Starry Skies, Chapter 5: Alain

Let us begin with Maxime. He seemed to be holding out a romantic fantasy of a spontaneous marriage. I suspected that I am far more reckless and up for romantic adventure than he is, so I thought it would be fun to start testing. I started picking out wedding packages in the Bahamas (I so want one of those), sent him links to long, dreary pre-marital counselling courses in London and asked him if he’d told his parents he was engaged. Ha ha, it was great. He tried to keep up but became uncomfortable. He said his parents wouldn’t care who he married (I think this unlikely) but he’d sent a message to his best friend to announce that he had found The One. I was just on the point of suggesting that we go ring shopping and consider waiting to have sex until after the wedding, when he cracked under the pressure and started getting to the point, which was that he did want sex after all and in fact had a shopping list of racy activities that he regarded as achievements and wanted to accomplish, this being the actual point of his messages to me. I knew it. I knew it all along. I mocked him and he stopped texting me. Job done. A pity, he was really good looking.

And now, a few more photos of Paris, and we will come to news of Alain in due course.

Paris was great. I was only there for three nights but several exciting things happened. I did some excellent business in Paris, finished one work project and secured a new contract for another. I took up drinking. I no longer drink, in my everyday life in London. I am more sensitive to alcohol than I used to be and only a small amount can give me an appalling hangover. To my surprise, I find that this doesn’t apply in other countries. I don’t know why. I can go to France or Chile or somewhere and sit in the blazing sun in the middle of the day, drink half a bottle of wine with lunch and think nothing of it. It was great. While in Paris, I drank a lot of Bordeaux. When I wasn’t eating out, I lived on Camembert, white peaches and strawberries. I did very little sight-seeing. I spent a lot of time in this utterly charming little room that I rented and this was because, unlike Chile, you can’t make love in the park. You have to stay indoors for that.

french window

You will notice that so far, in the epic romance known as Starry Skies, I have had absolutely no sex. There was one kiss at the tube station after I had dinner with Harry and that was it. It was time to remedy that. I received a visit from Alain, in fact he came every day, for three days.

Alain fell in love with me in London in 2015 and we had not seen each other since then. We kept in touch in between for business reasons and because I cannot fail to be interested in a man who is in love with me. I told him I was coming to Paris. He said he would like to have dinner with me. Plans evolved from there. Eventually the result was that he appeared in my tiny French room, in the evening. We sat at the table, in front of that window, and talked about business and generally caught up. Then we stood up, to go out for some reason, probably to get coffee or wine. We stood facing each other. He’s young. He’s slim. He’s wearing his bag over his shoulder, ready to go out. He’s staring at me very intently and we are exactly the same height, so we are eye to eye. Time stops. Both of us lean in, about one millimetre each. Then we kiss. Then, without saying anything, we take off our clothes and lie down on the bed, where we spend much of the next couple of days.

We came to know each other very well over that weekend. He just wanted to make love, it was really that simple. People in London are a bit obsessed with sex. Like Maxime, they often have a list of achievements that they are trying to fulfil, or they’re tamely experimenting with some kind of kink, or they’re building up the world’s largest collection of sex toys. Alain could not have been more removed from this culture. It was not his opinion that sex with someone who you’ve loved for two years needs to be equivalent to sport. He just wanted to make love, in a completely straightforward, unspoiled way that focuses on engaging with your partner and not on some irrelevant checklist with accompanying hardware. It was amazing, he did me a lot of good, I felt like I’d been to a spa. It was very cleansing and refreshing. We did a lot of gazing into each other’s eyes, kissing, saying each other’s names, giving massages. I felt renewed.

Not surprisingly, after three days of that, we’d formed quite a bond and saying goodbye was  hard. I cried and we spoke a mixture of English and French (I know more French than I think I do, when the occasion demands). He said “I will remember this weekend for the rest of my life.” Then he went back to his life in France, as we planned, and I had one morning left in Paris and then I needed to go back to London to see Harry and get on with some work.

After I arrived home in London, Alain emailed me to say thank you. He said he’d found a new confidence because of being with me. I was touched.

