I have followers!

I have followers!

Before you panic and think I am referring to being stalked, this is far from the case. The who I am referring to following me, is well actually…..me! You see, normal people have one profile, follow their friends, family, colleagues and are done with it. We hookers, well not so straight forward. You see we have a work profile and a personal one, and sometimes we can have several work profiles, as is the case with me. Why? Because it makes marketing of various services easier and I can tailor each site to a specific market. Also, if in my case, I tour internationally, having different sites SEOed to different markets makes things easier on the one hand and really weird on the other hand.

Like when I am following myself on twitter! The reason for this is due to having an entirely different name in a different country, so along with website, Facebook, google plus, twitter, and Instagram, I have different emails, and flipping logins. Why the different names in different countries? Simple. I am tired of lazy bitches googling me and seeing me in whatever country and because they are too chicken, broke, or lazy to venture out there on their own, expect me to present them with all the details on how to work out there? Not a chance in hell. So when I leave the confines of the UK, I become a different name. Violette is currently on holiday in South Africa. Bhahahahahaha! I am in the Southern Hemisphere, but I am not in SA! They can go whistle to find me. This is basically how I have ridden out the recession, flittering off to different places avoiding the bloody masses who follow each other around like damn sussied up sheep!

I really feel sorry for men.

I really feel sorry for men.

I wouldn’t want to be a modern man, seriously. The poor bastards have it hard. I read a article that absolutely infuriated the shit out of me. It was about an insecure stain of manhood being glad that his wife had lost her job, because that made him feel manly again and she needed him! It made me physically sick to read how this writer couldn’t handle a women being more successful than him.

Seriously, how the hell can I as a successful woman want to have one of the useless and pointless emotional sacks of issues in my space? I can not tell you how many guys have fallen for me said they accept my work, and then decide they want me to stop! Awwww, this wasn’t the agreement. And then when I put forth the blindingly rational point of, how the hell are you going to support me, when you are earning half my income? I get we will make do! So, I must give up my very nice income to struggle and make do, because his stunted ego can’t handle me working? Fuck that!

As a woman who has in most of my working career earned more than a man, I don’t think of him as any less because he doesn’t have the same income as me. Income isn’t directly proportional to worth, but for a man it is. Sad really. Some of them I would have like to have kept. They reminded me of my cat, all furry, clumsy, laying about scratching themselves, looking lost and confused, cuteness personified.

Boy Band Hair

Boy Band Hair

Right, I don’t know if it is the water where I currently am, or the general area, but Southern Hemisphere boys are hot! I mean these lads are smoking! Just so fecking manly! Let’s say I am having fun.😉

But lately, I seem to have an abundance of rather young guys wafting through my door, all with boy band hair. You know that I-just-got-out-of-bed-look, that actually takes about 2 hours of careful manipulation to achieve? Casually swept across the forehead in elegant nonchalance. That hair!

And I mean young! I am actually carding them, they look so young. I almost am starting to feel like a dirty old woman. Almost! Because these boys have skills! And good ones too. What the hell are they doing to be so well damn good in bed at their age? Men twice their age could be taught a few things from these young luscious creatures. Yummy.

Oh and you should hear the compliments they are paying me! Now normally I just brush these thing off and shrug, but they are starting to go to my head. I like being told how beautiful my bits feel. Or how lovely they think my face is. It is a seriously heady ego boost. I even have one cheekily chatting me up! I am in utter shock! He is offering to come by after work and have a shower with me! I should be shot, I am actually thinking entertaining the idea. Bad escort!

A Fine Dandy No More-Sebastian Horsley Obit

A Fine Dandy No More-Sebastian Horsley Obit

Sebastian Horsley obituary

Artist and self-styled Soho dandy, he underwent crucifixion for his art and was celebrated for his wit

Sebastian Horsley at his home in Soho, London, Britain - Mar 2008

Sebastian Horsley at his home in Soho, London, in March 2008. Photograph: Steve Forrest / Rex Features

Sebastian Horsley, who has been found dead aged 47, always favoured the provocative in his writing and art. In 2000, he notoriously underwent a crucifixion in the Philippines as a participant in a rebirth ceremony. He was nailed to a cross for 20 minutes, fainted from the pain and fell when the footrest gave way. The incident – photographed by Dennis Morris and filmed by the artist Sarah Lucas, with accompanying music by Gavin Rossdale, the lead singer of Bush – inspired a series of paintings by Sebastian. These, along with the photographs and the film, were exhibited in his 2002 show Crucifixion.

Having swum with sharks when he was young, Sebastian became fascinated by their capacity for beauty and danger, and they became a recurrent motif in his large-scale paintings. His 2007 retrospective at the Spectrum Gallery, in London, was entitled Hookers, Dealers, Tailors and included displays of his flamboyant bespoke tailoring. The outfitters Turnbull & Asser created a shirt in his honour. Sebastian was as comfortable in the glittering salons of London’s art world as he was in the backstreet dives of Soho, where he lived. Visitors to his two-room flat on Meard Street would be confronted by a sign on the black door stating: “This is not a brothel. There are no prostitutes at this address.” If one were allowed to enter – a Byzantine process, often involving multiple rings of the bell and telephone calls – one encountered a cross between a Dickensian grotesque and a Byronic dandy, with just a touch of the ringmaster.

Sebastian thrived on organised squalor and considered such niceties as kitchens and bathrooms to be optional luxuries. The focal point of his small but lavish drawing room was an extensive collection of human skulls. If you were female and halfway attractive, Sebastian would normally try to seduce you, less out of lechery than out of what he considered common courtesy. If you were male, similar treatment often awaited.

