Service and/or Provider's Name:
Mischa Maxwell
Date of Encounter:
April 10, 2017
Contact Method:
mischa.maxwell@gmail.com
Appointment Length & Costs:
About 7 hours total, and it's complicated
Type/Location:
Karaoke box and then her hotel
Language Notes:
American English, Australian English and a bad French accent during one joke -- wait is this just about her or me?
Details of the Encounter:
I could see through the frosted glass on my office door that it was a dame who knocked. Not hesitantly like most of them, but firmly. Right away, I was interested. I could tell by her silhouette she was curvy, maybe even plump, built for comfort over speed like a Bentley with a trunk that would make Sir Mix-a-Lot sit up and beg for Grey Poupon. I could also see the time-worn lettering on the glass she was reading. It was backwards to me, but I knew what my own door said. NOT EVEN DAVE. FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR. Yeah, that’s me.
I shoved the stack of overdue bills into my top desk drawer and closed it, then I hid the contents of a glass of cheap Irish whiskey, first in my mouth, then my throat, and then my stomach. It burned a bit, but rubbing alcohol and yellow dye number 6 often will.
“Door’s open,” I croaked, and I put my feet flat on the floor so she wouldn’t see the socks peeking through the soles of my shoes.
She paused a moment for effect; she was good, this dame. Then she turned the knob and swung the door inward. She looked to be from uptown, and broads like her never stumbled into my office looking for directions to the opera house. They’ve almost always got a story to tell. And me, if there’s a fee to be made, I can be a real good listener.
Usually they start out nervous, wondering if I’ll think they’re crazy. Most of them are. You get used to it in my business. But this doll was different.
“My name is Mischa Maxwell, Mr. Dave…” she started.
“Call me ‘NED’,” I told her. “I’m not even Dave, so don’t call me that.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Very well, NED.” The way she said it, I thought maybe I heard snakes hissing somewhere in the room, but it may have just been the air leaking out of her patience.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Dollface,” I said, clamoring desperately to regain the upper hand. There was something about this blousy, bleach-blonde dame that was starting to get to me. The room was a little swirlier than before she had walked in. Maybe it was her perfume, a mix of rose petals and chloroform, with a touch of beet root to hold the fragrance longer. “How about you get to the part where you tell me what I can do for you?”
She slowly started unbuttoning her blouse and leaned towards me as the room swirled into blackness. “Oh no, NED,” she purred. “Let’s talk about what I can do for you.”
But wait… this story has a beginning. Flag a cab with me and we’ll go back there.
----------------------
Hello, TAGgers, It’s your Uncle NED with a review of Australian escort Mischa Maxwell, who is in Yokosuka and Tokyo for about a week each.
Everything about Mischa is utterly casual. Booking her, meeting her, playing with her, they all were a lot more like meeting up with an old girlfriend I hadn’t seen in awhile than hiring a stranger to extract fluids from my body in creative ways.
“You mean like with leaches, Uncle NED?”
Go away, boy; you bother me.
From the beginning, Mischa’s emails were playful and flirty and witty. The whole “scheduling” thing was very loose. Two reasons for that, really. One, I was catching her literally right off the plane, with her hotel not even ready for her to check in. So she didn’t have any scheduling conflicts for me to workaround. She had to put her suitcase in my car for a bit, which required me to rearrange a few corpses in the trunk that hadn’t quite dissolved yet. Two, she doesn’t see a lot of clients, even back home, so again, no real rigid schedule to keep. As a result, we were still emailing each other about details, the wheres and whens, just a half hour before we met. Which was also the moment I realized my first choice of karaoke venue was out of business. See, I had booked Mischa for two hours of platonic time at her rate of Y15,000, to go sing karaoke. My thinking was, at the very least I could enjoy some karaoke time with a witty Australian girl, and if sparks didn’t fly, we could leave it at that. It also left me an out in case my ever-stalking guilt decided to pull my jersey over my head and start punching me in the snout repeatedly. I asked her if her schedule allowed us to make decisions on the fly after that, and she said yes. DISCLAIMER: Don’t expect providers to do this for you. It’s a dick move, amirite? Even Mischa might not be able to support this kind of wishy-washy wait-and-see game all the time. I guess it doesn’t hurt to ask her. For the reasons stated above, she was amenable to it in this case.
