O-P
O is for Oil
Never acceptable as lube. If you don’t know about the unfortunate interaction of oil with latex, I refer you to any and all HIV-related literature of the last two decades.
Aside from degrading barrier protection, it’s a rubbish lubricant in general. A man once suggested (whipping out a tub of Vaseline as he did so) attempting to fist me with a petrolatum-based aid. Are you joking? That stuff traps heat and makes it feel like someone’s deep-frying your labia.
It’s not a bad idea to carry a small bottle of massage oil, though, for the odd massage. Men like that, and often tip after. More often than they do for the actual sex. Weird creatures.
P is for Plastic
Tits, not credit cards. Do men prefer perfection or the real thing? Are all the other girls in the agency that naturally buoyant, or is there surreptitious cantilevering at work? Should you save your profits for an upgrade? Even the most down-to-earth girl will start to wonder if her career wouldn’t enjoy the boost pumping up the volume might bring. If you wouldn’t do it in real life, though, I can’t say I’d recommend doing it at all.
P is also (obviously) for Porn
There’s a fair amount of snobbery from those who buy tastefully hot, hardbound picture books on Neolithic erotic cave paintings against those who appear in hard-core porn. Believe me, honey, the snobbery goes both ways. African tribal sculpture of a man with an erection does not a libertine make.
Basically, if there isn’t the possibility of come staining something in the process of its creation, it’s class-B porn. Sorry to burst your bubble. Jenna Jameson, massage parlor attendants, and the guy who mops the booth at the peep show work in sex. People who wear pink baby-doll tees and stand behind a counter selling organic recycled nonphallic vibrators don’t. Saucy art-house films set in France during the 1960s student protests are not porn. Double fist penetration while blowing a dog is. Rule of thumb: the more likely couples are to view a sex product as a relationship-strengthening tool, the less hard-core it is. lundi, le 1 ^er mars
Am still up North, sleeping on a sofa of one of the As, looking for a good massage therapist locally and drinking too many tequila-based concoctions. There is this cat, whenever she sees me she makes for my lap and rattles her purrbox like a rusty motor. Extremely cozy and warm-fluffy at the mo, and vaguely toying with the notion of never going back to London.
Kidding! I’ll be home in a day or two. Wearing my brand-new gossamer pastel blue underwear, to boot. mardi, le 2 mars
It is probably the lot of everyone to fear old age. When you are young, it does not seem possible that someday you will be as ancient as your relatives, and similarly impossible that they were even, in their turn, young.
It’s when you leave the first flush of youth that the fear starts to creep in. The eyes of old people on the street-people whom you did not even notice, not so long ago-seem to bore straight into you. You will be here soon, they seem to say.
Only recently I saw my own future. Or to be more precise, heard it.
I was at home. My mother and grandmother were talking in the kitchen, unaware that I, checking my e-mail in a room around the corner, could hear every word.
But I paid them no attention until my ears seized on one phrase. Pubic hair.
Specifically, my mother saying to her mother, “I feel old. Why, only the other day I noticed my pubic hair is now almost completely gray.”
To which my grandmother replied, “You think that’s bad? Wait until they start falling out.”
I think I had better kill myself now, before it’s too late. mercredi, le 3 mars
Of the four As there’s only one of them I haven’t slept with. This would be A3. When we first met, there was immediate, overpowering chemistry. We snogged a bit but didn’t go any further.
He lived in a neighboring city, and when he went home, I was lonely. You know the feeling where all the pent-up energy goes straight to your legs, and you just want to run and run until you jump off a cliff? I confided in A2 and told him what had happened. I’d fallen hard and had to see the man.
We devised a plan: I would turn up at A3’s door at the weekend as a surprise and see what happened. Meanwhile I had four days to plan and fret. So I did what any girl would do.
I slept with A2. Confused yet?
No? How about this, then-I was seeing A4 at the time. We were on the outs, but still an item, just. Jumping ship was high on the agenda, and this looked like a good opportunity.
So, A4 is out of town on a conference, I’m sleeping with our mutual friend A2 and planning to throw myself at the feet of A3. When the weekend comes, I turn up at A3’s door.
He had a girlfriend. I had no idea. Until she answered the door. Her confused smile said she had no idea what was going on, and I felt exactly as low as I was acting. I made like Paula Radcliffe on speed.
A4 and I split properly; A2 and I made a brief go of things and it didn’t work out. But it’s water under the bridge now: they’re all friends with each other. Most people who meet us reckon A4 is my husband, A2 my brother, and A1 our uncle-not because he looks old, we assure him, he just oozes manly authority. But there is the slight lingering problem of A3. After all these years, he’s still seeing that girl. And sometimes on a night out he gets a bit pissed and overly friendly with me.
Too little, darling. Years too late.
We were at a restaurant a few nights ago. A2 introduced me to a colleague of his. As if he had to point him out at all. I noticed the man as soon as he came in the door.
“Nice,” I whispered to A2.
“I thought he was just your type,” he said, smiling.
He was. Neatly dressed, fit body, hands I could imagine all over me. Smart, polite, gorgeous mouth. “So where’s he from?”
“South coast, originally.”
“Mmm. Where’ve you been hiding this one?”
“He lives in San Diego.”
“Ugh. Why?”
A2 shrugged. “Job.”
I frowned. I didn’t want a repeat of First Date. A seven-thousand-mile long-distance affair is out of the question unless handsomely remunerated for travel expenses. I’ve crossed the ocean for a heart of gold before, only to find it not worth the effort. But in the interest of social lubrication I flirted with him and the other boys over the meal. Afterward A2 was feeling tired and went home, leaving Dr. California in the capable hands of me, A3, and A4.
We went on to a pub. A3 was obviously drunk. “I like your pigtail,” he said, stroking the bellpull of my hair. His fingers curled around the end and tugged. The skin on the back of my neck tingled. Don’t get me wrong, I still fancy the pants off this man, but can’t be doing with painful love polygons anymore.
“Thank you,” I said, turning my head so it slipped out of his grasp.
Dr. California racked up a set of billiard balls. We four toured the table for a couple of hours, me on a team with Official Ex A4, he with Unofficial Crush A3. A couple of people I hadn’t seen in years walked by; we exchanged updates and laughs. My eyes followed Dr. C’s lithe form around the room-eyeing the table, setting up a shot, the confident swing of the arm below the elbow on the follow-through. Competence so turns me on.
