I love travel.

The idea of it.

The version that lives in a dopamine-soaked Instagram reel, all curated playlists and well-lit airport lounges. I love the version of me I pretend to be in the days leading up to a trip , calm, competent, cosmopolitan. The woman who wears linen on planes and has pre-packed minis of everything.

 

But in reality?

 

I am none of those things.

 

In reality, I am a woman pacing barefoot across her apartment at 3am, a half-zipped suitcase on the floor and a chaotic to-do list in her head. I am three tabs deep into Google, trying to figure out why my WordPress banner won’t update, while simultaneously refreshing tracking info for a last-minute Sephora order that may or may not arrive before takeoff.

 

And somewhere in between syncing calendars and soaking lingerie in the sink, I wonder…not for the first time… why prepping for rest always feels like a war.

 

Because this isn’t just about packing.

This is about disentangling myself from the thousand invisible threads that hold my everyday life together: the admin, the boundaries, the clients, the ghosted emails, the things I swore I’d deal with later that are now screaming “Later is now.”

 

There’s an art to leaving town.

A ritual to releasing control.

 

But first, there’s chaos.

 

Whatsapp from clients who pretend they didn’t see the announcement that I’m away. Texts from men I’ve seen once, suddenly urgent, suddenly poetic, because they sense the window is closing. There’s always someone who thinks their pleasure should override my plans. That one final booking might be the exception: “just a quick visit,” as if intimacy is a drive-thru.

 

Then there’s the grooming.

The dry cleaning that wasn’t ready.

The dress I swore I’d take in, still too long.

 

The “just in case” shoes that somehow weigh two kilos but feel morally impossible to leave behind.

 

And of course, the existential part:

The inner monologue that always shows up two days before departure, asking the big questions no one invited to this party.

 

Have I done enough?

Have I earned this break?

Will I be forgotten while I’m gone?

Am I allowed to disappear?

 

Because for people like me; people whose work is built on constant visibility, on emotional presence as a performance art, absence feels like risk.

 

Will clients find someone else?

Will my site glitch while I’m in the air?

Will I come back and feel irrelevant?

 

And somewhere in that neurotic spiral, I remember the woman I thought I’d be.

 

The woman with colour-coded packing cubes.

The one who schedules blowouts and facials before flights.

The one who arrives at the airport with a hardcover novel and no sweat patches.

 

I built her in my head. I wanted her to exist.

But she’s a fantasy.

And honestly? I’m tired of trying to become her.

 

Because the woman I  actually am: the one who can only drink a double espresso, plus a soy latte and a few pieces of fruit because Qantas lounges are great for wine but hopeless with food, is real. She’s deleting spam from her inbox at midnight, not mediating.

She’s burnt out and barefoot, but she’s grounded.

And she’s earned this break, whether or not the to-do list is finished.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The irony is: half of my work is about teaching men how to be present. How to sit still in a moment.

How to feel.

 

But when it comes to my own rest?

I act like it’s something I have to deserve.

 

As if pleasure has to be purchased with burnout.

As if softness has to be postponed until after all the admin is done.

As if rest is something we buy, instead of something we claim.

 

So this time, I’m doing it differently.

 

I’m letting the chaos be part of the ritual.

The overstuffed suitcase. The messy inbox. The half-written blog post I meant to schedule. I’m letting it all come with me , not literally, but energetically. As proof that I am human. Not a brand. Not a curated feed. Just a person, who deserves to leave town without finishing every task on the list.

 

And no, I won’t take that last-minute booking.

I won’t fix your broken fantasy.

I won’t stay one more night just because you asked sweetly.

 

Because this time, I am choosing me.

 

Me, with my cashmere layers, my too-heavy skincare pouch, and my commitment to getting on that flight as an elegant woman, not a depleted one.

 

I will wear my platinum like armor.

I will listen to jazz while I board.

I will let the undone things stay undone.

 

Because if I’ve learned anything from this life,it.

 

From Bitter winter Sydney to tropical heat Kuala Lumpur. I am ready!

 

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Entry 3

 

One Watch,Two Faces

(Pulished on 05/08/2025)

 

I wear a Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso Duetto. it’s quiet, elegant, thoughtfully made. One side is bright, simple. The other, dark, edged in diamonds. Two moods, depending on what you are ready to see.

I am traveling right now, and this is the watch that I brought with me, not a quartz, not an automatic. I chose the Duetto because it asks something of me. It doesn’t just tick. I have to wind it. I have to pay attention, and I like that, especially when I’m in motion. That’s why it came with me. Like my work, it doesn’t run on autopilot. it waits, for the right hands, for the right movement. The kind of care. It doesn’t wind itself, left alone, it stops. But when someone returns and turns the crown with intention, it comes to life again. Not every hours it’s the right hour, sometimes I’m away. Sometimes I’m already spoken for, but when the timing lines up, everything starts to take with purpose.Some encounters are fleeting. A one-time meeting. A trace that lingers. Others return, changed but familiar. And there are the ones who have stayed. Through seasons, through shifts, the ones who saw me when I was new to all of this and kept coming back anyway.

Desires changes. Timing changes. Circumstances change. What someone wants the first time isn’t always what they need the next. I don’t work from a script, I follow what fits in the moment, not just what’s asked for, but what lands.

Sometimes we begin soft, slow, playful. Sometimes it’s sharper. Focused with a plan.Other times, we don’t need to say a word.
Like the Duetto, I shift. Not to reveal, but to respond. Thoughtfully. Deliberately. Until it fits just right.

Vanilla or Dark Chocolate.Gentle or intense. Familiar or new. The Duetto can show one , or both faces in one sitting, and often does. But even then, it turns with care. What happens depends on what you bring, what you ask for, and yes, what you’re willing to invest in.

