Me being the courtesan I am, has successfully talked my partner into leaving L.A. for Christmas, only to hear we’re going to Palm Fucking Springs. I think ‘Fuck’ should be in the title.

Ugghdfiwehnf I hate sounding like the spoiled 21 year old I am but commmmeee onnnn. I LITERALY, LITERALY, in full use of this word, had a 20 minute conversation with a ‘young, hot, fresh, talented’ star on the rise that EVERYONE under 30 knows and she did coke the entire time. When a small trickle of blood started falling towards her mouth, she stuffed her cocktail napkin in her nose, said ‘oops’ and continued to talk about “how jealous she is of Natalie Portman’s body in ‘Black Swan’ and didn’t I know she auditioned for the role?” How the fuck would I know?
Got offered a ‘supporting leading role’ on a TV show ONLY because I was being forced to go to a reading by my partner and I felt like an idiot, I hated it. I didn’t belong there. Yes I got the part, no I don’t want it. Why is that so hard to believe? I did it to get him off my back and be left in peace to hike the hills and read in the hot tub in peace. I leave him in peace when he looks at all the tits and ass that L.A. is built on. Return the favor!
Do I like meaningless office work? Of course not. Do I like meaningless acting roles? Of course not. There should be a middle ground.


Perhaps its time I find myself a hot little something on the side to take my mind of all of this. Then I’ll really have something to write about.

Thanksgiving has come and gone and I’m still here. Fucking LA. Well, not fucking LA but in fucking LA.
I hate being anywhere that’s not cold in December, takes the fake cheer right out of the season. Tried to go shopping at The Grove but it was just too fucking depressing. All this money being tossed around and right ‘round the corner is Skid Row. Can’t wait for the shit smiling celebrities to take photos ‘volunteering’ to feed the homeless in all the rag mags. Preaching about ‘the reason for the season’ while they all do coke off the tables at the clubs (I’ve been forced to attend) at night. Yes, I've seen it.
Also very strange LA facts? All these models/actresses/singers/reality stars claim they never workout and eat whatever they want and I see, well HEAR, them throwing up their 75 dollar sushi at Katsuya in Hollywood, once at The Ivy. Eww.

My current partner (lets be real, sugar d) deals with a lot of celebrities and beautiful fuckers so there are endless amounts of stupid tat I could write about. This blog has become less about my sexcapades and more about my hate for LA. I’m a smart girl, I went to college, earned a 4.0 gpa and still managed to play a varsity sport yet I stay and punish myself in this place. I’ve become accustomed to a life style, I can just do without all the pretty bullshit.

The thing is, any city I’ve loved, London, NY, Paris, they don’t buy into the bullshit. Here they eat it up with a fucking spoon. I find no one in LA that wants to talk about anything other then their botox, self tanner, blow and coffee diet. Everyone here is gonna make it, with non moving foreheads and perky D cup breast.

At parties I’m a ‘nobody’ since I’m not in the business, people walk right past me till they realize who I’m fucking. After they do, they try and talk to me, as if I care. I bring up subjects like Dostoevsky or Immanuel Kant just to make them sweat. “Oh I loved his last film,” I can’t help but laugh uncontrollably.

I know I’m no better in what I do then they, I love being what I am, I love being able to be free and not work but Jesus, try and educate ones self with more then Instyle magazine. Pick up a fucking book.

One small, minuscule thing about LA I like is ‘Agent Provocateur’. What’s even better; spending someone else’s money there. I’ve been on my own this week as my big poppa/sugar daddy/millionaire match/cliché money maker male partner has been busy.


Although he did hire a car for me to hit all the hotspots these last few days in style, Westwood (boring), Malibu (never felt so pale and overfed and I’m a size 2), Rodeo Drive (WASPY dreadful style), Melrose Ave. (Kitchen is so…kitch) and countless night clubs that don’t need to be mentioned. I see now why New Yorkers make fun of this fantastic plastic land.


No one was particularly nice or friendly, except when they saw me exit my limo. Perhaps my shit attitude reflected in my clothes; black leather pants, black blazer over a blood red corset, motorcycle boots, no purse. I hate purses, women get upset when they don’t see other women carrying a purse because they can’t size you up, see how much your worth, if you have a designer or knock off. Pitty. I just let them guess.


