A woman for those in the know– and for those who wish to be.
You felt it before you found me, didn’t you?
That quiet sense of inevitability. As if our worlds were always meant to collide—eventually.
I’m Portia. A daring girl, if you’ve ever met one.
I’m a woman who writes her own rules and rarely adheres to the expectations of others. My life is a deliberate composition—a pursuit of beauty, of pleasure, of the kind of connection that doesn't fade with the night. I don’t entertain the transactional. I’m not interested in surface. I value true chemistry—connection—the kind of intimacy that lives in the space between cursory and committed. Something raw. Something real. Something that slips past logic and settles under your skin.
Those who know me would say I’m warm, insatiably curious, effortlessly sensual. I’d say I’m a romantic at heart, a hedonist by nature—a woman who craves depth and knows how to make life feel intoxicatingly good. I seek what’s rare: places, moments, people who make your pulse race and your mind forget the rules.
Heads turn when I enter a room, but it’s the current that stays with you. Raven hair cascading down the curve of a bare spine. Eyes dark and unhurried, with a gaze that makes you feel seen before you’ve said a word. A smile that softens everything it touches. Skin like gold, warm to the touch. A body sculpted by devotion to both discipline and desire.
You’ll notice. But it’s not the details you’ll remember. It’s the feeling.
The way the noise of the world falls away when I look at you. The way your mind races—and then, softly stills.
Because I’m not here to be seen. I’m here to be experienced.
I’m willing to bet you didn’t come here seeking ordinary.
A man like you—discerning, self-assured, accustomed to the best—doesn’t waste time on the unremarkable. You know what excites you. What stays with you. What plays on your mind long after it should’ve passed. And I suspect you’ll recognise it when you see it.
Like you, I savour life’s finer details. A reservation at a place that doesn’t take them. A bottle of something older than us. The slow surrender of silk slipping over bare skin, anticipation so rich you can taste the air.
My time is spent in wine bars and behind unmarked doors, at galleries and private auctions, slipping into a theatre seat just as the lights dim. I move fluidly between cities—sun-drenched terraces in the Mediterranean, discreet corners of London’s most exclusive haunts. The freedom is delicious, and I revel in it.
But indulgence means nothing without contrast. I crave the balance that makes pleasure all the more exquisite: Mornings steeped in quiet. The pulse of barefoot adventure. A swim in untouched waters. The slow burn of a hammam in Marrakech. The clarity found on a yoga mat at sunrise. Because true luxury isn’t about what surrounds you—it’s about how you feel. The moments that steal your breath. Send a shiver down your spine. Remind you what it means to be alive.
And after all, isn’t that why you’re here?
You have a full life—marked by drive, ambition, enviable in all the ways that matter. And yet, you crave something more. Something beyond the predictable. You’re not looking for just another indulgence. You’re looking for something visceral. Something that doesn’t just heighten your senses—but rewires them. A woman who doesn’t just complement your world, but makes it infinitely more vivid. Someone who challenges you just enough. Indulges you in ways that feel like she’s known you for a lifetime.
I’m as comfortable in silence as I am in conversation. I listen as well as I tease. And I certainly know how to make you feel like the only man in the room.
I specialise in extended engagements—the kind where conversation lingers long after the last sip of wine, where the weight of your hand on mine says more than words ever could, where time bends until the rest of the world feels wonderfully irrelevant. A decadent dinner in a city that isn’t ours. The intimacy of a hotel suite where the outside world ceases to exist. Wherever we meet, I promise you this: Ours won’t be a memory that fades.
Some stories are meant to be lived rather than told.
So—shall we?
