A-C
A is for Agencies
An agency in London typically takes one-third of the fee off a girl, excluding travel and tips. The man is expected to pay for travel expenses on an outcall, and this can add another 30 to 40 pounds.
Agency commission covers advertising, arranging and confirming appointments, as well as some security when needed. Some agencies deduct photography costs from a girl’s first appointments or ask her to pay up front. The agency I am registered with did not; photos and building a profile were free.
With luck, contact with the agency will be minimal. The last time I saw my manager, she criticized my lipliner. So much for feminine solidarity.
B is for Bad Hair
Sometimes the lead-up to an appointment leaves no time for the three-act fluffing and primping in a girl’s regime. The hair is usually the first to suffer. If I hurry, it tends to come out a bit limp and flat, a touch on the greasy side. There’s an emergency one-time, one-hour-only trick a girl at uni taught me: shake a light dusting of talc through the hair, then comb lightly. It’ll look good enough for long enough. Avoid moisture, though, or you risk gluing your head to the wall.
C is for Cash Only
I don’t take cards. Where would I put the swipe machine?
C is also for Chatter
Keeping up your own end of the conversation is not only useful, but probably the most relevant skill for the job. Pretend to be interested in everything. Be vague about political tendencies and other potentially inflammatory opinions. In other words, lie your head off. Think of it as proving ground for a future political career. samedi, le 1 ^er novembre
A client was latched on to my nipples like a bulldog clip. “Careful there, premenstrual,” I said, gently guiding his hands elsewhere.
“Tell me something you fantasize about,” he said.
Not having to wear open-toed sandals in winter.
A sailing holiday with the Boyfriend.
Saturday nights off.
“I’m abducted by four men, stripped and tied up in the back of a car. They park the car and get out and masturbate on me through the open windows.”
“Are there horses nearby?”
“There are a lot of horses nearby. We’re in the middle of the country. We’re on a farm. They’re farmers.”
“Can you smell the horses?”
“I can smell the horses, they’re making noises in their stalls and getting very excited. Horses have giant cocks, don’t they?”
“Oh yes. Yes, they do.”
“When the farmers are finished, they take me to the stables.”
“Don’t fuck the horse.”
“Oh no, I don’t even get close. It’s too big! And the horse… the stallion… is out of control, too excited. I think it’s far too big. It sounds like it’s going to break down the stall door.”
“Urrrrrrrr…” dimanche, le 2 novembre
A few things I have learnt on the job:
Fact. In a world of twelve-year-olds in sexy boots and grannies in sparkly minidresses, the surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel at Heathrow is to look for the lady in the designer suit.
The buildup to an appointment is almost always the same. The clients contact the agency after seeing the website. Then they ring, the manager rings me, she reconfirms with them, then they wait. I usually need two hours’ notice. One hour of plucking, showering, making up and hair; one to call a minicab and get to the meeting point. The makeup sits apart from the rest of my toiletries on its own shelf. I stand in front of a full-length mirror as the layers go on: powder and cologne; knickers, bra, and stockings; dress, shoes, makeup, and hair. Three outfits in the rotation-a modest but slinky gray jersey dress, a white-on-white checked suit, a tailored black linen dress with smart jacket. An infinite choice of underwear and shoes.
The last three seconds before entering the hotel are vital. Are the doors glass? If so, scan quickly for the lifts. Don’t go in and just stop; don’t ask the staff for directions. Sweep through, acknowledge them with a slight nod. If the lifts or toilets aren’t obvious, go for the nearest hallway, then get your bearings. If you leave an impression at all, it should be of a well-dressed lady. You are a businesswoman.
Not strictly untrue.
Lifts are useful. Time to dig through the purse for a phone, text the agency-they’ll want to know you arrived on time. If you’ve been running late, they’ll let the client know to expect you. Freshen lipgloss if needed; arrange clothing. Never be sweating or looking rushed. Find the door and knock briefly, firmly. “Darling, hello, pleased to meet you,” you say on entering the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Whether late or not. Even if you make it bang on time, the customer will have been counting the minutes. If anyone in the room is nervous, it mustn’t be you. Coat off, sit down. The client usually offers a drink. Never say no. If nothing else, have a sparkling water.
Collect the money before anything starts. One time I forgot to do this. The client laughed. “You must be new to this,” he said, and when I went in the toilet to clean up afterwards, he stuck the notes in the toaster in his flat. Don’t count it in front of him; there’ll be time later if you’re suspicious. Leave on time. If he wants you to stay longer, he has to ring the manager, arrange the price, and pay you right then. On leaving, a quick kiss. “An absolute pleasure. I hope to see you again.” Out the front, nod to the staff, as quickly gone as you arrived. Text or ring the agency once out of the hotel. If the manager can’t get through, she’ll ring the client, then the hotel, her own security if they’re nearby, then the police. She knows. She’s been in your shoes too.
My manager is sweet, an absolute doll. When she asks how it went, I always reply that the client was lovely, a gentleman, even if it’s stretching the truth. I wouldn’t want her to worry.
And sometimes it doesn’t go off quite right-like the time I inadvertently waved goodbye to an underendowed client by waggling my index finger. Cringe. That’s okay, perhaps he didn’t notice, and there’s always next time. lundi, le 3 novembre
The traffic close to the city center is unpredictable, and it’s better to be early to work than late. I had a meeting yesterday near Leicester Square. Arrived half an hour early and went into a record store to kill time.
I like record stores; I like music. This was a chain store, though, its lower level full of DVDs and books about music. The few racks of actual albums were heavy with chart-toppers and low price deals. I stole upstairs to the jazz and blues section.
Most of the other customers were kids killing time just like me, though not caked in quite so much makeup. Would the client be at the appointed meeting place, I wondered, or was he out too? Perhaps he was even in here? I looked round. There was one man, blond and thin, leaning over the end rack. Attractive in a sort of corruptible-young-lecturer way. I sauntered by and glanced over his shoulder.
