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Historically, even though the word “sock” is at least as ancient in origin, what men typically wore was often referred to as tights, probably mainly when referring to the longer hose that were fashionable at times. The word was used to refer to the bottom, or “stump,” part of the body. By analogy, the term was used to refer to the one-piece covering of the lower trunk and limbs of the 15th century—essentially tights consisting of the upper stocks (later to be worn separately as knee breeches) and nether supplies (later to be worn independently as stockings).

Before the 1590s, stockings were made of woven cloth. The first knitting machines were for making stockings. The socks themselves were made of cotton, linen, wool or silk. Polished cotton, known as lisle, was standard, as were those made in Balbriggan.

Before the 1920s, women’s stockings, if worn, were worn for warmth. In the 1920s, as women’s dresses’ hemlines rose, they wore socks to cover their exposed legs. These stockings were sheer, first made of silk or rayon (then known as “artificial silk”), and after 1940 of nylon. The first pantyhose appeared in the 1940s and 1950s, when film and theatre productions featured stockings sewn to the briefs of actresses and dancers, as noted by actress-dancer Ann Miller, as seen in popular films such as Daddy Long Legs.

Today, socks are commonly made using knitted wool, silk, cotton or nylon. The introduction of pantyhose in 1959 provided a convenient alternative to stockings, leading to a dramatic decline in the use of socks. U.S. sales of stockings exceeded stockings for the first time and have remained this way ever since. BegIn87, sales of the hose with a suspender belt started to decline slightly due to the newly invented hold-ups, but it remained a popular sock.

So, if you have a fetish for stockings, look no further. All our fine young ladies will honour your wishes by wearing only the finest socks for your eyes.

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I am not at home because I am typing this from Italy. Lucky me!
My long weekend break, returning tomorrow morning, with Giovanni, started as “coffee soon?” and became “take your passport and meet me at Heathrow at 13:00 hours. Giovanni was born in the West End to Sicilian parents and emigrated there in 1990 before making his home somewhere between Tuscany and Paris. He has an ex-wife, five children, three dogs, a villa in the Tuscan countryside, and a mistress in Paris with one child. Before you ask how he manages to afford to keep them all, his six-figure salary seems to be that.

How do I fit in? Well, he does like to keep up appearances with the Italian social elite and to rub his ex-wife’s nose in the fact that he hasn’t lost touch with the ladies. Ex-Mrs. Giovanni is unaware of the Parisian mistress or the half-brother of her offspring, so I step in as the model girlfriend. I don’t mind; I love Italy, and I’m accustomed to being discreet.

So we came to Italy for proper coffee, ground from good coffee beans, in an authentic restaurant by an adequate barista. I used a small amount of Italian vocabulary on him – enough to say “grazie” – and flashed my most dazzling smile. Red-blooded Mediterranean men do like to feel appreciated by red-blooded British women! And how do I want my coffee? Well, I am partial to a cappuccino, but I prefer a latte – especially when it’s homegrown.

I discovered that the barista training is conveniently located right around the corner from the hotel. How exciting!

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Women can be manipulative—even those who say they aren’t, have a more subtle approach to the art. As long as there is no element of demasculation, where is the harm? My mother used to say, “Ask, don’t get; don’t ask, don’t want.” I disagree.

I’ll be sure to set the scene for you…

This weekend, I spent the day at Westfield Shopping Centre, ten minutes from Paddington, with a rather delicious companion, surrounded by throngs of shoppers and designer stores. I managed to do a lot of my shopping, including some with Victor. I love shopping dates because I usually don’t get to spend a day queuing among other commoners, preferring to “add to cart” on Amazon.

So there we were, fingers entwined, our arms full of branded carrier bags. Victor had dragged me into practically every man’s clothes shop there (who says men aren’t fussy?), and I was longingly thinking of Kurt Geiger up on level one. I desperately wanted to slip my foot into the multi-coloured glitter stilettos that had been whispering lovingly to me from the website. As he tried on his fiftieth jumper, I mentally itemised my wardrobe to justify the £150, while subtracting the balance of my MasterCard from my credit limit.

