K-N
K is for Killer Moves
Or, the thing a girl is known for. For some it’s the look, others the intimacy, others a peculiar talent. Anal and light domination come up fairly frequently with me, but they’re not the killer moves. It’s the oral. I’ve been complimented on oral technique often enough to ask a man before I start on him whether he wants to come in my mouth or not, and if so, how long should I make it last? Many of them do not believe the timing of their orgasm is in my hands (or lips, as it were). Of course it is, silly things. That’s why they’re the men.
L is for Lousy Kissers
There are a lot of these in the world. It’s not your duty to reform them, though a gentle suggestion, well timed, can be the best thing a man gets out of the encounter. Other times you have to know when to hold your tongue. Especially when he cannot hold his.
M is for Music
I blame the conventions of overbearing cinema soundtracks for the crap that is supposed to accompany a session of hedonistic lovemaking. Music is a matter of taste, and it’s usually obvious whether a man has put something on because he wants to hear it and it turns him on or because he thinks it’s what ought to be done. Doing the deed to the syrupy strains of Luther Vandross is a misguided attempt to set the mood. Someone who pounds your arsehole to the beat of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, on the other hand, is clearly passionate about the music.
N is for Noise
The alternative to music. He wants feedback; give it to him. But for goodness’ sake don’t lay on the porn screeches in a cheap imitation of passionate frenzy unless he clearly requests it. They’re paying for sex, not stupid. dimanche, le 1 ^er fevrier
First Date and I agreed to meet to see a play. No big-budget West End production, this: he suggested we go to a show put on by some of his friends at a pub. It was something by one of my favorite Renaissance playwrights, and I was dubious of the adaptation. “You’ll be amazed what they’ve done with it,” he assured me. “A real two-hander.”
I giggled. I think perhaps the phrase means something different to luvvies than it does to call girls.
The night after the party, when he slept in the sitting room and N in my bed, all three of us rose early and had a cup of coffee in the kitchen. I walked them out to the street, waved N off in his car, and walked First Date round the corner to his. I was scared I might be in for a touch of the coldness I’d shown him, but no, he lit a kiss on my mouth before driving away. I thought perhaps another chance was deserved. It did rather show up my abilities as a hostess to force the poor lad to stay over on my sofa.
Went across town by tube to meet him. He was already in the pub, having a drink with a friend whom he introduced me to. This friend’s claim to fame was having been the child star face of some commercials, and as he looked at least fifty it was no surprise I didn’t recognize the product-much less the adverts. We talked briefly about computers instead. I think they’re horrible little beastly things, with no great use besides facilitating the production and distribution of porn. Much like men, really. And not so bad for it.
The two-hander was in an upstairs room. It was clear from the start that I was not going to like it much, but First Date’s long muscular thigh was pressed against mine, and he laughed in the right places, and aside from the overacting going on twelve feet ahead of us, it was nice to be in a dark room together.
The audience filed downstairs afterward for drinks. I saw the lead actor some few minutes later and joined the crowd in paying him lavish, undeserved compliments.
“What did you really think?” said one of First Date’s friends, looking at me with a canny smile, when the actor had walked away.
“Bloodless,” I said. “Without passion.”
“Example?”
“I can do better than that,” I said. Turning to First Date, I quoted a line from the play, a line given by the lead actor. I pawed his shirt as if he were Helen of Troy-the pinnacle of feminine beauty. And he played it well, moving off my advances archly.
We both turned toward the friend. “Point made,” he said. First Date and I emptied our glasses and left.
He offered me a lift. It wasn’t really on his way, I knew, but I accepted.
We talked about everything and nothing. I outlined how things had ended with the Boy. He told me about his recent ex-girlfriend. My mind wandered to A2, and I found myself saying, “I suppose it was a revelation to learn that just because someone loves you, you don’t have to love them back. And you can’t tell that person their loving you is wrong.”
There was a pause. “That’s good,” he said, zipping round Hyde Park Corner. “Because I love you.”
Ack, no, please. I felt trapped by my own words. “Thank you,” I said. And I knew right at that moment I didn’t feel the same. Not yet. Maybe never. We went back to mine, had sex, slept. He woke early-habit of an honestly employed person, I suppose. We had a quiet breakfast and he went home. lundi, le 2 fevrier
Client: “May I take your picture?”
Me: (spotting the palm-sized video recorder nearby) “No.”
“Please? I won’t include your face.”
Hmph. Thanks. “No, I’m sorry-it’s not our policy to allow photographs or recordings.”
“I just want to see you spreading those lips while my dick goes inside.”
“Good, we can do that. We’ll use a mirror. But no pictures.”
“Other girls do it.”
“I’m not other girls.”
(pouting somewhat) “Other girls from the same agency do it.”
Is that supposed to swing my vote? Mister, I don’t care if you have snaps of my mother going down on your dog. “Terribly sorry, no.”
“Not even a photo? It’ll be mostly me anyway.”
“No.” This was getting tedious and, more to the point, taking up quite a lot of our time. I smiled sweetly, stood right against him, and played with the top button of his shirt. “Shall we?”
So we did, though he peppered the talk during our session with comments like “Wow, that’s amazing, wish I could get a picture of that,” and “You really should be in porn, you know?” (There was the time N and I toyed with the idea of funding a sabbatical in Poland by working in Eastern European skin flicks, but that’s another story for another day.)
He just didn’t let up. To the point where bucking enthusiastically and making all the right moves was becoming difficult because I couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched. At the end of the hour I was so spooked I couldn’t help scanning the room for hidden cameras. At least it was a hotel room and not a private house, but when he went to use the toilet I still opened all the drawers and looked under the bed.
It’s a good idea to stay suspicious, in my experience. It hasn’t served me badly yet. No one has ever taken advantage and I want to ensure it never does happen. That’s part of why I work through an agency.
I know my place in sex work is a privileged one, as far as having sex with strangers goes. Many-though not all-prostitutes are addicts, in damaging relationships, abused by clients, or all of the above. It is probably a measure of my naivete that I do not ask the few other WGs I meet if they are happy in their work. Honestly, I did not even notice that streetwalkers existed until well into my teenage years. Sometimes it’s hard to tell a girl heading for a club from one who’s, er, not.