A few times, passing off the cue, I slid my hand over his lower back. Hard as.
A3 glowered at me, growing more drunk and moody. Finally he mumbled something about the last train home. On his way out the door, he put his arms roughly around my waist. I kissed the end of his nose.
“Good night,” I chirped.
He squeezed harder, drawing me up on my tiptoes, and planted a kiss full on my lips in front of everyone. He hadn’t been that forward in years. I pushed my face past his mouth into the side of his neck. He breathed hot against my ear. “You be careful. Wouldn’t want to damage that new lad,” he said, and left.
We put the cues away. The three of us finished our drinks. A4 gathered coats and went to the door.
I put a hand on Dr. C’s arm, holding him back until A4 had gone outside. I turned toward him, his bright open face. “May I kiss you?”
“Please,” he said. We snogged in the open doorway, blocking the exit. “Where are you staying?” he asked. A2’s sofa, I told him.
“I have a huge bed at the hotel,” he said.
“Perfect.”
A4 was outside and waved us off at the corner. About a block from the hotel, Dr. C turned to me. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No?”
“We met three years ago. I thought you were sexy then, too.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”
He smiled. We went through the hotel’s dim brown lobby and up to the second floor. I nodded at an acquaintance on the way. Sometimes it occurs to me how small the world is. By morning, I thought, all my friends and family will know of this.
The door was barely closed when we started grabbing at each other’s clothes. Dr. C was as fit in the altogether as he’d been dressed, and his hands as good as I’d imagined. I took his penis in my mouth. “Ahh, that’s fantastic,” he murmured. “American girls don’t know what to do with a foreskin.”
He felt right to me, he tasted and smelt amazing. The sex was good but not like at work. It was joyous, reveling in his body, feeling good for sharing mine. I couldn’t stop touching him, nibbling him, wanting him. He felt like someone I’d been with forever. And he took me again and again with amazing intensity. Each time he came, the muscular spasms ripped straight through me like a sound wave, setting off my own alarms, starting an orgasm from the inside out.
We slept a couple of hours, woke up, shagged again. Listened to the morning news on the radio. The usual stories-bombs, death, foreign elections. There wasn’t much conversation. I didn’t know what to say. Thank you, that was luscious, you know we’re not going to see each other again, don’t you? I was going to London in a couple of hours; he’d be flying back to San Diego later in the day. And yet it was a comfortable silence, the kind I could imagine stretching indefinitely into couplehood.
I brushed my teeth. When I came out of the toilet, he was dressed. He watched me put on my coat; I had to meet a train. “Do you need a taxi?” he asked.
How many times have I heard that question? “No thank you, I’ll walk.”
“It isn’t far?”
“It isn’t.”
He stood up, came over. Put his hands on my hips and kissed me tenderly. I’m reading too much into it, aren’t I? It was a kiss that promised more if I wanted it. An open-ended question that already knew the answer. “Safe trip,” he said.
“Goodbye,” I said, and left. California is thousands of miles away. I smiled. The morning was warmer and brighter than I had reason to expect it to be. vendredi, le 5 mars
Back in London on a reasonable spring day-not murderously hot, but pleasant enough to sit outside reading the papers and think about possibly leaving the coat at home. Was out and about when I saw S, one of the Boy’s friends. The last I knew of him, he was freshly dumped by his redheaded lass, who was making time with the Boy’s housemate. I suppose technically S is my friend as well-not knowing one of us better than the other-but presumed that anyone who did not contact me within twenty-four hours of the breakup to offer a cup of brew and the advice that all men are bastards anyway, was probably on the Boy’s side.
I smiled and waved. He crossed the road and kissed me on the cheek. “It’s been ages,” he said. “How are you?”
“In rude health, as ever,” I said. “Not to mention rude everything else. How are the motorcycle lessons going?”
“Dreadfully well,” he said. “I’m looking at a Ducati 996 T reg this afternoon.” The surest sign of a convert-slipping impenetrable abbreviations into conversation. Bless his cotton socks.
“Smashing,” I said. “Or rather, not, I hope.” We laughed.
“Bite to eat?” We sat in a dismal oriental cafe and ate mystery meats in an obvious base of powdered soup. At least the tea was copious, hot, and free. S has been seeing a woman he met through whatever leather-clad underground circles motorbike enthusiasts move in. He had to run along and I was starting to suffer MSG-related indigestion, so we walked down to Bayswater tube station together.
“I hesitate to ask this, but-”
“I was wondering if you’d bring him up,” S said.
We paused on the pavement. The postlunch crowds parted and flowed around us. “Mmm. I was just wondering, what did he say was the cause of the breakup?” Cringe-worthy, I know, but curiosity does get the better of one.
S flapped his hands helplessly. “Oh, the usual man things,” he said. “So little time, not being close enough… I think he’s quite immature, really.”
“You’re not obliged to say that to please me,” I said with a smile.
“It’s true. He has not had much experience with women.”
“I’m tempted to say if he goes on like that, it’s not likely to improve.” Of course, I would say that, wouldn’t I?
“That’s what I told him,” S sighed, and checked his watch obviously. I was probably keeping him, not to mention being a boring girl hell-bent on analyzing a failed relationship. Nothing makes a man make his next appointment faster. S pecked my cheek. “At any rate-a pleasure seeing you.”
“Marvelous to see you. Best of luck with the motor.”
(Knickers today, butterfly-printed with shocking pink lace round the leg openings.) dimanche, le 7 mars
Am recovering from a fancy-dress party which included getting jiggy to the worst music of the last two decades while a rabbi threw himself on the floor and pretended to be swimming and a man dressed as a tree dirty-danced over him. Because apparently Jews are literally commanded to get pissed and make noise on Purim.
Makes Carnival look rather timid in comparison, no?
Spent most of the morning hungover and reading multiple copies of the Big Issue, one bought from every homeless vendor I saw on Friday, and nibbling the pastries a neighbor brought by first thing today.
May have to go back to bed now. Knickers today: none, who wears knickers to bed? lundi, le 8 mars
Sometimes I feel so tired and wouldn’t mind someone else stepping in for a bit to do the grunt work while I take off on restorative jaunts north. The selection process for such responsibilities, though, would have to be airtight.