In route to the meetup, I had swung by Don Quixote to buy a bag in which to put things like breath mints, a travel toothbrush/toothpaste, mouthwash, rags, chloroform, duct tape, and a bone saw. I noticed in Don Quixote that the men’s underwear all had intimidating names like BLACK MAN SUPERHERO and ANVIL. This did not help my confidence. In spite of the down-to-the-wire discussions about our plan, Mischa and I met each other at precisely the arranged time and location, her literally coming off the train and me standing outside the turnstile wondering for the nth time in my life if I had done the right thing. She was wearing a casual black dress with buttons on the front, a black overcoat, and pulling a heavy black suitcase behind her. I was wearing a 501st Legion First Order Elite Stormtrooper costume, the poncho from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, a hat with a huge penis on it from a rural Japanese fertility festival, and clown shoes.
I had been told in advance there might be more to Mischa than one might glean from her website — as in there might be more Mischa. Indeed, there is. If Miss Hana is calling herself “BBW”, then Miss Mischa most definitely fits into that category. If you are turned off by plus size women, then Mischa is not your ideal companion. If you are into plush, just email her right now. If you are indifferent to body types and only care about attitude and personality, read on.
As I said, my first karaoke choice (Shidax) had gone the way of a dead parrot (or perhaps it was just pining for the fjords), but fortunately there was a newly opened place nearby so we went there. After about a 20-minute registration process that was significantly more complicated than my taxes and a sworn statement signed in blood that I would not drink and drive, we had booked our room and were heading up to the second floor. We got in and Mischa admitted to me that she was a virgin — at Japanese karaoke. So, I showed her how to push all the buttons and twist all the knobs (Simma Down Now, we’re still talking about karaoke) and within minutes she was swilling sakura chu-hais and punching up Spice Girls like a vet.
I felt like a heel, though, because while I had taught her to manipulate the equipment, I hadn’t explained edamame to her, and by the time I realized what was happening, she had eaten a bunch of them whole, outer pods and all, which explained why the cast-off pod bowl was staying empty. It was like wondering where your missing sock went and then hearing the baby burp.
After singing her first song, I pointed out that since I had just paid her to come sing karaoke, she was now officially a professional singer. I didn’t point out that she had made as much for a tentative go at The Killers as I’ve made in the last 10 years selling my music on the internet.
We spent the two hours talking and singing, and really hadn’t even sat close to each other at this point. I was, TBH, still a bit undecided about what to do with my date. She wasn’t 100% my type physically, though that’s of secondary or tertiary consideration for me, and since we had been fairly occupied singing (which I take seriously, dammit) or talking about Japan, bands we liked, etc., I really hadn’t developed a lot of closeness to her. With only about five minutes remaining we decided not to put in another song, so I went over and sat next to her. She asked me a question about geopolitics specifically as it applies to Sino-Japanese and Sino-American relations, to include tensions around the Paracel and Senkaku Islands. Well, as you might expect, this led to us kissing madly and me groping her breasts through her dress. Had she asked me my thoughts on the standard laws of general relativity and conformal gravity, I’m pretty sure we would have shagged right there in the booth.
