Boys, listen up. Let me tell you something that should be etched into your brain if you’re going to spend time with women — whether they’re your partner, a date, or, in my case, your escort. The number one rule of womanhood is this: we want to feel special. Not just liked, not just noticed, but genuinely, unmistakably special.
Now here’s where it gets interesting. In this particular dynamic, you, as the client, are meant to feel special too. After all, that’s partly why you’re there — to be seen, to be appreciated, to step out of your everyday life and into something a little more vivid and alive. Yet at the same time, you’re often driven by this deep urge to make me feel special as well. That’s where the dance begins — that little conundrum where both of us are circling around the same desire from different directions.
Ancient Instincts in Modern Times
When you really think about it, though, it isn’t all that surprising. It’s hard to fight nature, isn’t it? Men have always seen themselves as protectors, providers, the ones who step forward to take care of things. It’s woven into history and, to some degree, still woven into your bones. Go back far enough — to those Neolithic days of caves and campfires — and you can almost picture it. The men were out hunting or defending, tracking something through the undergrowth or standing guard at the entrance, while the women tended the fires, guarded the hearth, and nurtured the tribe. They cared, soothed, healed, and held everything together so the group could survive.
Of course, times have changed (thankfully), but those old patterns leave a trace. That protective, providing instinct hasn’t just vanished; it’s simply evolved. Instead of turning up with a freshly killed animal slung over your shoulder, you arrive with a neatly wrapped box tied in a ribbon, or a bouquet of carefully chosen flowers. The impulse underneath it is the same: I want to give you something. I want to contribute. I want to show you I value you.
Gifts from Generous Clients
I see this play out all the time in my work as an incall escort. My clients regularly arrive with gifts, and I can’t help but wonder if that old instinct is what’s driving them: that deep, almost unconscious need to provide.
Over just the past month or so, I’ve been utterly spoiled. One man arrived with a stunning Tiffany brooch — a delicate, shimmering piece that catches the light and makes me feel as though I’ve stepped into the pages of a glossy magazine every time I pin it on. Another brought a pair of the softest leather gloves I have ever had the pleasure of sliding my fingers into; the leather was so buttery and smooth that just running my fingertips over the surface felt sensual in itself — and yes, let’s be honest, running my fingertips in them was even better.
There have been flowers, too — armfuls of them. Four separate bouquets of roses in the space of a few weeks: two blazing with rich, velvety red petals, and two in the purest white, like something out of a romantic film where everyone moves a little slower and the lighting is always perfect. Each bouquet transformed my in-call space for a few days, filling it with colour and scent, turning an ordinary room into a little temporary sanctuary of beauty.
And then there was the champagne. A gorgeous bottle of Crystal, chilled to perfection, its golden bubbles promising mischief and indulgence even before the cork was popped. It came with two slender, elegant crystal glasses, meant just for the two of us. We didn’t drink it in some dimly lit bar or hurriedly in a hotel room. No, he planned a picnic — an actual, thoughtful, proper picnic. There we were, outdoors with the world moving on around us, sharing that cool, tongue-tingling, tantalising champagne while the day unfolded in that lazy, dreamy way that makes time feel softer. The glasses caught the light as we lifted them, and the whole scene felt deliciously cinematic.
The Power of Simple Compliments
Receiving gifts like these is genuinely lovely, and I’d never pretend otherwise. They make me feel seen and appreciated, and of course, I’d never refuse them — I enjoy beauty, luxury, and thoughtfulness as much as anyone else. But here’s something a lot of men don’t fully realise: a simple, sincere compliment can be just as powerful. Sometimes, it can be even more touching than the most extravagant present.
Tell me my eyes look incredible when I laugh. Tell me the sway of my legs in a certain pair of heels drives you to distraction. Tell me you’ve been thinking about the way my hair fell over my shoulders the last time we met. When the words are specific and genuine, they land in a way that a price tag never could. Because then it’s not just about what you bought; it’s about what you noticed.
Just because I work as one of the in-call and out-call escorts in London doesn’t mean I’m somehow immune to those small, human moments of adoration. If anything, I might appreciate them even more, because I can tell when a compliment is lazy and when it’s been truly considered. I know the difference between a line you’ve used a hundred times and a line that comes straight from what you’re really feeling in that moment.
When Words Become Magic
And if you really want to see me come undone, try poetry. Not something you’ve hastily copied from the internet five minutes before you arrive, but a few lines you’ve taken the time to choose or write yourself — something with nuance, rhythm, and a bit of soul. Read it to me in that quiet, steady way that says you mean it. Well-chosen words have a way of wrapping around me, getting under my skin, and lifting me right off the ceiling. Try to peel me down once that happens.
A Client Who Painted Memories
One of my clients took this to a completely different level. He was a gifted artist, the kind of person who could sit with a sketchpad and, in twenty minutes, pull something breathtaking out of nothing but water, colour, and paper. After our meetings, he would go away and paint watercolours of the places we’d visited together — the corner of a park bench where we sat talking for ages, the soft glow of a hotel room window at dusk, the curve of a river we’d walked beside hand in hand. Later, he gave them to me as gifts for my apartment.
Those paintings meant more to me than any off-the-shelf present ever could. Each one was a captured moment, a little slice of time made permanent — a record of something that had been shared and savoured. Every time I look at them on my wall, I don’t just see a pretty scene; I feel the memory of the day, the way the air felt, the things we laughed about, the way we looked at each other. That, for me, is the essence of feeling special: knowing that someone wanted to hold on to our time together, to honour it in some way.
Everyone Has Something to Give
Of course, not everyone is an artist. Not everyone can conjure up watercolours or recite poetry that sounds like it fell out of a leather-bound book. But that’s not the point. The point is that everyone has something — a gift, a knack, a quirk, a talent — that they can share. Maybe you’re good with words, or music, or planning unforgettable evenings. Maybe you tell stories in a way that leaves people hanging on every sentence. Maybe you’re brilliant at listening, really listening, and making someone feel completely heard.
Whatever it is, don’t underestimate it. You don’t have to arrive with a designer bag or a bottle that costs half your weekly wage to make an impression. Use what you already have. Bring the part of you that’s most alive, most genuine, and most generous. That’s the part that lingers after the door has closed and the evening is over.
The Real Gift
So yes, bring the gifts if that’s your style — I’ll enjoy them, I promise. But remember that the real magic lies in the thought, the attention, and the willingness to share your own specialness too. Spread the talent. Don’t hoard it, don’t shy away from it, don’t convince yourself it isn’t enough. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this line of work, it’s that everyone has something beautiful to give — and when you dare to offer it, that’s when we both end up feeling truly special.
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