His slender fingers played with the corner of an Isaac Hayes disc. “Good choice,” I murmured, and he almost dropped it in surprise. I must have looked a sight-overdressed, bulging coat, and face like a fright mask of makeup. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I made for the ground level, shoes clattering on the stairs.
When I met the client, he was, of course, not the man from the shop.
It was an overnight job: staying until sunrise. The manager has received such positive feedback about my skills as a disciplinarian that she lists it prominently in the website portfolio. I’m not naturally dominant, but I don’t mind doing it. Now it seems all clients want the treatment.
He: “There’s nothing quite like the buzz from fucking strangers.”
Me: “Can I quote you on that?”
“Yes.” (pauses) “What are you doing with your hands?”
My fingers were tented, bearing my weight above him. “I don’t want to knock the paintings off the wall.” I gritted my teeth.
“Good idea. Try not to, then.” Cripes, mate, it’s not as if it’s your own house. Hmph. Pretty demanding for a submissive, I thought.
(later still)
He: “You’re a class act, my dear.”
Me: “I didn’t know anyone actually said that, outside the movies.”
“Have to get my lines from somewhere.”
N met me outside the hotel just before sunrise. He’s a close friend, we used to date, he knows what I do, and can double for George Clooney in the right light. As in, pitch black. N was smirking. “Have fun in there?” I opened my coat to show him two whips tied to the inside lining. “You brought the Persuaders. So you were having fun.”
“Sort of. Yes. He couldn’t stay hard, so we drank the minibar and watched Channel Five for the last hour.” We got into N’s car, which was parked on the pavement. “And he gave me a silver bubble blower.” I took the gift out of my purse. It was in a wooden box wrapped with gold and black ribbons, and shaped like a tiny champagne bottle.
I wasn’t feeling tired and neither was he. “You want to blow bubbles?” N asked as we drove over Tower Bridge. We turned and drove up the leafy Embankment, and the growing light of the morning made the water glint darkly. N knows about the tides of the Thames; he’s seen bodies dragged out of the river; he knows where the terrapins and seals go when the weather is warm. He pointed to a building with a swimming pool in the basement, said he used to swim there when he was at school because it was the closest one. And that bridge, he remembers the woman who threw herself off it, pockets full of pebbles, but who didn’t realize the air would catch in her layers of clothing so she couldn’t sink. When the rescue boats came to drag her out, she fought them off-“Put me in, put me in!” I sat back, eyes half closed, as he told me more of the city lore. We ended up at Charing Cross station at sunrise, blowing soapy scraps of bubble juice diluted with manky Thames water onto the first commuters of the day. mardi, le 4 novembre
Small handbags, bah. The magazines can tout this or that tiny purse of the season. But considering what I typically leave the house carrying, a pair of folding scissors (stray threads are the enemy) a pen (my memory is good, but not that good) phone (phone agency on arrival and leaving) condoms (polyurethane as well as latex-some people have allergies) a spoon bottle of lube lipgloss (reapplying lipstick after a blowjob is too complicated) compact and mascara small vial of scent (anything citrusy is nice) tissues spare knickers and stockings keys, bankcards, other normal detritus and sometimes, nipple clamps, ball gag, and a multitailed rubber whip, a capacious holdall is the order of the day. Packing all that into a Fendi baguette is a black art not even Houdini could master. mercredi, le 5 novembre
I was reminded of a phrase I had forgotten existed- turning tricks.
Turning tricks! What an intriguing concept! I imagine a Vegas dealer turning over the flop, an Edwardian society belle sifting through a silver plate of calling cards, a dominatrix flipping bound captives like so many grilling sausages. vendredi, le 7 novembre
My parents are quite nice. I know I’m biased, but it’s true. In spite of having left home years ago, I’m still in contact with one or both of them on an almost-daily basis.
They don’t know, officially, what I do. They know I’m in the sex trade but that’s it. Knowing my mother and her middle-class sensibilities, she probably tells her friends I’m a sales rep for Myla or something.
So while they officially don’t know, I suspect they unofficially do know. Or at least have a clue. Mum and Dad, they’re not stupid people.
I rang home for no particular reason. “Hello, honey,” Daddy said. “Still beating the streets? Ha ha ha.”
“Ha,” I bleated flatly. “Mum there?” He grunted and handed the phone over.
“When are you coming home?” she asked. No hello. No asking after my health. No one in her family has bothered with polite pleasantries since antediluvian times. Straight to the point, that’s them.
“Couple of weeks?”
“How’s the job search going?”
I umm ed and err ed. I couldn’t remember what I’d last told her. That I was looking for work, or starting on a research project? Thinking about postgrad programs, or applying to some? “Not bad, a few things out there, no interviews yet.”
Actually, it’s not quite all lies, I had a job interview.
Don’t get too excited-it wasn’t a real one. I was instructed to meet a client at a hotel, and was e-mailed his specific requirements for my interview technique. He required a shy, almost virginal secretary who would be powerless under his persuasion. Needless to say, A levels (not the academic sort) were required.
We finished early and snapped out of character. I found a lime-scented cream in the bathroom and massaged his tense shoulders. “Do you find my fantasies odd?” he asked.
“Odd?”
“Do you think it demeans women?”
I chose my words carefully. “I think this is the appropriate outlet for it.” We talked a bit longer. Interestingly, his background was very similar to mine-his mother comes from where my father is from, and vice versa. The conversation strayed to places, attitudes, foodstuffs, sport. As we spoke homesickness hit quickly and hard, and I was suddenly looking forward to the holidays.
My mother seemed satisfied with the evasion of her question. “Let me know when you’re visiting, yes? And if you’re bringing anyone, yes? So I can make up the rooms.”