We went downstairs and I settled the bill, which was somehow the exact gross domestic product of Uzbekistan, and then headed to the car with a plan of checking her into her hotel. It’s worth mention that at this point, and for quite sometime after, all the way into her room, I still hadn’t decided if I was hanging around, in spite of some pretty nice smooching back in the karaoke box. I wanted to make sure she was safely checked into her room and then I sat on the edge of the bed and we started talking about I don’t even remember what, and then she sort of started kissing me again. I mentioned at the top (remember that distant beginning, so long ago?) that everything about Mischa felt like hooking back up with an old girlfriend, and that she’s very casual. The same went for the kissing. There was nothing mechanical or forced or check-in-the-block about it, if you know what I mean. There wasn’t this sense of “NOW IZ KISSING TIME. BEGIN.” It was this completely natural progression where we’re talking, one or the other of us leaned in, and some kissing happened. Even the first time back at the box, it felt like something that had happened before. Does that make sense?
BUT FUCKING WEIRDO THAT I AM, I STILL WASN’T SURE I WAS GOING TO STAY. What ended up happening, though, was again very, very organic. We kissed a short while and she unbuttoned her dress a little. We shifted into more comfortable positions to talk while lying on the bed (crossways instead of on the damn pillows, now that I think of it) and we talked, and then we kissed, and then we talked and then she might remove an article of clothing. We were talking about absolutely everything, from my germ phobias to her history in the industry to naked Japanese men in bars hiding their cellphones on your person, and on and on. Talk turned to “Vaginas; shapes and colors of” and she rather casually decided to show me hers as a visual aid. That did not, as you might imagine it would, directly lead to us doing anything erotic. I mean, we didn’t even resume kissing right away after that. We were having a discussion about the science of human anatomy and racial differentiation as presented in the size and shape of women’s labia. In one sense our nonchalant behavior was bizarre, but in another way it was the exact opposite. It was comfortable. You don’t see your longtime girlfriend nude and immediately jump on her like Cato leaping out of a walk-in freezer to attack Inspector Clouseau, right? The two of you lie around naked and talk about the price of cantaloupes and one of you starts absently stroking the other one’s skin, right? Then somewhere around the time you’re talking about which Pixar movie made you cry the most, the kissing starts in earnest. That’s what this was like. And the kissing did eventually start in earnest, and we did guide each other to a couple of very intimate moments each, which again felt very shared and natural and like we had been doing this for years together.
If you read my recent review called “making it real…” in the massage review section, I proposed the idea of a box that some providers hide a part of themselves in to keep their personal selves separate from their professional selves. I said I really like it when I connect with a lady enough to get invited to peek into that box and say hi to the real girl. Mischa has no box. None. She is who she is, says what she thinks, leans in and kisses you if she likes you, tells you how to get her off when that time comes and when she gets off there is just no question as to its authenticity. And then she lays there and talks about anything and everything some more, as personal as things can get, and I found myself telling her things I’ve literally never told anyone else (and that blackmail note should be hitting my email box right about…..)
Ultimately, after all the intermingled talking, petting, talking, smooching, watching Lonely Island videos on her iPhone, cumming, talking, getting a little misty eyed with each other over old breakups, kissing some more… I looked at the clock and holy crap we had spent seven hours together since meeting at the station and I needed to race home. Due to the rather convoluted nature of our time together, which included two hours of platonic karaoke time, a whole bunch of parking, driving, parking, checking into hotel, as well as in-room time, I have not included the cost as it was (as much of our date was) played by ear and not a good representation of what you should expect.
Final Thoughts:
Recommended, May Repeat.
Closing Comments:
Recommended (if you are not against plus-size women) because: My experience with Mischa was not just sexual, it was intensely personal and emotionally therapeutic. Usually when I have an orgasm via P4P, I want another one before I'm even able to board my first train home (symptomatic of my sexual compulsiveness), and that ride home is filled with the twin demons of worry and guilt -- worry over germs and guilt over the dalliance. In contrast, driving home from Mischa's hotel, I had a profound feeling of total calm and satisfaction, as though I wouldn't need sex again for awhile. I believe this came from the two of us sharing private things and the way we worked with each other during the physical moments to give each other exactly what each of us wanted, resulting in some pretty intense orgasms for both of us.
May Repeat because: she lives on a different continent, doesn't see many clients there (on purpose) and may leave the business soon.
