I've Been Away But Now I'm Back

I have been busy.

Chelsea is once again awash with school girls on their summer holidays. I have had to specialise. I have had to look further afield. You understand, don't you?

Wonderland was wonderful, Torture Garden was packed with naughty young girls whilst Club Rub was too full of couples and lacked a sense of fun.

I am not a fan of men who dress up as women. Just doesn't do it for me. Ladies are my style.

I very much enjoyed meeting Jodie and friends. Now Jodie is a young lady who is ravishingly good looking, loves watching girls spanking one another and tells me that she gets turned by it. I had to offer to spank her there and then. Trouble was she wasn't shackled - we'd only just met. A good kisser if somewhat wayward and indiscriminate.

The Hogsex Society met at Soho House last week. My word Soho House is full of drunk slappers nowadays. The one I had my eye on could barely walk - so I left her. One of the members of the Society requested that I escort her to Coco de Mer in the morning. I agreed at once.

So there I was at 9.30am on Monmouth Street, WC2, having a wonderful coffee and waiting for her. Unbelievably, It was her first visit. I invested in a wooden paddle (annoyingly logoed) and a nice silk blindfold. She complained that the dildos and vibrators were too small. There wasn't much I could do to help.

It turns out that one of the Soho sex shops was open, you know one of those sex souvenir shops full of made-in-China stuff, and she found what she was looking for for £29.99. "A bargain" she said when I saw her unexpectedly in the evening. Better by a mile than her ex-boyfriend.

I have been complaining about lack of action recently. What I am supposed to do dear blog reader? I am not so in your face. Maybe I should be. The situation is so dire that my masseur has started to think she might get something out of me. Mind you, she gave me a great massage on Friday after the visit to Coco-de-Mer and I was getting quite excited I can tell you. She couldn't have failed to notice.

Meanwhile, the local lady walked me down King's Road in her ridiculous get-up last Friday night. I wouldn't mind if she was 20 years younger or so.

I would also like to comment on the girl in the grey pencil skirt with the obligatory iPod on the platform at Tottenham Court Road tube station, who changed at Embankment to go west on the District Line. My you looked fun and fuckable.

I was saying that a lot of acquaintances are settling down with their partners and having children. Poor bastards. Jodie is 23 years old and was gagging for it or was that the MDMA power talking? Georgina is only 20 but a little Conservative.

I'm just getting started. Watch out on Saturday Claire my dear, the long-limbed, slim, darked-haired beauty, I think you are next. You look like you are overdue a fuck. Maybe you're ripe for a little perversion - just look at her up there on the right. Up for it?

Pictures of Ladies

I have been arranging the selection of pictures that I have been collecting. I am going to be posting some wonderful images of some quality ladies.

I was reacquainted over the weekend with a co-practitioner of ropeplay. She has bought some wonderful new toys from Coco de Mer. She showed me a brand new Agent Provocateur corset. Sweet smelling. I briefly spanked her on her bed. We talked about installing a hook in one of the ceilings in her basement flat. I sense fun in the offing.

Stay tuned for some images.

The Kept Women

A lesser phenomenon in the locality is the kept women. Fascinating creatures.

I like to separate them into two distinct categories: the fresh twenty-somethings and the thirty-somethings. Kept women around here don't have to be older than 40. I guess the odd one in the sticks might be. It doesn't really go with the territory.

I loved the last twenty-something kept women I came across. She was really a girl. She was the mistress put up in a wonderful mews in Kinnerton Street by the chief executive of a multi-national. He was married of course and the company paid for the pad. She was doing an art course just to kill the waiting around for him. She was in a state of anxiety about getting traded in. Sadly, they always are. For the record, she thought her shelf-life was 26. She started with him when she was 18. A good catch methinks.

The thirty-something kept women usually are kept in a small flat or a studio. The man is married and pays for their rent and general upkeep. He comes round at short notice to the flat with flowers for a fuck with a women with a little more energy than the mother of his children. She usually is a good fuck, manipulated, unfaithful and well-dressed. She flirts with the male neighbours and worries their women. I lived next door to a black kept women, good looking, lithe and lissome, fit and pretty bored. Another I know used to be a croupier and never could make ends meet. The arrangement suits here - a nice little studio flat near Chelsea in exchange for fucking a well-groomed, rich Jew. Unusually, he is single.