“Of course,” I lied. Setting a date would have been pointless, because she inevitably forgets. On the day I turn up at home, suitcases in hand, she can always be counted on to exclaim, “Oh, was it today you were coming home? I thought it was tomorrow!”
She put Daddy back on the line. “Tell that nice boy of yours with the glasses I said hello!” he chirruped. That was a boy called A4, a lovely young lad who was very clever and always smiled. My father still says from time to time that he hopes we’ll marry. I don’t know if this is a sign of senility or a misguided attempt at matchmaking. A4 was three relationships ago. We’re still friends, though. I sighed, and wished them a pleasant weekend, and rang off. dimanche, le 9 novembre
Prostitution isn’t my first foray into sex work. Not that I’m equating standing behind an attractively arranged display of dildos to real live wetsex. I can’t brook the sanctimonious tut-tutting of shop assistants who don’t even have wankbooths to empty. Checking stock of rubber dicks is all well and good, but not an exalted position from which to crap on strippers, porn actresses, and prostitutes for not doing their part for the sisterhood.
Anyhow. Perhaps my odd CV did lead to the current job. Here’s the executive summary:
• as a student, was rather short of money
• someone suggested stripping. By “someone” I mean my then-boyfriend Al. By “suggested” I mean “used to date a stripper and would take me to the fleshpots with his friends, which I rather liked”
• it was not terribly hard work, the girls were frightening
• couldn’t stop giggling at the men talking to me between sets. Who wants to go over the finer points of Greek tragedy with a girl in a see-through bra?
• scratch that, I completely see the appeal, BBC 3 take note
• but it was a stopgap and I was dead scared of a tutor walking in. I left.
Then, a couple of years later,
• was at a vaguely witchy party with a housemate
• dressed in black and carrying a whip (mine). The housemate was dressed as Miss World, which is not relevant, but interesting
• a woman approached us, talked to me a bit, she had a dungeon, and plenty of equipment
• it paid far more than stripping, I managed to control the impulse to laugh
• stopped when I landed a “legit” job in a bookshop on weekends, less well paid, but access to loads of free books
• in retrospect, did not choose wisely.
But enough backstory. Today’s my birthday, and I mean to celebrate in style. lundi, le 10 novembre
9 p.m. yesterday: Whilst readying ourselves for a birthday night out (all shaving shaven, all brushing brushed, all scrubbing scrubbed), my boyfriend and I finished off a sex quiz from a glossy women’s magazine.
Yes, as you have probably picked up, I am a call girl with a boyfriend. A boyfriend who knows what I do. We’ve been together about a year. He doesn’t live in the city, though.
Yes, it causes friction. Mmm, friction. Not always a bad thing. Especially in bed. He doesn’t like my job but he has some abominable social habits too, like sneaking rum into people’s drinks when they’re not looking and voting Conservative.
He buttoned up a soft dark blue shirt, a gift from his mother. I sat at a dressing table, crossed my legs, and read out the questions in my sauciest voice. “At what time is a man most likely to be aroused-A, morning, B, midday, or C, night?”
He raised an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. “Is there a D, ‘all the time’ option?”
10 p.m.: Met A2 (one of my exes), A4 (the clever boy), and other friends at the Blue Posts, commandeered the big leather seats by the fire (also blocking the cigarette machine and the stairs, which makes one wonder about the people who devised this layout). Set about attempting to fill the greater percentage of my stomach with alcohol.
Midnight: A club nearby, I think. It all grows a bit hazy. Multiple shots imbibed containing schnapps, which is evil. I lost a pair of gloves.
2 a.m.: Emboldened by recent gym-going, asserted that I was strong enough to pick the Boy up. Wobbled on my heels and we both fell back on the floor. Certain if I wasn’t so drunk, I would have felt a right twat.
3 a.m.: Oxford Street, everyone marching along and singing “Seven Nation Army” in unison. No one can remember all the words, except for the part about Wichita. We lose the few celebrants who haven’t begged off yet to bus stops along the way.
Sometime after that: Minicab. We collapse in the approximate location of my bed twenty minutes later.
9 a.m.: I get up to use the toilet. When I come back, the Boy is standing in the door. “Close your eyes,” he says. I do. He puts one arm under my arms and one under my knees and carries me to the bed. Gently, he sets me down. I feel the softness of fleece under my back and toes. “Open them,” he says, and I see that he has spread the bed with a soft white sheepskin blanket identical to the one on his bed. “Happy birthday,” he whispers, and we make love three times.
A happy birthday indeed. mardi, le 11 novembre
So much for a relaxing break from work-every morning I wake to missed texts and calls from the agency.
The benefits of taking a few days off-aside from the chance to catch up on laundry-are largely spiritual. But one learns a few mundane things as well. Such as that it’s nice to let hair grow out a bit to get a good, clean waxing. Also, you remember what the hair was there for in the first place. Lubrication. No, really.
Pity the clients will never know this. mercredi, le 12 novembre
The manager of the escort agency rang. “Darling, is verrrry nice gentleman who loves your pictures. Are you free?”
“I’m afraid not, no,” I say, hoping the Boy doesn’t overhear.
“But he is verrrrry nice.”
“Sorry, no.”
A few months after the encounter with the older woman and her boyfriend, I located what sounded like a small, discreet agency on the Internet. The miracle of information interconnected by technology means that any site is only three clicks away from an escort service, really. The website was modestly designed compared to some others, but the girls were attractive and straightforwardly described. Most of them looked extremely normal-not scary robe-women, and not shudderingly unattractive amateur cam girls, either. Just reasonably normal women, but, you know, naked and straddling a garden wall. After e-mail contact and sending my photos, I finally rang to make arrangements to meet the manager at the dining room of a central London hotel. She sounded very young and had a very strong Eastern European accent. Polish, maybe? Should I ask?
“How will I know you?” I asked. “What do you look like?”