Mischa Maxwell
Date of Encounter:
April 10, 2017
Contact Method:
mischa.maxwell@gmail.com
Appointment Length & Costs:
About 7 hours total, and it's complicated
Type/Location:
Karaoke box and then her hotel
Language Notes:
American English, Australian English and a bad French accent during one joke -- wait is this just about her or me?
Details of the Encounter:
I could see through the frosted glass on my office door that it was a dame who knocked. Not hesitantly like most of them, but firmly. Right away, I was interested. I could tell by her silhouette she was curvy, maybe even plump, built for comfort over speed like a Bentley with a trunk that would make Sir Mix-a-Lot sit up and beg for Grey Poupon. I could also see the time-worn lettering on the glass she was reading. It was backwards to me, but I knew what my own door said. NOT EVEN DAVE. FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR. Yeah, that’s me.
I shoved the stack of overdue bills into my top desk drawer and closed it, then I hid the contents of a glass of cheap Irish whiskey, first in my mouth, then my throat, and then my stomach. It burned a bit, but rubbing alcohol and yellow dye number 6 often will.
“Door’s open,” I croaked, and I put my feet flat on the floor so she wouldn’t see the socks peeking through the soles of my shoes.
She paused a moment for effect; she was good, this dame. Then she turned the knob and swung the door inward. She looked to be from uptown, and broads like her never stumbled into my office looking for directions to the opera house. They’ve almost always got a story to tell. And me, if there’s a fee to be made, I can be a real good listener.
Usually they start out nervous, wondering if I’ll think they’re crazy. Most of them are. You get used to it in my business. But this doll was different.
“My name is Mischa Maxwell, Mr. Dave…” she started.
“Call me ‘NED’,” I told her. “I’m not even Dave, so don’t call me that.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Very well, NED.” The way she said it, I thought maybe I heard snakes hissing somewhere in the room, but it may have just been the air leaking out of her patience.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Dollface,” I said, clamoring desperately to regain the upper hand. There was something about this blousy, bleach-blonde dame that was starting to get to me. The room was a little swirlier than before she had walked in. Maybe it was her perfume, a mix of rose petals and chloroform, with a touch of beet root to hold the fragrance longer. “How about you get to the part where you tell me what I can do for you?”
She slowly started unbuttoning her blouse and leaned towards me as the room swirled into blackness. “Oh no, NED,” she purred. “Let’s talk about what I can do for you.”
But wait… this story has a beginning. Flag a cab with me and we’ll go back there.
----------------------
Hello, TAGgers, It’s your Uncle NED with a review of Australian escort Mischa Maxwell, who is in Yokosuka and Tokyo for about a week each.
Everything about Mischa is utterly casual. Booking her, meeting her, playing with her, they all were a lot more like meeting up with an old girlfriend I hadn’t seen in awhile than hiring a stranger to extract fluids from my body in creative ways.
“You mean like with leaches, Uncle NED?”
Go away, boy; you bother me.
From the beginning, Mischa’s emails were playful and flirty and witty. The whole “scheduling” thing was very loose. Two reasons for that, really. One, I was catching her literally right off the plane, with her hotel not even ready for her to check in. So she didn’t have any scheduling conflicts for me to workaround. She had to put her suitcase in my car for a bit, which required me to rearrange a few corpses in the trunk that hadn’t quite dissolved yet. Two, she doesn’t see a lot of clients, even back home, so again, no real rigid schedule to keep. As a result, we were still emailing each other about details, the wheres and whens, just a half hour before we met. Which was also the moment I realized my first choice of karaoke venue was out of business. See, I had booked Mischa for two hours of platonic time at her rate of Y15,000, to go sing karaoke. My thinking was, at the very least I could enjoy some karaoke time with a witty Australian girl, and if sparks didn’t fly, we could leave it at that. It also left me an out in case my ever-stalking guilt decided to pull my jersey over my head and start punching me in the snout repeatedly. I asked her if her schedule allowed us to make decisions on the fly after that, and she said yes. DISCLAIMER: Don’t expect providers to do this for you. It’s a dick move, amirite? Even Mischa might not be able to support this kind of wishy-washy wait-and-see game all the time. I guess it doesn’t hurt to ask her. For the reasons stated above, she was amenable to it in this case.