The most interesting thing happened when I lunched by myself (which is unheard of I suppose by all the pity glances I got) and was reading when a drunkard at the bar interrupted by peace and quiet by acting like a belligerent fool. As he made his scene, no doubt for our benefit since he was slightly famous (think shit MTV show), I stuck my foot out ever so slightly to catch his shoe as he stormed out of the restaurant. He caught it and slammed down face first into the floor. I turned the page. Alas, my peace and quiet was back.


Hopefully we leave soon.

I hate L.A.

There are few things I loath more then LA. I hate, hate and hate that town. No matter what part your in, everyone excludes the air of, ‘look at me, look at me.’ Though I come from a place of money, I date for money, I’m not such a fan of the whole production of spending it openly and so…flashy.

I like to spend money on experience; travel, exotic food, vacation, etc. Rather then the current population of LA who seem to spend every dime on things. Big flashy cars, jewelry, houses, for fuck sakes even dogs. When did creatures become a flashy source of income? The worst is that Middle American see’s these things on The Hills, Real Housewives, MTV Cribs, VH1 Heiress shows, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, so then they too spend all of their money pretending to show off how rich they are when really they can’t afford to pay their credit card bills.

I’m just bitching because I’ve been brought to this shady town as my newest conquest has work to do here. Sadly enough he’s involved in the movies/tv/over all shit industry.
At parties here all anyone ever talks about is themselves, their ‘craft’ and how they seethe at the money dripping tits of studio execs. No one here seems to have any source of culture, let alone a college education. I tried to bring up a few philosophers I love and studies in University, (Apuleius and Wonhyo) and their eyes just glaze over. Yet they can talk one’s fucking ear’s off about any reality show on TV. Twice of which I've been offered a spot on a 'Hills spin off' for my sharp wit, good looks and ability to form sentences. I’ve never been so insulted!

I weep for the future. This is why i have not updated, been trying so hard to be positive but now i say fuck it.

Staying in love; it’s impossible and in the very least, highly unlikely. Not only does it seem to get duller and duller, the spark fades. Marriage is so archaic, what really truly is the point of marriage? Combined assets? Perhaps it’s giving up and giving in to the system.

Those who don’t want marriage (like myself) are looked down upon and judged. There is nothing worse then a housewife who looks down on me when SHE doesn’t work and just fucks the man who does pay the bills.
I realize what I do and who I am.

I am a girl who graduated University with two degrees and no job. I search(ed) and no luck. I know what my assets are (and I don’t mean my mind). So yes, I found a way to exploit myself before the world did it to me. Though men make sure to put me in my place or take advantage of me, like the obvious stares and looks down my shirt, my ass my tits, the comments and catcalls. Why not take advantage of the idiots that are men and get yours while they are getting theirs?
Women sell sex waking up every morning, choosing the clothes they put on their backs, the make up and hair, always looking sexually available. They know the power.
The power to have your car and housing taken care of, of all your needs fulfilled, of giving pleasure and feeling desired.

I’ll take that over a dull house and kids and husband any day.

It may seem silly. It does to me even in my own head. Though I am not even past 22, I am curious and anticipating getting older.

I think aging (in all its glory) is the great equalizer. No matter how rich/poor/talented/happy/successful/smart/stupid/funny one is, we will all get old with wrinkles and slowly fall apart. I’m talking, 70 + in the age department, here people, a whole other (new?) world.

Maybe it’s slightly, perhaps, because I know I won’t get harassed by men on a daily basses, cat called or eye fucked when I’m walking about in a public place. It will be a strange feeling to be passed over for another woman, something I have yet to experience. Some how I feel I won’t miss the attention too much.

My tits (which are all mine thank you ever much) will be swinging to the floor, my hourglass body will most likely lose the shape and my hair will be white. It’s so strange to think of, you never think the day will come.

I have all sorts of questions for future me;
Will I have a family?
Do I enjoy sex as much?
Will I be a dried up spinster?
Will I age gracefully (I hope)?
Who, of my friends, will die first?
Will I have all original body parts?

This culture obsesses on youth, will everything and everyone be continue to grow meaningless?

Been preoccupied because for some god awful reason, I got a ‘real job’ that was entry level and even though it had a fancy title, ‘director of new business PR’ it was a royal shit job. A big, huge, anonymous company where one could work there for 20 years and get fired out of the blue and no one would miss you.