“When I was younger, everyone used to say I looked like Brooke Shields,” she said.
“Ah, you must be very beautiful then.”
“No, I am old and decrepit. Now people say I look like Daryl Hannah.”
I ended the call feeling disloyal. After all, my relationship with the Boy at that stage was fairly new, and here I was arranging to meet a madame and work as a whore. Would he have a problem with it? Stupid question, girl. My mind worked through the possible outcomes.
• He chucks me instantly, and tells all his friends.
• He chucks me instantly, and is too embarrassed to tell his friends.
• He doesn’t chuck me, but becomes scary and unbalanced as the result of dating a whore.
• He doesn’t chuck me, but becomes scary because he actually likes the idea.
• He offers to join in, pro bono.
• He offers to join in, and earns better money than I do.
• He’s okay with it and things go on as normal.
The first three seemed likely enough, while the last four varied in credibility from “no way” to “really no fucking way.”
I could have backed out at any time before meeting the manager, of course. A few days passed between making first contact through e-mail and the interview with the escort agency. I went out and restocked makeup supplies. On the day of the appointment, I spent all morning getting ready. This involved no small amount of eyelash curling, hair straightening, and wardrobe panicking. Sexy but not slutty? You’ll be wanting the dark silk top, then. Young but serious? Well-cut coat. As much cleavage as I could muster. Boots, of course-it is autumn in London after all. My nails are an acrylic nightmare but there was simply no time to do anything about them. I have a horrible habit of chewing the cuticles, and it wreaks havoc with anything manicurists try to do.
On the way to the meeting point, I passed a movie poster and convinced myself that I looked not unlike Catherine Zeta-Jones.
Right. Now pull the other one.
I arrived early and went to the toilet. Makeup was already coming off in some places, cakey in others. Turning the cold tap on, I flicked a few drops of water on my face, dabbed, and reapplied lipgloss. Better. Little did I know this mini-ritual would become a central theme in my WG experience. Poking my head into the restaurant, I could see it was deserted on a weekday lunchtime. The single bored Asian waitress walked round and round the planters of fake flowers. I wouldn’t want to be there either.
The manager rang and asked me to take a table near the window. Was this so she could spy on me and run off if I didn’t fit the bill? Was it an elaborate setup, some kind of sting? More likely, she was just covering her back. I ordered coffee and waited.
She arrived, as described. Long blonde hair. Horsey face. Tight dress and killer brocade boots that matched her handbag-my chocolate High Street clompers were dull in comparison. “Darling, hello.” Air kisses.
She had to take a few calls during lunch, where I learned she speaks fluent German and Arabic. Domineering. God, the punters must love that. She asked about my experience. Some dominatrix works, some stripping, no sex with clients, all ages ago. She nodded. She asked if I had a partner; I said yes. She told me about hers, and how he didn’t know what she did for a living. I found that incredible-her phone had gone off three times already.
She ordered herbal tea. I had a coffee. I could feel the full weight of her gaze as I tipped a spoonful of sugar into the cup. Whether hunger or disapproval, I wasn’t sure. “So now we have to talk about services.” She pronounced the word like it had twelve vowels: suuuuuuuurvices. “Have you done A levels?”
A levels? Well, yes, but that was years ago. Who knew that academic fluency was a prereq for the job? Maybe the customers were more discerning than I thought. “A levels?”
“You know”-her voice dropped to a whisper-“anal.” I’m quite sure the waitress didn’t need to refill my coffee right at that moment. Weren’t there some decorative olive oil decanters she could be rearranging elsewhere?
“Oh, right. Yes, I can do that. Provided I haven’t been out for a curry the night before.” We laughed.
She asked if I would do incalls or outcalls. On incalls a girl sees her clients at her own flat (or one rented by the agency); outcalls take place in a hotel or a client’s home.
I chose outcalls only. The idea of someone knowing where I lived was uncomfortable. Hell, they wouldn’t even know my real name. Also, outcall girls earn more per hour-presumably for the convenience-and the client covers any travel expense.
The fee would be?300 per hour, more than thirty times what I would have made doing anything else. Of the fee, I would keep?200 per hour, plus the entirety of any tips or travel expenses.
The manager said she needed more up-to-date photos for her portfolio. The ones I had sent were fairly unsuitable, as they were nothing like the usual glamour shots, showing me in various states of inebriation at clubs and, in one, with something that looked suspiciously like vomit down the front of a silky black vest. All class. More air kisses and she was away, sticking me with the bill. Luckily it appears we have similar attitudes to food, i.e., admiration from a distance, so it was hardly a burden. Two pots of tea and an untouched stale pain au chocolat: 8 quid. Probably a bargain at the price. dimanche, le 16 novembre
I packed the Boy into his car and waved until he reached the end of the street. Before he even could have reached the motorway, he texted a kiss.
It’s been the better part of a year since starting this work, and he’s still with me. Not that it was easy at first, especially when I had to tell him.
The Boy came up to London for the day. He was having a job interview. I was unsure how to bring up the subject of my new employment. Gently, blurring the edges of truth if necessary? “Darling, I want you to know, I’ve been seeing men for money, but I do it fully clothed and they come in aluminum foil in another room. Every time. Did I mention I love you?” Or, be blunt and see what happens. “My dearest one, I’m a ho. Did you somehow fail to notice the bling?”
He gabbled about his family and work through sandwiches, coffee, our walk down the road to buy a pastry. Over a morsel of baklava I finally blurted it out. He didn’t say anything, just pursed his lips and nodded. But he didn’t object outright. I took a deep breath. “Of course, if ever you want me to stop, I will.”
He still didn’t say anything. We left the shop and walked in the sunshine. Falling leaves spiraled on the pavements; crunching underfoot, they smelled of earth and dust. My step fell in with his: we used to run together and are accustomed to the same length of stride. He put an arm around me, started to speak, but stammered. He tried again. “You’d be surprised. I’ve been thinking about it and I think it’s okay.”
