Review Natalie (La Belle de Luxe) A gorgeous lady saves the day
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Natalie (La Belle de Luxe): A gorgeous lady saves the day
As a dedicated day-sleeper, holiday trading hours at my favourite parlour are pure evil.
I heroically shattered my sleep cycle, dragged myself upright, and attempted to snag a 7 pm slot six whole hours in advance… only for my chosen lady to already be fully booked.
After rashly rejecting the consolation prize, I’m now officially high, dry, and wide awake—with zero hope of slipping back into the sweet abyss of sleep. I clearly had no choice but to pit my precious vampiric pallor against that merciless bastard in the sky and see what was available elsewhere at this ungodly daylight hour when the common folk are inexplicably bustling about like they actually enjoy the sun.
After a quick text, I scored Natalie at La Belle—she was available, complete with a glowing endorsement: “She’s gorgeous too, you won’t be disappointed” – and I wasn’t to be.
Still riding the good-humour high, I breezed down College Hill and past Victoria Park, racking up my steps like a man on a mission (or at least pretending to be productive). Buzzing in at the door, I step into La Belle: basically, two rooms and a bathroom tucked in the basement beneath Sapphire Blue, where most of the La Belle girls moonlight upstairs for full service if you prefer the deluxe package.
Even though it's rarely packed—I've never seen both rooms occupied at once—they consistently field some of the most stunning girls around. A few legends have moved on, most notably the unforgettable Candice. (Not too far, though).
Natalie? Straight into the hall-of-fame tier. Blonder than the photos, gorgeous beyond the hype (“you won’t be disappointed” was an understatement)—I let her guide me downstairs with zero resistance, ready for a full hour of the kind of bliss that makes the daylight sacrifice worth it.
All was going well when I decided to indulge in my favourite extra. Natalie quoted a price, which was a good $140 cheaper than the last rapacious (but futile) request in Mt Eden. I thought I’d misheard (deaf old bastard), but she seemed concerned that it was too much. I realised she’d been out of the game for a few years and wasn’t aware of the extras’ hyperinflation. I assured her it was fine and in fact I would bump it up – making her happy, me feel important and shafting those who follow me. {Remember this bit, it will become important later – God, how much more?]
Everything wrapped up as intended, I’m showered, going shamelessly all daok, which required me getting my phone out for some reason. Big hugs, and I’m out the door. My feet barely touch the pavement as I swan down Wellesley St, skip in the shade of the beautiful plane trees in Victoria Park, welcome the invigorating climb up College Hill, then…. FUCK, FUCK FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!
I’d forgotten to pay for the extra. Not her price, not my boastful bump, not a penny! My previous claims to have never been asked to pay in advance ring hollow in my ears. I text back. Natalie has left the building. The receptionist helpfully suggested I “treat her next time” or use the option “of a bank transfer”. But no. I’m straight back down the FUCKING HILL; Past FUCKING Victoria Park with its stupid FUCKING plane trees that litter the place with their leaves; up polluted, congested Wellesley St with its archaic, always mispronounced name – I’m buzzing in again.
A fist full of guilt-ridden fifties shoved into the hands of the grateful receptionist later. I’m hailing an Uber.
Natalie is gorgeous (did I mention?). Definitely book her… but a piece of advice – never get old and senile.
As a dedicated day-sleeper, holiday trading hours at my favourite parlour are pure evil.
I heroically shattered my sleep cycle, dragged myself upright, and attempted to snag a 7 pm slot six whole hours in advance… only for my chosen lady to already be fully booked.
After rashly rejecting the consolation prize, I’m now officially high, dry, and wide awake—with zero hope of slipping back into the sweet abyss of sleep. I clearly had no choice but to pit my precious vampiric pallor against that merciless bastard in the sky and see what was available elsewhere at this ungodly daylight hour when the common folk are inexplicably bustling about like they actually enjoy the sun.
After a quick text, I scored Natalie at La Belle—she was available, complete with a glowing endorsement: “She’s gorgeous too, you won’t be disappointed” – and I wasn’t to be.
Still riding the good-humour high, I breezed down College Hill and past Victoria Park, racking up my steps like a man on a mission (or at least pretending to be productive). Buzzing in at the door, I step into La Belle: basically, two rooms and a bathroom tucked in the basement beneath Sapphire Blue, where most of the La Belle girls moonlight upstairs for full service if you prefer the deluxe package.
Even though it's rarely packed—I've never seen both rooms occupied at once—they consistently field some of the most stunning girls around. A few legends have moved on, most notably the unforgettable Candice. (Not too far, though).
Natalie? Straight into the hall-of-fame tier. Blonder than the photos, gorgeous beyond the hype (“you won’t be disappointed” was an understatement)—I let her guide me downstairs with zero resistance, ready for a full hour of the kind of bliss that makes the daylight sacrifice worth it.
All was going well when I decided to indulge in my favourite extra. Natalie quoted a price, which was a good $140 cheaper than the last rapacious (but futile) request in Mt Eden. I thought I’d misheard (deaf old bastard), but she seemed concerned that it was too much. I realised she’d been out of the game for a few years and wasn’t aware of the extras’ hyperinflation. I assured her it was fine and in fact I would bump it up – making her happy, me feel important and shafting those who follow me. {Remember this bit, it will become important later – God, how much more?]
Everything wrapped up as intended, I’m showered, going shamelessly all daok, which required me getting my phone out for some reason. Big hugs, and I’m out the door. My feet barely touch the pavement as I swan down Wellesley St, skip in the shade of the beautiful plane trees in Victoria Park, welcome the invigorating climb up College Hill, then…. FUCK, FUCK FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!
I’d forgotten to pay for the extra. Not her price, not my boastful bump, not a penny! My previous claims to have never been asked to pay in advance ring hollow in my ears. I text back. Natalie has left the building. The receptionist helpfully suggested I “treat her next time” or use the option “of a bank transfer”. But no. I’m straight back down the FUCKING HILL; Past FUCKING Victoria Park with its stupid FUCKING plane trees that litter the place with their leaves; up polluted, congested Wellesley St with its archaic, always mispronounced name – I’m buzzing in again.
A fist full of guilt-ridden fifties shoved into the hands of the grateful receptionist later. I’m hailing an Uber.
Natalie is gorgeous (did I mention?). Definitely book her… but a piece of advice – never get old and senile.
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