Once at university I came home from a night out. I lived in a block of flats near the center of the city, and the taxi dropped me at the end of the road. As I walked up to the door, keys in hand, a man spoke.
“You looking for work, love?”
It took a second to realize what he was asking. “Oh. No.” I wasn’t wearing anything terribly suggestive, just-correction. I was a student, and students coming home from clubs invariably look half-dressed. It was an honest mistake.
But I didn’t scream or run or sneer. “Are you sure?” he asked.
From time to time there were streetwalkers in the area. One weekend I went out early to buy a paper and saw a woman staggering across a main road through the city. She was dressed as for a night out, but it was broad daylight; she looked too young to be a student, too underfed. Another time, sitting with friends in the local, we saw a woman come in to make change from a 20-pound note. The barmen exchanged looks; they clearly knew her.
“I’m sure,” I said, and refrained from adding, but thank you anyway. mardi, le 3 fevrier
The redesigning at home is going well, although I cannot be inspired to write much about soft furnishings. Suffice to say that the previous look (Laura Ashley meets Peter Max in Tahiti, where they decide to go on an acid trip together) is being updated to something vaguely within this century.
A most interesting object was delivered yesterday. The landlady had the furniture made some few years ago by a firm that kept the details on record, and they have been kind enough to supply attractive new cushion covers for the overstuffed monstrosity (I mean the sofa, not the landlady). The new covers were brought up just after lunch, along with detailed instructions on how to put them on and a tool to aid in application.
This tool, it must be said, looks exactly like a paddle.
A very classy paddle indeed. Of the same glowing hardwood as the frame of the sofa itself, with a smooth rounded handle mimicking the turned legs of the furniture. A tapering, broad, flat side, apparently for stuffing the cushions in their new skins.
But it doesn’t look anything like an upholstery aid to me. It is, quite frankly, a well-made and extremely horny paddle. It has a leather thong threaded through the handle, for goodness’ sake. And it matches the furniture.
I looked at the paddle, then at the deliveryman. “Do you want this returned when I’m done?”
“What? No, just keep it or chuck it away. We don’t need it back.”
“Thank you.” A more welcome and unexpected gift I haven’t had in ages. It’s as if Valentine’s Day has come early. mercredi, le 4 fevrier
Client: (setting the dresser mirror on the floor) “I want to watch you watching yourself masturbate.”
Well, this makes a change. “What with?”
“Your hands first. Then a vibe.”
“And then you…?”
“No, I just want to watch.”
He provided a chair and I sat. Wriggled out of my knickers and drew the skirt of my dress around my hips. There it all was, on display, as I’d rarely seen. Yes, I usually do a spot check after waxing and before going out, but this was different. And hand mirrors feature strongly in both work and sex at home, but this was just me, alone, inviolate. Belle from a fly on the wall. And being the self-obsessed creature I am, I was possibly as fascinated as he.
I watched my lips grow fuller, redder, wetter. Much darker than I imagined, almost purple, as I’ve seen the head of a penis do so many times. The aperture itself widened and gasped. I could hear its gentle smacks like a mouth opening and closing as my hand rubbed faster and my hips moved less gently.
The effect was of watching myself on television. I suppose it must have been for him as well-he paid far more attention to the reflection than to me in the chair. I wondered why bother with the expense of paying someone to masturbate when there was no interaction, then realized. He wanted to be the director.
But as I approached the point of no return I would slow down and readjust my position-ostensibly to give him a better look or varied position, but really to keep myself from coming.
It was remarkably difficult to keep from setting off the hair trigger for most of the hour. He sat on a bed, then knelt on the ground, coming closer and closer to the mirror, occasionally making requests regarding the speed and action of the vibe or the location of my free hand-but didn’t touch. When he came, it hit the glass, sliding thickly over my reflected image onto the carpet. jeudi, le 5 fevrier
I came in soggy and grumpy, having been caught in a sudden burst of rain in Ladbroke Grove and without my umbrella. I’d been out to meet a man for a date, and let us just say it hadn’t gone well. There were three missed calls, all from the manager’s mobile. I rang her back. “Hello, sorry I missed you earlier.”
“Not to worry, darling.” The manager, for once, was not listening to horrible hair-rock. “You had a booking.”
“I went to meet someone for lunch and forgot my phone. Anything interesting?”
“This very nice man. He always asks for you.”
“Ah.” This has happened about once a week since I started working. “The French one?”
“He is such a lovely gentleman.”
“Yes, and he always gives less than an hour lead-time on a booking. I can’t get out so quickly.” My house is too far out of Zone 1 for that. “I presume you gave him to one of the other girls?”
“Yes. But he always asks for you, darling.”
“Tell him to give me more notice next time, okay?”
“Mmm.” There was another voice in the background and the manager went oddly quiet, then whispered, “Sorry, have to go! Nice talking to you, goodbye!” She has a boyfriend who doesn’t know what she does for a living. It seems odd to me-but then it’s her job that is illegal in the UK, not mine.
Text from First Date soon after: Torture Garden. What think you?
Well, if he’s trying to keep my interest, he’s certainly doing well. I am so there with bells on. Clamped to my nipples, of course. vendredi, le 6 fevrier
Walking through a tiled corridor to the District Line at Monument yesterday. A busker was there, playing Dylanesque riffs on a guitar and making up lyrics about the people walking past. and I said, my friend, there will be a woman / and she will walk by you / and you will know her by her white suit and pink shoes / there will be a beautiful woman
I couldn’t help but smile, looking down at my shoes. Dusty pink peep-toed courts. Very forties or seventies, depending on how you work them. and my friend, you will know her / you will know this woman by her smile
I kept walking, but laughing the whole way, and looked back to grin at him before turning the corner. samedi, le 7 fevrier
N came round after the gym to help with the cushions. By “help” I mean “sit on them whilst I boil the kettle,” which is helpful in its way, I suppose. Someone has to make the first stain on the upholstery.