Starry Skies, Chapter 4: Maxime

Maxime is a mature man of 30. He is one of London’s 20,000 French ex-pats. He looks very French and is really unusually handsome. I did not burst into tears or feel as though I were going blind but there was certainly a sharp intake of breath. His message to me said this:

Dear Madame, I have read your whole profile and I feel as though I will never recover. You are The One. I am totally and completely in love with you. Please have pity on me. You have torn my heart from my chest.

I was rather taken aback, as you might imagine, but of course I replied, because who’s not going to reply to a message like that, especially when it comes from someone with the face of a romantic hero who is in London and not in Russia. We moved the conversation to Whatsapp, as one does, and I logged out of the dating app. I assumed he just wanted sex, which would not be very difficult to get, with his unusually handsome appearance, especially in a city like London, with a population of 8 million people. As such, the conversation might predictably have focused on simple, practical matters such as getting me to come out to meet him. Instead, there was a long conversation, lasting all evening and again the next morning, in which he continued in a similar vein and said things like this:

I love you already.

Please, don’t text anyone. Say you will be only for me.

I’m totally in love with you. I’m really serious.

I can’t look at any other woman now I’ve seen you. Please come and be with me.

I hardly knew what to say. He wasn’t asking for sex. I wasn’t even in London – as most of this was unfolding, I was in Spain. I avoided saying anything that directly referred to this imaginary relationship between us, because what could I say, so I made general remarks about love. I thought he would become bored and quit. I was wrong. At the end of Day 3, he proposed.

Marry me. Be my wife. I cannot live without you and I cannot love you any more than I do.

‘Why do you love me?’ I asked. ‘Because I was born to love you’, he confidently replied. ‘When I saw your face and read all your beautiful words, it was like being struck by lightning, I was shocked. I knew that you were the one I was made for. You are tender. You are passionate. You are beautiful. You think like me. You talk like me. You were made to love and be loved. I am here now. Let me love you. I am your husband.’

He would not give up. He insisted that he was serious. He proposed again and again. He begged me to come home to London. I let him think that I continued to stay in Spain. In fact, sceptical of his extravagant claims and in no mood to be diverted from a path I had already set for myself, I returned to London for a matter of 48 hours, just long enough to take care of some business and pack my suitcase afresh, and then I went to Paris, where another French man was awaiting me, whom we shall call Alain, after Alain Delon.


Chapter 4 of Starry Skies will be with you tomorrow. It gets more and more romantic and exciting, I promise you. In the meantime, I need to quickly capture this before I forget about it and the moment has passed.

Just before I ran off to Spain on holiday, I went to the ballet. I went to Sadler’s Wells theatre in London; it is a venue which is dedicated to dance.

sadlers ext

sadlers int

I sent photos and text messages to the Russian boy, of course, because who else would I talk to about ballet, of all my lovers.

I was there to see Casanova, a new ballet by Kenneth Tindall, performed by the Northern Ballet company. It’s about Casanova’s life.


The sets were incredible, I was enchanted by the glittering, golden chandeliers and pillars and the immense mirrors that appeared on the stage.

It’s a modern ballet, obviously, being new, so it was not constrained in form or content by the 19th century traditions that characterise the romantic, classical ballets that I grew up with. The choreography was innovative. Also, rather importantly, Casanova was depicted as having both male and female lovers and I can’t really think of another time when I’ve seen men dancing ballet together, romantically and erotically. It was nice. It made a nice change.

If one wanted to be critical of it, I would say that I didn’t really get a sense of how Casanova’s life hung together as a coherent narrative. It felt like a series of unrelated episodes, lacking a big picture. But this did not dent my enjoyment of a spectacular and very dramatic production. Here is the trailer.

And here is another sample, showing the beautiful golden scenery that I was telling you about.

Okay, that’s all for tonight. We will resume Starry Skies tomorrow.

Starry Skies, Chapter 3: Dinner With Harry

While all this was going on, I continued to exchange messages with Harry, who little realised that while I was conscientiously and respectfully staying out of his room, I was attending church in the room of his Russian competitor and business rival, and being educated in the life and psychology of the camwhore. Consequently, I was not very surprised when he expressed an interest in having dinner with me, with a view to dating each other, yet found himself too terrified to talk to me beforehand by picking up the phone. 

