Leggy Lola

The advertisement reads:

Unique Lady offers companionship to discerning gentlemen. Lola, sexy and beautiful LAK amputee, 34, to fulfil your special fantasies. Available Thurs and Fri eves and all day Sat. You can desire me. Phone:

Hi, I'm Helena, a.k.a Lola or Leggy Lola. The name's ironic. You see, I have a sense of humour about it. I thought it up myself, when I decided to start doing this. Well, I think it's funny anyway. And even if I do say it myself, the leg I still have is lovely; long, slim and shapely. And the fact that it is missing its twin only emphasises its beauty. And yes, I am a disabled woman who is an escort.

If you are reading this because you are curious about my sexual life, you won't be disappointed. I will be talking about sex and I will describe some of the things that I have done and some of the things that have happened to me. I am an escort, so how could I avoid it? But I will tell you about other things too. I am going to explain why I became an escort and I will tell about myself as well, although in the end I suppose that it is all related to sex; or rather it's related to sexuality: mine and yours. Everything that I am going to tell you is true, or at least my version of the truth. I am going to tell it like a story, and I am the protagonist of my story. There are of course other people in it too, and one of them is very important. His name is Stephen. The others are bit part players, but as I have found, even if some people only play bit parts, it does not mean that they have not been important.

Who are Helena and Lola? Helena is a thirty four year old woman who lives in her own home, alone, and works as an accountant for a large accountancy firm. She grew up in England, in the West Country; Devon to be exact, and moved to Bristol when she went to university to study Maths. She graduated and got a job as a trainee accountant with a firm in Bristol. When she was twenty four, she was involved in a road accident. She lost her left leg as a result. All she has left of it is about two inches of stump. She uses an artificial limb. Of course, it has had an enormous effect on her life, but she has got used to it now. That is what this story is about. Her friend, Karen, who was driving, was also injured, but fortunately less seriously. The accident was not Karen's fault. We remain friends.

Lola is Helena's invention, but she is also Helena, or a version of Helena. She is a persona, but she is also real. Lola is who I became, or I should say become on Thursday and Friday evenings and on Saturdays, to solve the problem of sex. And the problem of disabled sex is not only a problem for disabled people.

First of all, let's get the ethics of prostitution out of the way. Yes, I know that there are many women who have been abused and exploited in this profession. Yes, I know that in an ideal world, sex would not be for sale and everyone would find fulfilment in normal loving relationships between consenting adults. Sorry, if I sound defensive, but I have had to defend myself before, even to the tiny number of my friends who know about this aspect of my life.

Fortunately, exploitation and abuse have not been my experience. I am, though, not typical as an escort, or I think, of women who enter this kind of work. I only do it part time. I maintain my career as an accountant. So I have a very adequate income and I own my own house in a good part of town and I have my independence. I don't have to do it for financial reasons. And I chose to do it.

If I don't need the money, do I do it for pleasure, you ask. In part, yes, but this is a difficult question to answer, and like all work, it is not always pleasurable. I mean, there are parts of my job as an account that bore me to tears. I will talk about this more later.

What about the risk to my ‘normal' life? I take all the precautions I can to keep this secret, but it's impossible to eliminate risk completely. That said, how would I get caught? Most of my appointments are in-calls, which is to say that my clients come to me and the whole time we are together, we are in the house I use for my escort work. And the house I work in is in a town fifty miles from where I live and work. It is owned by an acquaintance of mine who lives abroad. He did not want to rent it out full time, but he lets it to me part time. The story is that my work takes me to that town often and I need somewhere to stay there. It is just out of town in fact and stands in its own grounds, so that there is little chance of neighbours, whose houses are a hundred yards away on either side, noticing that male visitors come and go. Karen, my friend who was driving the car when I had my accident, lives in the town with her husband. It's five minutes drive from their place to the house, and they know about what I do there. So someone knows where I am and when I am there and they are ready to come if I need them. If I have a problem, I can call them. And I have my mace spray too, in the bedside cabinet and one in the living room cabinet too. I can never predict where a client is going to want to do it!