Woke up at 6am everyday only to be accosted by middle aged men that assumed grabbing my ass was perfectly okay every time I walked by. After the 1st week I had a black and blue ass.

Fetching someone’s coffee and doing busy work is not a life well lived. An honest living! It’s totally, utterly dishonest to lie to yourself every day that this sort of life is okay. Even the slightest bit okay.

So I did what I thought I would. I caught the eye of the chairman of the board and now have a new man. It was his choice to have me quit, in case it ‘raised any eyebrows.’

I was so over the job I readily agreed. Perhaps I could explore a career in a different light, like hooking? Maybe S&M? I kid, I kid, maybe. Nothing has the thrill that sex does but when you make it a career…..well it’s not really looked well upon. So what’s a girl to do when her one passion of lust and sex is looked down on by the rest of the world and her young interests lack everywhere else?

Sex Shops

I’m always surprised how uncomfortable men are in lingerie and sex stores. If men think about sex every 3 minutes, surely there is no shame in being at the stores that supply these fantasies.
Sex is shoved down our throats in nearly every multi media outlet possible; tits, dildos, porn, nipple clamps, tassels, lube, anal beads, costumes, whips/chains and such are in the porn men watch and sex appeal is in every beer commercial I’ve ever seen, so why the discomfort? If anyone should be uncomfortable is should be the ladies and the pressure of sexual image they must uphold, constantly, (because, as we all know, once no one wants to fuck us, we’re moot, tossed aside).
Sex in this culture is shameful when it comes right down to it. Otherwise wouldn’t we all be fucking in the open, sex shops wouldn’t be so creepy and lingerie shopping wouldn’t be giggled about.
Thank fuck for online shopping, saves the hassle and discrete boxes. Sometimes it puts you on odd mailing lists, I really wonder what the mail lad thinks of my animal sized dildo and bondage catalogues.

What makes a man want a woman? Every makeup, lingerie and beauty potion ad would have us believe what they’re selling makes a man want you. The more important question to be asked is, how do you keep him interested in you once you get him?
A friend (of sorts) raved and raved about a new man she met, perfect, sweet, a bit nerdy, slightly buff and over all a ‘nice guy.’ I was introduced to him over sushi and no sooner did she get up to use the bathroom/loo/restroom did he promptly stare down my blouse and ask if I was single. My friend really, is a pretty girl, not pretty in a sexual way, pretty in a cute way. It leads me to find that men want sexy pretty as well as cute pretty and not necessarily in the same women.
This is the Madonna/whore complex broken down to a man’s level, the one you marry and the one you fuck. I happen to believe you can be both, though rarely is it true.
I realize I’m the one ‘you fuck’ and I’m happy with that. I prefer fucking to marriage much more. Unfortunately for married women it’s with their husbands. I’m no prostitute but I am a mistress with a craving for some fun on the side from time to time in-between my men. SO guard you’re husbands ladies, I’m a single gal.
Yes, as of now, I am a free mistress. A mistress with no master. I was bored, he was preoccupied and I wanted a good fuck. So after breaking things off (on good terms) I decided to go for what I wanted all along, a man I’d been eyeing at his job. A man I met at dinner parties and weekends away with the company. He knew what I was and I knew the girlfriends he kept along with his wife. All honest, all open.
I called his secretary and made an appointment at his office (on a higher floor, same building). He rang back and moved it earlier in the day, gave the secretary the day off after he had her clear all his appointments. I was excited riding the elevator up to his floor, I hadn’t been this excited in a long time by a man.
He greeted me at his secretary’s desk, walked me into his office, locked the doors and turned and put his mouth on mine. He lifted me to his desk, hiked up my skirt and discovered I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He had me over and over at his desk, I sucked him off as he took a phone call from a business partner till he just screamed “I have to go!” and hung up. He lifted me against the wall till his arms trembled.
I left getting what I wanted.