One criterion would have to be intelligence. And abs to die for. I could do sit-ups from now until the singularity and still not have rippling muscles down there. Flat, yes. But not a six-pack. Not even a four-pack of dry cider. Wherefore all the masochistic gym punishment? I should turf this job out to a better-looking body double and stay in, writing and eating cookies.
People whom I wouldn’t throw out of bed for pretending to be me:
Karolina Kurkova,
Karolina Kluft,
Theoretically, anyone named Karolina.
Anna Kournikova,
Anna Nicole Smith,
Many, though not all, Annas.
Lisa Lopes,
Lisa Simpson,
A reasonable fraction of the world’s Lisas.
Liz Taylor,
Liz Hurley,
Her Majesty Liz II.
Please send a brief cover letter (one side of A4 only) describing why you should be me, plus contact details and references to the usual place. I shall have my imaginary personal assistant sort them and contact you for interviews.
Attach photo of self in best underwear. Style over substance, as ever. mardi, le 9 mars
The client was a young man, probably not much older than me. When I entered the room, he was dressed casually, in a tight T-shirt and baggy trousers I could easily imagine any one of my friends in. Immediately I felt how overdressed I was by comparison, how high theater my suit and makeup were to his street clothes.
“Hello,” I said, smiling, and confirmed his name. There is always the slight possibility I might have knocked on the wrong door. Would someone turn away an unbidden hooker? Probably only when called on to pay before the sex.
“Hello,” he said. He had lovely, smooth brown skin and an American accent. The room was crowded with unpacked luggage and piles of books. Was he here on business? Yes, he said. Leaving tomorrow. He nodded toward the money in an envelope on the desk. I put it away without counting. I trust them.
Many clients are in London on business. Most book a girl for the beginning of their stay rather than the end, and if they like her, book her again during their stay. If they don’t get on, there’s still time to try another. That he had waited until his last day made me think he wasn’t expecting to have to pay for a liaison on this trip, and booked a girl out of desperation or boredom.
“Red or white wine?” he asked, perusing the contents of the minibar. To be honest, I prefer spirits, but will only choose from what is explicitly offered. If they do not specify-as in “What would you like to drink?”-I either ask for whatever they’re having themselves or a glass of water. My mouth tends to go dry early on, and the first lip contact should be moist, welcoming, but not quite sloppy.
He held the glass out to me, we raised a half-ironic toast-“to new friends”-and drank. I noticed the arm holding his glass was tattooed. A small dagger in black. It looked ominously alive.
“Nice,” I said, reaching over to finger the inking. The first moment of contact can be hard to engineer. Men who kiss you at the door are easy to fall into physical intimacy with, but more often the client is nervous, and I make an excuse to reach across and make contact. Almost as if by accident, like the moment on a date when the other person’s proximity is an implicit permission to grab and kiss.
He took my wineglass away and pushed me back on the bed. His forearms were stronger than his softening middle, suggesting a former athlete going to seed. I looked up at him, lips parted. His trousers were half down and he was wearing no underwear. It occurred to me, just that moment, that there was something reckless about the way he handled me, and all the protection in the world would not stop him if he wanted to harm me. I leaned forward and took his cock in my mouth.
As a girl who is advertised as providing “all services,” I know many customers book me on the expectation of anal sex and am prepared for that. They typically let me suck them for a while first, move on to a brief encounter with vaginal sex, then either ask nervously about approaching the back door or accidentally-on-purpose start heading that way. This man did neither.
Pushing me back on the bed, he bent above me, moving my legs up above my head. He licked his fingers and worked three of them into my cunt. I reached forward to draw his hand out, and sucked the digits. I like to know what my own taste is, partly because I enjoy the flavor, partly to know what’s going on down there.
I stopped him and rolled to the side, extracted a condom from my purse, and pumped a heavy drop of lubricant on my finger. While he unwrapped and applied protection, I lubed my pucker. He burrowed his fingers back in and, using his wrist to pivot me backward, aimed his cock toward my back entrance. The full length sank straight in. He’d clearly worked it out beforehand-just the right angle for his member.
He pumped this way for half an hour and literally pinned me to the bed-all I could do was moan and make encouraging noises. His hand furrowed inside me, rubbing the bottom of my vagina to feel his own cock through the muscle wall. I felt the first shuddering spasms and his come fill the condom.
He didn’t want to be held. I went to the toilet and cleaned myself, came back and dressed. We discussed Iris Murdoch, and I left. There were no taxis outside, so I walked as far as Regent Street, where the lights of the shops and the cars blurred into illusion. mercredi, le 10 mars
I saw cherry blossoms this morning, it must be spring. They have probably been out for weeks but the tree near my door has suddenly and amply sprung into blossom. And the days, they’re growing longer too.
Today the builders left. The ginger one stood awkwardly in the kitchen as the landlady passed her eye over the white walls and clean pine cupboards. She didn’t seem half as pleased as I was with the result, but didn’t say anything, just signed off an invoice and left.
The other one, the tall one, nodded toward the table where he’d left the spare keys.
“Thank you. I’ve become very used to you, you know,” I said as he reached the door.
“No, thank you,” he said (in a South London accent I wouldn’t dare replicate in speech, much less writing-suffice to say they found my way of saying “room,” “house,” and “year” as amusing as I found theirs). “You’re quite a lady, you are.”
I laughed fit to burst. Lady, indeed. Lady in a green velvet thong at that. vendredi, le 12 mars
He: “It’s my first time.”
Me: “First time with an escort?”
“First time, full stop.”
(much fumbling ensues)
He: “Do tell me what to do. That’s why I wanted it to be a call girl. Girlfriends never say anything useful.”
(after)
He: “Honestly, how was that?”
Me: “Enjoyable. You have nice hands. Musician?”
(he nods) “What do you think of me in general?”
“Nice. Clever. Fit. You’re a fine catch for someone.”
“If you had met me somewhere else, would you fancy me?”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Not if I knew your age.” (he frowns) I say he looks older than that. But I didn’t sleep with nineteen-year-olds even when I was nineteen. (that doesn’t seem to have helped; he’s looking even more depressed) “I’d fancy you. I would. You’re a dangerous sort.” How so, he wonders.
