Most of the time, people ring up for themselves, a straightforward booking for a girlfriend experience escort. This one was different. They wanted to gift me, like some kind of surprise parcel for their friend. I wasn’t keen. Surprises in this line of work… they rarely land well. I told them the man had to know beforehand. They mumbled agreement, though the tone already made me doubt it.
His name was Jerry. In London for business, staying in one of those hotels where every hallway looks the same. I was told between six and nine. I arrived around seven, wearing a plain blue dress that didn’t draw too much attention.
It took me longer than I’d like to find the room. By the time I knocked, I was already cross with myself for agreeing. Silence. I tried again. Still nothing. I muttered under my breath that the whole set-up was ridiculous… then the door opened.
Jerry stood there, brows pulled tight. “Can I help you?”
I stammered out something about his friends. His expression gave it away before the words did — he hadn’t been told. He disappeared for a moment, came back with his wallet.
“How much did they pay you?” he asked. Then, without waiting, he tried pressing cash into my hand. “I’ll give you double if you just leave and tell them it was the night of their dreams.”
For a second I thought about it. Easy money, no effort. But it sat wrong in my chest. Being a London GFE escort is more than that. If someone books me, I stay until I know they’ve got what they needed — even if that isn’t what they first thought.
“I don’t need your money like that,” I said, pushing his hand back gently. “We don’t have to do anything at all. We could just… talk, if you want.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “Business trip? That’s what they told you?” He swept his arm toward the room. The suite was set up for newlyweds — petals, plush bedding, the whole picture. “This was meant to be my honeymoon. Look at it now.”
There wasn’t a neat answer for that. I stepped closer instead, gave him a cautious hug. He froze, then let out a breath that shook.
“It feels like everything’s falling apart,” he muttered.
I told him it wouldn’t always feel this heavy, though my voice wobbled because it sounded too much like a promise. We sank into silence for a while. At some point he looked at me as though waiting for wisdom. All I could think was how hard talking about sex or feelings becomes when you’re already bruised.
I led him toward the bed. He let me guide him, head falling into my lap, my hand running through his hair. That’s what this job often turns into — not seduction but shelter.
“It’s alright to cry,” I whispered. “No one should have to carry it alone.”
He did, quietly at first, then in waves until it eased. I stayed with him, whispering, stroking his back, waiting until the storm in his chest slowed.
“Will you stay until I sleep?” he asked hoarsely.
“Of course,” I said.
Later, lying side by side, his fingers tangled in mine, he asked me for a story. Something light. I found myself telling him about a carnival I went to as a child. Somewhere mid-story he drifted off. His breathing steadied, but his grip never let go.
I eased out carefully, gathered my bag. On the table was a small notepad. I had no pen, so I used my eyeliner and scribbled: I wish you all the best. Left it there beside the untouched cash.
As I walked out into the corridor, I thought about how sometimes an outcall in Paddington hotel isn’t about what people imagine at all. It’s about leaving them a little less alone.
And if you’re curious about how shyness and spotlight can twist together in unexpected ways, have a look at From Shyness to Spotlight at a Chelsea Nightclub. Another night, another story but that same thread of stepping outside the comfort zone.