(By which I mean nothing ruder than spilled tea. You sick creatures.)
N’s eyes lit on the cushion-squeezer-cum-paddle immediately. When I came back with the steaming mugs, he was already doing a few test whacks on his thigh.
“New piece of kit?” he asked.
“Came with the sofa,” I explained.
“Class.”
One of N’s other exes, the one who broke his heart, has started turning up at the gym intermittently. I notice it’s never a time he’s likely to be there. Sometimes I linger in the locker area, listening in case she talks to anyone. Knowing her current situation would carry a high premium indeed. And if she knows who I am, she hasn’t acknowledged it. I’m not certain whether to tell him yet or not. We were only halfway through the tea before the conversation turned, as it inevitably does, to her.
“I don’t know whether to just call her,” he said. “If she’s seeing someone new, I’ll feel rubbish; if she isn’t, I’ll wonder what the point of us breaking up was.”
“You know, when someone decides it’s over there’s nothing you can do.”
“I know. I just thought, finally I have everything sorted, finally I-holy fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Look out your window.”
I did. A residential street, cars parked on the opposite side. Some house lights on, some off. Almost-invisible droplets of rain blown sideways, showing up as a shower of orange under the streetlight. “Yes?”
“It’s his car. It’s your ex’s car.”
I squinted. The eyes are not quite what they should be these days, but I don’t drive and have readjusted my notion of “normal newspaper reading distance” to approximately two centimeters from my nose. But yes, it looked awfully like the Boy’s car-Fiat, V reg, half a block down.
An inadvertent shiver. It was cold by the window and I pulled the drapes. “Lot of cars like that around.”
“Wasn’t there when I parked,” N said. “None of your neighbors have one.”
I turned back toward the sofa, unfolded my arms, picked up the cup of tea and sat down. “Mmm. I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
When N left an hour later, the car was gone, anyway. dimanche, le 8 fevrier
So: it is the mid-eighties. Sometimes in the summer my mother leaves me with a Jewish youth group on weekdays. Usually we hang around a community center, playing board games or being forced into strange sports no one knows the rules of, like korfball. Sometimes we take trips.
One time we go to the beach in two minibuses. It’s not a warm day, but the beach is a treat (we are told), so we mustn’t waste the day (we are also told). A teacher at school once brought back a bleached starfish from her holidays abroad, so I spend the day walking barefoot up and down the shore looking for one. Of course there are none. Some other girls are sitting cross-legged in shallow water, pretending to shampoo their hair with sand. They ask me to join them but I don’t. It looks too cold.
We are brushed down obsessively by the leaders before being allowed back in the buses. But there is still sand in everything when we come back, so the adults order the girls into one room and the boys into another to change out of their swimsuits and shake out their towels. Between the two rooms is a cloakroom-cum-corridor, and the boys don’t realize, but two older girls go to watch them change.
I didn’t get to look. Not from want of trying: the older girls were tall enough to block the view, and wouldn’t let anyone else near. They described what they saw (inaccurately, I later realize). For years after, I believe the male member has a spiraling ridge going down it, the physical equivalent of the verb “to screw.” When someone’s older sister has a boyfriend, she is “being screwed.”
There is a popular song all the older girls like, and they argue about who loves the singer most, whose name would sound best with his. His protestations of asexuality are meaningless to them. No, not meaningless: they make him harder to win. He is as separate from the boys around us as a person can be. He is beautiful, antique, otherworldly, and from Manchester-and if we know anything, it’s that Manchester is far cooler than where we are.
In my first flat after university, I am unpacking dishes in the kitchen when the song comes on the radio. It is the first time I have heard it without a chorus of twelve-year-olds singing along.
That summer of the youth group was also the summer my parents’ friends start to call me “the little Alice.” As in, through the looking glass. “Where is the little Alice?” they ask, and I run from wherever I am, happy to impress. I am brought out at gatherings to impress with feats of memorization. They keep me in the room, a bit of a parlor game, come watch this ur-adult. I know they’re patronizing me by speaking this way, but at the same time I am pleased because I can talk back to them in their own language. One friend of the family refuses to dine at our table if not seated next to me. He asks what I think about politics, and I am surprised to learn I have an opinion. However uninformed. It really hasn’t changed much since, either. Then he asks me to recite poetry, going over it line by line. I recite it back verbatim. “Someday you might even absorb all this,” he says, laughing.
So I am in the kitchen, alone, listening to this song as an adult, not as Little Alice. The lyrics are quite sad, actually. Without realizing it, I have begun to cry.
FUCK: A SPOTTER’S GUIDE
• Good Fuck: makes a lot of noise, alerting neighbors to actual sexual activity on the premises. Leaves nothing behind and does not phone immediately after. In short, should probably be charging for services rendered.
• Bad Fuck: counts ceiling tiles, then demands betrothal.
• Fuckable: not so much conventionally attractive as exuding animal qualities. Unless, of course, that animal is an otter.
• Fuckwit: not likely to engage in actual fucking anytime soon.
• Fucking Hell: is populated by women of the tanned arid blonde variety who would rather talk about their diets, spirituality, and tiny dogs than engage in sex. See also: Chelsea, Tantalus.
• Fucked Over: no longer the recipient of regular fucks. mercredi, le 11 fevrier
In the last week, I have been set up on three more dates. This might mean my friends are concerned about my emotional well-being, or afraid of what might happen if I am single for too long, or both. And I don’t want to get attached to First Date too quickly; while he’s a nice person and we get on well, the more I think about him, the more I find his intentions a little… intense.
None of the intended gents, however, were quite what I had in mind for a love match.
Bachelor #1 was a lovely bloke-tall, strange dark eyes, devastating Welsh accent. If there’s anything that drives me batty, it’s the mellifluous tones of men from the Valleys. Superficial, I know, but we all have our weaknesses.
Alas, the fellow must not have been clued on the details of my working life. Halfway through the starter, he related an elaborate anecdote which essentially came down to ridiculing his best friend for “dating a whore’s sister.” Ah. Well. Pity.
The meal was nice, though.
