The Origin of Stockings

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Historically, even though the word sock is at least as ancient in origin, what men typically wore were often referred to as tights, probably mainly when referring to the longer hose at times when they were the fashion for men. The word was used to refer to the bottom “stump” part of the body. By analogy, the term was used to refer to the one-piece covering of the lower trunk and limbs of the 15th century—essentially tights consisting of the upper stocks (later to be worn separately as knee breeches) and nether supplies (later to be worn independently as stockings).

Before the 1590s, stockings were made of woven cloth. The first knitting machines were for making stockings. The socks themselves were made of cotton, linen, wool or silk. Polished cotton called lisle was standard, as were those made in Balbriggan.

Before the 1920s, women’s stockings, if worn, were worn for warmth. In the 1920s, as women’s dresses’ hemlines rose, they wore socks to cover their exposed legs. These stockings were sheer, first made of silk or rayon (then known as “artificial silk”), and after 1940 of nylon. The first pantyhose appeared in the 1940s and 1950s, when film and theatre productions had stockings sewn to the briefs of actresses and dancers, according to actress-dancer Ann Miller and seen in popular films such as Daddy Long Legs. Today, socks are commonly made using knitted wool, silk, cotton or nylon. The introduction of pantyhose in 1959 provided a convenient alternative to stocks, and the use of socks declined dramatically. U.S. sales of stockings exceeded stockings for the first time and have remained this way ever since. BegIn87, sales of the hose with a suspender belt started slightly declining due to the newly invented hold-ups, but it remained a sold sock.

So, if you have a fetish for stockings, look no further than 24-hour Companions, where all our fine young ladies will honour your wishes by wearing only the finest socks for your eyes.

Our Top Italians

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Italian women are fiery and passionate and can entice a man until he is under their spell. Sounds thrilling. Our Italian escort, Kim, is no exception. At 23 years old, Kim has learned enough about life and London to know what makes her clients tick.

At a modest 5 feet 7 inches, Kim is a stunning London call girl who turns the heads of men and women as she wanders. They are often heard to ask each other if she just flew in from Milan for a catwalk shoot. And well, she might have done! Her slim curves of 34C-23-33 proportions make her the perfect example of Italian chic. Not to mention the way they fill the sexy lingerie that hides beneath! Kim tells us her passion for satin and lace makes her a regular visitor to La Perla, which seems to keep the men in her life VERY interested!

Kim is sweet, sassy and sexy and available as one of our escorts in Marylebone. She loves to laugh and dance, and a night out in Leicester Square always makes her smile. Available for outcalls only, Kim adores travelling all over London with her clients and internationally if and when they are called for. Her passport is full of stamps of recent travels abroad, and she loves matching a face to the destination.

To book Kim, look in our elite gallery of lovely Italian ladies and then call us to check her availability. Our friendly receptionists are here to take your call 24 hours a day.

How do you like your coffee?

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I am not at home because I am typing this from Italy, L.cky me!!!
My long weekend break, returning tomorrow morning, with Giovanni, started as “coffee soon?” and became “take your passport and meet me at Heathrow at 13:00 hours. Giovanni was born in London’s West End to Sicilian parents and emigrated there in 1990 before making his home somewhere between Tuscany and Paris. He has an ex-wife, five children, three dogs in a villa in the Tuscan countryside and a mistress in Paris with one child. Before you ask how he manages to afford to keep them all, his six-figure salary seems to be that.

How do I fit in? Well, he does like to keep up appearances with the Italian social elite and to rub his ex-wife’s nose in the fact that he hasn’t lost touch with the ladies. Ex Mrs Giovanni doesn’t know about the Parisian mistress or the half-brother of her offspring, so I step in as the model girlfriend. I don’t mind, I love Italy, and I am used to being discreet.

So we came to Italy for proper coffee, ground from good coffee beans, in an authentic restaurant by an adequate barista. I used a small amount of Italian vocabulary on him – enough to say “grazi” – and flashed my most dazzling smile. Red-blooded Mediterranean men do like to feel appreciated by red-blooded British women! And how do I like my coffee? Well, I am partial to a cappuccino, but I do prefer a latte – especially when it is homegrown.

And I discovered that barista training is right around the corner from the hotel. How exciting!

Wet and Wild…

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From a saucy French maid, a 50’s housewife working naked, to a serving wench, I have been most domesticated servants in some category or other. My clients seem to enjoy the sight of a scantily-clad sexy London escort working in their home. I can’t think why…

However, the polite request to be a ‘washer-woman’ left me slightly dumbfounded. I wasn’t quite sure how I was supposed to pertain to that, given that I don’t do muscly arms and a belly over my waistband. I had visions of some cartoon-esque dame a la Tom & Jerry, and I can’t say it did much for my libido or self-image. So, for the first time in ages, I asked what my client meant.