I kissed him. We walked up to the British Library together, to look at the Lindisfarne Gospels. The Boy told me they were portions of the Bible in Gothic style written on skins. I’m not terribly au fait with the finer points of Christianity, but suspect the King James is not usually published on abbatoir by-products. The raw craftness of these sounded appealing. In the dim exhibit rooms the gold and painted vellum seemed to glow with animal intensity. Brutal ends to saints and the devouring of virgins always seem to feature strongly in the European arts of that period. The Boy told me of his visit to the Lindisfarne island, where he almost drove a car into the surf. I laughed, the sharp noise shattering the reverent quiet. We went home and watched television, cooked a meal together, and played lion attacking the Gothic maiden in a big white bed. He was the lion, of course. lundi, le 17 novembre
Client: “So why do you do this?”
Me: “I’m not sure I have an answer to that.”
“There must be something that you at least tell yourself.”
“Well, perhaps I’m the sort of person apt to do something for no good reason other than I can’t think of a reason not to.”
“So if someone told you to jump off a bridge…”
“Depends on the bridge. Depends if they were paying. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Will you suck me now?” mardi, le 18 novembre
One of my more potent fantasies is of the Boyfriend fisting me. This is not because he’s done it, but because he hasn’t. For one thing, he has the most gorgeous hands I’ve seen on anyone, male or female. Artist’s hands, I say, and he splays out this wide paw for me to admire. They ferret under my clothes when we’re in public; I rarely feel safe from manhandling. But I don’t mind. I want to feel planted on the end of his arm, an extension of him, controlled.
Even with regular erotic exercise I prove a bit too constricted for the Boy’s fist. The manuals say this will come with time, but let’s face it, I’m a busy girl and sitting around working his greased digits up my fluffy bits is the anathema of romance. I know the women in the shiny magazines all seem to be able to manage it these days. Back when oral sex was considered the height of depravity in the mainstream, the hard-core magazines were all showing nothing but anal sex. Now that anal sex can practically be broadcast on prime time telly, fisting is where it’s at for the truly sick. So much so that I wonder if I shouldn’t stay ahead of the curve by just skipping ahead to anal fisting instead. But the ladies capable of such things are probably either possessed of a far greater pain threshold than mine or descended from a train tunnel. My own history with the practice of fisting can be broken down thus:
First, a teenage boyfriend. He wanted it, I wanted it. He had narrow hands, I was dripping wet. Young, foolish, and incapable of getting more than twenty minutes’ privacy at either of our parents’ homes, we went out of town for a dirty weekend at a hotel. We were hardly in the room before I was stretched across the bed and he was concentrating manfully on the progress of his fingers inside me. Then his fingernails hit my cervix: ouch. Much fantasized, but never attempted with him again.
Second, N. Years ago, when we were still an item. He wanted it, I was dubious. It had been a long time since the teenager who tried to scratch me out, but I could still imagine the gritting pain. But N was experienced, he knew about the finger-curling wrist thrust necessary to get a whole fist in without the woman experiencing involuntary hysterectomy. Unfortunately, N also has hands that can span my waist. His last girlfriend had taken the fist many times, often whilst being buggered. She was also six feet tall and about twice my weight. We tried, many times, but never quite got there. I practiced with all manner of widening tools: vegetables, dildos, an extremely large-handled flashlight. No luck.
Third, my hand goes where no hand has gone before. Namely up a woman who is on the phone to her boyfriend in Italy. He’s paying me to make her come as many times as we can in an hour. This is also the day I discover you need to break the internal vacuum to take the fist out again, unless of course your intended is into suction. And I don’t mean the Jenna Jameson kind. Yeeks.
Fourth, one night, with a customer. And I discover that while someone else’s hand might be out of my reach (so to speak), my own is slender and small enough to make it in. Contortionally awkward, but successful nonetheless. Finally, a perfect fit. Only then do I discover the black art of fisting is not getting it in; it’s getting the damned thing out again.
I rang the Boy when I got home to let him know. I didn’t mention it was with a client. “Can you do it now?” he said over the phone.
“Probably,” I said. In pajamas, in bed. Under the duvet. “I’m just about asleep, though.”
“Oh.” There was a silence. “Can you just describe it now, instead?” he asked. Of course I could. “And then show me next time you see me?” Yes, of course, anything, love. I do not grow weary of you. Come see me, come take me away.
I woke to a missed text message from him: the best things in life r still free. i miss your cuddles most of all xx mercredi, le 19 novembre
I crouched between the man’s legs. His inner thighs were smooth and I brushed the skin with my fingertips. “How was your holiday?”
“Good, good. Japan is an interesting place. Have you ever been?” he asked, leaning back on the bed.
“No.” I took the hardening cock in my hand and pulled on its foreskin gently. It stiffened and lengthened in my palm. “What is your favorite thing to do there?”
“They’re an odd people, they have these places,” he said, pausing slightly as I took his member between my lips. “Simulating a crowded underground carriage. Where people’s bodies rub up against each other …”
He slipped out of my mouth; I began pumping the shaft with my fist. “I’ve always had a fantasy like that,” I said. “A crowded student pub, short skirt, leaning over the bar to get a drink, someone comes up behind me. And there’s no space to move, so not only can I not get away, no one else can tell it’s happening.”
“Mmm, that sounds good.”
“Will you promise me something?” I asked. “If you ever see me after this at a bar, will you just come up and do that?”
“You have my word,” he said, angling his erection back into my mouth. jeudi, le 20 novembre
The Boyfriend is in town, so I saw no clients. We went to the gym, ostensibly so I could show him off, but mostly so he could show himself off.