Bachelor #2 met me at a pub already drunk. Another fine figure of manhood, but having distinct problems negotiating the relationship between his body and the force of gravity. Inside of half an hour he was clinging to the bar for support, having discovered I am unsuitably small to support fifteen-odd stone of wavering man-weight.
A couple of hours later we were in the queue for a club. In spite of the rain and general yuckness, they were operating a one-in, one-out door policy when the place itself was clearly nowhere near full. Bachelor #2 took umbrage with this indignity and decided to address the bouncers on the matter. They, quite reasonably, chucked the lad out on his ear. I peeled him off the pavement, got him back to his in a taxi, located a bag of peas in his freezer, and slapped it on his swelling cheek before making my excuses. Being already unconscious, I doubt he noticed.
Bachelor #3 was the sort of person for whom the mantra “Better to keep quiet and be thought dim than open your mouth and remove all doubt” was created. After a solid hour of my bright chatter (being personally unafraid of whether people think me dim or not), he finally came out with a few winners:
“I can’t say I’m a fan of [the subject I studied at uni].”
Wiping out an entire academic discipline with a single sentence. That’s fine, that’s okay, I’m not precious about such things. So off again the conversation went, this time to music, a subject about which he was somewhat more animated.
“I’ll listen to anything, except country and western.”
What, a life without Dolly? Without Patsy? The Flying Burrito Brothers? Admittedly, the current crop of Nashville output is appallingly samey, but to write off the likes of Wilco and Lambchop altogether?
To paraphrase the country-and-western diva, I waxed my legs for this? jeudi, le 12 fevrier
In a taxi, sort of drowsing off in the back. I’d had the sort of day where you wake up already tired and it never quite comes together from there. My phone started ringing.
“Darling, I hope you’re okay.” It was the manager. I’d forgotten to alert her on leaving the last client.
“Sorry, yes, I’m fine.” The taxi sped north, the streets were quiet. “Everything was fine, he was very nice.”
“You always say they’re ‘very nice.’ You sound so happy.”
“Happy? I suppose so. I’m not unhappy.” I mean, the man was somewhat trollish, but she’s not interested in knowing.
“That’s because you haven’t experienced any aggression in the job yet.”
I laughed. Compared to real relationships, these men are absolute pussycats, and easily pleased pussycats at that. Even sleepy and disconnected, nothing I couldn’t handle-so far. “I suppose it just shows how well you take care of me,” I said.
Arrived home soon after and went to bed. I had my phone under my pillow just in case, as I was expecting another call. It rang around midnight.
“Darling, are you still up? Can you do another appointment?”
“Mrrrrrf arrrrrm mmmmmmmph fhmmmmmm.”
“Okay, you get some sleep. Stay happy, darling.” vendredi, le 13 fevrier
Usually I hold fairly positive opinions on clients-being as they are the water that floats my soap, and usually pleasant enough in a ships-passing-in-night kind of way. If someone waxes fanatical on the charms of his school nurse circa 1978, for instance, or insists on making me read out the newspaper in a fnar-fnar porny voice while he imagines he is having Fiona Bruce up the backside, I just steel myself and get on with it. But some things are beyond the pale. Some things chill me to the bone.
When the client referred to yesterday’s hotel visit as “afternoon delight,” for instance. For the love of Harvey N, man, have you no taste whatsoever? samedi, le 14 fevrier
But of course, the manager is wrong. I am not all that happy. ’Tis the blessed season of togetherness, where we honor the anniversary of the beheading of a Christian saint by exchanging overpriced tat.
The crass and obvious fakery of the Valentine holiday is powerful enough to get even me down. It’s not simply the fact of being alone, though I am not technically alone-in London, you really never are-I have friends aplenty and work enough. No, it’s more the smug mutual pampering couples get to experience.
I don’t begrudge anyone their good time. I’ve been known to smile at couples canoodling on the tube or drunkenly fumbling on a park bench whilst pregnant women and little old ladies are forced to stand. If you have an other, significant or somewhat less than, I wholeheartedly encourage you to lavish one another with lurrrrve on that day.
What gets my goat is the shameless cashing-in by manicurists, hairstylists, and purveyors of raunchy lingerie. I make an effort to keep myself baby smooth and silkily attired at all points in the year, and what’s my reward? Nothing. Book a spoil-yourself spa weekend for two in February, though, and it’s discounts ahoy.
Ahem. I think I deserve a little better here. Sure, Valentine’s may be the lifestyle economy’s equivalent of Christmas, but how about lending some sugar to the peeps who keep you afloat the rest of the year?
I brought up the subject with the woman lately charged with waxing my bush. She wasn’t impressed by the logic. dimanche, le 15 fevrier
Having very little else to do of a weekend, I went to visit N’s mum. She’s an excellent woman, robust of mind and body, and lately widowed. It seemed appropriate to spend Valentine’s Day with someone whose attitude toward men runs approximately, “Don’t worry dear-by the time you find a good one they just up and die on you anyway.”
She has been thinking of selling the family house now that all her children are grown and she is alone.
“It must seem quite empty now,” I said carefully. One never knows just how far and how quickly your foot can enter your mouth when conversing with the elderly.
“Not at all,” she said. “I have the little ghosts, you see.”
“Of course you do,” I said. Dappy old bird. I thought nothing more of it.
Later we went for a walk round her block. It’s in a neglected village north of London that has never been fashionable, where there is still a local butcher (and not selling organic free-range cilantro-and-Tamworth-pork sausage to the gourmands-come-lately, either), where the pubs are still locals and not jockeying for the attention of Michelin and Egon Ronay restaurant reviews, and the residents drive normal-sized cars and not Land Rover behemoths, or more shocking still, use public transport.
In short-the sticks. And quite lovely for it.
We wittered around in the corner shop and bought a paper and sandwiches. I insisted we get two cupcakes from the bakery with pink icing and a little plastic heart pressed in the tops. We went further, down to a cemetery. The weather wasn’t great, a bit gray and blowy, but there was a touch of blue making its way through the sky. N’s mum sat heavily on a stone bench next to a memorial.
“Go on, read it.”