Must be careful here. Say something truthful, but nice, and not obviously flattery. It’s tempting. “I wouldn’t want to be the first person to break your heart.” (he frowns again) But he shouldn’t fret. I’m sure there are plenty of women in the world who would. samedi, le
FRIENDS OR LESBIANS?
The rules are laughably simple: attach yourself to a female friend and-this is important-without resorting to kissing or dirty dancing, convince everyone within a reasonable radius that you are a couple. Why the ban on liplock? Because shaking it with the ladies in public is what straight girls do to pick up straight men.
This went so successfully once that I rebuffed a less-than-gentleman making advances on a friend. Threading my arm through hers, I asserted, loudly, “Back off, mate-the lady is with me. You want to take it outside or do I kick your sorry arse right here?” The sad specimen skulked away from the bar. Unfortunately, this chivalry did not result in a sexual reward from the woman in question.
Popular variant: Plant yourself in the corner of the room and speculate on whether the women you see talking to each other are friends or “friends.” Many a happy hour at university was spent thus.
THE CRASHING BORE
Embrace the chattering classes for an evening. You’re a freelancing consultant; your interests include South American red wines, Japanese culture, and season-two Buffy on DVD; your topics of discussion range through mortgages, high-protein diets, and why the congestion zone should not extend to Kensington and Chelsea. Enthusiastically recommend bars So Bar, Front Room, et al.
I saw the best minds of my generation smacked out on tapas and talking about parking restrictions in Zone 2.
I’LL HAVE WHAT SHE’S HAVING
Who hasn’t wanted to fake orgasm in a public place? Make like a Bailey’s advert and enjoy your drink more than a body ought to.
THE IMPLAUSIBLE OCCUPATION
When a man cracks on to you, make up a fake job to tell him when he (inevitably; men are conversationally predictable) asks what you do. Some tried-and-tested favorites include: aerial acrobat, mobile phone ringtone programmer, foot model, gamelan musician. See how long you can continue to make up specialized knowledge for your fake CV. Extra points if he actually holds that job. “Really? You’re an epidemiologist? What a coincidence!”
SPEAKEE NO ENGRISH
Self-explanatory. Especially fun if you are not obviously ethnic.
ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?
“So I was running arms out of Serbia, right? And I was stopped by the UN troops at the border. Little did they know I was high on speedballs and had a sawn-off shotgun cocked and locked in my inside jacket…” The Travis Bickle option. Be a scary bastard. Pepper conversation liberally with references to Kalashnikovs, John Woo films as lifestyle, and Soldier of Fortune magazine. Ninety-nine percent of men will run screaming from a sociopathic, possibly armed female. As for how you handle the other 1 percent… well, it might be fun. But be sure not to leave your back unguarded.
TOO MUCH INFORMATION
The more extreme the better. Discuss at length (and full volume) the specific details of your sex life. Rimming, bondage and domination, masturbatory fantasies involving Dick Cheney and a genetically engineered pig. It’s all fair game. Highest points to the person who can make the most customers vacate the premises.
Most of my conversations are like this.
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK
“Such a pleasure to meet you… because according to my basal temperature this morning, I’m ovulating for the next twenty-four hours. Do you live close by or shall I ring a taxi?”
THE BACK FOOT
Accost a random gentleman. Surprise him with the revelation that you’ve slept together recently, and he never rang you back, and you are most upset. Loudly recount the ins and outs of your night of random passion. Judicious hints that he was failing in several key anatomical areas are effective additions to the routine.
Do be careful: if he’s with a group of male friends, he scores the points, not you. Best catch him out with his partner or alone. And try not to get too carried away. Bunny boiling is an addictive sport.
WHAT THE?
Pick up a conversation with a complete stranger as if you’ve known each other for years, and they just wandered in to the discussion mid-sentence. Be certain to use a lot of familiar body language, such as casually touching their arm, asking after family, and so on.
N.B.: I met A1 this way.
THE TRUTH
Tell someone you’re a call girl. Then laugh. No one would believe it. “Oh, I’m just having you on. I’m really a nun.” dimanche, le 14 mars
The end of the affair was written from the beginning. He is a man who hires women for sex, I am the whore, and at some point his taste will move on.
I have grown accustomed to him, and while I do not love him I admit more than a few times to being just as interested in staying up all night talking as in the carnal transaction.
In the upstairs bathroom is a large tub with gold-colored taps and four drawings on the wall of a village in France. He says these are gifts from the artist. I have looked at those pictures so many times while bathing afterward that when the painters who whitewashed the walls put them back in the wrong order, I noticed before he did.
“So they are,” he said, squinting at the pastels. “Well spotted.”
He knows a great deal about me, this one. He knows my real name and what I studied, and often mentions-he works in a related area-that should I ever need employment in the future, well… and he slips his card in my pocket for the dozenth time.
It’s like having a protective uncle. Who fucks you.
Sometimes we don’t fuck as such. He doesn’t like latex, but I’m not a risk-taker by nature. So he wanks on me. I stretch out on a bed or couch or sometimes the floor, head propped up with a pillow or two, as he straddles my torso below the breasts. While I play with my nipples and his balls he jerks his shaft over my face. Afterward, we’ll find a mirror and analyze the result together-points awarded for consistency, accuracy, and volume. And because he enjoys washing me, he’ll let it dry a little and dab most of the damage off with a damp washcloth.
The last few weeks have been difficult to organize. We never had a set meeting day and time, though it was usually a weekday, and usually after ten. I’ve been busy lately. So has he. If he doesn’t reach me first, he’ll take another girl from the agency.
I see I’ve missed his call and text back. This goes on for several weeks. I’m starting to miss the glass of bubbling Pol Roger he always pours when I come in.
When I went away, he rang three times. He’s getting anxious. It’s like the end of a relationship: the clinginess, the unfounded suspicion.
Then, the resolution. Just a text one morning:
I suppose we are fated to never meet again. Will miss you. X
I’ll miss him, too. lundi, le 15 mars
I’m not sure if it signifies a significant turn in my thinking, or for that matter my housekeeping skills, but I cannot be bothered to segregate the work knickers from the home knickers any longer. This doesn’t mean I end up in a boring sporty thong on the job, but does sometimes result in going to the grocery store with an inch or so of lace frill and striped satin inadvertently poking out the top of my jeans. I am given to understand that in some cultures, this is a desirable trait. I shudder to think. mardi, le 16 mars
N rang. “Not seen you around in a bit.”
