Sometimes I feel kind of sorry for the Incall Escorts. They’re lovely girls, most of them, but they’re tied to the studio most days and nights, watching the clock and waiting for the next booking to walk through the door. They get the odd interesting gentleman, of course, but they don’t often get the chance to step out into the wider world the way I do, suitcase in hand and passport at the ready. While they’re glancing at the streetlights from the window between appointments, I’m usually dashing through airports or slipping into the back of a taxi somewhere glamorous.
And when I say “out and about,” I’m not just talking about the usual London treats — though believe me, I do enjoy those. Dinner at sensational restaurants where the wine list reads like a novel, late-night theatre shows in the West End, and checking into luxurious hotels where the lobby smells of polished wood and expensive perfume — that’s all wonderful. But my work often takes me far beyond that.
An Invitation to Seville
Sometimes it’s little adventures just outside the city, but every now and then, I get something truly special. Just recently, for instance, I spent a fantastic long weekend with a client in sunny Seville of all places. It wasn’t one of those frantic overnight trips where you barely see anything but the inside of a hotel suite. This was three gloriously unhurried days of warmth, colour, and indulgence.
Now, this particular gentleman isn’t exactly new to me. He’s what you might call a very welcome regular — let’s call him Chris. His company sends him to Seville several times a year for meetings and conferences, and somewhere along the line, it became a bit of a tradition for me to join him. I usually pop over around three times a year when he’s posted there. He simply picks up the phone, asks if I’m free, and he knows that, if at all possible, I’ll be on the next flight down. And believe me, girls, if you met him, you’d drop everything too. He’s charming, generous, easy to be with, and he treats me like a treasured secret rather than a casual booking. Lucky me, indeed.
The Grand Hotel Alfonso XIII
Our base in Seville is always the same: the grand, five-star-rated Hotel Alfonso XIII. It’s one of those places that makes you feel like you’ve stepped straight into a storybook the moment the taxi pulls up. The hotel used to be a palace, and it absolutely shows. The facade alone is a mix of elegant arches, intricate tiles, and wrought-iron balconies dripping with flowers. Inside, it’s even more spectacular: cool marble floors that echo under your heels, soaring high ceilings, carved wooden doors, and long corridors lined with gilt panels and large oil paintings watching silently as you pass.
Everywhere you look, there’s some little detail to admire — hand-painted tiles in deep blues and greens, heavy velvet curtains framing tall windows, and delicate water fountains murmuring away in the courtyards. In the early morning, when the sun is just starting to filter through, the lobby glows with a soft golden light, and this hush makes you feel as though you’re in a private world, separate from the city outside.
Carmen’s Shadow Next Door
One of my favourite things about the Alfonso XIII is its location. It sits right next to the former tobacco factory, the very building where Carmen is supposed to have worked — at least according to the famous opera of the same name by French composer Georges Bizet. Walking past it, you can’t help but think of that fiery, defiant gypsy girl, all passion and danger, sweeping men into her orbit and leaving chaos in her wake.
Those thoughts of the hot-blooded and tragic gypsy queen, combined with the warm, balmy Andalusian air, do something to you. In Seville, the air itself seems scented — orange blossoms drifting in from the courtyards, a hint of jasmine at night, and that subtle, earthy warmth rising from the cobbled streets. Even the light there feels different: softer, more golden, flattering everything and everyone it touches. It all adds a certain spice, a heady atmosphere that seeps into your skin and makes every touch, every glance across the table, feel a little more charged.
Days of Wandering, Nights of Fire
So you can imagine how that influenced my weekend with Chris. We spent our days wandering along narrow streets where balconies almost kissed above our heads, pausing for coffee in little squares where old men sat talking for hours, and dipping into cool, dark tapas bars for lazy lunches. In the evenings, we’d dress up — me in something slinky and just a bit daring, him in an open-necked shirt and that easy smile — and head out for dinner.
There was one night in particular: we ate on a terrace overlooking a small square, lanterns strung overhead, the sound of a lone guitarist playing somewhere nearby. Between the wine, the music, and the heat of the night, it felt as though the entire city was conspiring to make everything more intimate, more intense. By the time we slipped back through the hotel’s grand entrance, I was already a little dizzy from it all. Let’s just say the combination of Bizet’s Carmen, the scent of orange blossoms, and a very attentive companion made for a rather passionate weekend in what I genuinely believe is Spain’s most stunning city.
Back to London Life
That, however, was last week. The magic had to end, at least for now, and I’m back in London, slipping once again into my role alongside the other Outcall Escorts in our upmarket venues. The contrast is almost amusing: one minute I’m padding across marble floors in a Spanish palace, the next I’m hopping into a black cab in Mayfair, checking my lipstick in the reflection of the window.
London, to be fair, is doing its best. The weather’s not too bad at the moment; there’s a tentative brightness to the sky, and every so often the sun makes a proper appearance, lighting up the grey stone and glass as if it’s trying to remind us that spring is on its way. The city has its own charm — the buzz, the energy, the mixture of accents and faces — and I do enjoy slipping into chic hotel bars here, too.
Lingering Warmth and New Dreams
I know it sounds corny, but I’m not terribly bothered by the chill in the air right now. My body might be back in London, wrapped in a smart coat and sensible scarf between appointments, but inside I’m still warm from my Spanish weekend. Every time I catch the faintest whiff of citrus from someone’s perfume, or see a splash of terracotta in a shop window, I’m instantly transported back to that Seville balcony or the tiled courtyard of the hotel.
Of course, a girl can’t live on memories alone. My mind has already started to wander to the next possible escape. If I can just tempt a client to take me to Paris, I’ll be utterly content. I haven’t been there since last spring, and the thought of strolling along the Seine again, lingering over coffee in Saint-Germain, and losing myself among the glittering lights of the city is almost too delicious.
So, if anyone happens to be in the mood for a little French frolicking in the city of romance — candlelit dinners, discreet hotel suites, and perhaps a midnight kiss beneath the Eiffel Tower — then I’m most definitely your gal. Until then, I’ll be here in London, heels on, suitcase always half-packed, ready for the next call that whisks me away.
