escort diary® of Zara Zeppelin: Cigarettes & Silk
I woke up at 2PM with glitter under my nails and someone else’s cologne in my hair. No complaints. Just facts. There’s a particular flavor to Mondays when you live outside the calendar — like sipping champagne out of a coffee mug while the rest of the city files into cubicles and calls it ambition.
Southbank was humming last night. Soft jazz bleeding out of penthouses, Ubers idling like sharks at the curb, and me — all legs, lashes, and leather — drifting through it like I owned the script.
Men spoke. Money moved. Eyes lingered too long. But I wasn’t there for them. I was there to remind myself I still tilt the axis when I walk.
There’s a rhythm to this life — a decadent, feral poetry. It’s part theatre, part warfare, part therapy. And I play the lead with my tongue in cheek and a stiletto to the throat of expectation.
Tonight? Who knows. Maybe I’ll stay in and write. Maybe I’ll ruin a man who thought he couldn’t be moved.
Either way — I’m dressed for both.
x
Zara