Despite my new knowledge, it nonetheless struck me as slightly remarkable when he confessed, a couple of hours before our date, that he was very afraid to see me in case there was a repulsive and horrifying discrepancy between his ‘carefully curated photos’, as he put it, and his real, three-dimensional self. I was kind and gentle. I explained to him that I was talking to him despite his good looks and not because of them. I explained that he was holding my attention because of his obvious intelligence, academic ability, courtesy and self-effacing manner. He was very touched by this and said “thank you for your kind words”. I did not mention that the reason I was not attaching a lot of value to his physical appearance was because I had been blinded by his Russian counterpart, and everything that was not this holy Russian saint was cut from the same, everyday cloth.

Thus reassured, the shy, retiring little British porn star came out to meet me at a very nice Swiss restaurant in Soho. I was already seated when he arrived, five minutes late and full of apologies. He was a polite, sensitive little sweetheart, just as he was in his text messages. I quickly complimented him on his appearance, told him “you are much more attractive in real life than in your photos”, which was true, and he visibly heaved a sigh of relief. This, from a boy who has been taking his clothes off, for hundreds of gay men, almost daily, for two or three years.

We ate dinner and talked. We talked about my work and about his, using coded language so as not to upset the other diners. He was clever, sweet, funny, engaging. At one point he broke eye contact and turned his face away, looking at the ground. “You saw my photos”, he said, small pink roses of shame blooming in his cheeks. I did see his photos, because he gave me the link to his Tumblr, and what’s more, I Google Image searched him. Doing this caused me to see certain things that I wish I could unsee, because no nice, precious, valuable young boy or girl should be on the internet doing the things I saw in those pictures. His poor mother would have died. I don’t think he can have Google Image searched himself, otherwise those pink roses of shame would have been scarlet.

Anyway, despite all this anxiety and blushing, he managed to have a lovely time in my company, as one would hope. He very much enjoyed himself and we struck up quite a rapport. By the end of the evening he was almost jubilant and we had made plans to go to the opera and even go on holiday together in due course. We kissed at the tube station – as a 24-year-old sex worker who sells himself to his most loyal fans in a range of ways that I am not going to ask about, he proved quite capable of being kissed – and it seemed that a Dating Relationship had been formed. And so it came to pass that I found myself on my favourite dating app, suspending my account. In that small window of time, in a space of perhaps two minutes, between coming online and disappearing from public view, I received a message. A message from a French man who was about to say shocking things to me, henceforth known as Maxime.

**To Be Continued**

Starry Skies, Chapter 2: Fyodor

It is hard for me to express in words the breathtaking, supernatural beauty of Fyodor. As I beheld his impossibly flawless body, golden hair that flowed like honey and innocent, unspoiled face, a face sculpted by God himself, a face that could make a garden of spring flowers look cynical and haggard, time stopped. He was by far the most beautiful human I have ever seen, in all my life. He was naked, sitting on a white kitchen chair, in an empty, white kitchen. He was singing quietly to himself, reading incoming messages from his live audience and saying “thank you”, rather solemnly when he received a tip. I wept. His beauty was painful to observe, it actually burned my eyes, like looking into the sun. Sitting at my desk in London, I put my head in my hands and sobbed for a long time. It was the nearest thing I have ever had to a religious experience.

When I eventually recovered my sight and the ability to read and think, I was able to see from the comments of his audience that quite a large number of gay men were having a religious experience along with me. Considering it is a brothel, I had expected the remarks of the audience to be crude or even abusive (and I later discovered that this is what happens in the rooms of many other performers). In this room, however, we were having church. The men said “you are an angel” and “we are in awe of you” and “we all love you” and threw money at him. Fyodor said “thank you”, in a Russian accent, and when the tips had reached certain, pre-set levels, he did sexual things. Things that I strongly wanted him not to do, because of his innocent face, his gentleness, his fragility. It was too awful, watching him perform these sexual acts. I wanted to pay him enough to stop working, at least for that day, wrap him in a blanket, make him hot chocolate, ask him what he thought he was doing with his career.

I sent a love letter to his email address, telling him everything, especially the part about the blanket, and I sent him an Amazon gift card because I couldn’t not send him a gift after the sight of him made me cry. He replied with an absolutely charming and impeccably graceful thank-you letter and we struck up a correspondence that continues to this day. He has a degree in sociology but there are not many jobs for sociologists in Russia, so he is a whore instead.

