I have a client who adores the cold. He doesn’t just tolerate a chill; he loves stepping out into frosty evenings and watching his breath hang in pale clouds. He always seems most alive when the temperature dips. His cheeks go a little pink, his eyes a touch brighter. Today, I’m waiting for his call. He rings when it suits him, never hurried, always expecting me to be composed and available.
I had to wake up reasonably early to be ready for calls. My mobile is set to switch itself on at eight a.m., unless I have a breakfast engagement that drags me out even earlier. I like that small luxury of control over my mornings. Still, I don’t mind rising with a purpose. There’s something indulgent about pottering around in my dressing gown at that hour. I pad from room to room with bare feet on soft rugs, listening to the low murmur of the breakfast news. The announcer’s voice is a quiet soundtrack to my ritual: kettle on, coffee brewing, the faint clink of a spoon against porcelain. Outside, the light is washed-out and wintry. Inside, I’m wrapped in warmth and anticipation.
The Coat I’m Waiting For
So what exactly am I waiting for? A fur coat, of course. Not just any coat, but a very particular one: white and dark grey, hooded, with a neatly cinched belt. It’s the kind that wraps you in its own little climate the moment you slip it on. It will keep me warm while I play the fantasy for my client who loves me in fur. He has a sharp eye for such things. And, admittedly, they do look very chic.
The catalogue he chose it from is full of impossibly elegant Chinese models. They make every garment look as though it belongs on the catwalks of Milan. Their limbs are long and languid. Their poses are loose yet deliberate, in that way only true professionals manage.
I’ve been to both China and Italy. Each time I return, I feel overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of tempting things. Markets and boutiques seem to conspire against my self-control. Silk, leather, tailored coats, delicate lingerie – everywhere I turn, there’s something I want. The gentlemen I’ve accompanied on those trips are usually generous. They are keen to flash their cash and indulge me. It’s part ego, part affection, and part performance. I play the glamorous companion; they play the attentive benefactor. Everyone gets what they want.
The kimono draped over the back of a chair right now is one of those indulgences. We bought it after a particularly passionate week in Hong Kong. It’s made from peacock-blue silk, rich and saturated. The colour shifts subtly in the light when I move it. The fabric feels cool at first touch, then warms quickly against the skin, like a whispered promise. Every time I slip it on, I’m reminded of humid nights and city lights on wet pavements. I remember the feeling of being wanted in a foreign city where no one really knows my name.
Ethics, Extravagance, and Real Fur
The fur coat I’m waiting for today was also bought for me. This is where it becomes complicated. I donate to PETA every month, and I’m genuinely interested in acrylic imitations and ethical alternatives. I understand the cruelty beneath the glamour. It isn’t abstract to me; it matters.
Still, I own a full-length fur coat. It was bought for me in Paris by an ardent admirer. He was convinced that only real fur could match his idea of elegance. This gentleman loved old-world gestures and grand, romantic flourishes. So, he had the coat shipped to me in London. The packaging was extravagant: a large cream box tied with a velvet ribbon, as though it held a priceless relic. I remember lifting the lid. The faint, expensive scent of the boutique still clung to the lining. The coat lay inside, folded with reverence. Despite my ethics and morals, my resolve wavered. I tried it on.
My God. If you’ve never felt real fur, it’s almost shocking the first time. However I stroked it, the sheen stayed. The softness never gave way. It felt like touching a living cloud, impossibly smooth and yielding. I stood in front of the mirror, the coat draped around me, and let the sensation override the guilt for a moment. It felt as though I’d stepped into someone else’s life. In that life, moral questions are dulled by luxury. The feel of extravagance against the skin is reason enough to forget everything else. It was surreal, like watching myself act in a film.
I remain educated about the brutality of the fur trade. The conflict between my awareness and my love of sensual textures never really fades. The coat has become a symbol of that tension. It is both an object of desire and a reminder of what it cost.
Dressing for the Client
My client, the one who loves the cold, arranged for me to wear that coat the next time he saw me. Thankfully, he tends to visit very late in the evening. By then, the air has that deep, sharp chill that makes a coat not only acceptable but necessary. Turning up in full-length fur in July would make me look insane. Or at least wildly out of place. I was very grateful that, when he made the request, it was already December.
I obliged him in the way he preferred: by wearing very little else underneath. The coat became both garment and secret. It was the barrier between bare skin and winter streets. There’s a thrill in knowing that what looks like a simple outer layer hides nearly everything and almost nothing at the same time.
Since that evening, the coat has hung in a protective sheath in my wardrobe. It feels like a relic from a particular chapter of my life. Now and then, I consider selling it. It’s too beautiful and too substantial to be left unused, especially now that I don’t see him. A practical voice in my head says that letting it go would ease my conscience and free up space in my wardrobe. Yet every time I slide the sheath open and run a hand along the fur, my resolve falters. Stroking it, even briefly, is enough to make me hesitate again.
A Home Built on Texture
When I look around my apartment, I see how strong this theme is. I have a clear admiration for soft furnishings and anything that invites touch. One sofa is draped in faux-fur throws in wolf-grey. They echo winter forests and moonlit nights. They’re thick and inviting, perfect for curling up with a book. Or with a client who wants to linger.
On the floor lies a sheepskin rug – ethically sourced, I insist, though even that can be a blurry claim. My toes sink into it every time I cross the room. My scatter cushions are a curated mix of velvets and faux furs. I’ve placed them so I can dig my fingers into them while I talk on the phone or sip a drink. The textures are deliberate. I choose them as much for how they feel as for how they look.
The boudoir in the other room takes this even further. There, I’ve layered many sumptuous drapes and throws in rich, jewel tones. Fabrics spill from bedposts and over chairs. Others lie folded at the foot of the bed, ready to be arranged and rearranged. It all depends on who is visiting and what mood I want to create.
Sensuality is of utmost importance to me, both personally and professionally, as a proud British escort. It lives in the details: the way a curtain falls, the way soft light plays across a velvet cushion, the way silk slips over bare shoulders. I’ve built my world so nearly everything is a pleasure to touch. No one complains if it feels good against bare skin. Most are grateful. They come to me not only for company, but for an experience that engages all the senses.
Anticipation of a New Jacket
Now I find myself listening for the postman’s footsteps in the corridor. I glance at the clock more often than usual. Hopefully, this new jacket of mine – thigh-skimming, since you were wondering – will arrive by midday. I’ve already imagined it. I see how it will cling lightly to my body and feel how the hem will brush the tops of my stockings. I picture what it will look like when I open the door for that particular client.
If my favourite fur-coat enthusiast books me tonight, I want to be ready. I want him to see I have something new to offer. Another chapter in the story of warmth, cold, and the textures between the two.
Until then, I move around my apartment in my dressing gown. I lose myself in the feel of fabrics under my fingertips. I wait for the ring of the phone or the knock at the door that says the next performance is about to begin.