First event was the rowing machine. I hate the rowing machine. Hate hate hate it. It is the Devil’s Bicycle. It is my nemesis and wants me dead. However, I will gladly sit alongside the Boy as he thrashes the metal beast into flywheeled submission. After five minutes, droplets of sweat appeared on the back of his neck. After ten, the rippling ribbons in his forearms were driving me to distraction. A glorious half hour later I was aching to jump his bones.
Suitably panting, we headed for the bench press (which I can’t do) and the bench pull (which I can). Suffice to say I am not fit to hold the man’s towel.
For the piece de resistance I goaded him into chin-ups. Four sets of six, shirt off, ensuring that even the resident thick-necked gym bunnies were suitably humbled. Cower in the wake of his manly pheromones, you six-packed Narcissi!
In order to reassert control, we did something I am good at-stretching. A cliche perhaps, but I have always been able to put my legs behind my ears. A long session of contorting hamstrings ensured that, fragrant with sweat and lusting as only long-distance lovers can, we never got past the carpark.
Well, we did. But our clothes didn’t. And our dignity came nowhere near.
Ah, young love. samedi, le 22 novembre
Special Film Edition! As I’ve been staying in with drinks and videos all week, we’ve been having a little North London Prostitution Film Festival. Sorry, darlings, but the event is muy exclusive-guest list runs to two. And the paparazzi have been, frankly, disappointing.
Women who are not working girls but should be:
Elizabeth Hurley
Gillian Taylforth
Laura Dern
Sue Barker
Women who have played WGs, but shouldn’t have:
Julia “Sexless” Roberts
Jodie Foster (no one must defile the goddess)
Jane Fonda
Elisabeth Shue
Perfect casting:
Laura San Giacomo. The Boy says, “Rowr!”
Patricia Arquette
Louise Brooks
Mira Sorvino
Special Award for Services to Tongue-Manipulation Ability During a Scene in Twin Peaks in Which She Is Interviewing to Become a Prostitute:
Sherilyn Fenn
The Is She or Isn’t She? Obfuscation Award:
Audrey Hepburn
Acceptable as a robot whore, but only just:
Daryl Hannah
My favorite movies about prostitutes:
Le Notti di Cabiria
Belle de Jour (obviously)
Frankenhooker
Live by the phone, die by the phone, but never again will I leave it on during dinner! Between the Great Portland Street station and when we left the restaurant on Marylebone High Street, it must have gone off twelve times. Say what you will about springtime and a man’s fancy turning to romance, I believe there’s something about the impending holiday season that really sets libidos on eleven.
Back in business by Monday-even I can’t spin out birthday celebrations indefinitely. And there’ll be all sorts of good things in my stocking, promise. samedi, le 22 novembre
I noticed that of all the services the manager and I had discussed, there was one neither of us had mentioned. Oral. And there on the website for all to see, I was advertised as OWO. Oral Without. Without condom, that is.
To tell the truth, if she had asked, I would have said yes. I’ve done the deed with condoms in the past and my lips react badly to the latex and spermicide, swelling and tingling. And like all other sex acts, there is some risk involved, but nothing near what most things entailed. I wouldn’t do it if I had cold sores, for instance. Or if I was especially concerned about the staying power of my lipstick.
But I’m a swallower and always have been. Once it’s in there, it doesn’t taste any better to spit it out, and to be frank, it’s no worse than the taste of a woman. A girl I went to school with once described semen as tasting of “an oyster on a 2p piece.” I wouldn’t know, having never eaten either, but she’s probably not far off the mark. dimanche, le 23 novembre
Last night I was walking down the fag end of Fulham High Street looking for a cab. There is a bookstore on the corner-not the horrible kind assaulting you with endless stacks of remaindered Michael Moore and lattechinos to go, but the wonderful quirky kind. The sort of shop where the proprietor-who can remember your tastes, previous purchases, and make appropriate recommendations even if you’ve not been there in years-appears to live on site, and either owns a collection of identical outfits or never changes his clothes. The proprietor of such a shop is always a man, always.
Unfortunately, the shop was closed. Or perhaps fortunately-I had a wad of notes on me, some time to kill, and a distinct inability to refuse fusty booksellers. When I was a student, I calculated I spent more per term on books-and not ones related to my course, either-than I did on food. But the shop was locked up and dark. Outside the door a plain white shelving unit held a few paperbacks. Whether these were donations to the public or from the public I didn’t know. Being curious, I perused the titles. This is how I ran across the best thing I’ve ever read on a paperback cover: A girl can go anywhere if she believes in herself and has a mink coat.
Well, yes! Indeed! How true, and wonderful! How very Holly Golightly! Uncertain whether the books were for sale or not, but certain this novel was destined to be mine, I deliberated a moment before dropping a pound coin through the post slot.
(Now is a good time to point out that I do not actually have a mink coat. I have a fairly nice watch, and suppose it is the most politically correct luxury item one can get away with wearing. I wouldn’t want to be accused of either animal torture or funding cartels in the developing world. The possible exploitation of Swiss craftsmen is not a daily burden on my soul.)
The book, in case you are wondering, is B. F.’s Daughter by John P. Marquand, he of the Mr. Moto novels. It is the most delicious trash. Think Mickey Spillane meets Francoise Sagan in the lobby of Saks Fifth Avenue. ln 1946. Shopping-and-fucking chicklit really has nothing on this. lundi, le 24 novembre
Does it seem like Christmas begins earlier every year? I think I saw someone hanging Christmas lights last week and I swear my next-door neighbor has had red tinsel in her window since July. Now everyone’s at it, and even though the day is a month away I’m sick of it already. Granted, not being Christian, my tolerance is fairly low.
Rubbish “holiday” occurrences:
• Being asked to wear red, fur-trimmed lingerie, which serves to confirm that only men think this is a good idea. Further, that they must have had very strange childhoods indeed to find Father Christmas a turn-on. Perhaps it is a relief to know that this is a perversion that must be paid for.