It's possible that someone who knows me could turn up on the doorstep as a client. And what if someone did? Who would they tell? It's a case of ‘if you've caught me then I've caught you!' What man is going to admit that he visited a prostitute, and especially one who only has one leg? Think about it.

And I'm not cheap. My fees are two hundred pounds per hour. That is because I'm worth it, and the higher price helps to keep clients who might be less than desirable away. That's not to say that there aren't rich madmen out there. And let's face it; I cater to a special taste. Even if I was twenty quid a trick, I wouldn't get the regular john who just wants a fuck. Yes, it's exploitation, but if anyone is exploiting my disability, it's me; and it's my disability.

Yes, of course there is the risk of getting a crazy client, who gets violent or something. Well, that's not so easy to protect against either, but so far I have been fine. I have never been attacked and I have only had one client, who was nasty, but it was just verbal abuse and I handled it. He evidently had problems that were about a lot more than me.

Before I had the accident I had boyfriends and I had sex with them, and I had a few one night stands and a few short flings. I loved sex and I wanted to have it as often as I could, with the right guys. I was good looking and attractive and I was sexy. I still am, but not in the same way anymore. I am not the same me that I was before. I have changed. I have been changed. Physically, I used to be an able bodied woman, and then I became a disabled one. And I changed inside too, because of what had happened to me. Most of all, in the eyes of others I am not the same. That is largely what this is about.

I will tell you what it's like to be disabled from the point of view of sex and sexuality. I have learned about this in the ten years since the accident, and I'm still learning now. And I learnt a lot from being an escort, and from being the kind of escort that I am.

‘You can still desire me.' I wonder how many times I have said that since I lost my leg. I have only ever said it to myself, when really I wanted to say it to them, but whenever the chance to say it comes, it's always too late.

It took about two years even to begin to feel better about myself; the new Helen, one legged Helen. That I had lost a leg obsessed me. And it was the only thing about me that my mind could see. It was only a long time later that I realised that no matter how much anyone else, any man could be fascinated or repelled by it, because that was what it was really about; it was only me who was obsessed by it. I felt like no one could possibly find me attractive or desirable again, and when some men did I did not trust them and I could not believe that they meant it and I looked to ways of proving to myself that they did not.

There came to be, in my view of them, two types of men who desired me; the ones who wanted to be my dad and the ones who wanted to denigrate me by turning me into a fetish object. What I wanted was love and romance. I wanted love untainted by the desire to protect, or by the dirty and ugly and sordid. I wanted purity. I could not find it. I hated men. I hated sex. I hated my body. I hated myself.

I gave up sex, but desire did not give up on me. I didn't look at men, but men came to me in dreams. Men with beautiful faces and lovely rippling muscles and great big cocks that were hard for me and they kissed me and I kissed them back and they touched my pussy and I stroked their cocks and they ate my pussy and I sucked their dicks, and then they rolled me over and pushed their great big cocks into me and I wrapped my legs around them as they fucked me into paradise. And then I would wake up and look down and see my left leg that wasn't there.

I sank lower and lower, and my body ached in its loneliness and I learned every technique of masturbation that womankind can ever have invented, and when I had exhausted those, I invented some more of my own. I started to look at pornography, which previously I had not liked. My explorations were wide and I even found pornographic pictures of women like me, with legs missing, and it just made me feel worse. Al I could ever hope to be was a fetish object, a stump with a woman attached to it. Or I would meet someone who wanted to be my father, when all I wanted was his cock.

But the porn and the masturbation were not enough, because they are never enough. I needed to feel the warmth of another human being, and the touch of their skin against mine. So I found a male escort. I looked for one who advertised that he catered to disabled clients. I felt that if I could find one like that, he would be used to it, and even if he found me disgusting, he would be able to hide it, because he had practiced how to hide it. It would be his job. He would be a professional. It was as though I needed some complicated operation, and I was looking for the specialist who could do it best.

