I meet all kinds of people. From Belgravia to Kingston, from New York to Hong Kong. Tall men, short men, confused women and the odd married billionaire; nothing fazes me. As an expensive London escort, I revel in diversity, and in the amount of time that I have been doing this, very little has shocked me or made my eyebrows shoot into my back pocket. I am immune to shock, or so I thought.
I went out on a first date with Marco some time ago when he founded a new record label. He got to mix with some big stars and was so incredibly busy he didn’t have time to find his special someone, so he sought out my services and, residing in Mayfair himself, found my location very convenient. He took me to his label launch party and thrust me into the celebrity world. I was taken aback by his penchant for new and existing acts and quite impressed by his diverse music tastes, or so I thought.
So with date number one complete and afters at a top Knightsbridge hotel, he told me he would call me and arrange some more rendezvous’.
I’ll tell you a little about the man in the music. He’s 43, stunningly handsome, charming, witty and clever. A London man, born and bred and incredibly wealthy, Marco owns homes in Mayfair, Hereford and Surrey in the UK and has an exquisite villa in the South of France and two studios in New York. His music library in his Mayfair penthouse is eclectic and exciting, and I spent a long time looking at the rows of CDs as I was bent over before them…
So, in my unshockable state, I didn’t think anything of it when Marco asked me to come to his study and perch on the edge of his desk whilst he loaded up his state-of-the-art computer and told me that he wanted to show me some artists he loved on YouTube.
I thought it was pretty sweet that he got so excited, and his face turned goofy/childlike as he typed into the search engine… “Best X Factor auditions”. Up popped millions of reality TV gold, and Marco was in his element. He had discussed with me previously what I should wear: underwear to match pop, rock and soul music. I had picked out my finest from Selfridge’s new designer display, and I had no idea I would be checking my Dirty Pretty Things (Soul) camisole to Austin Drage (who?) version of Billie Jean.
As lovely as some of the artists voice’ are, the audience clapping at the end of their performances sure does put a girl off her stride…well, almost.