• People who use the word “Crimbo.” That’s just wrong.
• The drone of fervent Christians begging us to remember what “this season is really about.” It’s about the blessed appearance of Our Lord Harvey Nichols, right?
• People who are impossible to shop for. In this category is A3, whose only extravagance is a Manchester United football season ticket each year. What to buy the man who thinks he has everything? I ring A4, who helpfully suggests socks.
• Customers who ask what I’ll be doing for the holidays. Simply because I can’t decide what would be a suitable answer-a glamorous lie (pulling Donovan Leitch’s cracker) or the mundane reality (schlepping up north to light the menorah).
But the holidays are great because:
• Whether by divine right or unspoken charter, the entire country decides to piss off work. As a result, no one really expects reliable communication.
• The smell of mince pies. Complicated, passionate discussions involving mince pies. Shopping trips consisting largely of the need to purchase mince pies. Forgoing meals in favor of mince pies.
• End-of-year anxiety equals a spike in workload for me. I feel like the Samaritans of sex.
• Getting to see the people you know and love. Getting to see the people you know and love drunk.
This year, I actually want the terrible gifts from ancient aunties. Bring on the woolly socks and embroidered handkerchiefs, please! mardi, le 25 novembre
I had two customers one hour apart, located only several blocks from each other. The wind and rain were too heavy to do anything but hole up for the duration. So, finding a conveniently located pub near Southwark, I popped in for a drink.
Walked up to the bar and ordered a double rum and soda. One does not often see a stiletto-clad blonde midweek in a pub, but I am accustomed to tumbleweed moments when entering a local. The large screen precariously mounted above the (real) fire was tuned to football. Everyone was watching it, and so did I.
The septuagenarian barmaid aside (or should that be barmatron?), I was the only woman in the room. But the looks I got were neither contemptuous nor salacious. Everyone paused, saw me, then turned back to their drinks and football. The match was clearly an important one.
The ninety minutes ended in a draw. A few men came up from the back table to order fresh pints. One of them stood next to my seat while waiting for his lager.
“When we saw you come in, we thought maybe you were the mascot.”
“Is that so?” I said, rather confused.
“Ah well, it doesn’t matter much, Celtic are still at the top of the group.”
“So they are. I did my best, anyway.”
He laughed and returned to a far corner. It was then I realized my hat, which I’d left on the entire hour, was green-and-white striped, just like the Celtic colors. Some mascot. I drained my glass and left to make the next appointment. mercredi, le 26 novembre
It’s a public health issue, I know.
I understand such feelings perfectly. This job I do, the number of people I come in contact with. Living in a city where disease flies in from all over the world. And the time of year-the festive season when people are out partying, splurging, doing things they wouldn’t normally do because they think, hey, it’s the end of another year, I deserve a treat. Then they wake up the next morning unsure of what they got and whom they were with. And even if you do remember, you never know at the time who has it and who hasn’t.
I’m a disease-spreading vector. No one is safe, sure, but some of us are more at risk than others, even with all the precautions available these days-the free clinics, the vaccinations, the public awareness campaigns.
And it’s important to me. There’s no such thing as paid sick leave for call girls. And God forbid you end up in hospital.
So I want to set your minds at ease as much as I can. I want you to know.
I have had a flu shot. jeudi, le 27 novembre
A late text from the Boy last night:
We were taken out for free drinks after work. Am now in a tree.
It’s cold out there. I hope his rapidly shrinking boyparts make it home safely and are up for warming again soon.
The first time we met, it was his birthday, about one year ago now. He was tearing up the dance floor in a club, almost literally-the bouncers had their hackles up the moment he and his equally large, drunken friends came in the door. They weren’t the only ones. I couldn’t take my eyes off this man who moved like water and threw his limbs around like they were only nominally attached to his body.
The otherwise crowded floor cleared a wide circle around their group. They took turns chucking each other around, laughing, like little boys. His eyes were shining, probably from alcohol. His curly hair and freckles stood out in a room of pale poseurs. I demanded a mutual friend introduce us. The club was too loud-he looked down and smiled at me, but didn’t hear a word we were saying. I stayed on the fringes and waited. When he went out in the hall to join the queue for the toilets, I followed him.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said, and smiled. He didn’t appear to recognize me. He did seem quite interested in staring down my top, though. Hey, I thought. It’s a start.
I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He seemed puzzled but didn’t resist. I pulled at the sleeve of his shirt to drag him to the smaller, quieter room. We found a corner of a red velvet sofa and snuggled together.
“You can’t do this,” he said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t know me at all,” he said. “My name, where I’m from. You know nothing about me.”
“I want to know you,” I said, squeezing my hand around his arm, which was roped with thick muscles. His hands, resting lightly on my waist, were easily the largest and finest I’d ever seen on a man.
Just then another woman-maybe biologically not female, it was difficult to tell in the dark-interrupted us. “Love the boots, honey,” she said.
“Cheers.” I was wearing knee-high leather shoes with vertiginous heels. They were practically hobbling me, but worth it.
The Boy looked down. “They are actually rather good,” he said, fingering the skin just under my knee. I melted. “But I don’t think we should go back to the others. You’d likely break an ankle dancing in those.”
“Guess we’ll have to find something else to do?”
“I suppose,” he agreed, and we groped a bit longer, until I caught a glance at my watch. It was time for Cinderella to make her escape. “Come home with me,” he growled in my ear, fiddling with the zip of my left boot. It was the kind of order a woman dreams about. Irresistible.
“I have a boyfriend,” I said. It seemed only fair to mention it. The Boy said he didn’t care. I was technically in an open relationship, but knew this man was not one-night material. He was far more interesting than that; there was too much crackling energy around him. “Well,” I said, “you can have me one night or see me again. Which will it be?”