I couldn't find one like that. I could only find ads placed by female escorts who offered their series to disabled men. Even in this secret and hidden corner of life, sexism existed, and the world really was as awful a place as I thought it was.

I would have to get an ordinary one, who would do it with anyone for the money. And he really would have to be willing to do it with anyone if he was going to be willing to do it with me. But it would be ok, because I would call him and when he agreed to have me as his client, he would not have seen me, and I have a good job and plenty of money, so if he was repulsed by me when he saw me, I would offer him so much money that he wouldn't be able to say no.

In the end, it was an agency that I called and it was a woman that I spoke to. She was extraordinarily kind and sympathetic and she told me that many of the men who worked for her had experience of meetings with disabled women. She invited me to come to the agency where we could talk more. It was a nice place and tastefully decorated and very professional and discreet. She showed me photographs of various men and they were all gorgeous. Finally I chose one and made an appointment. He would come to my house the following Saturday afternoon.

He came. He talked to me and worked to set the mood and he did it very well, but I just wanted him to get on with it. I was gagging for it. It was me who made the move to set things in motion. He made me feel like a queen. He was a stranger, but the sex was fantastic. It was fantastic because he was a stranger and because I had paid.

He did not ignore the fact that I have a stump instead of a left leg, but at the same time he did not draw attention to it either. When he was fucking me, at one point, he rested his hand on it. It seemed like he did it unconsciously, and it thrilled me; not sexually, but simply because his touch seemed neutral. And in that same moment the touch of his other hand on my breast and the feeling of his cock inside my pussy felt anything but neutral.

It was so good that I wanted him again and again and I felt so good that I felt confident enough to ask him for another appointment and he said ‘yes.' Of course, he would; it's what he does for a living

And after he had gone, I realised that what I had paid for was not simply sex, but not to have to worry about what he thought about me, or about what I thought he thought about me. And I could not know what he thought about me and because everything about the afternoon was so good, I could decide to think that he thought I was beautiful and that he was full of desire for me. I could never know the truth, and I didn't want to know, and it did not matter. And even if it was a fiction, it was not a lie, because fictions are not lies, but things that aren't real, but are still true.

I learned more about sex and desire and love in that afternoon than all the sex that I had had before my accident and all the misery afterwards had taught me. Most of all I learned that the feeling of romance can be created, by someone who knows how to create it, and that there is no such thing as pure love and that sex and what we want from it is beyond what can be defined in words, and perhaps also beyond our understanding, and that there is nothing in the world that someone somewhere does not find erotically fascinating and desirable, and that it does not matter why.

The third or fourth time my escort came to me, we were chatting afterwards and he said

‘You think that you're undesirable, don't you? Take a look at yourself. Your hair, your eyes, your skin, your breasts, your leg.'

I must have looked wary and suspicious.

‘Look,' he said, ‘we have done the sex, now we're just talking. I'm not going to tell you that you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Even if I meant it, you wouldn't believe me. But you are good looking, there's no doubting it. Anyway, what happened to your leg?'

‘I lost it three years ago in a car accident.'

I didn't mind him asking and I didn't mind answering him.

‘So until three years ago you were a good looking girl, and then you became a good looking girl who lost her leg in a car accident. You didn't die. You're alive…'

‘And I should get over myself!'

‘Well, yeah, actually.'

We were getting on and I started to feel like he liked me.

‘Can I ask you a question?'

‘I think I know what it's going to be. Yes, of course you can, but I don't guarantee to answer.'

‘How do you feel about what you do?'

‘It's a job. Sometimes it's a pleasure, other times not. It's a type of work that either a person can deal with or they can't. And you learn quickly whether you can or can't.'

I wanted to ask him if it was work or pleasure with me, but I did not want to spoil it. I kept on seeing him for a long time.

