The Princess Mindset Book Review

I have been teaching for twenty years. That is long enough to stop being easily shocked. Long enough to watch people reveal themselves in ordinary rooms, under bad lighting, with crumbs on the table. I thought I had seen everything. The bluster. The quiet ones. The ones who talk about sex as if it were a sport they were winning. The ones who cannot say the word without laughing. Three marriages. A long string of lovers and exes. I am not reciting that as a boast. It is simply the life I have had. I have been adored badly and touched competently and left hungry in beds that looked, from the outside, perfectly successful.

And then I read this book. I’ll post the leaked version I read below, admittedly, I didn’t purchase it.

Download the free book here

If you have been on social media for more than five minutes, you have already brushed against it. A review. A screenshot. A woman being a little too careful with her mouth when she talks about it. I am from Cheshunt. I’ve even seen influencers and youngsters, with modern values, claiming they have tried him and failed. It’s interesting framing. When the oral sex is so good that you come apart at the seams you just have to write about it, that sounds more like a win than a fail. And why you have to review it at all is beyond me. Annoyingly, I have met one these influencers at a convention some time ago in Holborn, and I don’t doubt for a second that she’s being honest. I just wonder why you have to turn something this personal into content at all.

I heard this version of this story many years ago and gave it almost no weight. I was married at the time. It was nowhere near as stark as it is now. When I first heard of him, people were a little more subtle. This new generation is different. Nothing is sacred, sex is shared publicly. If I were him, I’d be monetising these awful youngsters too. But the story wasn’t as large as it is now. It sounded like folklore for women who had been disappointed too many times and needed a heroic figure to pin their hope on. A man who actually knew what he was doing. A rumour with good bone structure. I filed it under nonsense and went back to marking, cooking, living a life that did not require myths.

That was until this book come along. Until then it was just whispered comments and stories. Now, it’s in black and white, his entire routine. And I must say, it sounds very tempting.

I have read nearly every sexual advice book that gets passed from hand to hand like contraband. Most of them read like old Cortina manuals. Tight. Cheerful. Weirdly pleased with themselves. Lots of labelled parts. Very little understanding of the woman attached to them. They tell you where to put things. They do not tell you how it feels when a person decides, properly decides, that your pleasure is the work.

This one is different. I say that as a qualified psychiatrist and as a woman who has been in enough rooms to know the difference between instruction and seduction. Some minds fasten onto one craft and refuse to leave it alone. They perfect their hobby. A language. A game. A single problem they keep turning in their hands until it shines. The man who wrote this has fastened onto the business of satisfying a woman. Not the performance of it. Not the highlight. The long, patient, slightly frightening competence of it. He somehow can take you apart with his written words alone. Reading this book makes you feel like you have the flu. While reading it, you end up all clammy and hot, uncomfortable, and you can’t sit right.

It is advertised as a book for men. Men, as a broad and disappointing category, would not know their arse from their elbow. I say that with heat and with evidence. This book is for us. I have read the blog posts from the brave girls that have stepped up to him and wrote about it, and they are braver than me. You get one bright update. She has made contact and excited. She is daring herself for content. She sounds fizzy and brave. Then, a week later, another post, smaller somehow, written by a woman who has crawled back into her own life with her thighs still broken and the excitement replaced with an exhausted, yet satisfied face. I’ve seen three of these and one of them I know well enough to stop and chat in the street. And they are intriguing. I recognised that shape before I wanted to.

I read it more than once because the first time I could not stay still. It is a sex guide, yes. It also reads like a resume. Clean. Ordered. Unembarrassed. It takes apart the private knowledge women are told should stay implicit, the things we feel and do not always name, and it puts that knowledge in a man’s hands. That is the part that feels indecent. Not because men should remain stupid. Because so many of us were raised to treat our own arousal as weather. It arrives. It passes. You hope he notices. You do not expect him to study it. When he describes what he does, he tells you how it feels and why it feels that way, but its written within encased structure. It’s clever because its formulaic, it’s hypnotic.

The official story of sex is two people doing their thing and hoping the evening is kind. He refuses that story. He writes as if a woman’s body can be learned. As if attention is a method. As if the aim is not a quick finish and a polite kiss, but a slow dismantling. Pleasure used with intention. Pleasure held long enough that your thoughts start to slip. He writes about taking a woman apart over time until she is not performing any more, not managing the scene, not keeping one clever part of herself above the bed. Just gone in it. I am not sure we are built for that, mentally or physically. I am also not sure that doubt will stop you turning the page.

