes to call ‘C.I.Dumb’ for reasons he refused to elaborate upon...
So, we’re casually exchanging emails as you tend to do when you meet somebody for the first time via the internet and then one thing leads to another and before I know it, Barry has mentioned that he’s currently working as a pimp running his own stable of girls on the Costa Del Crime…
Naturally, I assumed he was joking.
‘I hope you’re joking,’ I typed via email. Ariel 11 just to make sure.
Only, it seems that Barry isn’t joking. El Burro Barry emailed me back, in Verdana 12 no less, to assure me that his line of work is indeed in ‘escort services, personal protection and counting the dosh’. I asked if he’s wanted by the British police, thinking, of course, that he might be one of those special ex-pat Brits who previously made large brick-shaped withdraws from our gold reserves but he’s quite cagey about the whole subject and I’m wary of asking more questions.
Thankfully, I became distracted by my mission to draw an accurate picture of Michael Gove as a Mr Man yesterday afternoon so I began to think that the matter was dropped. And that’s when he (Barry, not Education Minister Gove) emailed and offered me work in the world of high class prostitution.
Given that this is my first offer to work as a prostitute, I can’t say that I’m tempted. But I equally can’t say that I’m not tempted. I could make more money in five minutes than I’ll make in 20 years of writing this blog. However, I’m not keen on Spain’s weather (too hot), I don’t like to tan, and I do like to blog…
This morning I’m delaying giving Barry an answer but I did think this is probably a good time to put a little more effort into the other hard sell. So, if you haven’t already, why don’t you give my book a try? Your investment of 75 pence (or 99 cents) could keep me blogging and stop me becoming the sexual plaything to randy Spanish fishermen, existentially-complex Russian sailors, and drunk groups of British mechanics enjoying a weekend away from their leaking sumps.
Please buy my book. I don’t want to become a prostitute and be forced to do unnatural things with paella.
* One drove = 2 people