archjohnson
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- Sep 11, 2009
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"I chose the name Jersey," she tells me, "because 'Paige' sounds like a transvestite."
Jersey is no transvestite.
She's a newcomer to Monday Mag, as far as I can see, but then, I'm a newcomer, too, and don't really know.
But from the moment Jersey greets you at the door, you're HAD. Like Leah, she is simply one of those beautiful women whose presence, in the nude, seems to justify the tab.
Of course, not everyone warms to blue-eyed blonde syndrome. Me, included: Normally I gravitate to Asians and women of dusky hue. Normally, blondes render me instantly indifferent. But not Jersey.
From Canada's east coast, Jersey is the dreamgirl-next-door, the myth, the one you never had She says she's 21 and I believe her because it shows. She is lithe, limber and small-breasted, with delightfully pert nipples. Remember the old French saying: "A woman's breast need only be large enough to fill the hand of an honest man."
For we closet primates, she has a rather splendid bum. In terms of lookalikes, the closest might be the actress Julia Stiles.
She's bright, sweet, perky and a tad quirky: She begins her treatment with a mercifully brief striptease culminating with the unveiling of her pierced clit. Jersey is very fond of her pierced clit. There is NO touching of "her", but probing with your eyes is encouraged as worship. The eyes go telescopic.
I had booked for an hour treatment--$125--which includes BS, but with no FS on the menu. The day blew up when I was a bit late and her next client was equally early. I wound up with apologies and a half-hour at $75.
Not her fault: You can't do much in half an hour: a few light back manoevres, a flip, much admiration of the clit piercing, engaging chit-chat, playful fondling of breast and bum, the happy ending delivered with a kind of girlish curiosity and delight, worthy of that girl next door.
Maybe Leah was like this once upon a time.
Jersey's technique in the final stretch seemed, well...inexperienced. But she was certainly accommodating in the rhythm and pressure areas. With more time and guidance, I think it would have been more powerful.
For a moment, oddly, Jersey turned into a Nordic Leah. She tossed some Kleenex at me. "Don't want to get near that stuff," she said. Which is comical, because that "stuff" was gouting over her fingers moments before. It was one of those disproportionately telling moments we'd love to cast from the fantasia, but can't: the cockroach in the vichysoissse.
I'll sign up again--once more--for the full hour because Jersey's so lovely to look at in that wholesome blonde child-woman way, because her unaffected ways are charming and disarming and because, hell, I'd pay to stand next to her on a bus.
She's currently working from an apartment on Quadra St. in Saanich, but only until the end of this month, when she'll shift to out-calls only or maybe an address in the Brentwood area.
Jersey is no transvestite.
She's a newcomer to Monday Mag, as far as I can see, but then, I'm a newcomer, too, and don't really know.
But from the moment Jersey greets you at the door, you're HAD. Like Leah, she is simply one of those beautiful women whose presence, in the nude, seems to justify the tab.
Of course, not everyone warms to blue-eyed blonde syndrome. Me, included: Normally I gravitate to Asians and women of dusky hue. Normally, blondes render me instantly indifferent. But not Jersey.
From Canada's east coast, Jersey is the dreamgirl-next-door, the myth, the one you never had She says she's 21 and I believe her because it shows. She is lithe, limber and small-breasted, with delightfully pert nipples. Remember the old French saying: "A woman's breast need only be large enough to fill the hand of an honest man."
For we closet primates, she has a rather splendid bum. In terms of lookalikes, the closest might be the actress Julia Stiles.
She's bright, sweet, perky and a tad quirky: She begins her treatment with a mercifully brief striptease culminating with the unveiling of her pierced clit. Jersey is very fond of her pierced clit. There is NO touching of "her", but probing with your eyes is encouraged as worship. The eyes go telescopic.
I had booked for an hour treatment--$125--which includes BS, but with no FS on the menu. The day blew up when I was a bit late and her next client was equally early. I wound up with apologies and a half-hour at $75.
Not her fault: You can't do much in half an hour: a few light back manoevres, a flip, much admiration of the clit piercing, engaging chit-chat, playful fondling of breast and bum, the happy ending delivered with a kind of girlish curiosity and delight, worthy of that girl next door.
Maybe Leah was like this once upon a time.
Jersey's technique in the final stretch seemed, well...inexperienced. But she was certainly accommodating in the rhythm and pressure areas. With more time and guidance, I think it would have been more powerful.
For a moment, oddly, Jersey turned into a Nordic Leah. She tossed some Kleenex at me. "Don't want to get near that stuff," she said. Which is comical, because that "stuff" was gouting over her fingers moments before. It was one of those disproportionately telling moments we'd love to cast from the fantasia, but can't: the cockroach in the vichysoissse.
I'll sign up again--once more--for the full hour because Jersey's so lovely to look at in that wholesome blonde child-woman way, because her unaffected ways are charming and disarming and because, hell, I'd pay to stand next to her on a bus.
She's currently working from an apartment on Quadra St. in Saanich, but only until the end of this month, when she'll shift to out-calls only or maybe an address in the Brentwood area.