This client was Henry, a divorced father of two in his mid-fifties. Resident in the affluent area of Bayswater, Henry described himself as having a natural thing for water, especially water splashed all over the place on a willing participant. He asked me to wear white, tie my hair up and not to wear a scrap of makeup. With these instructions, I arrived promptly at noon on Saturday and was ushered through to a high-walled garden with an immaculately cut lawn. In the centre of the patio, in the blazing sunshine, was a wooden tub full of suds and, next to it, a scrubbing brush and board.

Henry was reclining on a sun lounger, sunglasses on, regarding me as I stood in the patio doorway. He waved me over and stretched out a hand. As he passed me a glass of Pimms, he explained simply that he wanted me to scrub the clothes in the tub and get soaking wet in the process. “Plenty of splash, my dear! Give those old flagstones a soaking! And make sure you get it all down your front…”

Well, thank God for the small mercies of a brilliant sunny day. I hauled the sheets out of the suds and gave them a good going over, slopping water everywhere and mostly over myself. My top and underwear went see-through, and Henry leaned forward on his chair to get a better look. I used my arm to brush my hair out of my eyes, soaking my face and letting it run down my neck. I figured I resembled a drowned rat, but Henry was delighted.

“Peg them on the line when you’re done, will you?” he called gleefully as I stood up to wring out my long white skirt. I was drenched and longing to lie in the sun to dry off. He chucked me a towel and invited me to do just that. Thankfully, his sun-trap garden had me drying off within twenty minutes, and I was able to chat a little about the job I’d done. “Splendid effort…” he said, beaming.”I will have to call you again!”

A change of clothes and a hair dryer later, I went home to Mayfair to glam up for my evening date with Oscar. It just wouldn’t do to let too many people see me in that state; I have an image to uphold.

Patience is a virtue

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Women can be manipulative – even the ones who say they aren’t having a more subtle undertaking to the art. As long as there is no element of de-masculation, where is the harm? My mother used to say “Ask don’t get; don’t ask, don’t want.” I disagree.

Let me set the scene for you…

I was at Westfield Shopping Centre ten minutes from Paddington this weekend with a rather delicious companion named Victor. Among the throngs of shoppers, and designer stores, I actually managed to get a lot of my shopping done. I do love shopping dates because usually I wouldn’t get the opportunity to spend a day queuing among other commoners, preferring to “add to cart” on Amazon.

So there we were, fingers entwined, our arms becoming full of branded carrier bags. Victor had dragged me into practically every man’s clothes shop there was (who says men aren’t fussy?) and I was thinking longingly of Kurt Geiger up on level one. I desperately wanted to slip my foot into the multi-coloured glitter stilettos that had been whispering lovingly to me from the website. As he tried on his fiftieth jumper, I was mentally itemising my wardrobe to justify £150 while subtracting the balance of my MasterCard from my credit limit.

Sensitive to the needs of others, I am pretty adept at diffusing a situation before it gets out of control and Victor was getting frustrated. I wanted my shoes and he wanted a change of scenery so I suggested Pret a manger which was “coincidentally” on level one. Smelling the lure of coffee and fresh sandwiches, Victor offered me a smile as we ascended the escalator and I mentally calculated that it would take 30 seconds to pass my beautiful shoes once we were nourished.

A man with a full belly is a happy man – and a man open to bribery. Close to the cafe was a huge Apple store with plenty of shiny laptops and iPads murmuring sweet nothings. Attention diverted from Fair Isle knitwear, Victor swung his hips through the door and took in a lungful of Broadband. A London escort such as me must have patience as a virtue: the patience to accept her needs come after those of her date. I watched Victor dribble over a MacBook Pro and counted down the minutes until I could lick the heel of that display shoe.

And then… a boom! Victor planted a kiss on my forehead and said, “darling, you have been so patient with me today. Let me buy my beautiful girl a present. Shall we look at something for you?” I could have wept. “Oh you don’t have to do that…” I said through my lashes. He made a sort of pooh-pooh noise and we fell into step… right past Kurt Geiger. And there they were… in the window, dazzling under the lights as I knew they would be… my shoes. Ten minutes later I had a shiny gift bag dangling from my arm and my date was looking very pleased with himself as I let him “choose” a pair, though I can’t say product placement didn’t play a part.

Call me manipulative then, if you want but you can’t say that my gentleman friend wasn’t completely happy to make me happy. The date had, as always, been about him and a trip to W12 I’m a big fan of West London, especially now I know where Kurt Geiger has an amazing store!