This is about me

Big people often ask me if I’m really a stripper and a gigolo. I say that I am but only during work hours. The rest of the time I’m a normal guy who just happens to be three feet and seven inches tall and loves to f***.

There we have it. A beginning and I have to decide how explicit I’m going to be from here on. There’s nothing I hate more than being called a foul mouthed dwarf. But that's just me. I want you to understand my world. Writing an account of my life doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m abbreviated verbally as well as vertically. I’ve always shunned attention. In my line of work, going unnoticed is the best way to be. I never sought fame. I’ll leave that to all the other midgets who work in pantomime. I’m not hiding who I am or what I do for a living. And while I’m about it, I’m going to reclaim the word midget for my own. I’m a midget whore. Now get off my case.

Admitting all this stuff is important at this stage of my life. Getting older means not wanting to be the lapdog of rich American widows for the rest of your life. People should know about the things I have to do to earn a living. What’s it like to live in London in the year 2008? Ask a midget prostitute. We have all the answers.
I’ve hesitated before beginning this blog because there are already too many people wondering about me and my line of work. It’s hard to go unnoticed. I’ve been lucky. I’m a ‘speciality’. That means I can charge more for my services. You won’t find me standing on any street corner. I don’t advertise my services. My telephone number just gets passed between rich woman. Rich women who require that pleasure they can only get from a dwarf. You know what I’m talking about...

There I go again. Being coy. It doesn’t seem right to talk about my clients who have been so good to me. Yet there’s no way of writing this without getting into the details of who put what where. That’s what you want to hear about? We’re talking about forbidden love. You want to know how I can suckle while standing on a stepladder. You want to know about my equipment. I say it all depends on how you look at me. I’m small down there but when my head’s shaved, I’m one enormous penis. Why else do you think my regular clients pay £450 for the night or £1500 for a weekend? For that, they can anything they like with me.

None of this is as sick as it sounds, though you probably don’t want to imagine the things they can do with a willing midget. Most of the time, the women just want to spend the night watching TV and talking. Being stroked is a big part of my work. Some clients just want to share their business problems with me. That’s fine. I have an MBA. Talking about marketing is sometimes preferable to licking cream from orange peel thighs.

Last night was not helpful if I want to talk about my usual evening. For a start, I was wearing high heels, which I usually avoid but my lady for the evening was paying for them so, what the hell. If I’m understeady on my feet, they can’t ask me to dance, can they? I’ll call the punter Milly. She was an American businesswoman in town to sell his air conditioning units to the Olympic games. It was my first time and I didn’t expect to spend the night wearing a tight pink dress and red high heels. The shoes are bad enough but I don’t like wearing a bra. I can’t reach around there and there’s nothing worse than having to stop a striptease half-way through to ask the punter to unhitch a stuck clasp.

Tonight it’s a regular. We’re going for a drink at a little out of the way club you’d never find but one of my regular haunts in Soho. Then I suppose it will be the usual.
I’ll be sore in the morning.