Farewell Miss. Mademoiselle

This is no longer your world, Jones. The immaterial has become…. immaterial.

Lord Cutler Beckett, Pirates of the Caribbean

– a sad dairy of independent escort Carmen

Last Friday night I finally plucked up the courage to go and find Miss. Mademoiselle previously mentioned in an earlier post. Dressed to the nines and accompanied by my mad Irish consort with flaming red hair, we set off for the local strip joint. After settling in and a couple of drinks I quickly realised that Miss. Mademoiselle was not there. I had called in advance to confirm that she was but apparently there was a misunderstanding as there is another lady there by the same name. Refusing to accept failure we moved on to the next joint in the hopes of finding her but alas. We decided to return to the previous club where the music and entertainment was somewhat better. On our return I managed to strike up a conversation with a lady who knew Miss. Mademoiselle who informed me that she found herself a husband and had run off to Europe.

It just shows you how life can turn on a ticky as my grandmother used to say. The things I learned about Miss. Mademoiselle were astounding. Everybody remembers her as leaving you wanting and with a sense that something else might happen. I toyed with the idea that she may have been a player, a common female adaptation for survival but I just can’t believe that sort of corrupt, salacious sensuousness can be faked. Also she gave me her phone number and invited me out socially which she was not obligated to do. I have therefore come to the conclusion that she must have been a rare exceptional human being who was fortunate to be discovered by a good man who saw her worth and took her away from that life.

The purpose of this outing was to get my lesbian groove on with Miss. Mademoiselle and although that part of the mission was a failure, the trip was an enormous success for science. I had a couple of lap dances, learned a lot about strip joint politics, the complexity of the female mind as well as the art of deception. There is a new breed of woman in this town, not the kind that leaves you wanting but rather the kind that does not necessarily offer a service at all. I understand that times are tough but this is the first time I’m hearing of companions who do not provide full house or even oral and dancers who charge for extras but don’t deliver in the booth. Fortunately this is not my problem so I don’t intend to harp on it but I am stunned after all the effort I make to learn that I am undercharging, over delivering and I can’t help but ask the question…. “What is fair?”

If I consider what I spent that evening, it was roughly two day’s earnings but you also have to take into account that I worked three hours to spend the same money in ten minutes. The girls are sterile, asexual and can barely manage to hide their contempt. As I looked around at the clientele, I suddenly realised why. Closing time was even worse as several girls swooped in and tried to close a last dance and actually got angry at me when I declined. My heart goes out to these people as I believe that have very harsh working conditions. Still it doesn’t help their cause to attack the people they’re trying to extract money out of.

I’m truly stunned at the lifestyle, the clothes, the bags, the drugs and I can’t help but wonder how it all gets financed? It’s not a case of keeping up with the Jones’ anymore but rather keeping up with the Russian mob. Clearly I am still very Micky Mouse so it’s back to the drawing board. My lesbian curiosities have been cured for the time being and my interest in tits, quashed. I’ll save my time and attention for the people who are paying me.