Underneath the witticisms, one-liners and affectations, he was a kind, sincere and extremely loyal man, despite occasional (usually drug-induced) forays into paranoia and misanthropy. His posturing and preening was an elaborate pose, rather than a deeply held conviction. As an artist he was perhaps ultimately mediocre, but he was a compelling, if derivative, writer and, as a modern-day dandy, he was unparalleled.

He was born in Hull, the son of the Northern Foods magnate Nicholas Horsley and Valerie Walmsley-Hunter. He claimed that, when he was born: “I was so appalled that I couldn’t talk for two years.” His parents both had alcohol problems – “everyone in my life who should have been vertical was horizontal,” Sebastian once explained – and they divorced in 1975. After attending Pocklington school, he failed to get into Edinburgh University and took up a place at St Martins School of Art in London in the early 1980s, but was soon expelled.

In his autobiography, Dandy in the Underworld (2007), Sebastian wrote that he had an affair with the former gangster Jimmy Boyle around this time. He married the artist Evlynn Smith in 1983, but the pair separated in 1990. She died of an aneurysm in 2003. He enjoyed a lucrative period playing the stock market in the 80s, but the money he made was swallowed up by his addictions. He became an aficionado of prostitutes and once estimated, conservatively, that he had slept with around 1,000 of them.

Sebastian wrote a regular column for the Erotic Review, from 1998 to 2004, waxing lyrical about the joys of paying for sex and his dissolute habits. His agony uncle column for the Observer in 2006 came to an end shortly after he wrote an article about sodomy, published on Easter Day. He contributed short and idiosyncratic pieces to the books The Decadent Handbook (2006) and A Hedonist’s Guide to Life (2009), for which he wrote on sex and death.

Sebastian had always had an unhealthy relationship with death. He slept with a pistol next to his bed, explaining that, accidentally picking it up rather than the telephone, he might shoot himself. He eulogised suicide, writing in his autobiography: “I have decided to stop living on account of the cost.” As with so much of Sebastian’s life and work, the quote was pastiche Wilde, but the sentiment was his own.

His turbulent life was ripe for a memoir. Dandy in the Underworld (renamed from Mein Camp) was published in 2007 to critical acclaim. The following year he was proud to be denied entry into America on the grounds of “moral turpitude”. His autobiography was adapted as a one-man show for the Soho theatre, written and directed by Tim Fountain, with Milo Twomey as Sebastian. Sebastian professed to be horrified by the idea of it: “Why should I go to the theatre to see rape, sodomy, alcoholism and drug addiction? I can get all that at home.”

The show opened earlier this month. It was typical of Sebastian that he should die at the peak of his success. “If I had known I was going to live this long,” he once said, “I wouldn’t have taken such care of myself.”

He is survived by his mother, his brother Jake and his sister Ashley.

• Sebastian Horsley, artist and writer, born 8 August 1962; died 17 June 2010

The Sangeeta Library

The Sangeeta Library

Amazing read!

insaneowl

The Sangeeta Library

My name is Danny Roe and I am a eunuch or what we are better known as in India──a Hijra. However, I’m very different from the regular eunuchs of India who beg on the streets and at times enter into prostitution to earn a living. I work on my own. I’m a Hijra who owns a library which deals in second hand books. Therefore one can certainly say that I am a librarian of the ‘Sangeeta Library’ in Bandra East.

My parents knew from my birth that I was a eunuch but they accepted me and brought me up as their son. However, I preferred the female gender as I grew up and liked to dress myself in skirts and tank tops. I would in the privacy of my home wear make-up and paint my nails. My father and mother were intellectuals and so they accepted even…

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I Blame Social Media

I Blame Social Media

Twitter, this is your fault! Look at the mess we have now! What mess an I referring to? I know there are so many to chose from. But this particular one, involves the CIA! Yes, that mess. Why? You ask? Am I the only one who thinks it odd that the CIA has suddenly become accessible? They are actually cracking jokes in public and on a social platform! Orwell, would have an aneurysm.

I don’t know about you, but I personally like my nation’s clandestine organizations to remain well, you know, clandestine? lurking in the background, up to no good and other skulduggery. Snippets of vague mentions in newspapers, or hushed conversations, conspiracy theories. It is the social order of things, it is the status quo. But, but, but this OPENNESS, from a secret international organisation! Obviously this must be some not so secret information gathering exercise. If Mossad and MI6 start tweeting, I am deleting my twitter account and moving into the forest! With a generator for my Nespresso machine. Let’s not get completely ridiculous about this now.😉

The Escort Who Stole Breakfast

The Escort Who Stole Breakfast

This is rather embarrassing, but somehow I have unwittingly stolen breakfast. How does one steal breakfast, well something along the lines of this:
Hungry escort needing nourishment, pops into the nearest hotel to her apartment, lets say the a rather large international chain. I ask the reception where breakfast was being served, so into the restaurant I pop. It is a buffet, goody. I look around for staff, none to be had. So I figure I will help myself, and settle up later. The problem is later never came! Apparently, breakfast is included in the price of the room, kinda like the bed I suppose. Well considering how expensive everything else is in the place, I guess they can afford to give breakfast away.

No one came over and asked me anything, I then cheekily, pack myself a rather nice lunch for later on in the afternoon. Bad escort, but hell if they are give away free food, far be it from me to turn it down.