In route to the meetup, I had swung by Don Quixote to buy a bag in which to put things like breath mints, a travel toothbrush/toothpaste, mouthwash, rags, chloroform, duct tape, and a bone saw. I noticed in Don Quixote that the men’s underwear all had intimidating names like BLACK MAN SUPERHERO and ANVIL. This did not help my confidence. In spite of the down-to-the-wire discussions about our plan, Mischa and I met each other at precisely the arranged time and location, her literally coming off the train and me standing outside the turnstile wondering for the nth time in my life if I had done the right thing. She was wearing a casual black dress with buttons on the front, a black overcoat, and pulling a heavy black suitcase behind her. I was wearing a 501st Legion First Order Elite Stormtrooper costume, the poncho from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, a hat with a huge penis on it from a rural Japanese fertility festival, and clown shoes.
I had been told in advance there might be more to Mischa than one might glean from her website — as in there might be more Mischa. Indeed, there is. If Miss Hana is calling herself “BBW”, then Miss Mischa most definitely fits into that category. If you are turned off by plus size women, then Mischa is not your ideal companion. If you are into plush, just email her right now. If you are indifferent to body types and only care about attitude and personality, read on.
As I said, my first karaoke choice (Shidax) had gone the way of a dead parrot (or perhaps it was just pining for the fjords), but fortunately there was a newly opened place nearby so we went there. After about a 20-minute registration process that was significantly more complicated than my taxes and a sworn statement signed in blood that I would not drink and drive, we had booked our room and were heading up to the second floor. We got in and Mischa admitted to me that she was a virgin — at Japanese karaoke. So, I showed her how to push all the buttons and twist all the knobs (Simma Down Now, we’re still talking about karaoke) and within minutes she was swilling sakura chu-hais and punching up Spice Girls like a vet.
I felt like a heel, though, because while I had taught her to manipulate the equipment, I hadn’t explained edamame to her, and by the time I realized what was happening, she had eaten a bunch of them whole, outer pods and all, which explained why the cast-off pod bowl was staying empty. It was like wondering where your missing sock went and then hearing the baby burp.
After singing her first song, I pointed out that since I had just paid her to come sing karaoke, she was now officially a professional singer. I didn’t point out that she had made as much for a tentative go at The Killers as I’ve made in the last 10 years selling my music on the internet.
We spent the two hours talking and singing, and really hadn’t even sat close to each other at this point. I was, TBH, still a bit undecided about what to do with my date. She wasn’t 100% my type physically, though that’s of secondary or tertiary consideration for me, and since we had been fairly occupied singing (which I take seriously, dammit) or talking about Japan, bands we liked, etc., I really hadn’t developed a lot of closeness to her. With only about five minutes remaining we decided not to put in another song, so I went over and sat next to her. She asked me a question about geopolitics specifically as it applies to Sino-Japanese and Sino-American relations, to include tensions around the Paracel and Senkaku Islands. Well, as you might expect, this led to us kissing madly and me groping her breasts through her dress. Had she asked me my thoughts on the standard laws of general relativity and conformal gravity, I’m pretty sure we would have shagged right there in the booth.