I did. A family-the father, mother, and four girls-their names and dates of birth inscribed in the curly lettering of the early Victorian. “Do you notice anything?” she said.
“They all died on the same day. Some sort of accident?”
“A fire,” she said. “In the house where I live now.” A white-haired lady walking a terrier paused nearby. She waved at N’s mum while her doggie soiled the eternal memory of some decorated officer. “They were asleep the whole time.”
“You’re having me on,” I said. But I couldn’t help imagining a bed of little girls, their blankets and pajamas catching fire. A fate we have eliminated, presumably, with central heating and flameproof furniture. The sort of thing that only happens now when a near-bankrupt father goes off the rails and does his whole family in.
“When you wake up tomorrow, come down to the kitchen and see if it doesn’t smell of smoke.”
“How do I know that’s not just you burning the toast?” I said with a smile.
“It’s not,” she said. “It’s four little ghosts, who never even woke up.” We walked home and read the paper and ate our sandwiches. I texted N to say I was having a nice time with his mother and secretly wondered whether I’d be able to sleep the night. Every crack of a twig and whip of wind outside sounded like a growing flame; every few minutes I sat up in bed, convinced the air smelt of fire.
Woke to a smoke-free kitchen and text:
Enjoy the weekend. Don’t let her start telling ghost stories. N lundi, le 16 fevrier
A knock on the door this morning as I was drying my hair. It was one of the builders, holding a single pink rose.
“Er, um,” he said, charmingly.
“Is that for me?” I asked. The builders were meant to be finished by now, but there have been problems with the new dishwasher that they are either loath to describe to a delicate constitution such as mine or are incapable of putting into words. Their morning requirement of tea and their vague assurances that it will all be finished soon are becoming permanent features of my home life. If one decided to cement our union, I’m not sure I would be able to discourage him, except by engineering a tea shortage. “How very sweet.”
“It’s not from me,” he insisted. “I mean, I mean… it’s not from me, someone said to give it to you.”
“Lovely. And is there a note?”
“Didn’t see one.”
“Whom did you say this was from again?”
“Dunno.” He thought a moment, scratching his chin with the tube of plastic wrapped round the rosebud. “Some bloke?”
“And what did he look like?”
“Average size?”
It’s good to know their general vagueness is not just an act to secure tea privileges. I suspected plumping for more detail, such as whether the suitor came on foot or by car, would be met with similarly useless information. “Well, thank you for delivering it,” I said, taking charge of the flower. The builder turned and trundled off to his van. I noticed the plastic bore a sticker from the florist and fruiterer around the corner-so no clues there. Given the turnover of customers they must have this week, I can’t imagine the staff would remember who purchased the rose, either.
I have queried all reasonable candidates but no one will claim responsibility for the gesture. It therefore follows that I must have a stalker, but as it is a good time of year for stalkers, I’ll let it go for now. Who said romance was dead? mardi, le 17 fevrier
By 1992 I had been studying French for six years. I was never much good at it. We never read anything interesting at school. I had a Canadian friend, Francoise, who told me Marguerite Duras is “sexy.” So I bought a copy of the shortest of her books I could find, because my French is rather poor and I had long stopped enjoying translating. The book was L’Amant.
Translations are a lot like pasta. At first, because you don’t know anything, you’ll buy whatever’s on offer. Audiobook of Keith Harris reading Gunter Grass? Sure. Comic-book version of The Iliad? Hit me. But the more of a taste you get for the originals, the more demanding you become. You try your hand at a simple translation, armed with only the basic kitchen essentials, and the result is not bad. Your friends are impressed. To be honest, so are you. You invest a little more time and effort, and the returns are positive. Finally you go all out on the pasta maker-dash-Oxford Classical Grammar and turn into a one-woman translation-dash-noodle machine. You buy the supplementary books, join the appreciation societies, and watch the right programs. Then you realize how time-consuming your interest is and, worse, how much of a bore your friends think you are, going on about 00 graded semolina/Hesse in the original German like it mattered. You let it slide. Those who don’t either end up doing it professionally or soon find themselves the social equivalent of a hand grenade at any party.
But even when you give up on making your own pasta/translating from the original, you have just enough knowledge to ruin the thing you enjoyed in the first place. You’ll never enjoy “just” a bowl of pasta. “Just” a nice book to read. Neither of them tastes very good when it’s bland, cardboardy, off-the-shelf, sanitized-for-Western-Europe rubbish. So I bought L’Amant in French to see if I could read it. Also, it was the only version that did not advertise the film on the book cover. Nothing turns me off a paperback quite as quickly as the dreaded words “Now a Major Motion Picture.”
So I start reading it. I don’t like the book. It is not sexy. For a dozen or more pages, she writes about the heat in Asia, a silk dress, a hat. She is describing a girl who is like me-small for her age, burdened with a heavy mass of hair, delicate and odd. Francoise must have been lying. No one who is like me can be sexy. Perhaps in some passages I can see what is meant, though having to constantly refer to a French grammar to puzzle out the author’s finely crafted lines breaks up the meaning too much.
Then I am surprised. By the end of the book-which I will not give away, because to relate what happens (though the ending itself is not a surprise) will diminish it-I am in tears. Something that did not happen to me broke my heart. That was how I knew I was capable of the feeling.
From time to time I read it again. Often when I am feeling alone. The end, it always comes in such a rush, always the same effect. mercredi, le 18 fevrier
It used to be simple to buy faintly embarrassing items and hide them in the rest of my purchases. Of course, this is not so much a clever ruse as a socially accepted fiction. No shop assistant is fooled by an extra-strength deodorant hiding amongst the oranges-it’s just not nice commenting on a single sore thumb in an otherwise unremarkable cascade of groceries. And we all have biological functions.
On the other hand, put too many of these in at once, and you’re cruising for jokes. A witness to my usual haul of cosmetic goods might suspect I’m buying for a minimum of six postoperative transsexuals. So there is one chemist I go to for normal things and another for everything else. Example:
Typical shopping at Chemist 1: shampoo toothpaste bath salts cucumber gel mask loofah scrubber which might, at worst, be expected to stimulate a solicitous, “Ooh, a facial mask? Treating yourself?” As opposed to
Today’s shopping at Chemist 2: tampons vaginal pessary (for irritation) condoms sugarless breath mints lubricant individual postwaxing wipes self-tanning liquid razor blades potassium citrate granules (for cystitis) which was met with the vaguely disinterested “There are halitosis remedies on the far end of aisle 2, if you’re interested.”