Love to hear from more of you out there. Come on ladies.

Wildlife On King's Road

I was out last night on King's Road. These sultry June evenings really encourage the wildlife.

I took an 18-year-old girl out on a date at Bluebird. I thought it was a safe option. We started at the bar - populated by no hookers - and worked towards the restaurant. There was one or two fuckable types in there in dresses and high-heels - looking good.

I saw an old sparring partner earlier on and she reminded me that she had found a garment of my clothing. She enquired when she should return it. Without going into details, I am a bit snookered on that front at the present time. Maybe not.

I am getting fit, fit, fit for some summer fun. The business is getting funded. I am gonna get paid all being well and then I am off to Berlin for a German workout.

The future truly is unwritten.

Sluts

Another Friday and I am keen for a slut or three. It's a question of where to go to get the quality. For the right slut, an aladdin's cave of naughty toys awaits. I might get the cane out. Stripe that ass.

I love a bit of glamour. Come and get it, girls.

It's Friday - Where's The Pussy?

I like pussy on a Friday. But not just any pussy. I like rich girl pussy, 17-year old public school girl pussy, fit & flexible girl pussy and girl-with-a-twinkle-in-her-eye pussy.

I love the immaculately-dressed club sluts. Bravo. The bronzed tanlines, the super tits, the sexy legs, the tailored clothes, the hair & make-up, the expensive perfume, the drink, the drugs & the connections.

This is South Kensington by the way. Not Newcastle or Manchester or The West End. Don't confuse. Princes party here and Prince.

London Estates

For as long as I can remember, I have known that the richest man in the land is The Duke of Westminster. For the record, I've never met him. I can claim the acquaintance with two of his nieces, both of whom are cherubs.

I am not from the world of property. By the process of osmosis, I have learned something about the London Estates. The Grosvenor Estate, The Crown Estate, The Cadogan Estate, The Bedford Estate, The Howard de Walden Estate, The Portman Estate, The Wellcome Estate, The Ilchester Estate, The Grafton Estate, The Colville Estate and property owned by the property entrepreneurs the Beckwith brothers, the Barclay brothers, the Tchenguiz brothers and British Land (the Ritblats).

The Fucking Idle Rich

I dream of marrying a double heiress.

I've only encountered one. She is reasonably well-known and extremely well-off. Trouble is she is in her 50s. Her step-brother describes her as "incredibly difficult". She lives in luxury and in misery in Mexico.

Of course, I'd take an heiress. Usually fun; typically irreverent; sometimes principled; with their own mind. I like that. Spunky and mad.

I have spent the past 11 years associating with the idle rich, trustafarians, Eurotrash, divorcees and heirs. I have worked with them, hired them, lunched with them, fucked them, drunk with them, been out with them and hung out with them. And I still do. It's just that I am not one of them.

I know a chap who went out with a girl during the 80s. She inherited north of £10m. He, prett much a pennyless bastard at the time, had to cobble enough money together to take her out for dinner. She still has £10m+, the wise old bird, and a fabulous house in Kensington. She absolutely loves being fucked. I have not had the pleasure. Haven't seen her in a bit.

Someone I know dated a divorcee in her mid-30s with a son. Her husband gave her a divorce settlement of close to £5m and a flat near The Boltons after she was caught fucking one of his employees (the story was in The News Of The Screws). Lovely looking lady with a gorgeous, smoky voice. A bit mad - I admire her from a distance but would struggle to work up the enthusiam to get involved.

I like rich women. I'll tell you why, dear reader. They own fabulous properties. They don't need to work. They can holidays whenever they like. They insist on the finer things in life. Not taking anything away from you career girls (I know a few), but this lot have all the time that you don't have. It shows.

The rich women I know require professional pampering: the hairdresser (3 times a week as standard), regular massages, the private doctor (for concraceptive implants), the dentist for immaculate teeth, the manicure and pedicure, the waxing, the botox injections, the gym and the swimming pool. A private gym at home helps. These girls are fit, flexible and they look fabulous. Simply mouth-watering.

They have fucking down to an art-form. They possess the bodies, the beauty, the fire in their eyes and their fabulous technique. None of this mechanical shit.

I love their attention to detail: the lingerie, the clothes, the lighting, the scents that they wear, their beds (everyone loves a four-poster), the beautiful furniture, their toys, the range of bondage gear.