We went downstairs and I settled the bill, which was somehow the exact gross domestic product of Uzbekistan, and then headed to the car with a plan of checking her into her hotel. It’s worth mention that at this point, and for quite sometime after, all the way into her room, I still hadn’t decided if I was hanging around, in spite of some pretty nice smooching back in the karaoke box. I wanted to make sure she was safely checked into her room and then I sat on the edge of the bed and we started talking about I don’t even remember what, and then she sort of started kissing me again. I mentioned at the top (remember that distant beginning, so long ago?) that everything about Mischa felt like hooking back up with an old girlfriend, and that she’s very casual. The same went for the kissing. There was nothing mechanical or forced or check-in-the-block about it, if you know what I mean. There wasn’t this sense of “NOW IZ KISSING TIME. BEGIN.” It was this completely natural progression where we’re talking, one or the other of us leaned in, and some kissing happened. Even the first time back at the box, it felt like something that had happened before. Does that make sense?
BUT FUCKING WEIRDO THAT I AM, I STILL WASN’T SURE I WAS GOING TO STAY. What ended up happening, though, was again very, very organic. We kissed a short while and she unbuttoned her dress a little. We shifted into more comfortable positions to talk while lying on the bed (crossways instead of on the damn pillows, now that I think of it) and we talked, and then we kissed, and then we talked and then she might remove an article of clothing. We were talking about absolutely everything, from my germ phobias to her history in the industry to naked Japanese men in bars hiding their cellphones on your person, and on and on. Talk turned to “Vaginas; shapes and colors of” and she rather casually decided to show me hers as a visual aid. That did not, as you might imagine it would, directly lead to us doing anything erotic. I mean, we didn’t even resume kissing right away after that. We were having a discussion about the science of human anatomy and racial differentiation as presented in the size and shape of women’s labia. In one sense our nonchalant behavior was bizarre, but in another way it was the exact opposite. It was comfortable. You don’t see your longtime girlfriend nude and immediately jump on her like Cato leaping out of a walk-in freezer to attack Inspector Clouseau, right? The two of you lie around naked and talk about the price of cantaloupes and one of you starts absently stroking the other one’s skin, right? Then somewhere around the time you’re talking about which Pixar movie made you cry the most, the kissing starts in earnest. That’s what this was like. And the kissing did eventually start in earnest, and we did guide each other to a couple of very intimate moments each, which again felt very shared and natural and like we had been doing this for years together.
If you read my recent review called “making it real…” in the massage review section, I proposed the idea of a box that some providers hide a part of themselves in to keep their personal selves separate from their professional selves. I said I really like it when I connect with a lady enough to get invited to peek into that box and say hi to the real girl. Mischa has no box. None. She is who she is, says what she thinks, leans in and kisses you if she likes you, tells you how to get her off when that time comes and when she gets off there is just no question as to its authenticity. And then she lays there and talks about anything and everything some more, as personal as things can get, and I found myself telling her things I’ve literally never told anyone else (and that blackmail note should be hitting my email box right about…..)
Ultimately, after all the intermingled talking, petting, talking, smooching, watching Lonely Island videos on her iPhone, cumming, talking, getting a little misty eyed with each other over old breakups, kissing some more… I looked at the clock and holy crap we had spent seven hours together since meeting at the station and I needed to race home. Due to the rather convoluted nature of our time together, which included two hours of platonic karaoke time, a whole bunch of parking, driving, parking, checking into hotel, as well as in-room time, I have not included the cost as it was (as much of our date was) played by ear and not a good representation of what you should expect.
Final Thoughts:
Recommended, May Repeat.
Closing Comments:
Recommended (if you are not against plus-size women) because: My experience with Mischa was not just sexual, it was intensely personal and emotionally therapeutic. Usually when I have an orgasm via P4P, I want another one before I'm even able to board my first train home (symptomatic of my sexual compulsiveness), and that ride home is filled with the twin demons of worry and guilt -- worry over germs and guilt over the dalliance. In contrast, driving home from Mischa's hotel, I had a profound feeling of total calm and satisfaction, as though I wouldn't need sex again for awhile. I believe this came from the two of us sharing private things and the way we worked with each other during the physical moments to give each other exactly what each of us wanted, resulting in some pretty intense orgasms for both of us.
May Repeat because: she lives on a different continent, doesn't see many clients there (on purpose) and may leave the business soon.