From this correspondence, and from watching him at work over the next several days, I learned many surprising things. One might have thought that anyone who broadcasts themselves doing sexual things for money must be quite brazen and, indeed, if one were to observe these boys and girls abusing themselves in a well-practised and professional way, that view would be confirmed. The willingness of the Russian boy to do crude things, along with his spectacular beauty and the undisguised religious worship offered by his audience made me think that he must be a very secure, confident individual despite his unexpectedly demure manner. Apparently not so. One night, he explained that he suffers from social anxiety. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. When has an amateur entertainer been so cherished and adored? He performs for 1,000 people a day and their love for him is unanimous. But apparently internet life is different from real life. Safe in some obscure corner of Russia, he believes, with some justification, that he will never meet any of the people who watch him do terrible things. In real life, he is afraid of people. He is afraid to talk on the phone and to meet new people. You see, if anyone on the internet is mean to you, you can block them or switch your camera off. In real life, you can’t switch people off and social interactions are out of your control. In this way, the new technology and industry of cam-whoring has created a new generation of little porn stars who will happily defile themselves on camera for hundreds or even thousands of people but who are intimidated by real life and afraid to pick up the phone. This simply could not have happened before the digital age. It was very interesting to me and it turned out to be useful preparation for establishing a relationship with Harry, to whom we shall now return.

**To Be Continued**

Starry Skies: A Serial Novella

Hello, dear readers

My life is so full of romance lately that it is impossible to contain it in one post. I started to hand-write a version for later publication when I boarded my plane in Gran Canaria. When it landed in London, 4.5 hours later, I was still scribbling. 

For this reason, I offer you Starry Skies, a serial novella. Let us begin at once with Chapter 1, and you will see how dramatic everything is and what a large cast of characters it involves.

To begin this story, we must travel back in time to about 3 or even 4 weeks ago.


I received a message on my favourite dating app from a very polite and intelligent-sounding British boy with a degree in maths and a blurry photo. Let’s call him Harry, because he is quite posh. Usually I simply block-and-delete anyone with unclear photos because they are invariably hiding something, but in this case I indulged him because of the maths degree and because, at 24, he seemed too young to be married, which is usually what the hiding is about. I asked him to explain himself and he revealed that he is a full-time camwhore, he tries to keep it somewhat secret and this is why his face did not appear clearly on the dating website, because it appears very clearly indeed on some other, less salubrious, websites, along with the entire rest of his body.

I wasn’t sure what a camwhore was, and perhaps you, gentle reader, may be unsure as well, so I shall explain. A camwhore, or cam model, as they like to be called, rents a space on a commercial website owned by a third party. It is exactly equivalent to renting a room in a brothel, except it is digital so they can work from home. In this virtual room, they strip naked in front of a camera and broadcast themselves doing unspeakable things for a live audience. The audience is mostly male, as you can imagine. These men text comments and requests to the model and pay tips, which are real money, using a payment system that is set up by the website operator. The most successful cam boys and girls do it as a full time job and can make a wage that significantly exceeds what they could have earned pouring coffee in Starbucks. There is more I could say about this vile business, but that will do. I hope I haven’t upset you too much.

So, Harry revealed this intriguing and disturbing news, and said that I could look at his Tumblr, which I accepted because I wanted to see his face. He gave me the link. I went to the Tumblr where I was able to see his face (nice, intelligent, like his messages) and also viewed the rest of his body, in a state of arousal, which was considerably more than I asked for or was expecting. On the Tumblr was a link to his room at the brothel. I did not go there, due to already having seen too much. It was quite enough, I already felt like I’d sexually assaulted him by looking at his Tumblr, I certainly had no desire to see him giving a live performance. However, I now had a great deal of curiosity about the brothel itself, so while I was waiting for Harry to be finished with some important Maths and become available to meet me, I went to visit another room, randomly selected, where another boy was hard at work, debasing himself, and this is where I met Fyodor, Harry’s Russian counterpart and direct competitor.

**To Be Continued**

Gran Canaria, London, Paris

I am sorry to keep you waiting for news. There is very much news to share with you. 

I was in Spain:

Then I was in London:

Then Paris:

I am there now, in a tiny French apartment. I will tell you all the news but you will have to be patient and I will tell you in little pieces because I am busy making the news as we speak. I may be drinking coffee and talking to you right now but I will have to stop in a minute and tidy up because a French boy is coming over to make love to me.

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