The Post-Visit Afterglow
After a pretty energetic session at The Goring Hotel the other day, my hair was sticking out in all directions. My mascara was smudged around my eyes like a panda. I was covered in a sheen of sweat and absolutely ravenous. Not just mildly hungry—I could have murdered someone for a cheeseburger, fries and a thick vanilla milkshake with whipped cream and a cherry on top. My stomach growled loudly enough to echo off the marble tiles as I took my grumbling belly into the bathroom to freshen up and consider my ruddy complexion in the mirror.
The overhead lights were unforgiving. They caught every flushed patch of skin and every stray hair. My cheeks were glowing crimson, a deep heat still rising from beneath the surface. A faint line of perspiration traced its way down between my breasts. My pupils were wide and dark, framed by mascara that had migrated south. I looked like a dishevelled rock star who’d just come off stage. A strand of hair was plastered to my forehead. Another curled damply at the nape of my neck. My lipstick had been kissed halfway off, leaving my mouth swollen and just-used. I ran cool water over my wrists and watched the droplets slide down my forearms, feeling my pulse slowly start to calm.
Why Bother with the Gym?
With the flush all over me, the dilated pupils, racing heart and aching thigh muscles, I had to wonder—again—why I bothered going to the gym or taking spin classes. My inner thighs had that delicious, faintly trembling ache you get after too many squats. My calves protested every time I shifted my weight. A daily session like the one I had just had would burn roughly 1400 calories a week. That’s about the same as drinking an entire bottle of decent Indian red wine at a good restaurant. I twisted from side to side, checking myself from all angles: the faint bite mark at my collarbone, the crease from the bedsheet pressed into my hip, the pinkness at my knees. I decided I rather liked what I saw. While I was busy preening in the mirror, smoothing down my hair and reapplying lipstick, gentle, contented snores drifted through from my bedroom. He must have enjoyed it, too.
The Mathematics of Sexercise
So how many calories DO you burn during a 45–60 minute session? That depends on agility, experience and enthusiasm. There is also the bendability factor—my personal speciality. As a top London escort, I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit practising the art of looking effortless while doing things most people only try in an ambitious yoga class. I can get my feet behind my ears, balance on my hands with my legs in the air. I can arch my back so far that my hair brushes the mattress, or hold a squat over his hips until my thighs are singing. And I do it all while maintaining a seductive smile and steady eye contact. Not everyone can get past the standard missionary position without pulling a muscle or complaining about their back.
Size, Effort and Enthusiasm
Size is an important factor. A man with an average or small endowment often works twice as hard to satisfy his partner as a well-endowed man. The latter may feel he doesn’t have to move very much at all. The former will thrust, grind, change angles and play with rhythm. He will pay attention to every shiver and gasp. The smug statue type just lies back and lets nature do the rest. This leads me nicely to the woman’s enthusiasm. Lying on your back, staring at the ceiling and planning tomorrow’s dinner will burn about half a calorie, if that. Writhing, rolling your hips, clenching around him, screaming (tastefully, of course) and scratching up his back until you leave neat red crescents can burn 90–100 calories in one session. Sexercise is very much a two-way thing. The more you put in, the more your body—and your partner—gets out.
The Health Benefits of a Good Romp
Humour aside, sex is genuinely good for you. It boosts your immune system by flooding your body with feel-good hormones. It tones muscles you didn’t know you had and burns calories in a far more enjoyable way than jogging in the rain. Plus, it releases endorphins that produce a natural high and cures insomnia more reliably than any herbal tea. It also seals bonds of attachment between partners, creating a little cocoon of shared secrets and private jokes. It can forge new connections with people you may only spend a few hours with, but remember for far longer.
Ambassador for a Healthy Sex Life
In my line of work, I’m told I’m fantastic, beautiful, and “the woman of my dreams” at least three times a week. Compliments arrive in all forms. They’re whispered against my neck, murmured into my hair as he drifts off, or sent the next morning in glowing texts from a business-class lounge. It doesn’t take much to get in the mood when you know which buttons to press—sometimes literally—or which look to cast with your eyes across a candlelit table. A certain tilt of my head, a slow smile, or the deliberate drag of a fingertip along the rim of a wine glass is usually all it takes.
I like to think of myself as an ambassador for a healthy sex life, with vanity as part of my bargaining power too. If a night of indulgence leaves me flushed, toned, euphoric and pleasantly exhausted, why shouldn’t I treat it as seriously as any personal training session? There are far worse ways to keep fit than in freshly laundered hotel sheets, with room service on speed dial and the city humming quietly just beyond the window.