What really sets them apart is their depravity.

Make them come and then make then come harder. Slap them around. Hurt them. Fuck them in the ass. Persuade them to invite one of their girlfriends - or the daily - to join in. Get filthy.

These women enjoy a private sex party. They love the ritual, love the costumes, love the venues, love the people, love the show, love making spunk & love the general baseness of it. Holiday sex at wonderful estates, country houses, ranch, hacienda, chateau and during polo matches is another favourite pastime.

To participate in this league, I suggest some instruction from an experienced Paris whore, classes at The Salon, master the dark arts of s & m, clear up any STIs and tie her in bondage positions to hold her interest. Rope usually does the trick.

I particularly love the indignant look - her all trussed up with a bright red ball gag in her gob, drool hanging like spaghetti down her tits. Crop her or cane her well and make that ass bright pink. Make her cry. She will love you all the more. No one has dared fuck her like this. She wants more. They always do.

To make progress, the hook, the hoist and the winch are essential. Get her handyman to install them in a spare bedroom. Ideally, the room should be choked full of wares from Fettered Pleasures. The examination table, cages, leather restraints, handcuffs and chastity devices. She will have a wonderful time entertaining the young bisexual public school girls she picks up. Weekends in London will be very interesting.

I heard of an expatriate 30something lady living in Hong Kong who bought one of Coco-de-Mer's fuck tables and swore it was one of the best investments of her life.

A memorable fuck was with a Oxford-educated, German girl. I met her at a party of the son of an Indian tycoon. She loved being restrained in positions which she knew she would gradually tire in. She enjoyed the mind games: the connection between us. I would smother her in massage oil so that she glistened. To finish up, she insisted on being fucked in the ass standing up. She was a rarity in my experience - a girl who orgasmed from anal sex. Her legs would tremble so much that it took her quite a while before she could walk. Ah, sweet memories. The last time I contacted her, alas, she told me never to call her again. Her loss, dear reader.

I'd love to hear from you if any of this floats your boat. I know too many who do. Those of you I don't, get in touch.

I always like to hear from London-based German girls (particularly those sporting contraceptive implants). Write me.

Kept Women

Kept women flourishes in the bars and clubs of Knightsbridge. Always fun. Usually doing an art course or working at Bonham's. Always desparate for a fuck, they are not to be confused with the gold-digger.

It's usually easy to differentiate: kept women live in a mews houses in say Kinnerton Street while gold-diggers live in Essex, Ealing or South London. Kept women at the sharp end also worry that they will be traded in for a younger model by the time they reach 26 years of age. They will be. I like to think that they can then graduate to full prostitution. It must be better work - more regular and more variety.

I always view kept women as the female equivalent of live-in rent boys. There are a lot of them around too, all looking pretty and off their heads on G.

Knightsbridge Hookers

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The Routemaster Bus

I was really fucked off when they killed off the Routemaster bus. So were 81% of Londoners. Why don't the cunts listen to us?

We have lost the marvellous sight of Routemaster weaving its way down King's Road, the sound of the rattle of its engine and its innovative open platform. They formed part of the fabric of the city. I regularly used Routes 11, 14, 19 and 22.

The advantages of the Routemaster are well documented:

* the ability to jump on and jump off anytime the bus stopped;
* the width of the bus was suitable for the narrow London streets;
* a dedicated driver focused on driving;
* the reassuring presence of a bus conductor to collect tickets, answer questions without delaying the bus and to upkeep standards of behaviour of passengers.

The replacement is inferior:

* the Titan IV is a beast of a bus - it is too wide for our streets;
* the Titan IV is badly designed - people getting on the bus often are in the way of people getting off from the upper deck; and the walkways and seating are too narrow at the rear of the lower deck;
* too many mothers/nannies are bringing buggies onto the buses; in the old days, they had to fold them up and carry the children onto the bus.
* the drivers are simply appalling - how many are actually British? How qualified are the drivers?
* the bendy buses are too long for London streets. One by itself is OK but three in a row is bad; they block crossings and traffic lights;
* the beeps from the Oystercard machine are too loud;
* the beeps from the exit are too loud;
* the brakes on all the new buses are if anything too efficient: too many people are thrown about on braking; and, finally,
* the buses are filthy - people are eating and drinking on them and leaving litter - no authority is enforcing tidiness.