Bitch. jeudi, le 19 fevrier
The builders have moved on to the vexing problem of my freezer. This is a surprise, not simply because I would not have ascribed to them the expertise in complex internal condensers, but because I had no idea there was anything wrong with the freezer at all.
“What’s that noise?” one of them asked yesterday afternoon, distracted from his detailed study of a cracked floor tile (which I hasten to add he was the cause of-an unfortunate incident involving the installation of a new dishwasher while one of my more voluptuous neighbors elected to begin her daily jog).
“I don’t know,” I said, looking up from the paper. “The freezer, most likely.” Its occasional whirry cricket-sound is something I have grown used to and find rather comforting.
He opened the freezer door. “For the love of-when was the last time you defrosted this?”
Defrosted? Don’t they do that themselves if left long enough, as with the decade-old wellies at the back of the closet which I fully expect to have sealed any holes if and when I need them again? “Not sure I ever have done.”
He surveyed the wasteland landscape of icicle-coated bread loaves and mummified bottles of vodka. “Do you realize the buildup in here keeps the vacuum sealing mechanism from working properly?”
Whazzat? “Pardon?”
“The door doesn’t close. That sound is the freezer constantly trying to replace the cold air seeping out.”
It would explain the draft in the kitchen, anyway. “I don’t suppose this means I get a new freezer?”
“It doesn’t.”
“And I don’t suppose defrosting freezers is part of your remit?”
“It isn’t.”
Pity the neglect of household appliances does not warrant getting new ones off the landlady. I really must look over the contract more carefully come time to renew. So while the builder looked on during his break, sipping tea and enjoying the many and varied delights of one of the country’s finer tabloid dailies, I attacked the ice storm with hands swaddled in tea towels, vegetable knife at the ready, like some intrepid polar explorer or demented suburban cannibal-take your (ahem) pick. And the tile still hasn’t been repaired, either. vendredi, le 20 fevrier
A2 of the latex love, so happy in his newfound fetish, is extremely concerned about my romantic well-being. I do my best not to comment that if the alternative to being single is smelling like an explosion in a rubber factory, I’ll pass, thank you.
We met for a cup of coffee and to check out the talent in town. Or rather, he eyed the talent as I did my best to deflect the inevitable matchmaking.
“Over my left shoulder,” A2 hissed, and I looked to see who lay beyond. “No, don’t look straight at him. Just have a quick look.”
What was this, junior school? Do You Want to Kiss Me-Tick Yes or No. “You’re starting to sound like my mother,” I sniffed. “Anyway, too short.”
“How do you know? He’s sitting down.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.” Button-down blue cotton shirt, tucked into too-high trouser waist. “He probably has all the Patrick O’Brian novels too.”
“You have to be kidding.” A2 clearly cannot see the forest for the rubber trees. “You can’t reject someone on taste-no, not even on taste, on your assumption of their taste.”
“Can do, will do, done.”
Some minutes later as we picked at a shared pain au chocolat, he spotted another likely suitor. “On your left. Tall. Reading.”
I looked over. Sure enough, a long drink of water was unfurling his limbs under a table, holding a paperback copy of Requiem for a Dream.
“Not bad,” I mused. Oh wait-no. “Eep, smoker, forget it.”
“You’re going to reject someone based on that? But you’ve dated smokers before.”
“So over that,” I said. “If someone’s going to have an expensive, pointless hobby, I’d rather it was skiing. Or better still, buying me expensive, pointless things.”
“If you carry on like this, you’ll die alone.”
This from the person who once told me, aged twenty-three, that he hadn’t had sex in six months and was therefore taking himself permanently off the market. This from the person who perennially lusts after his first lover, whom he hasn’t seen since they were both seventeen. With friends like this, who needs relatives?
I scoffed. “What, at this wizened old age I’m already past it? Besides, my talc-coated friend, we all die alone anyway.” samedi, le 21 fevrier
There is a client, I’ve seen him twice now. Hard face, high cheekbones, water-clear eyes, and eyelashes to envy. A cool person, handsome in a harsh way, gentle. Smart. We talk about books, he’s an engineer of some sort and hates his job, and we talk about plays and films. I enthuse about Ben Kingsley in this or that role, about Anthony Sher. He half-smiles. No idea why he’s single. Perhaps he just wants to be alone?
I walked out of a block of flats toward the river to find a taxi. On the way to the taxi-stand I passed the entrance of a tube station, where a legless man was soliciting donations. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled,” he chanted.
A drop of sweat ran down the inside of my thigh, perhaps the only part of me that felt truly warm. When it reached the top of my stocking, I felt it soak in, dissipate. A moment later, the legless man’s voice again. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled.” His cadence was flat but sing-songy, in time with the beat of footsteps from people streaming around him. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled.”
I stood in queue but there were no taxis for a few minutes. A short, round man with overflowing plastic bags came up to me. “Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord?” he asked. It sounded like reflex, devoid of meaning, as automatic as a “hello.”
“Afraid not, Jewish,” I said. Stock answer. More a cultural than a religious thing for me, but usually sufficient to drive the crazies off.
He nodded in sympathy, his eyes never rising above the level of my shoulder. “The Jews wanted a king, and God gave them a king, but he was manic-depressive, you see, and would go out and hide in bushes screaming at people.”
“Not a very effective king, you might say,” I said.