The Pop Culture Mistress

Mistresses in popular culture are really anything but real mistresses. The real ones, true ones, stay under the radar. They’re smart about it. At least the ones I know are. Who wants to be a well known mistress?
Well apparently anyone who’s fucked Tiger Woods, Jessie James, Mel Gibson and any well known politicians is in a dire need for their 15minutes of fame because they come forward. How utterly stupid. You want to be known as a home wrecking fame whore (in all use of the word). These men cheat by choice, whether it be with these girls or another’s but it’s not the women’s job to tell everyone or their wives. Most of the times the wives DO know about us and they certainly don’t need the public humiliation of the media attention.
I’m no angel, I’ve had my share of celebrity trysts but I certainly don’t call STAR magazine and rat them out to their wives and family. That’s not my right. At all. I enjoy the time and gifts and move the fuck on. These women, I think, have the illusion these high powered men want to be with them long term. They will not all end up like Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, who fucked Prince Charles the entire time he was married then got the ring. No, more then likely they will end up like Rachel Uchitel, holding on to beauty with broken fingernails and screaming bloody hell as the clock gets close to 15 minutes while Tiger moves on.
This is life people, beauty fades, life moves on, there will always be more 20-something girls in the world. At 21, I know this full well. This is why I know my numbers are limited and hustle before I get a ‘real job.’ Letts face it, marriage is not in the cards for me.
I get why the public eats up these stories of power and celebrity. Everyone, everyone wants to be close to that kind of notoriety. Me? I just like to fuck it. The stories ohh the stories I could tell. These powerful men are such pussycats behind closed doors. Others love that THEY are fucking YOU and need to hear their name screamed out, ego trips. Most are the most cliché experiences ever. Straight out of a cheap, romance paperback novel. Candles, black lingerie, stripper shoes, body oil, etc.
I must admit, I do love the seducing. The power, the chase, the sex. These men could and can have anyone they want. You have to give them more then that. That something extra, I’m told by men have I this, I don’t know really how to explain it other then sexual charisma.

Love isn't an emotion or an instinct--it's an art.

Sometimes my parents ask what I do. I say consulting. If I were to say, “well ya know, you only live once and I intend to live it up by not working in an office, rather I have an older boyfriend who pays my way in life so long as I please him in everyway possible,” they might think I’m crazy. I think their crazy for working their whole lives for a measly paycheck.
So it’s best not to say anything and if bullied into responding what I simply say is, “consulting/PR/ assist” and change the subject pronto. I don’t like lying but it saves fighting. The next subject is why I never bring any boyfriends home and well, I think anyone can guess why I don’t. Perhaps I need to say I am indeed a lesbian and confirm what they might be thinking.
Hmmm at times I really do miss having a boyfriend my own age, their youth, their bodies, the recovery time. Too many girls I see with older men get caught cheating with younger men, not worth the risk I say. You get blackballed out of the courtesan club and then your no better then a common mistress. Besides, who will pay for my Champagne and lingerie habit? I did slip once.
I was on vaca with my first older man charting a yacht to god knows where, south of France/ Greece/ Caribbean/ whatever. The deck hands looked like they were plucked right out of high school. One I noticed right away, very tall, thin with ropy, toned arms and beautiful grey eyes. I smiled at him as he passed me sun bathing naked on deck. I had him in the supply room, every night for the rest of the trip. Sometimes twice if I came back to the boat early from whatever event we had that night. We never spoke, except the, ‘meet me in the supply closet in 10 minutes.’ I was never into big talkers anyways.

A lover always thinks of his mistress first and himself second; with a husband it runs the other way.

Bag of Tricks

Overnight Checklist (current)
1. Christian Louboutin shoes in black and nude colors
2. Lingerie from La Perla
3. Handcuffs
4. Blind Fold
5. MAC lipglass/Powder
6. 1 Ambien
7. Various assortment of birth control

I find how odd the content of my bag can be packed when the Misses is out of town and the mistress is in. More odd, it depends on the man I’m seeing.
The very first man I dated had a very strict checklist that almost took the fun out of fucking.

1st Man’s Checklist
1. Baby Pink and Black Lingerie only
2. Vibrator
3. Cigarettes
4. Ridding Crop
5. Massage Oil

The second man I was a courtesan to (and business partner to the first) was far more open to a variety in my bag-o-tricks. Creative freedom if you will. The only thing that was consistent was stamina. And bite marks on my inner thigh.

It seems the misses is out, the Mistress is in. All of us. The wives must travel with friends because there seems to be a little game called, "take your girls on the side out for dinner with fellow male friends and their mistresses.' They practicly finger fuck us at the table. Then some nights, we all go to one's house while the men smoke their cigars and drink and we girls play together. Hey, no one said we didnt work hard for our money.

Sometimes I question what I do.
Then i realise it wouldn't matter what i did.
I 'd always wonder a different life.

