The name 'escort' has got pretty besmirched of late, thanks to all the new East European teenage 'scrubbers'; and 'courtesan' is a word that most punters can't get their heads around, let alone pronounce (I'm thinking here of the Russian oligarchs). So I regard myself simply as a high class lady for hire. And that's what it says on the gilt-edged visiting cards I carry around in my Prada clutch bag, distributing them to the head porters and doormen of five star hotels in most major cities. I reckon I must have shelled out over $5000 in commission to those pimps last year.
Rome, Monaco, Biarritz, St Moritz. I follow the money. International bankers, super-rich hedge funders, Lebanese ex-pats, former Egyptian army colonels. They all need skirt and they're all willing to pay well for it. So long as the skirt performs.
I'm certainly not one of those casino molls who stays draped on some miserable Chinese gambler's arm all night, slurping Pina Coladas and whispering sweet nothings in his ear, while he blows a small fortune at the roulette table. I like action. Hard-humping, relentless, all-night sex action. Last year, returning to Britain from an IMF conference in Paris, I was so sore I could hardly get up the aeroplane's steps!
Sex is my forte. And the dirtier the better for yours truly! In my Clients' Manual, the page marked 'No-No's' is blank!
I was in Geneva. The latest G7 Summit had broken up with its usual disunity and animosty, masked by the carefully-choreographed group photo at the end. I was standing at the back of a crowd of onlookers, on the arm of a minor UK civil servant, who I'd only discovered at two o'clock in the morning was gay and into Golden Rain. Don't gt me wrong - I've no objection to piss-play. It's just that, as I hitched up my Dior dress to squat on Tristran's face, I wondered just how ethical it was for a civil servant to get British taxpayers to finance his watersporting habit. Still, they got their moneysworth.
On the end of the second row of the collected Global Great-and-the-Good, was a big swarthy bastard; probably North African I guess. I nudged Tristran. "Who's the big guy on the right? Second row?"
He put his hand in front of his mouth and whispered: "Tariz al-Majarif, Gaddafi's Number 3 in Libya's hated security service. Got out two days before Tripoli fell. Said to be worth $6-billion!"
"Nice. Where's he keep it? Under the matress?"
"All over the place. Rumour has it that he's got most of it stashed away in an armoured vault underneath his London house in Regent's Park. In gold bullion."
"You don't say?" I conjured up the idea of owning a couple of gold ingots, to have as a nice pension policy for my old age. I squeezed Tristran's arm tightly. "Couldn't fix me an introduction could you, darling?"
He stared straight ahead and smirked. "Are you free tonight, Tina?"
"For you, darling? All night long! What's more, I'll make sure I drink plenty of water during the day!"
That clinched it. The piss-loving little poof marched me down to the dais just as the photo-shoot was breaking up, narrowly avoiding a nasty head-on collision with the ample-bossomed US Lady President, who was earnestly pressing flesh.
"Tariz! Remember me? Tristran Wildeblood? Her Majesty's Foreign & Commonwealth Office?" Tristran's arm shot out for a hand-shake, but Tariz stared down at it as if it was a stale kipper. "I guided four of your domestric staff through Immigration at Heathrow Airport last summer?" A sort of half-recollection of the incident registered on the big man's face. "They were about to be sent to the Detention Centre at Hounslow?"
Now the penny had dropped and Tariz beamed, bellowing out: "Of course! Now I remember! And I never had time to thank you, Tristran!" He slapped my companion heartily on the shoulder. He still hadn't even glanced at me. "When are you returning to Lond?" he asked.
"We've got a government charter jet out for tomorrow at 8.00a.m. You?"
"Sadly, I must fly to Baku, Azerbaijan, tonight. Problems with my investments there." Then he brightened up. "But then I shall have a whole week chilling out in Regent's Park. Tell you what..." For the first time, the Libyan's gimlet-like gaze moved across to check me out. Up and down. Mentally undressing me on the spot. "I'm having a little cocktail party for a few friends in Cumberland Terrace on Saturday evening. Why not come along, and bring this delightful young lady with you?"
Tristran gently nudged me. "I'm so sorry, I didn't introduce you two. Tariz al-Majarif: may I present Miss Christina Valdez? Tina is from Uruguay."
The Libyan bear half-turned to go as a black-suited minder took his arm. "I hope to see a lot more of you on Saturday night, Senorita Valdez." He smiled lecherously as he was led away.
* * * * *
The minder from Geneva magically appeared on the pavement, as our taxi pulled up in front of the Libyan billionaire's mansion in Regent's Park. I'd decided to dress somberly - on the outside, at least. I wore a dove grey, pencil-line shot silk two-piece suit, a cream silk blouse and black patent leather half-heels. But underneath this conservative attire was a different world entirely. One reserved for exclusive use and abuse by Tariz al-Majarif. My hidden exotic lingerie included black fishnets, fastened by pink satin suspenders to an emerald green and purple satin basque, with a cheeky, pearl-lined silver lame half-cup bodice and silver glitter shoulder straps. I looked like $1-million - which happened to be my 'target fee' for the night!
Gently taking my elbow, Tristran smoothly guided me into the huge entrance hall, in which more than a hundred noisy guests were assembled. A string quartet of glamorous young ladies was playing up on a balcony. Waiters drifted through the throng, bearing trays of delicious canapes and within minutes of our arrival, a beaming Tariz was at our side, proffering two champagne flutes.
After one or two niceties, Tristran discreetly excused himself, mumbling something about needing to say good evening to the Foreign Secretary.