Classy Sexy Lady - Golders Green borders
External Link/Members Only or
External Link/Members OnlyExternal Link/Members OnlyTLDR: Aborted mission in-room. My expectations were unduly elevated.
This comment from a previous and negative review, whilst not, in my view, wholly accurate, is also not far off, as a concise summary goes:
https://www.ukpunting.com/index.php?topic=414809.msg4161648#msg4161648How to elaborate on and ameliorate my Amelia experience?
Background:
I'm an appreciator of over-40s women; local is prized for last-minute whimsy; I like an overnight booking; and sensible rates (esp. for overnights) are a good thing. Sometimes, marginal calls and outliers can yield exceptional returns. In all these respects, Amelia passed initial screening. AW's positive reviews, incl. field reports, the details of which were not obviously written by a pimp or Amelia herself, but could conceivably have come from older gentleman reviewers, were noted. 2 negatives and various comments on here were noted, and were duly given countervailing weight. The time came for further enquiry.
Comms:
Messages by AW mail resulted in an exchange of numbers. Text messages showed a sensible, reserved, and unscatty approach. A conversation ensued - it was an excessively lengthy one, though I have to say I enjoyed it, and to some degree welcomed it as first-hand evidence that any resulting overnight appointment wouldn't be an embarrassing series of
'what to say say next', it became a rambling digression - just about walking the line between healthy scepticism and deep conspiracy boredom. The possible upsides barely tipping the balance, I arranged a brief incall taster meeting.
Location:
Just over the tracks where the neat and salubrious one-family mansions of Hampstead Garden Suburb cross into the different demographic and therefore harder-for the-occupants-to-maintain and consequently multiple sublet avenues off Golders Green. Formerly a modestly large, respectable house, it's now essentially a student HMO now, with longstanding tenants in situ, run for cash by the owner, and it's visibly been a long time since any repairs outside emergencies were made. It's a case-study of respectable gentility falling into dilapidation rather than outright sh!tholerly, though houses and locations like this in locations like this are seldom good choices for incall whoring. The only person I've seen pull it off thus far, is lucy Czech, in a suburb of Chester, though that house is her own, and even then, in review, I wondered how long it'd be possible for her to keep as her main work base-
https://www.ukpunting.com/index.php?topic=415051.0As Amelia's AW page attests, both in her preference for outcalls and a longstanding announcement of a search for an alternate venue, Amelia is acutely aware of this.
When crossing the threshold and into the spacious hall, Amelia winked; then ostentatiously (and unintentionally comically) thanked me for coming to help repair her computer - this was news to me, but doubtless for the benefit of her fellow tenants, one of whom at least I could hear clattering about in the kitchen. I was shuffled into what would once have been a sitting room or junior parlour, but which now serves as her storage space, workshop, office and ...boudoir. It's hard to overstate the former aspects. Though very large for a London room, the interior is cramped and chaotic, albeit in some methodical way: fully laden shelves and stacks of large storage containers line every wall up to ceiling height - some overflowing with electrical items- cables protruding and so on. Old furniture is cluttered with boxes - I could discern two narrow paths in a bull-horn shape, which petered out and were defeated by the surrounding and tottering piles as they reached the windows. In the near centre, and overseeing all, like the bridge of the USS Enterprise if Kirk had somehow become a hermit and hoarder, was Amelia's nerve centre command console - multiple screens wired to various bits of kit, one of which was an impressively chunky customised-build PC - the throbbing magnetic hum of which filled the air, in disharmony with several other bits of working machinery, possibly a printer, and the audio from a pod-cast. In the corner to my left, and shunted in amongst the waist-high clutter, was wedged a low bed, with what appeared to be a deeply faded, heavily worn and possibly sweat-stained bedsheet. My host was not unself-conscious of the less than romantic impression, and apologised for it. It's a testament to my sometime madness that, as I faced her to listen to this, a small part of my imagination was still performatively weighing the possibility of staying, and trying to compute what amorousness might possibly look like in this junkyard.
The lady:
Amelia's AW page is rather spare of images, though we form a general impression from the 3 on offer, coupled her copy. Her own website provides more breadth and clarity: the 2nd tab is devoted entirely to her breasts; the 3rd to a series of pictures of her, dressed in a black body stocking and leather coat, semi-disguised by a Venetian carnival mask. If she was having a ball and a giggle dressing-up, we can't quite tell: we're probably all familiar with the overly formal earnestly posed images submitted for dating and sugar-daddy platforms, that were fashionable amongst ladies from the former Warsaw Pact countries. Here, we're treated to a series of artfully melodramatic vignettes of her strewn across various graves in the nearby Highgate Cemetery; drenched with unlikely Gothic eroticism. The sub-heading is 'I am so proud of my body'. I am now trying to understand how I looked these and still made the call.
All the more strange that the nervous but courteous woman seated before me, animatedly explaining in monologue the processing power of her CPU, cannot be reconciled with the person in the photos, unless they were taken several years and 12kgs ago. She has a kind face but it is presently unhandsome. For some reason I'm reminded of Marie Curie: perhaps it's the frumpy dress, or the wispy, scarcely tamed and grey-veined hair. Amelia is clearly a cerebral, widely read, knowledgeable and confident person. I expect she recognises her eccentricity and is, on the whole, comfortable with it: I don't stand in judgment; I'm a little like that myself.
In the end, four things settled the matter for me: the incessant white-noise drone from some item of equipment; a very faint smell of stale sweat, which could've been from me, the room, or her; the thought of trying to cavort on the uninviting mattress - much as I might've previously entertained notions of, at need, humping the right woman against the back of a garbage skip before now, this prospect was somehow much less palatable. The decider was that, much as I wanted to like Amelia, and felt a pang of guilt at pulling out of our appointment, a good 15 minutes after stepping in, I also felt that, despite a conviction she was not a rip-off artiste, it was also disrespectful of her to have thought that her presentation on the day (contra the bizzare, but not entirely without merit pictures); the state of the appointed room and the general sense of shambles would pass muster, even at the attractively low 90 minute rate of £140.
In the end, I explained my decision, apologised for the inconvenience, and paid her a token consideration for time taken and opportunity-cost. I think it best all round that I did, and I'm equally happy that I didn't proceed with the booking.
Conclusion:
I take no real pleasure in writing writing this, and I'm aware that some aspects of my description may seem, to some, mean-spirited. They're not intended to be - rather, the goal is to give an honestly accurately overview of what I found and the unclassy, unsexy experience, which could've been avoided but for a more honest or up-to-date account from the lady herself.