It made me sit strangely. That is the most honest sentence I have. The writing is hypnotic in a way that does not wave at you. It leaves space. Your brain, traitorous lovely thing, fills the gaps. A mouth is described and your mouth answers. A pause is described and your hips answer. It feels deliberate. If it is deliberate, then the intelligence behind it is not the cheap kind people assume when they hear the word ex escort. I have never met an escort. I will not pretend I have a file of case studies. What I will say is this. The page does not feel accidental. Obsession leaves a shape. So does skill.

Every chapter is doing a job. You do not notice the structure at first because your body is busy. Then, towards the end, the picture completes and you realise you have been led. He gives you just enough of an action and then stops, so your imagination has to lean forward and finish it. That is why it is absorbing. That is why it is dangerous if you are already a little starved. You do not simply read. You participate.

The kissing chapter undid me more than the oral sex, which I did not expect and am faintly annoyed about. I am a hopeless romantic. I like a proper snog. The slow kind. The kind that makes your thoughts go soft at the edges. He writes about a mouth as if it were a whole evening. Not a peck on the way to the main event. Not the rushed, slightly dry hello that so many men think counts. He writes about lingering. About learning the pace of a woman from her breath. About kissing her like the kiss itself is the point, like he has nowhere else to be, like your lower lip is a problem he is happy to spend time on. He’s the first man to ever describe why kissing is important to women, and he hits the nail on the head so hard there little nail left. Why is this only man on planet that seems to understand what a kiss is for? That one understanding is fascinating to me. Because if he understands that, I can only imagine what the rest is like. And I can’t hep but wonder.

Would I kiss this man? Almost certainly. But I would fear it.

He clearly states he used to be hired for kissing alone. A few hours just kissing and cuddling. The illusion of love. Tenderness. Company. If that’s agreed then that’s how it’s locked in place. How does a man stop the need to it take further? How does she? That’s what I would hire him for if anything at all. If I were brave.

I had to stop. That sounds theatrical. It was not. It was physical. My mouth felt used and he had not touched me. If he kisses the way he describes, I would pay for that alone. I would sit on the edge of a hotel bed in good lighting and let a stranger ruin my composure with nothing but that. It sounds beautiful. I know how that word sits in a review of a leaked sex book. I am using it anyway. Some competence is erotic because it is precise. This was erotic because it was devoted.

Then the book moves lower, and the devotion does not become cruder. That is the trick of it. A lot of writing about oral sex is either shy or pornographic in the lazy way, all wet noise and no mind. His is neither. He writes as if a woman’s vagina is not a pit stop. As if the work is to stay. To notice. It is graphic, but it’s not gross. It’s all just a matter of fact. To keep going after the first pretty reaction, the one men so often treat as a finish line. He writes about worship without dressing it in stained glass. The phrase in the book is pussy worship. It is blunt. It is also, when you sit with it, strangely tender. Not worship as kneeling for show. Worship as attention that does not get bored. A man deciding that your pleasure is the altar and then actually remaining there.

I have had lovers who liked the idea of that. Very few who could sustain it. Wanting to be good in bed is common. Staying in the work after your jaw is tired and her voice has changed and the room has gone a bit holy and a bit filthy at once is rare. The book understands rarity. That is why women are talking about it in kitchens with the door half closed.

Everything about it is unfair. The secrecy contract and all the technical stuff aside, physically it hits. I had been happily single long enough to stop treating coupledom as the default setting. Two years without dating. Longer than that without sex. I had made a quiet life and I was proud of the quiet. I liked my own bed. I liked not performing desire for someone who could not read my face. I liked teaching, coming home, putting a record on, being left alone with my own heat until it cooled.

Then this thing woke the part of me I had folded away. Not a girlish crush. Something lower and more inconvenient. He has poked the hive with a stick. I could feel myself getting wet from sentences. That is a humiliating thing to admit in public and I am admitting it because the book does not allow you much dignity, and pretending otherwise would be a lie with good posture.

That is what he means, I think, by crippling a woman with pleasure. Not harm. Overflow. The point at which you cannot hold your personality in place. I have built a life on holding myself in place. I know how to mark a paper and sit through a meeting and be the sensible one at Sunday lunch. This book does not care. It talks directly to the animal under the professional voice. It says you can be taken apart slowly and still be safe. It says a man can want your orgasm more than his own and mean it. It says your body is allowed to be the event.

I wish more men would read it and actually learn. However, it’s too far. It tips the balance. The cure to women being left unsatisfied is not to tip it so far you leave them overstimulated. That’s over spoiling. And that system will break. As an ex escort it works for him, but in a relationship, this could break everything. He even states very clearly, this should never be done repeatedly. He says quite comically, it’s like anal sex, birthdays and Christmas and not a replacement for sex. He clearly understands the damage this could cause to relationship dynamics. The issue is men. The gap between what they think they are doing and what is happening in the woman across from them remains enormous. So many of them are proud of effort that never lands. So many of them treat kissing as admin. So many of them disappear into their own sensation and call it chemistry. This book is an argument against that laziness. It is also an argument against the idea that female pleasure is mysterious, unteachable, a mood that cannot be studied. I found that insulting at first, as if he had walked into the private rooms of women and switched the lights on. Then I found it hot, which is worse, because it means part of me wanted the lights on.

