Bulgarian Love Muscles Unite

Now, there's an unspoken rule among we small people that we acknowledge each other in passing. That’s fine. I’m a person of a perky demeanour and I’m always happy to talk to a stranger. However, we midgets can be terribly snooty. Generally, the smaller the midget, the higher they are in our social order. This midget was nearly four inches taller than me and they would not look my way.

He was standing on the other side of the road but I know he’s spotted me. At first, I had only meant to nod or smile, but then I tried to wave. He still wouldn’t acknowledge me. In the end, I ran across the road. He saw me coming and ran off. There we were, the two of us, running down a street near Covent Garden.

I never caught him. Damn these tall midgets for their long legs. It’s put me in a terrible mood. The taxi will soon be here. I’m in Lewisham this evening with one of my regulars. She cooks superbly and knows how to treat a midget well. Unfortunately, she’s another with a food fetish. Tomorrow, if I’m walking funny and smell of grapefruit, you’ll know why.

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Diaper

Let me make this clear, because it's something that so often comes up in conversation, but I don't do diapers. I know some men are happy to parade around in nothing more than a large nappy but I'm not one of those men. I admit that it's a size thing. In order to fully reclaim the midget culture that's been either ridiculed or ignored by generations of comedians, writers, and artists, I have to make a stand. I make that stand at the baby's nappy.

Tonight, 'Liz' thought if funny if she brought me a diaper to wear. She didn't know that I feel so strongly about them and I think I probably made a bit of a fool of myself as I trashed the mini-bar in the hotel room.

 

Dipped in Cheese

It seems like days since I posted here. I forgot that I'd pledged to tell the world about my plight. My plight this week weighed most of two hundred pounds. Her name was 'Ethel' (it wasn't really but you know the game) and she was into spicy food. Funny how women are guided by their sense more than men. I think we play our games in our minds more than women do. We like to imagine stockings or power fetishes whereas women like Ethel think in terms of touch and taste.

You probably find all this very dull but when you're less than four feet tall having a red pepper wedged between your cheeks takes dedication to your craft. Not that there's much craft to being a midget gigolo. There's just strange experiences that you have to quickly adapt to.

'I've always like hot food,' said Ethel after the first hour of getting to know each other. It usually takes a woman that long to get used to have me around.

'Okay,' I replied, standing over her. She was lying down and I was wearing a jockey's uniform. One of my stock costumes.

'In fact I've always liked red peppers. You know the ones that are really hot.'

'Do you have any in?'

She nodded as though she were a naughty schoolgirl. Strange how strong women become fragile when they're being intimate. She climbed off the bed, which sent be bouncing the other way. Lucky I didn't break my leg when I hit the chair on the other side.

When she came back, she had a jar of red peppers, a bag of plain Doritos and a jar of nacho cheese. The rest you don't need to know. Peppers have a most unfortunate shape for a man in my line of work. Not only is there no hole they won't fit down but their tapered end means that once they're in there, they don't want to come out without lots of effort. That's where Ethel seemed to have the most fun. She turned me every which way, spanked me, shook me, and ended up using a knitting needle.

I don't mind being humiliated. I don't even mind being put in dangerous situations by big women with spicy breath. What I do object to is picking nacho cheese from my arse all weekend.

The Perils of the Gigolo

Spent the night licking cream. From where, I think I better not say.

I hate to think what it's done for my cholesterol...

Living By The River

I live in a part of the city where the trees bloom early. The culture of the river infects all of us who live near it. It makes us feel European and, when you're under four feet tall, being European makes you feel somehow bigger. I guess it's how the Dutch must feel.

This morning I'm feeling relieved that another Friday night has passed without my getting hurt. I bruise quite easily, though I'm solidly built. Last night, 'Sandra' had me spank her. It's one of the least satisfying parts of my job but at least I came home without injury. Being there for sexual jobs is different than having to act out a role. She's had be do some crazy things. I once had to dress as an otter and have biological washing power rubbed into my arse. She then had me splash about in a inflatable swimming pool as she tried to grab hold of my slippery body. Then there was the time when she organised a drinks party for her friends who are into S&M. She hired a polish decorator to hang me from a light fitting and I spent a whole evening hanging there, wearing false breasts and play requests on the harmonica. It's how I happen to know that 'Moon River' is the favourite song of masochists.

I'm not saying what is or isn't right. We all have out sexual needs and some are just more imaginative than others. But after pimping my body for three years, I think that some people's brains are wired more elaborately than others. Sandra is not typical of the woman who normally hire gigolos. They're typically successful, unmarried, older and heavier than the average. Sandra is old money and stick thin. She expects a service and pays well. But it's never my place to question what she wants. I think it's probably why her brain is so uniquely wired. At some time, it was people like Sandra who made this country great. Now they're just into otters, washing powder, and the sound of the harmonica. And midgets. Let's not forget us midgets. It's because of Sandra that I'm having salmon for dinner tonight followed by a good wine and then friends around. Without women like Sandra, I wouldn't live in my exquisite, customised apartment by the river.

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.