Does everyone still hanker after a game of tennis now that we Brits are finally Wimbledon trophy holders again? Watching Andy Murray glide across Centre Court last month, strawberries and Pimms in hand, reminded me of a rather amusing – and unexpectedly exhausting – tennis experience I had some years ago.
As staff at one of the Elite escorts in London, my dates – as you’d imagine – can be extremely varied. One evening, I might be in a private box at the Royal Opera House, the next, I’m sipping vintage champagne in a sleek City restaurant while my client unloads the stresses of the trading floor. Mostly, men want someone poised and presentable to take to an event, or a warm, attentive companion for dinner and the theatre. But every now and then, a more unusual request pops up and lands in my inbox.
An Unusual Request
This particular request came from a long‑standing client, a charming but relentless fitness fanatic whose calendar seemed to be a steady stream of board meetings and business-class flights. He called one afternoon, sounding more keyed up than usual. “I don’t want another dinner this time,” he said, half‑laughing. “I need to burn off some stress. How do you feel about playing tennis?”
I keep myself pretty fit (believe me, you have to be in shape for this job) and I do a fair bit of running in the mornings, especially around Hyde Park when the city is still waking up. But I hadn’t picked up a tennis racquet since my school days, when PE lessons involved badly fitting gym skirts and a sad collection of half‑deflated balls. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, I thought. Besides, how hard could it be to hit a few balls and look enthusiastic?
He had everything organised before I’d even had a chance to talk myself out of it. A pristine court was already booked in Holland Park, late afternoon, when the light is soft, and the London plane trees cast long shadows across the clay. There was no backing out; the confirmation email was sitting smugly in my inbox, along with a note suggesting I wear “something suitably tennis‑like”.
Dressing for the Occasion
The day arrived, and I took my time getting ready. I slipped into a cute white tennis dress that skated mid‑thigh and flattered every curve, paired with fresh white trainers and ankle socks. My hair went up into a high ponytail with a few loose strands framing my face – practical, but not without a touch of flirtation. A sweep of light makeup, just enough to look fresh and glowing rather than overly done. When I checked myself in the mirror, I had to admit the look worked; the dress showed off my legs to perfection, tanned and toned from all those runs.
Holland Park was at its loveliest that day. The air carried a faint scent of cut grass and late roses, and there was that gentle, summery hum of children playing in the distance and dogs being walked by their impeccably dressed owners. As I approached the courts, I spotted my client leaning against the fence, racquet in hand, wearing a fitted technical T‑shirt and shorts that suggested he took his workouts very seriously. He broke into a wide grin when he saw me.
“Well, you certainly look the part,” he said, his eyes doing a quick, appreciative sweep from my ponytail down to my shoes. “Now let’s see if you can play the part too.”
Finding My Rhythm
We started with a few gentle rallies to warm up, the rhythmic thwack of ball on strings echoing pleasantly around the court. At first, my shots were more enthusiastic than accurate, sending balls skidding wildly off to the side or dying pathetically in the net. He chuckled good‑naturedly and walked me through my grip and stance, stepping behind me to adjust my hands on the racquet, his breath warm against my ear as he murmured instructions.
“Relax your shoulders. Keep your eye on the ball. And don’t be afraid to really hit it,” he said, demonstrating with an easy, powerful forehand that landed neatly inside the baseline.
Gradually, it started to come back to me. My feet remembered how to move: small, quick steps, constantly adjusting; my arms began to find a rhythm. Every successfully returned shot felt like a small victory. The sun sat low and golden, catching the sheen of sweat on his jawline and making the chalk lines on the court glow.
A Surprisingly Competitive Match
Before long, our warm‑up turned into something much more competitive. My client, it turned out, didn’t really do anything by halves. Serves came fast and precise, pushing me to dart from side to side, stretching for the ball, my skirt swishing around my thighs. I could feel the muscles in my calves and thighs burning, my lungs drawing in deep, satisfying breaths of warm air. My ponytail whipped from side to side as I chased shot after shot.
We paused every so often to gulp water and catch our breath, exchanging teasing comments across the net.
“Not bad for someone who ‘hasn’t played since school’,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Not bad yourself,” I replied lightly. “Although I do wonder if you’re being a little too distracted to win comfortably.” I gave a deliberate, slow twirl, letting the skirt flare just enough to make my point.
He laughed, shaking his head. “You might have a point there.”
Two hours later, the match was finally over. I’d lost the game, but not by a huge margin – which, given the difference in our recent practice, I decided to take as a triumph. As I left the court and we wandered towards the changing rooms, my legs felt wobbly and deliciously heavy, every muscle in my body humming from the workout. My shoulders, arms, and even my abs ached in all the right places – the sort of satisfying soreness you only get from really pushing yourself.
After the Final Point
Inside the changing area, I caught sight of myself in the mirror: flushed cheeks, slightly damp hair, eyes bright with the afterglow of exertion. I was a little reluctant to take off my white tennis dress; it clung in all the right places and left my legs looking long, toned, and impossibly inviting. I suspected my client had noticed exactly the same thing from the other side of the net. Could that be why the final score was so close? Perhaps he’d let a few points slide in exchange for the view.
When I emerged, showered and changed into a soft summer dress, he was waiting just outside, still lightly flushed from the match and looking far more relaxed than when we’d met.
“You were right,” he said, falling into step beside me as we left the park. “There’s nothing better for stress than whacking a ball around for a couple of hours.” He gave me a sideways smile. “Though I suspect the company helped.”
Working Up an Appetite
We wandered towards a nearby restaurant, both of us pleasantly tired and ravenous. After all that running around, we’d certainly worked up an appetite – not just for food, but for all manner of things later on. Dinner was full of easy conversation and lingering glances, the easy intimacy that comes from sharing an experience rather than just a table.
By the end of the night, it was clear that this little diversion from the usual dinner‑and‑theatre arrangement had been an inspired idea. It was, without question, one of my more unusual client meetings – and certainly one of my favourites. Moments like that remind me that being an expensive escort doesn’t just keep my social skills polished; it keeps me quite literally on my toes, racquet in hand, ready for whatever interesting request comes my way next.