There is an email in the front of the copy going round. A number too. I added him on Wassap but I’m not brave enough to send that message. His contact glows green, and writes updates that couldn’t be further from what I know of him. The book looks like it shouldn’t be in public. It looks leaked. Editor notes. Publisher notes. The untidy evidence of a book that was not supposed to be wandering around in quite this way. And then, sitting there with no sense of shame, the author’s contact details. I am writing this with that temptation still in the room. I could send the text. I could find out whether the page is a trick or a preview. I could find out what it is like to be on the other end of that so called worship. To be the woman a man has trained himself on. To be kissed like that and eaten like that and held in that long, unfair patience until I made a sound I would not want a colleague to hear.

It sounds fun. It sounds beautiful. It sounds unique, which is a word I distrust and still cannot retire. I can see the evening too clearly. A clean room. Good lighting, because I am vain enough to want that even when I am being ruined. The slow start. The mouth. The refusal to hurry. Me trying to stay witty and failing. That last part is the one that makes my stomach drop in the pleasant way. I like competence. I like being read. I like the idea of a man who does not get frightened when a woman starts to come apart.

It is not right for me. I teach. That is not a small fact I can decorate away. A decision like that can follow a woman into a classroom by rumour alone. I have worked too long, and too carefully, to hand my name to a night I cannot control the story of. I know myself. I would want it. I would think about it in the staff room. I would become the woman in those blog posts, first bright, then wrecked, then trying to get her voice back into a professional register.

The draw is still there. That is why the book is unfair. It does not only give you information. It leaves the light on in a room you had locked. If you are well fed in bed, perhaps you will read it as technique and take it home to someone who already reaches for you in the dark. If you are not, it will find the hunger you have been calling standards, or busyness, or I am fine actually.

I recommend it if you are a couple. Take it to bed as a tool, not a religion. Read a chapter out loud and watch his face. See whether he can bear being taught. See whether you can bear being that honestly wanted. Teach the old dog new tricks, if the old dog has any humility left in him. It could be advantageous in the best sense. Shared heat. Shared language. A Saturday night that lasts longer than the usual polite choreography.

If you are a single woman, though, like me, do not pick it up unless you are braver than I am, or more reckless, or simply more willing to sit in a cooling bath with your pulse in your vagina and a stranger’s sentences in your mouth. Some books entertain you. This one makes you ache. It makes you imagine a kiss so slow it steals the next thought. It makes you imagine being stayed with. It makes you imagine something you should not want and wanting it anyway.

I closed it and I was still wet. That is the review, really. Twenty years of teaching. Three marriages. All those bodies. And a leaked book on my bath tray doing what none of them quite managed, which was to make me feel chosen by attention alone. I will not send the text. I keep telling myself that. I have not deleted the page either.

If you read it, read it when you can be honest with your own hands. Read the kissing chapter twice. Notice what happens to your posture. Notice whether you start sitting differently in your chair, as if someone unseen has already begun. That is the spell. Not magic. Focus. A man who treated female pleasure like a craft and then wrote the craft down. I’m sure this book has caused a lot of spontaneous outbreaks of masturbation, and I understand why. But what he does is unnatural, it’s not supposed to be that way. It’s for selfish women. And it’s called a ‘climax’ for a reason, you’re not supposed to have more than one or two. It sets unrealistic expectations going forward.

I can’t help but wonder if Scott is his real name.

I would like nothing more than to try this, but for me, it’s a little too much. I’ll be honest, I already find sex disappointing most of the time. If this is as good as the bloggers and influencers say, then that will make the disappointing future sex even worse. By the time you read this though, I may have changed my mind and submitted myself to him. But you’ll never know, I for one wouldn’t put it online like my peers. If you’re braver than me, and you try to find the name given or you’ve already done it, email me, I’ll pay for your interview, and keep it anon, let me know. I’d like to know if it’s anywhere as good as it sounds. I don’t doubt it’s fun, and very pleasurable. But this level of idolisation on a woman is not healthy mentally.

I do wish I had it in me to try it. I would take his contract and nobody would ever know. But I fear it would ruin oral sex for me. It would taint every man from this point in future. I know I’m going to wonder what if, I might even regret it. But I love oral sex like we all do, I can’t ruin it for the sake of one amazing session.

It is very tempting. But you’re conditioning a mind and body to a treatment that not many men can replicate or contend with. It may be fantastic once.

But it’s never just once, is it.

Email me anon below.