I suggest bring back the Routemaster: keep the chassis, add an electric engine and bring back the bus conductor. Ensure that the conductor is a figure of authority like in days gone by. Keep the single decker buses. Harmonise them so that they are all green.

Disabled people across London should be given free vouchers to catch taxis - much better suited to their needs with one-on-one help from the driver.

One other thing: close Victoria Coach Station. It is disgusting and it attracts disgusting people. We must ban these intercity coaches from the C-zone. Now that we are in 21st century, we must construct a system to direct people to the beginning of motorways from where they then can catch the appropriate coach to their destination.

Ladies Looking For A Fuck

London is crammed full of luscious ladies, posh totty, rich Russian minxes, gold-diggers and models. It's a wonderland.

They're all looking for a good fuck.

Walking down the King's Road on a Saturday morning is a delight. Like everything, timing matters, the season.

In the winter, they parade wearing lovely black patent leather boots, black leather driving gloves and beautfully tailored overcoats.

In the summer, they don't wear much at all. Regulation mini-skirts or tight, pencil jeans, low-cut tops together with designer sunglasses. It's all tits and legs converging on cunt. The odd girl might mix things up with a flowing, see-through dress. She wants the same thing.

At night, the Chelsea pulling brigade is out in force partying at an ever-diminishing number of venues. The night-clubs and late-night bars are replete with the usual flotsam and jetsam. (I say usual: that is not to say that they normal people. Far from it). Meanwhile, the restaurants are crammed with miserable couples out for dinner.

Those out looking for a fuck in Chelsea include teenagers, public school girls, 20somethings, dirty30s, Sloanes, posh girls, slappers, Eurotrash, gold-diggers, snobs, Essex slags, career women, models, hookers, "celebrities", whores, princesses, aristocrats, Russian girls (let's include Ukrainians, the Baltics etc), Eastern European girls (Hungarian, Czech and Polish), middle Eastern women (Lebanese, Kuwaiti or Arab), bisexuals, kept women, black girls, divorcees, bored married women and an accompanying cast of international honies (French, German, Austrian, Italian, Scandinavian, South African, Argentinian, Australian and American).

For some reason, Asians attending The Ismaeli Centre in South Kensington go out afterwards. You never used to see them out contaminating the local bars.

Just Getting Started

The property prices in the Royal Borough are obscene. Now even the sellers here realise this. Cash in? The great fact is that most don't have to.

The borough is characterised by the rich and privileged. Old money cheek-by-jowl with new money. The whole fabric of the place oozes cash: the grand houses, the palaces, the embassies, the garden squares, the pretty mews, the parkland, the casinos, the restaurants, the shops and the proliferation of outlandish motor cars.

I have plunged into this cocktail. Some would say that I am in over my head. It's a performance, an act, chameleon.

Well, I'm just gettin' started, you cunts. Comments please.

Introduction

Rather than the traditional form of the blog, which resembles an open-ended diary, I have decided, anonymously, to vent my spleen with some unstructured thoughts, anecdotes, stories, fury, venom, vitriol and countless other prejudices that have been storing up for a couple of decades. This exercise is finite.

In no particular order, I shall rant and rave about:

Sloanes, snobs, aristocrats (Scottish, English and other), trustafarians, layabouts, drug addicts, night clubs for the achingly cool, posh totty, rich bitches, divorcees, glamour-pusses, tarts, slappers, slags, sultry beauties, expensive lingerie, sex, beds, bondage, leather, fetish, rubber, glamour, luxury, largesse, grandiosity, depravity, glamour, English schooling, class, London property prices, second homes, pubs, bars, high-class hookers, whores, kept women, the idle rich, "Johnny Foreigner", Sloane Street, South Kensington, Salons, Soho, brothels, escort agencies, Chanel, Routemaster buses, black cabs, blacks, bisexuals, gentlemen's clubs, Tories, yesteryear, treatment centres, Eurotrash, Harvey Nichol's, the Grosvenor Estate, Tatler, Motcomb Street, Belgravia, the demise of Kensington High Street, punk, rock and the King's Road.

I have absolutely no idea where these ramblings will lead but if I can make a stack a cash of it, so much the better.

Along the way, dear reader, have a think, who am I? A hint: I am not well.