That first time made me think. I had to come to terms with the whys of desire. I had to learn to see that a man could desire me not only in spite of my disability, but sometimes partly because of it. I had to accept that the desire to protect was normal and natural, even if it became an exaggerated part of what a man might feel for me. And all of those ideas led me to a conclusion. It might be true that disabled people have problems with sex, but able bodied people also have problems about disabled people and sex; and the worst problem of all that an able person could have about disabled people and sex is in desiring them because of their disability. I got onto the internet and went to chat rooms on the subject and I started making contact with people like myself and talking to them about it.

It was all great, and I felt much better, but still I wasn't meeting anyone to date or have sex with. Mark, my escort, was still the only man that I was fucking. But it wasn't any longer because I hated myself. It was more because I liked myself again, and I was going to be choosy. And I was learning that the dating scene is different and more complicated and less easy to negotiate when you are in your late twenties and with a job and not much time and not so many people like yourself around, as it was when you were nineteen and a student at a university where everyone is on a mission to get laid.

At the same time that of all of this was going on and I was getting to like myself again, I was still seeing Mark and enjoying it and the more we met, the more I liked the scene we had. I liked the theatrical aspect of it and the ambiguity. And I liked the fact that he would come and we would spend time together and we would fuck and we would talk and then he would leave and I didn't need to think about it again until the next time I called him and he came. Of course, I did think about him sometimes; usually at night!

It reawakened an old fantasy of mine. Once, on a family holiday to Paris, when I was fifteen or so, I was out in the evening with my father and we got lost and we ended up walking onto the Rue St Denis. Everywhere you looked there were women standing about and they were in various states of undress. They were prostitutes; streetwalkers and they fascinated me. They looked impossibly exotic and sexy and sordid and forbidden and I wanted to be one of them, but of course I would never have dared. But for months afterwards I would dream and fantasise that I was one of the ladies of the Rue St Denis, and I was the most erotic woman on earth and every man desired me. I believed in the myth completely and I though how powerful they are and how no one could resist their spell.

That old fantasy came back to me and it stayed with me, and it grew to be more than a just an innocuous memory, and I remembered that I had figured out that the men who desire a woman like me often felt guilty about it, and probably could not find a way of shedding their guilt and had no amputee women to have sex with, and I remembered my search for an escort who gave services to disabled people.

Then I thought that there were no escorts who were disabled and who were providing services to able bodied people who desired disabled people; or to other disabled people for that matter. I remembered what Mark had said when I asked him about his work and he said that some can handle it and some can't, and I thought that I could. I had by then a lot of experience of being an escort's client and I wondered what it would be like to be the escort. Not everyone could do it, but I decided that I was going to be the disabled escort who offered clients the opportunity to have sex with a woman with one leg, and Leggy Lola was born.

The context that is created in the situation between an escort and her client is liberating. The money takes care of that. It's business, as they say; the magic word that takes the moral dilemmas away. If a man has paid, he feels comfortable. I know why he is there and he knows. I don't have to go through all of the fears and thoughts I used to go through about why a man desires me. It doesn't matter why in this context. And we don't really know each other, so there's no ‘stuff' to get in the way. I don't judge him and I provide a service. I'm good at it, and I know how to create the illusion and be the fantasy. It is a kind of theatre.

And I do enjoy it. People seem to think that prostitutes don't experience the same emotions that ‘normal' people experience. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't, but when I don't, I don't find it disgusting or distasteful. I do the job and I keep up the illusion. Of course, being a good whore means you have to be a good actress. Yes, whore. That's what I said.

I see only a maximum of two clients on any evening and a maximum of four on a Saturday. I need time to prepare between clients. They are usually not young guys, though there have been a few. Most of them are in their thirty or forties, but a few have been older. Some come once. Some come a few times. Others come for a while and then disappear. I have three regular clients. One of those has been visiting me for three years, and the other two for about two each.