“No.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.” He was correct, as usual. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. First real spring day, perhaps. I was out walking by the river in the sunshine, and it occurred to me that a year ago I was doing the same thing with someone I loved and thought I was going to marry.”
“Must be in the water. I just thought about my ex today too.” This is the one who chucked him suddenly, without so much as a fare-thee-well. “I’ll come over if you like.” I just sighed heavily. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, then.”
N knocked briefly and let himself in. I was sitting on the couch frowning. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, rubbing my hair. “Why don’t we nip out for a bite to eat?” I wasn’t hungry. But we went.
“So if you could meet your ex and whomever he’s with now,” N said over salad and a pint at some obnoxious gastropub, “what would she be like?” Fat, I guessed. “Mine, I’d like to see her with someone who’s perfect-except he’s impotent.”
“No, not fat. Stupid.”
“Someone who’s perfect, but impotent and has a horrible set of in-laws.”
“Stupid, and smells funny.”
“Ooh, that’s good. The ultimate physical insult. Impotent, bad in-laws, and tells her she can’t have a job outside the home.” He finished his pint and started on mine, which was barely depleted.
“Stupid, smells funny, and has terrible taste in music.” I thought about claiming my drink back but it was clearly a lost cause-he downed at least half of it in one gulp. “Actually, scratch that, he’d never be interested in someone with bad taste in the first place. He would have vetted that straightaway.”
N swallowed a mouthful of bitter. “Impotent and bald.”
“Mine will be bald in five years’ time. I believe that. I have to believe that.”
“Impotent, bald, and cheats on her. Because she would know that I never would have done that to her.”
“Stupid, smells funny, and terrible in bed.”
“Terrible in bed. Now we’ve hit the heart of it,” N smiled. “Bald, impotent, and won’t fist her.”
“Really? She was that into it?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “I never told you about the fist and the cucumber? Simultaneously?”
“Worse still, you never took pictures, did you?”
“We always said if all else failed in her career, there was yet money to be made in film.”
“Talent. No wonder you fell for her.” I picked at the damp edge of a beer mat. “Stupid-and not just intellectually challenged, but unable to shut up as well-and sleeps with one of his brothers.”
“Which one?”
“Doesn’t matter. No, better yet-his father.”
“She still has to smell funny, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Bald, impotent, won’t fist her, and short.”
“What’s wrong with short?” I’m not terribly far from the Earth’s crust myself and don’t think this is a reflection on a person’s value. And, I never get dizzy from standing up quickly. So there.
“Nothing, it’s just that she was tall. I want her to have to look down and see that bald head as often as humanly possible.” He put the empty glass back on my side of the table.
“Fair enough.” I smiled. “You still miss her, don’t you?”
“Too damn right. You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”
“You know I am.”
“I find it strange,” he said. “Theoretically I’m over her, but if that’s so, I should probably make an effort to date other women rather than avoid them altogether.”
“Ah, I know that stage,” I said. “I’m in more of a ‘sabotaging perfectly good potential relationships’ mode.” Not to mention being afraid the Boy might make his reappearance just as I found someone worth hanging on to.
N patted his stomach. The pub was empty of all but a few staff and a couple who looked at their limp overpriced food in horror. “Shall we go?” N said. I nodded. “I’ve had enough alcohol-I could take you home and piss on you if that would make you feel better.”
I pursed my lips and pretended to consider, changed the subject. Asked him, was it better to be brokenhearted or to not know what that felt like? Now he knew, he said, he’d never want to cause anyone to feel that way again. You never know, I said. You might break my heart. He wrapped his arms around me and started to tickle. I squirmed. “You rat bag,” he said. “I can’t break your heart-you don’t love me.”
“Stop that,” I said. Stern, but still smiling. He knew I was serious. Got up, put his coat on, went to the door. I told him I was going straight to bed when I got home.
“After you tap this conversation into your little computer,” he corrected. Said good night and left. mercredi, le 17 mars
Ooh, these are one of my favorite pairs: ruched pink silk with antique lace and matching bra. Pity to just be wearing them under jeans and a sweater when I go to the shop for milk.
Once I attended a booking directly from a job interview. This was acceptable but not ideal; the clothing was almost right for an afternoon meeting, and the makeup certainly was, but it was a bit odd to be walking around with a CV tucked away next to a box of condoms. And a little worried that someone may have glanced in my bag and noticed them at the interview.
Would that help or harm the chances of employment? I wonder. And yes, I was offered the job, but didn’t take it in the end-just more office admin rubbish that would end up nowhere in a year’s time.
Another time I readied myself in a museum toilet. This was very early on, when I was convinced that the punting world would beat a path to my door, and went round with a light summery dress, strappy heels, latex bits, and change of knickers in a bag just in case. This was before I realized that I didn’t have to work at breakneck pace to make my bills and expenses, and also that most punters would accept a meeting one or two hours later than requested if they really wanted me. If not, well, there are plenty of fish for hire in the sea.
I applied lipgloss and mascara as dozens of tourists trailed in and out of the toilets. If there is a uniform for tour groups, and I assume there must be, it is this: overlong shorts, white sneakers, voluminous T-shirts advertising the last place visited, visor, hair in pigtails, shoulder bag.
I can’t begin to imagine what they thought I was dressing for. jeudi, le 18 mars
The client stood, trousers off. I sat in a chair in front of him. My shirt (white, as requested) was half-unbuttoned. “I want to write my name in come all over you,” he said.
I smirked. “You can’t fool me, you nicked that line from London Fields.”
He looked at me strangely. Oh no, I thought. Better watch my mouth. “Amis fan?” he said idly, pulling himself with one hand.
“He’s not bad,” I said, reaching into the shirt to pull my breasts free of the bra.
“ Time’s Arrow was pretty tricksy though.” A glistening drop of pre-come lolled on the tip of his glans.
“Very high-concept. Good book for a long train journey.” I pulled at my nipples to his appreciative nods.
It was hot and close in the room. The weather has not been so bad and I thought of asking him to turn the heating off. “I want to smell your sweat mixing with my spunk,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.
Later, I met another client. A large hotel in Lancaster Gate. The room was small and highly decorated, which surely made it look even smaller. For the money they must be charging here, I thought it seemed a little cramped. End-of-hall room.
