Complaint to Madame Tamara's Ladies of the Night Escort Service

Madame Tamara,

You and I have a bone to pick. It’s about my escort last Thursday. Thing is…I’m going to have to ask for a full refund for the services rendered by Vicky. And let me just state – this is not her fault, so I don’t want to hear about that beaut being fired. The problem, Madame Tamara, was not her at all, but rather YOU ignoring my specifications about what I wanted from her.

Now at first sight, Vicky was everything I had hoped for. Beautiful, tan, tall, leggy, and blonde. She was not, however, a natural blonde, and though I know I’m being picky here – she had a birthmark too. Which is funny, because I remember specifically requesting a naturally blonde woman with unblemished skin, not a brown-bushed gal with a mole on her penis.

So I would like my money back.

Like I said, with the exception of the birthmark and the fact that she was a brunette, Vicky was wonderful. Her eyes were dazzling, her chest robust, her penis thick and filling.

But HELLO, I asked for a natural blonde with an unmarred penis, not some faux-fair-haired slut sporting a freckle wang! It’s like, what part of “golden-pubed spotless meat-staff” did you not understand?

You got the pert rack right, you got the pretty part down, you were spot-on with the long legs and the huge pecker – but when it came time for the flawless foreskin and the honey-colored bush, you up and dicked me. What’s that about?!

Listen, you want me to go elsewhere for my erotic shemale companion fulfillment fantasies, I can. I can and I will. I got numbers out the wazoo. I know of three specialty services not thirty minutes from here! Not to mention the freelancers. And if worse comes to worst, I can always just dial up that conjoined twin team and close my eyes.

What I’m saying is, I got options.

But I don’t want to do that, Madame Tamara. Because the truth is, I like you. I like you and your bleached-blonde, big-dong, gash-lacking lady friends. And I want to stay loyal. But that’s going to require a little sacrifice on your part. A little sacrifice to the tune of $200 to be exact…

I think you know what to do and what not do. Give me my refund, and don’t f*ck me, Madame Tamara. Okay? Because that’s the shim’s job.

Regrettably yours,

David