“I’m going to freeze standing on the bridge,” he said, and gathered his shopping bags and walked away. dimanche, le 22 fevrier
Today, I have been given: a pound coin change (from a two-pound coin; took bus) a pair of white socks (from gym; left them) a personal alarm (from friend; just… because) a silver and amber bracelet (from a client) five of those weirdly Day-Glo daisies (from a nonpaying admirer) the bill from the builders (er, wasn’t the owner supposed to handle this?) strange looks from a taxi driver (he so knew) a cold (see first item on the list)
So Ken Livingstone’s much-vaunted improved public transport proves itself quite capable in the “public” criterion, if not so much the “transport.” Ah well, good time to tuck up with some good books and demand pancakes from my nearest and dearest. lundi, le 23 fevrier
The mystery car is back; I don’t want to look but can’t look away; I’m not convinced it’s not just paranoia; must remember to lock all the locks; the builders are giving me strange looks; am thinking of investing in a bubble wig and giant pair of Jackie O sunglasses and not just for the sake of rocking the vintage look.
Otherwise, a bit better today, thank you for asking. mardi, le 24 fevrier he: “Um, you have a… I’m not sure…” me: (looking over shoulder at man kneeling behind me) “Is everything okay, sweetie?”
“There’s a… I don’t quite know how to tell you this…”
I was suddenly quite worried-what? Razor bump? Spare thicket of missed hair? Week-old tampon? The stub of a tail? “Yes?”
“You have bruises on the backs of your thighs.”
“Oh, that. Just means you’re not the first to tread this road vigorously, dear. Is it okay? We can do it another way.”
“Well, actually,” he said, growing harder and somewhat more forceful. “You could tell me how they happened.” mercredi, le 25 fevrier
A1 hit a milestone birthday. His partner made the arrangements and booked a table at an overrated Indian restaurant in Clerkenwell, which was acceptable, being as she has no taste.
I was looking forward to getting out in a large group. Work can be intense. It’s like having a series of blind dates over and over again, struggling to keep your end of the arrangement effortless and light, all whilst knowing very little is going to come of it. Draining. The current spate of real first dates hasn’t helped either. And while I enjoy hanging in cafes and coffee bars with a small group of friends, there is always the danger that by knowing too much about each other, all useful conversational skills will be lost. Only with people who’ve known you since puberty can you be entertained by
“Remember the…” (vague hand gesture)
“Yes, just like in the movie.”
“Oh God! And the arm thing B used to do!”
(random Star Wars quote)
(reference to mid-nineties politics)
(satisfied silence, or fits of inexplicable giggles for half an hour).
It’s not a fortress that admits new champions easily, and girlfriends of N and the As usually find themselves on the outside regardless of their charms and abilities. There was the one who was raised on a commune in South Africa, built her last house from the ground up, and had never been to a McDonald’s (actually, a rather admirable trait). But she couldn’t quote freely from The Princess Bride, and thus found herself in a constant state of puzzlement, especially when A2 tried-and failed-to propose to her by explaining that Life Is Pain.
We need to get out more. With other people. Normal people.
I arrived late, looking swish in a black silk shirt and tailored trousers. Hair pulled up, subtle pearl earrings. Okay, so I looked like a Goth personal assistant. No matter. The table was lively; the drinks were flowing; the conversation was achingly, happily, beautifully normal. I sat across from N, who’d brought his friend Angel, the other working girl whom I’d had a run-in with last month. But she’d seemingly come to her senses and appeared lovely and chipper.
Halfway through the meal, Angel begged use of my phone-her battery had gone-to send a text. And yes, I’m a trusting soul, and was busily flirting with the blue-eyed Adonis on my right, so didn’t check to see what she’d sent or to whom.
So I was surprised when First Date turned up as the gifts were being opened. He smiled at me. I smiled back. He looked round the table and sat next to Angel. Interesting. I should have known they knew each other, but never would have figured them for a potential couple.
The Adonis smiled, introduced himself across the table. First Date shook his hand. “And you’re here with… f?” Adonis inquired.
“Her,” he said, nodding at me.
I laughed nervously. “Are you?”
“Didn’t you just invite me?”
I glared at Angel, hard. “I suppose it might look like I had done,” I said. “I’m not responsible for this-sorry for the confusion.”
The tail end of the supper I spent lavishing my attention on the pale, shy girl next to me while Adonis and First Date-who, it turns out, had mutual acquaintances-chattered about university days. N begged off quickly, the Adonis made his excuses, everyone at the other end of the table was going to some random’s house to continue drinking, and I was left with Angel and First Date. She went to collect her car, suggesting the three of us move on to a late bar she knew.
First Date and I stepped into the street as she dashed round the corner. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Water under the bridge,” I said, though it clearly was not.
“I didn’t know that text wasn’t from you.”
“I know.”
“Am I… am I in the way?”
I turned to him, angry at the situation, angry at feeling manipulated, even if he wasn’t the cause. Angry for feeling angry; why get mad at all? Most of all I was angry at his woundedness, his need to be needed by me. His voice had the timbre of…
“Because I love you.”
Yeah, that thing.
I sighed, closed my eyes. We stood on the pavement for a long time in silence. I looked at my shoes, he looked at me. This wasn’t what I wanted and this wasn’t how I wanted to be. A man came by, asked for directions, we sent him off to the next block. The fear was coming over me, a black mist, the feeling of being trapped by well-meaning friends, by fate. “I’m getting a cab home,” I said finally. “Alone. You go meet Angel at the bar or she’ll think we’ve deserted her.” Or gone home together, I thought. jeudi, le 26 fevrier
The next morning I woke to three missed calls and a text.
The first two calls were from numbers I didn’t recognize. No voice mail. Not too unusual, but I smelt a rat. So I rang them back.
“Good morning. Did you by any chance ring my number last night?”
Both were confused, because they were clearly people who didn’t know me-but, if the caller ID was an impartial judge, had tried to call. Turns out Angel had sent more than one text. And they had tried to reach her on my number.
Nice one. I am such an idiot. At least they weren’t international calls.
The third missed call was from First Date, sometime in the wee hours. The text was from him too.
Are you still seeing N? If so, are you aware I didn’t know?
Sigh. I rang him as well; he was already at his desk. “Hello, sorry to disturb you at work.”
“That’s okay.” He sounded surprised.
“I read your text.” He didn’t answer. “I’m not seeing N. I haven’t in ages. Who told you we were?” Still no answer. “That’s okay, I really don’t have to ask, do I?”