He was in shirtsleeves. Short sleeves under a blazer-I hate that, it jars like light socks with men’s shoes.
“Your nipples are hard already,” he said appreciatively (black lace balconette bra and matching boy-style briefs). The window was wide open.
I draped my arms over his shoulders and asked, “Are you not a little cold in here?”
“I’m fine.”
“There are goose pimples all over your arms.” I smiled and walked to the ground-floor window to pull the drapes.
“Good for the metabolism.”
“Bet I can think of something better,” I said. vendredi, le 19 mars
Think I’ll stay indoors today. N came back from Belgium with a veritable metric ton of porn to sift through, including the always-reliable Lady Anita F (Hotter Than Hell!!) title and another mag with a tasty bob-haired girl doing the waterstuff all over some poor boy who no doubt deserves it. Will let you know if anything interesting, er, goes down. samedi, le 20 mars
One of the first few golden days when people start deciding to leave coats at home and fishbelly-pale arm skin makes an appearance. I went out to buy a paper and, inspired by the sunshine, couldn’t stop walking.
After an hour of beating the pavement I came to an attractive shop window. It’s a place I’ve noticed but only from a taxi, and after opening hours. I always liked the name of the shop. Very suggestive of my job, actually. On the locked door was a small sign that said “Please ring both bells.” I rang and waited.
A man let me in and smiled. It was small inside, crowded with clothing, costume jewelry, and gold-leaf cherubs. I fingered the clothes on their close racks. Nice enough, in a fancy-dress sort of way, perhaps a bit Goth. And expensive. The sort of place that I often wonder how it stays in business. The products must be so limited in their appeal that you find yourself desperately hoping that the twelve or so people for whom this shop must be heaven on earth manage to wander down the road sometime soon.
The man disappeared in the back and the bell rang. It was a young teenage girl, his daughter. She was wearing a short dress and sweater, and pink wellies. She called him by his first name.
First-Name Father asked his offspring to wrap something. She sighed and stomped around a bit. Now, my parents are hardly paragons of conventionality, but they always made sure to send me away for a good few weeks when not in term. Best for all involved: they get a bit of parenting relief and you are not forced to roll your eyes and grumble about how unfair the world is more than, oh, twice a day at most. “Fine,” she spat, and set about mummifying a brooch in hectares of black tissue. I recognized instantly the cadence of speech indicating an intersection of private school education, indulgent parents, and general overtones of Southernness. Nothing quite raises my hackles like a prepubescent who believes she is the greatest thing going and, in all probability, will someday be hailed as such.
The bell rang again and First-Name Father disappeared almost instantly. This time it was a tiny woman dressed head to toe in clothes from the shop. By which I mean she resembled a bruise-colored meringue. She and the girl started complaining loudly about the low temperature inside and the stroppy little cow disappeared to demand her sire do something about it. I was fairly impressed, actually-at that age I believe my spoken repertoire did not extend past “I don’t know” and “Go away.”
“Is someone helping you?” the woman asked me. I’m not terribly tall, but must have stood a full head above this miniature Morticia who, from the layers of black corsetry and full-skirtedness, looked distinctly like the New Romantics after an unfortunate accident in a wallpaper factory. About fifty years ago.
“I’m just browsing, thank you.”
Morticia hung at my elbow while I politely fingered brocade coats and crinolined skirts. They might have been attractive as well, with about a stone less of velvet ribbon each. “Your window dressing is very nice,“ I said, hoping a spot of talking would drive her off. “I often come down this road on the way to work but have not been in before.”
“Where do you work?” she asked.
Think fast, girl. “The V amp;A,” I said.
“The what?”
“The Victoria and Albert.” She didn’t look less puzzled. How could she not know the costume museum? Odd for one so blatantly overdressed. “The V amp;A Museum.”
“Oh, the museum,” she said, as if humoring me. Cripes, lady, I thought. It’s only round the corner.
“Are these-um-your designs?” I ventured.
“Yes,” she said flatly, and turned her head to hurl abuse at her daughter. The shop was still disagreeably cold for them. I wondered if she wasn’t anemic and almost suggested a restorative session of basking on a hot rock.
“Lovely,” I rasped.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked, impatient. I had been looking at a delicate and not absurdly overjeweled pair of butterfly earrings, but opted against on principle. Morticia herded me toward the door.
“No, thank you,” I said as she held the bolt of the lock open and whisked me back into the warm air. Traumatized by the experience, I promptly went and dropped sixty quid on bright glass earrings at a shop over the road. dimanche, le 21 mars
I want so very little out of life, really. All a girl asks for is
• a haircut that looks the same regardless of wind speed or direction
• to be smiled back at, by people I smile at
• shoes that make you look taller, and look nice, and can be used for actual walking
• for only disabled people to park in disabled spots
• instant mastery of all things kitchen-related
• a bit of sunshine now and then
• a worldwide ban on polyphonic ringtones
• a worldwide ban on phones which give you no options save a polyphonic ringtone
• a cessation of all suffering, backdated to the beginning of time lundi, le 22 mars
A4 and I met for lunch at a Polish restaurant. It had come highly recommended as an antidote to the self-conscious bitter-leaf trattorias and uber-kosher bagel purveyors of North London. I always feel too skeptical for one and too secular for the other. Inside, the restaurant was dour, decorated in heavy seventies earth tones, bad repros of Polish historical battles, and a layer of grease that might well have been imported from the kitchens of my childhood. The food could have been straight from my mother’s stove: beetroot borscht with cream and vegetables; fried potato latkes with applesauce and sour cream. The waitresses, too, were authentically heavy and dour in their tight-pulled blonde pigtails and gray aprons tied round rolling middles. When they acknowledged a customer at all, it was with the same language of grunts that I’d encountered in restaurants on trips to northeastern Europe. Everything-everything-was fried and came with a side of cabbage. I was smitten.
Our table sat next to the window. We looked out at the busy sidewalk and lunchtime traffic: businessmen munching chips, people crowding into queues at the bank and chemist, a cheap Chinese eatery overflowing with students. Inside the restaurant, though, it was a world apart, shielded from the modern noise outside with no more than the creaking strains of a mechanical dumbwaiter as background music.