Courtesan-the Italian word "cortigiana", feminine of "cortigiano" (courtier) came to refer to "the ruler's mistress", and then to a well-educated and independent woman of free morals, eventually a trained artisan of dance and singing, especially one associated with wealthy, powerful, or upper-class men who provided luxuries and status in exchange for companionship.



The first time I knew I wanted to be a Courtesan was in my French Renaissance class in college. It seemed so exciting, I had never heard of such things. Really, people in the class were not very excited about how much I like talking about it. One girl narrowed her eyes and said they were simply whores like girls in music videos and groupies. Whores? They were smart, classy, sophisticated, trained and talented; they were so beyond what women are today in that category.
The “Video Vixens’ of today (and yes I read the book) are no more then booty shaking, uneducated women, who drop it like its hot for a few seconds before they are dumped for a hotter girl. It doesn’t take much to catch a man’s attention. It takes seduction and allure to keep men when there are so many beautiful women.
Courtesan’s in popular culture is a bit offensive. Nicole Kidman played one in the disaster known as ‘Moulin Rouge,’ the TV series ‘Firefly (character named Inara Serra)’ was just as bad and there was Sophia Coppola’s ‘Marie Antoinette’ as the mean and nasty Madame du Barry. We are not mean and nasty, we aren’t wispy dyeing, unsexy redhead things.
I became, I suppose, an official Courtesan when I graduated college. Unable to find a job in my field and after a rather bad interview, I took myself out for a drink. Sitting in a low lit, hotel bar (they stay open late and never give you a limit since you can say you’re staying at the hotel). I was fumbling for a lighter for my cigarette to accompany my whiskey, when a strong hand tapped my shoulder with a lit match in front of my face. I purred thanks and inhaled looking at him. Handsome, older, fit, tall and slight accent. Checked shoes, Italian, watch was vintage Cartier, and of course a wedding ring. My stomach dropped a little, boys my age couldn’t do it for me like this man was about to.
After some small talk I suggested we go someplace else, with a slightly raised eyebrow, meaning upstairs. We were together for 3 years before I upgraded to his business partner. He had a new girl by the end of the week but he always tried to win me back.

Long weekend away. Party's can be exhausting, so tired of being asked
"sooooooo what doyoudooooo"
Only in America do i get asked this question, never any where else. At least not right away. I think its only so others can size you up, see if they can use you and then move on.
Bullshitters can recognize other bullshitters.

When people with money, who already don't work, whose everyday life is a vacation, really do go on a vacation, its exactly what you except it to be. Lot's of stuff, money, group sex, drugs, parties and dinners. When you date high profile men they love, adore, going out to dinner. Whether its to show you off or indulge in some old fashion gluttony, (or both), most night are picking out the 'right restaurant to go to with the right seat to be seen in." All very important, all very dull.
I am always hyper aware of what i eat for the simple reason i must always be in shape. So i try to simply grin and bear it.
Really, what i look forward to it the travel. I love, love to go away. I have a habit, no matter where i am, no matter what i do, I want to be somewhere, anywhere else. So when i am going, traveling, leaving, i feel slightly more calm. Slightly.
Now to unpack.

Meet the Mistress

When it comes to men, I’m on call 24/7, I must always be available other wise they look elsewhere. Men pay enough for it after all. I am a professional, a professional mistress that is.
Not to be confused with a call girl or trophy wife. A professional mistress has all the duties of a traditional girlfriend or wife but also that of a therapist, an ego boost, a good ear and most of all, a good fuck.
It isn’t easy; we don’t come cheap so I have to work to be considered worth the price. One must be well read, well educated, able to carry on conversations in multiple languages, have excellent taste and of course, be beautiful.
Some of the men I date are married or have a significant others, some I just don’t ask. They approach me, never the other way around, {a hunter would never want it’s prey to walk up and ask to be shot, the hunt it what makes the trophy worthwhile}. Do I feel guilty? Sometimes, most of the time their significant others have pool boys of their own. One of the most interesting vacations I’ve gone on have included both husband and wife bringing their play things along and we all played together.
People want to know where to meet these men, the crème de la crème of men. Its so simple, men of power go just where you think they do, steak houses, golf courses, high end bars and lounges. If you expect to meet the man of your dreams with a Bentley and a house in South Hampton it won’t be at Chilies.
I suppose this blog will be my confessional, a girl has to confess her secrets to someone.