“I can’t not see you again,” the Boy said. I shrugged- tant pis. “Shameless trollop.” But he was smiling, and took my phone number. He followed me as far as the bouncers. The rest of his friends were still inside. There was a pause. I could have invited him back and wanted to, but also knew, as I walked out the glass doors, he’d be watching me go.
I went home and told the housemates I was in love. The fact that I was also blind drunk and trying to balance four candles in a fir wreath on my head is by the by.
The Boy and I met for drinks later that week but nothing happened. I felt uncomfortable following up on the promise of that first meeting. He did try at first-a lingering glance here, a trailing hand there-but soon learned the boundaries. He may have been a fully paid-up member of the bon ton, but he was no cad. Or perhaps he was biding his time. The relationship I was in was clearly not healthy. By the time I split with that boyfriend and moved to London, the Boy had new digs in Brighton. He drove up to meet me and moved everything into my new flat. We fucked for the first time among the scattered boxes and suitcases and piles of books on the floor. Wooden planks. I had friction scars for weeks after. samedi, le 29 novembre
I was cleaning off the makeup shelves, discarding crusty bottles of drying nail varnish and foundation-sodden sponges. I thought this job would just be a stopgap, but it’s been absolute months now. It’s become almost routine now but didn’t always seem like that.
Preparing for my first appointment had felt like making up for the stage. I remember laying out a liquid base and a stick one; eye shadow, liner, and mascara; lip liner, gloss. Preparation had started early. Too early. But I had no inkling of how to put it all together, how long it would take.
I showered and dried myself carefully in the white-tiled bathroom, looking for stray hairs missed by waxing and shaving. A quick blast of deodorant. Applied a drop of cologne to my cleavage and inside elbows. Put on a white lace bra and knickers, stockings, dried my hair. Part it here or there? Which way should it fall? Hair up or hair down? Fluffy or straight? I straightened the ends so they wouldn’t curl in the damp night air but otherwise left it alone. Small pearl earrings.
I put the dress over my head, then started on makeup. Foundation, no powder. A damp tissue applied lightly to take the excess off. Violet eyeshadow-only a touch. A dab of silvery white eyeliner just at the inside corner of my eyes. Cat eyes or not? Vamp or girlish? My hand was shaking slightly. Unwound the mascara, wiped the excess on a tissue, let it sit in the air a moment. Brushed on one layer. Then a second.
My eyes in the mirror stood out a mile from the rest of the face. I lined my lips, wondering how much to use and how much would come off on him. What would I have to take with me, would there be time to reapply? With the tip of my little finger I dabbed a liquid blusher on as lipstain. Gloss. More gloss. I thought of the manager’s advice: men love glossy lips. I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to think why.
A touch of gel to keep the hair off my forehead and cheeks. A clip to keep it back. I put the shoes on and buckled them at the ankles. Black, patent-leather stilettoes showing a long stripe of instep. Incredibly high heels, but once I’d run for a bus in them. I had danced till morning in these many times. Fuck-me shoes.
Then my coat. College scarf or fluffy blue one? The blue would leave fibers on the coat; I decided against it in the end. It was a cold night. Navy gloves with tiny buttons along the wrist. I stuck a pin with a butterfly in the coat lapel. Nervous; took deep breaths. Still a quarter of an hour to wait.
My mouth had gone dry. Went to the kitchen and poured a drink. Was alcohol a bad idea? Didn’t know. One couldn’t hurt. My lips left a crackling pink half-moon on the rim of the glass. Packed a handbag. I was sweating inside the coat and scarf and gloves. Still ten minutes until the taxi. Looked at the location for the appointment again on a map. Didn’t want to carry it with me. It was near a tube station. If I could memorize the directions from the tube station, I should be fine.
Went downstairs and stood outside. The cold wind tickled the damp hair at my neck. Looked down my road. No one was out walking. Very few cars came by. A bus paused at the bus stop, no one was waiting, it drove on. A small car came up behind it. A man looking out the window. That must be the cab, I thought. Focus. I’m working as of now. Smile, wave, give him the address. From here on, I am not me.
We found the house. Paid the driver. Up the walk, brass knocker on the door. A light on inside. My hair was falling in my face. I took the clip out and shook the hair loose. Smiled. Rapped at the door. No turning back.
The next morning I woke up in my own bed. Held my hand up, stared at it for ages. Was something supposed to be different? Should I have felt victimized, abused? I couldn’t say. The finer points of feminist theory didn’t seem to apply. Things felt as they always had. Same hand, same girl. I got up and made breakfast. dimanche, le 30 novembre
The Boy has been casting around for a new position for some time (working position that is, not sexual, though all offers gratefully received). He’s been unhappy at work for so long, but it’s secure, but this, but that, well, and so on, and so forth. His workmates are the same crowd he ran with at university. But now one of them has been made redundant and he’s starting to feel the full focus of the upper echelons of administration looking carefully at what he does. I keep suggesting military service, and not just because I think he would fill out a uniform in a most attractive manner. So he e-mailed his CV to see if there was anything I could do.
I returned it within the half hour. Almost immediately the phone rang. It was the Boyfriend, and he was laughing.
“This is great stuff, kitty… but I don’t think I can use it.”
“No?”
“For one thing I don’t think the Army cares either way about the size of my member.”
“You don’t know that for sure. You could get anyone interviewing you.” I hear the services are really very modern these days.
“Nice thought.” I heard him scrolling down the e-mail from the other end of the phone. “Recovery time between ejaculations should not be in the Other Qualifications section.”
“It’s important to me, sweetie.”
“Doubtless. And ‘Oral sex: giving and receiving’ under Interests and Activities?”
“Are you saying they’re not?” We laughed.
It occurred to me to recommend my own line of work, not that he’d ever bite. The Boy is as straitlaced as a whalebone corset. I, by contrast, am widely considered among our acquaintances to be amoral. Even by the ones who don’t know what I do for a living.