We were amused to hear a woman at the next table struggling to make sense of the menu. This was not fare for the calorie- nor image-conscious (I myself had taken the precaution of skipping breakfast). Whilst waiting on her main course, she flagged down one of the slow-moving waitresses. “Do you do cappuccino?” she asked. A4 and I stifled snorting laughs. The pink-cheeked waitress furrowed her brow. “Cappuccino?” the woman asked again. She mimed steaming milk through a machine. “You know-schhh schh, schhh schh?” The waitress shook her head and walked away. A4 and I were almost crying from stifled laughter.
I went to look at the desserts in the case. An apple strudel, swathed in layers of pastry, dusted with sugar. Dense-looking tarts. As I returned to my seat a gentleman swiped at my midsection.
I looked down at the table. Four fellows in suits, middle-aged, having a business lunch. Did I know this man? I wondered. I couldn’t place the face. Former client?
“Er, bring us a basket of bread, would you,” he demanded.
I laughed, a short sharp bark. “Sorry-I don’t work here,” I said and walked off. How odd. mardi, le 23 mars
I am a cheap date.
At several hundred an hour, this is a rich claim to be making. But it is the truth. Considering the economics of sex-in which a man is prepared to invest some time, and a bit of money toward gifts and entertainments, in order to coax a woman into bed-I am assured by clients that the cost of a call girl is on par with the price of picking up a woman on a business trip. And she’s not likely to come round and cook your rabbit later.
But I don’t mean at work, where the judgment of whether my services are worth the money would doubtless involve a level of math I am not capable of. I am a cheap date in real life.
On paper it sounds great. Woman arranges her own transportation, buys her own pint and perhaps a few for you, and should there be a resulting relationship, is not terribly fussed about receiving gifts, holidays abroad, or other trinkets of your affection aside from the affection itself. If you go away together, she’ll contribute her share; if you fail to book a restaurant on one of several major milestones, she will smile and say she prefers staying in. She does not arbitrarily demand shiny things in pale-blue Tiffany boxes-if she sees something she likes, she’ll buy it, and if you do make an extra effort, she will of course be grateful. But does not take it for granted.
I’m a high-maintenance plot, but hire my own groundskeepers, as it were.
It has taken some time to conclude this is not what men are attracted to. They enjoy the chase, don’t they, the idea that a woman’s value is reflected in the effort you spend to win a smile or a kiss. Even if she turns out to be rubbish in bed, by the time you have pried her iron-banded thighs apart with weekend breaks in Sardinia and a shiny carbon chip on a ring, you’ll be so grateful to be there at all that it will not matter.
I reckon this means people would tend to be worse in bed than their ancestors, the need to win a mate with lingual talent being bred out of the population (N.B.: not scientifically proven). It might also mean that women with doe eyes, slightly turned-in toes, and a skill for simpering should predominate.
Film noir gave us a term for the low-maintenance cheap-date type of woman, as personified by Ingrid Bergman and the other cool blondes. They were, in the gruff parlance, Class Acts. A Class Act does not bombard you with whimpering phone calls to the effect of why are you out with your mates watching the footie when you could be choosing sisal floor mats with me? A Class Act does not take a split badly, or if she does, does so without so much as a peep. A Class Act is the silhouette disappearing into the night that you will no doubt remember-but will never talk to again.
A Class Act will spend a lot of time alone, drinking spirits. A Class Act will never emerge from a local church in a shower of petals. A Class Act will never be a mummy, yummy or otherwise.
A Class Act will never have a husband who visits prostitutes.
Forget I mentioned it. mercredi, le 24 mars
Last night when I checked e-mail, Hotmail offered a link to “Dating Tips from the Animal Kingdom.” Expecting the piece to delight and entertain was about as fruitful as reading the back of a shampoo bottle in search of fine literature, so I offer instead an alternative list of dating tips from the animal kingdom.
• Our good friends and coevolutionaries Canis familiaris (the domestic dog) show that when in doubt which hole to aim for, thrust wildly. You are bound to land in something good.
• Shrimps’ hearts are in their heads. Men have neither hearts nor heads.
• The tongue of a giraffe (Giraffa camelopardalis) is half a meter in length, long enough to clean its own ears. If you can do the same, there may be a career option you had not yet considered…
• Dolphins engage in group sex. If those squeaky gray-skinned fisheaters can do it, so can you.
• The females of the bonobo species (Pan paniscus), closely related to humans, are known to use sexual favors to gain status and food. A point to remember next time you’re short of change at the corner shop.
• Some ribbon worms will eat themselves if they can’t find food. Unfortunately, men unable to find sex are rarely so talented.
• The anal glands of cats, genus Felis, are used to mark their territory and identify themselves to other cats. Whether this explanation will convince the hotel not to charge you for excess laundering is questionable.
• The sailfish, the swordfish, and the mako shark can all swim at a speed of over fifty miles per hour. If you meet someone unpleasant at a club, it’s unlikely you’ll be able to escape as quickly.
• Lions have been known to mate over fifty times a day. This is probably the sole criterion to become King of the Jungle.
• A rhinoceros’s horn is made of hair. Men who are lacking in the horn department, on the other hand, are not advised to grow longer hair to compensate for the fact.
• Human birth control pills work on gorillas. If you have more success finding contraceptives and a female gorilla than a mate, something has gone horribly wrong.
• Time is limited and some opportunities may never repeat themselves. Take a tip from swallows of the genus Hirundo, who mate in midair, regardless of the number of people on the flight.
As an aside, whilst researching this list, I ran across a site devoted to dolphin dildos. By which I do not mean dildos shaped like dolphins. I mean dildos the size and shape of a dolphin’s member. Eep. jeudi, le 25 mars
N and I had breakfast at a greasy spoon (his: full fry-up and chips; hers: scrambled eggs on toast). He’s not been sleeping well and it shows, but can’t explain why. Maybe long hours at work, maybe family worries, maybe a belated sense that it should be spring but it is so cold and wet that the internal clock is still ticking over in winter time. Someone we know started a rumor last week that the clocks went forward before Mothering Sunday instead of this weekend, and it threw him off, and he’s not had a night’s rest since.
He’s heard things, things about me. Stories are getting around. Nothing earth-shattering, just a comment or two from a person or two coming back round to him. Have I mentioned N appears to be the secret hub of all knowledge in London? You know a name-he knows someone who knows someone. Is something you heard true? He can get the goods. He’s a dealer, and his drug is information.