Sensitive to others’ needs, I am adept at intervening before situations get out of control and Victor becomes frustrated. I wanted my shoes, and he wanted a change of scenery, so I suggested Pret a Manger, which was “coincidentally” on level one. Smelling the lure of coffee and fresh sandwiches, Victor offered me a smile as we ascended the escalator, and I mentally calculated that it would take 30 seconds to pass by my beautiful shoes once we were nourished.

A man with a full belly is a happy man – and a man open to bribery. Near the cafe was a huge Apple store with plenty of shiny laptops and iPads murmuring sweet nothings. Attention diverted from Fair Isle knitwear, Victor swung his hips through the door and took a lungful of Broadband. A London escort such as me must have patience as a virtue: the patience to accept her needs comes after those of her date. I watched Victor dribble over a MacBook Pro and counted down the minutes until I could lick the heel of that display shoe.

And then… a boom! Victor kissed my forehead and said, “Darling, you have been patient with me today. Let me buy a present for my beautiful girl. Shall we look at something for you?” I could have wept. “Oh, you don’t have to do that…” I said through my lashes. He made a pooh-pooh noise, and we fell into step… right past Kurt Geiger. And there they were… in the window, dazzling under the lights as I knew they would be… my shoes. Ten minutes later, I had a shiny gift bag dangling from my arm, and my date looked very pleased with himself as I let him “choose” a pair, though I can’t say product placement didn’t play a part.

Call me manipulative, then, if you want, but you can’t say that my gentleman friend wasn’t pleased to make me happy. The date had, as always, been about him and a trip to W12. I’m a big fan of West London, especially now that I know Kurt Geiger has a fantastic store there!

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When you have regular clients who need to re-book you for specific functions, you have to keep on your toes and bring change into the ‘relationship’ more than ever. I always attend Scott’s work, family, and social arrangements as his girlfriend, but to keep the booking, I have to keep him interested, just as you would in an actual relationship. This is why I’m single. These things are hard work.

Scott is a 40-something billionaire who loves to maintain appearances. He lets his staff run his hotel empire and reaps the rewards by holidaying on his private island, lounging in his luxury mansion in Hampstead and shopping in New York for the afternoon. He uses me as his long-term girlfriend stand-in. In reality, he has no interest in forming a relationship with someone he doesn’t know, who may only be after his money.

In my mind, it’s classic real commitment issues, but what do I know? I’m a London escort, not a psychologist! So, he takes me to work functions, family weddings, press nights, and the works, but he also brings me shopping to cater to such arrangements. That’s why, to keep this gig, I need to up my game.

As you know, I’m a very proud brunette, but when he mentions that he finds a particular blonde celebrity attractive, I crack out my favourite Barbie wig and act out any fantasy he wants. He loves the fact that he doesn’t even have to ask. Sometimes, when you spend a lot of time with a client, you do pick up on certain things. Whether they like olives, whether they prefer Gucci to Dior, whether they book a hotel more in Mayfair than in Knightsbridge and whether they respond in pleasure at being tickled just under the…

We have a great partnership with Scott. I have even managed to wrap his very protective Mother around my little finger. Little does she know that the boy is having a faux relationship with a top call girl! We have learned to walk in time with one another, laugh at the same things and finish each other’s sentences. We have been on many dinner and drink dates to get to know each other in such a way.

What can I say? I’m a dedicated woman.

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Sunday is traditionally a day of rest and relaxation, a time to put your feet up and recharge your batteries in preparation for the week ahead. However, who says it can’t also be a day filled with fun, flirting, and a hint of mischief? It’s the final day of the week—a chance to reflect on the past six days and turn any lingering negativity into a positive experience. Why not make this Sunday one to remember and kick off the new week with a smile on your face?

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