Some are drawn to the smooth silver side. Others want more. The weight. The detail. The diamonds. The difference is subtle, but it shows. Especially in what you hand me at the end. A note. A transfer. A quiet thanks.

Yes, I sell time. But what you’re paying for is how it feels. Maybe you only want a short turn of the crown. Or maybe you want every tick. Every shift. Every second I’m willing to give.

That’s your call. And that choice shapes everything.

Whether this is your first visit or something we’ve done before, I want it to feel easy. Natural Considered.

Like slipping into something that fits just right.

Maybe that’s why I still wear this watch.

Because sometimes, all it takes is one turn of the crown, and everything shifts.

And it all begins again 

 

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Entry 4

Book Three Moans and Get one Free

(Published on 8/08/25)

I’m not in Sydney right now. I’m in Kuala Lumpur. And everywhere I turn: malls, apps, shopfronts… it’s screaming “8.8 SALE. Flash deals. Timed vouchers. Bank rebates. Things you didn’t need five minutes ago that suddenly feel urgent.

Even my phone’s doing it. The apps are throwing pop-ups at me like confetti at a divorce party.

HERE IS WHAT’S HAPPENING:

It’s funny. Being surrounded by all this discount noises reminded me of something. 

Something I did once. And only once.

Because every now and then, when the moon is in retro-whatever and my phone’s gone quieter than a nun at a sex club, I get tempted. You know, that whisper in the back of your mind that says: Maybe a little “Black Friday Bonk” promo will stir the pot.

So once. Just once. I caved. Business had dipped. I was bored. My phone had the personality of a dead fish. So I got cheeky. I sent out a tweet that said: 

”Book Three 1 hour Encounters And  Get One Free! This Week Only!”

Simple. Elegant. Unapologetically stupid.

And it worked. My phone buzzed like a vibrator on a discount shelf. I got booked solid, and not by the usual suspects. These were the coupon kings. The mileage-maximisers. The men who book thirty minutes, spend five in the shower beforehand, five after, and still expect a full thirty minutes of action. As if rinsing their balls doesn’t count against the clock.

One even asked mid-thrust, “Is the special still on next month?”

Sir. You cock is in my mouth right now. Ask your accountant.

Another came back with a sheepish grin: “Oh…but last time I paid $ X… can you do that again? As if I am a supermarket.

As if I’m running a loyalty card program. As if my boobs and genital comes with Flybuys.

Now let’s be clear. It’s not about the money. It’s about the tone.

Sales culture trains people to wait for a markdown. Not for desire, but for a discount. And I’m not a discount experience. I’m a luxury you book at full price because you want to. Not because it’s on clearance.

This isn’t a dig at massage parlours or beauticians who do “Winter Glow Ups” or “20% Off Packages.”
Respect to the girls keeping it moving.
But I’ve learned that the moment you reduce what you do to a bargain bin code, it stops being special.

It becomes expected. So no,I’m not doing 20% off your birthday month. No, you don’t get a free 30 minutes because you are a Gemini. And no, you can’t prepay ten for the price of six.

This is bespoke. Intimate. Tailored.
It’s not on sale, because it’s not for everyone.

But for old times’ sake, I’ll say this: The free and last moan? On me, obviously…they got theirs, and my jaw, fingers, pussy-cock, my back pussy, still roll their eyes when they hear those names.

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Entry 5

Post Card In The Sky 

(Publish on 12/08/25)

Somewhere above North India, although I am on my way, I am already there.

The window is fixed, but the views keep changing. Clouds, coastlines, cities sliding past. The frame stays the same, cities sliding past, but the story shifts every mile.



On the same date last year, I was arriving from Sicily to Istanbul, without knowing what I was stepping into. A place that has been a crossroads of ancient civilisations, carrying the fingerprints of countless histories. For someone like me, it was a leap.

By the time I left, I had found an unexpected affection for it, one that has been pulling me back ever since. 

Now, as the cabin hums around me, with linen, a flatbed waiting and aisle lights low, I notice the service. Sharp and personable. Not just polished, but human. The crew have that instinct for appearing at exactly the right moment, often before I even think to ask. It reminds me of my own work; no matter how full the day, you show up with purpose, warmth, and professionalism. I enjoy chatting with them, but I also know they need moments to themselves.

So I sit back with a fruit plate and water, letting the hum of the engines carry me. Not just toward Istanbul, but back into a feeling I know I will find again when we touch down.

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Entry 6

The Cat and The Catch

😸 He’s after fish. She’s after him. And I’m just watching to see who wins. 😸

(Published on 14/08/25)

 

It’s evening on the Galata Bridge. The air smells like salt and grilled mackerel. Ferries churn past, and every few seconds, a fishing line flicks overhead and disappears into the Bosphorus. The men lean on the railings like they’ve been doing this all their lives- patient, steady, eyes on the water. 

At my feet, a white-and-tabby cat is holding her own vigil. Tail wrapped neatly, gaze fixed on a polystyrene box where fresh fish still twitch. She’s not begging. She’s not chasing. She’s just here, part of the scene – and in this city, that makes her royalty. People feed cats here without thinking. They fuss over them, build little wooden houses for them, photograph them like celebrities.

The fisherman came for fish, certain of his plan. But then she wandered in, calm, sharp-eyed, impossible to miss. The fish he was chasing… and the cat he’s suddenly feeding.

That’s the thing about travel. You come for one thing…: You end up with something else in your lap, purring.

Behind us, Hagia Sophia glows in gold, minarets carving into the night sky. The fisherman keeps casting. The cat keeps waiting. And me? I’m still watching –  because sometimes, everyone gets exactly what they want… even if it’s not what they came for.

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