“It just seems like you two are still so close, and with you both being single…”
“That automatically means we’re more than just friends?”
“Well, no, it doesn’t.” He paused. “But Angel was very surprised when she found out you and I were a thing, and she said, didn’t I know about you and N?”
“Excuse me… us two… we’re a thing?”
“Um.”
“Okay, that aside-and someone you barely know is a more reliable source of information on my life than I am?”
“Well.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Hey, calm down. I love you. I care about you. I-”
Argh, those stupid words again. “I don’t feel the same way. If you didn’t know that, you do now. I’m not going to belittle your feelings and say you shouldn’t feel them, but you know nothing about me. Either way, the things you feel entitle you to nothing.” Argh, stop it, I know I’m yelling now and this is coming out all wrong. I want to make my point clear without him thinking I’m an arse.
No. Forget that. The sooner he understands this, the sooner he can go looking for someone he really loves. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want this. I’ll be a jerk.
“It’s all just a misunderstanding, I’m sure we can talk about this with her…”
“Oh, just… quiet. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk to her. Or you. I’m not really interested in this at all.”
“But I-”
“Goodbye.”
A pause. I could imagine his face, what I would and have done in the same situation. Bargain for time or accept it gracefully? To his credit, he chose the latter. “Goodbye. Good luck to you. I’ll miss seeing you.”
“Thank you.” I hung up. And went to the computer to send that woman a blistering e-mail about the mystery numbers and her conversation with First Date. I felt a coward hiding behind the in-box, but I was not sure I could keep from raising my voice on the phone. Type, revise, send. And then I ate breakfast, and felt a bit sad, and a bit of a twat, and even the thought that none of this matters anyway didn’t really cheer me. vendredi, le 27 fevrier
After a bit of time passes, it can be difficult to remember how, why, when you liked someone, and nice to revisit it from a safe distance. The boy who felt me up in a public swimming pool when I was fifteen. The relationship at school that ended because of his aversion to cunnilingus. A1, whose skill in manipulating my body was as funny as it was frightening. The first time with someone I still think of fondly, someone I fell quickly and hard for, and the thousand or so times we were together after that, and the last time with him too.
The few whom I could not get enough of. The way they smelled, felt, tasted. The number of times I was with the Boy and wished he would just shut up and fuck me already, because I had never come with anyone that way, ever. The times sex felt as much a spiritual calling as a biological need. And how those moments kept me going for weeks afterward, like pearls dotting the cord of our moribund relationship.
These are nice, these little sketches of people I have enjoyed. It passes the time on trains and in taxis. samedi, le 28 fevrier
Am spending some quality time with my family before they go abroad on holiday, catching up with the local gossip and generally causing trouble and getting in the way, as is the eldest daughter’s prerogative.
So, my mother is going to a wedding next month. A commitment ceremony in which the two brides will be dressed in white and will exchange rings and live happily ever after. Old family friends. We couldn’t be more pleased. Except that Mum can’t find a date for the date. Because her usual squeeze, my father, has been deemed Not in the Right Spirit.
It’s not that he disagrees with the notion of lesbians (what man really does, at least in theory?) or has some bizarre hang-ups about the sanctity of marriage (note to world leaders: in an age where the highest-selling female artist worldwide can drunkenly trip down the aisle in jeans and a garter only to have the transaction annulled twenty-four hours later, but committed life partners cannot call each other wife and wife, something is a little rotten in the state of Denmark). No, it’s actually Dad’s overenthusiasm for the blessed event that has led to him being stricken off the guest list.
Because he insists, completely seriously, on hiring strippers to come to the reception. My father is not the sort of man who makes jokes, and worse still, he has social antennae legendary for their insensitivity. We were lingering over bagels and he was relating the story to date. Mother rolled her eyes as if it was a genetically encoded reflex, which I suspect it is. “Male strippers or female strippers?” I asked with just a touch too much interest.
“Oh, honey, no,” Mum groaned.
“Female strippers!” he cried. “Naked ladies everywhere!” Have I mentioned that my father is an embarrassing perv? Runs in the bloodline, I suppose.
“I’m not certain that’s entirely appropriate for the wedding,” I said. Mum nodded sagely, her enameled black bob bouncing.
“You’re right,” she agreed. She turned on Daddy. “You see? You see? NO ONE thinks it’s a good idea-”
“Yes,” I said. “No good at all. Now, a hen night with strippers, that would be cool…”
“Don’t encourage him!” Mum shot me the evils as he gleefully contemplated the possibilities. dimanche, le 29 fevrier
Yesterday Mum and I went shopping. We haven’t been unleashed on a retail palace together in years, but believe me, the shopgirls will be telling the tale to their children and their children’s children. We’re loud, we’re efficient, we’re armed with serious credit and cannot be stopped as we tear a smoking trail from shoes to lingerie.
She’s after the Palm Beach look (well, what matron at her age isn’t?). Lily Pulitzer-esque prints, bright brights, silky, sweaters, white trousers. I’m genetically programmed to want the same, but live in a grimy city and you can’t wear cream-colored wool where there’s any chance of sitting in schmutz.
We hit the shoes first. Same size, same taste; she cleaned three shops out of strappy sandals in spring green and blue; I did the same, with versions in camel and black. Handbags, suits, knickers: all fell before the might of our campaign of terror. She must have bought at least three outfits to wear to the wedding, as well as enough holiday gear to clothe an army of Mum-clones. I had to forcibly restrain her from beaded, flower-printed twinsets while she advised me my ankles “look chubby” in vintage-style shoes.
Such is the power of unconditional love. Only a mother can shriek “VPL!” to her daughter at a volume loud enough to rock the foundations of the building and live to tell the tale. (And for the record, my panty line was, indeed, visible. I hate when she’s right.)
She: “Honey, you looked so adorable in the green! Are you not getting that?”
Me: “I don’t know, it makes me look too busty.”
(thrusting her own ample chest to the fore) “There’s no such thing as looking too busty. What, you want to look like an adolescent?” And she threw the garment back on my pile.
I quiver in the shadow of a superior intellect.