escort diary® of Fae Spice: Prose, whisky, and a beautiful woman…
Last night, I found myself tucked into a corner of a warm, dimly lit bar. The kind with soft jazz and dark corners lit by candlelight. The air was laced with orange peel, oak, and something faintly forbidden. I had a nip of Chinotto whisky in one hand, and The Complete Works of Leonora Carrington in the other - a recent gift from a generous client who knew I loved her paintings and suspected (correctly) that I’d fall even harder for her strange, exquisite prose.
Carrington’s writing always undoes me. It feels like stepping into a surreal fever dream - her world is all restless horses, fractured time, and women who refuse to be explained. Every sentence feels slightly enchanted, like it’s rearranging the air around me. I sipped slowly, reading and re-reading passages, letting her words slip beneath my skin.
I was so wrapped in her strange, dreamlike logic that I didn’t notice her at first.
She was at the bar, dark eyes, dark hair, long fingers curled around a tumbler of something amber. She watched me the way a woman watches someone she already knows she’ll kiss. Our eyes met - hers steady, mine flickering - and in that suspended moment, I felt the evening tilt on its axis.
She raised her glass slightly. I smiled. A heartbeat passed, and then another. Something electric rippled between us, slow and unmistakable. She held my gaze as she uncrossed her legs with careful intention. It was a gesture designed to be noticed.
And oh, I noticed.
She didn’t look away. Neither did I.
We didn’t speak - not yet. But the conversation was already happening, just beneath the surface. A slow seduction in glances, in the tilt of a smile, in the air charged between two women who know the game and love to play it.
My skin buzzed. My thighs pressed tighter beneath the table. And though I finished my whisky, I never reopened my book.
I left before midnight, a little flushed, utterly undone, and entirely alive.
Some women enter your night like a dream.
Some stay in your mind like a question.
And some - if you’re lucky - answer it with their hands.
