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Phone number for future comparison: 07948969999
I've attached one of the photos from her ad.In short: There are good providers keen that you have a good time, and there are shit providers who couldn't care less. Ruby's one of the latter. Avoid.
In full:
Ruby is sporadic with her WhatsApp comms; when I first messaged her, she rang me back, unprompted, about 4 hours later. Eventually, you get a pasted message from another advert which simply promises normal massage for £40/30 mins or £60/hour on Floral Street, the smaller road parallel to Long Acre in Covent Garden.
I gave Ruby 15 mins notice for an appointment, and she accepted. When I arrived, she read but ignored my first message, then replied to the second with a voice note explaining that she was hurrying back from Chinatown and would be 5 minutes. Those 5 minutes passed, as did another 5 minutes, before she finally showed up. Decidedly the woman in the photo; slim and slender; Thai-Chinese; claimed to be 23, but I'd have her more at 33. We ascended to a first-floor flat which was nice and homely, but not Ruby's home, she told me. The massage table is a short, skeletal thing in the front room.
So far, all was well, despite the lateness. Ruby was warm and seemed genuine. I handed over £60. The massage was atrocious — aimless rubbing, wholly untargeted and untrained — and I had to ask for oil. There was no music. After 10 minutes, Ruby reminded me to tell her later what I needed her to do for a "nice job" at the end. After 20 minutes, she chased this up; I parried and said I'd let her know. Hitherto there had been precisely zero touches of my groin, so I was hardly gagging. But I did fancy her.
On the turn, her hands came closer and we negotiated. She wanted £100 for naked B2B "(I come on top darling") with — I stipulated — kissing. I was staunch on £80, which was still £20 too much. A ten-minute impasse passed, and then she demurred. Really I ought to have said £60, given there was now significantly less time remaining but I felt in an optimistic mood. Bad move. After I paid the money upfront, Ruby spent two minutes disrobing silently across the room, including studiously rubbing her pussy, then ambled over, oiled my cock and started frigging away. Er, no. I reminded her that she was to come on top. "Oh but you oily now, I don't want oil on me." FFS. Eventually she put a tissue over my stomach and cock to protect from said oil, and commenced the world's least-arousing B2B in history. Her face had the look of someone who'd eaten gone-off vinegar. Kissing, like she said? "You smell of smoke and I don't like," came the explanation after two desultory pecks. Her body, I had now ascertained, was disappointing flabby with a semi-hairy bush, medium tits (I think real) and more cellulite than expected.
The frustration continued and eventually I gave up. By now it was clear: Ruby is one of those dishonest dickheads who promises X and Y, only to then find minor, small-print reasons for why not to keep her word. Unfortunately, one does encounter these sorts of providers in our world sporadically. Full of punter's remorse — but also reminding myself that one must have the shit experiences in order to truly value the gems — I skedaddled into the rainy Covent Garden night.
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