There’s envy involved, usually the engine behind the worst, most damaging rumors. Other things. I hate this Sturm und Drang. Someone I slept with who asked me to keep it secret-I didn’t even write about it-turned around and told, oh, about half of the city. A few personal things. That I don’t mind. It’s the asking for privacy, then blatantly stripping it off, that I care about. Poor etiquette in a lover. “Maybe I should say something to him about it.”
“Not a good idea,” N advised. He pointed out that this man is young and a bit feckless, and I was more likely to give him a pat on the head and a coo of forgiveness than the slap he so clearly deserves. “The onus is on him now. He’s the one who’s going to feel uncomfortable when he sees either of us.”
“Maybe I should start rumors of my own.”
“Keep your own counsel. Better in the long run.”
“I feel my evil antennae twitching…” I said, waggling forefingers in the air.
“Don’t.”
“Ah, bollocks, that reminds me…”
“What?”
“On his way out the door, he asked me if it was true I’d had a threesome with you and someone else.”
“What did you say?”
“Yes.”
He cringed. “Well, I don’t care, and you obviously don’t, and I don’t think the other girl does either. But I wonder why he was interested? If I were him, I would have asked me and not you.”
“Yes. Or asked if I’d ever been in a threesome, in case angling me into one was a possibility.”
“Exactly. I wonder why he was so interested in a piece of trivia about my private life as he’s getting out of your bed?” N scratched at his stubble. “One too many one-night stands,” he said. “Be careful what you say about someone else’s sex life,” he advised.
I shrugged. I drank the very strong, very fresh coffee. He asked if I’d seen the car outside my house again. I have. He asked if I needed anything. I said I didn’t.
“Get out if you can,” he said.
“The business, the house, or the ex-boyfriend?” I asked.
“All three,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but whatever it is, have a spare rabbit hole.”
He pushed a crust of toast around the plate. The cafe that had been crowded when we sat down was almost empty of people. I bought a piece of carrot cake for later. He tipped the waitress and drove me home. His left hand rested on my knee the whole journey.
“Just be careful,” he said. I waved him off and went upstairs.
(Knickers today: transparent black with cream lace edging and a peephole in the back. These are currently topping the league table of favorites.) vendredi, le 26 mars
Am entertaining for the weekend and N is coming round to vacuum the flat. He volunteered. Wonder if I leave the washing up, will he volunteer for that as well?
I don’t run into the neighbors often, usually only on the way out the door. So they either think I lead an unutterably glamorous life of nonstop parties and premieres, or they know everything. Or they just think I like to dress up. Anyway, very little noise ever comes from those quarters. Until last night when I came home at 2 a.m. and was kept awake another hour by the distinct sound of books being thrown, one by one, against a wall.
Odd.
Also, have noticed at the gym that my Achilles tendons seem stiff of late. Am told this is the result of habitual wearing of heels. I know that every season we are bombarded with the propaganda that flat shoes are cute and sexy too, but trying to talk me into low heels with a skirt is probably a conversion project along the lines of the settlement of the West Bank. Will simply have to stretch more. samedi, le 27 mars
For all of the good advice I have received over the years, no one has ever opined on what may be the greatest challenge of my working life. How to deal with a non-standard-issue cock.
Penises can be strange for many reasons. They might have an unusual length-to-width ratio, or curve in a funny way, or remind you of your father’s brother’s penchant for turtleneck sweaters. In fact, if you sum up the ways in which a dong can be odd, there are probably more strange ones than unstrange ones. This gives the old man quite a scope for personality indeed.
For the most part the differences can be stacked in the “odd, but not distractingly so” or the “odd, but not medically abnormal” bins. And when a member confounds these classifications, I never know what to say.
Treat the matter lightly? As in a saucy purr of, “My, what unusual tackle you have.” Show a modicum of medical interest and ask, “Have you ever been to a doctor about that?” Recoil in horror? Ask advice on how he would like it handled? Or would sir prefer I didn’t comment at all?
I had the pleasure of meeting a customer with a most normal penis. Normal in every detectable way. It was his foreskin that was unusual. Instead of parting at the top, so the glans could nudge through, this gentleman’s sheath opened at the side.
At the side. Of his penis. Halfway down the shaft. An aperture too small to wedge his cock through. Meaning that he was hooded at all times, even when aroused.
I smiled. Looked at it, looked at him. Didn’t say anything. He didn’t offer advice. Should I attend to the head (completely covered) or the opening (drooling with pre-come, but several inches back)? He was older than me, divorced, so obviously someone had come across this anomaly before. Was it uncomfortable when he was hard? I wondered. Would he have problems with certain positions? Would this affect the condom? Would it be insulting to ask?
I lavished attention on both the head and the opening, being careful not to curl my hand round the shaft too tightly. When we progressed to intercourse, I pinched the tip of the condom as I put it on to collect the semen, wondering if it mattered. He took me from behind, but didn’t say if there was a reason above personal preference. He removed the condom himself afterward. I never did have a proper look at the result. dimanche, le 28 mars
I had been set up yet again, this time with someone introduced merely as “your future husband,” no pressure or anything. lundi, le 29 mars
I have this friend, right, only she’s not really a friend. More of an ally, or an acquaintance who won’t quite go away. And I’m not usually an unkind person, promise, I’m not.
I met her via A3, who kind-of sort-of had a thing with her a few years ago. By which I mean that he fancied her until he found out how desperately awful she was, at which point there was no turning back. As Churchill said, when you’re going through hell, keep going.
EOBAYH, we call her. Short for Each One Big As Your Head. This reference to her massive… tracts of land, being almost unpronounceable, has shortened itself to a two-hands-ballooning-from-chest gesture that signifies an overample bosom. Sample: “I ran into [hand gesture] the other day, apparently she’s doing the low-carb diet.”
“Yes? Is it working?” Because Hand Gesture’s assets are all natural, there’s a bottom to match the top. Not to mention a middle. And ankles you could safely moor Thames pleasure cruisers to.
(raised eyebrow in response, indicating that, if anything, she has grown more ample)
Hand Gesture probably has the highest ratio of failed diets and gym memberships to actual pounds lost of anyone I’ve met.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not polite to ridicule someone’s weight. A4, for instance, has been known to carry an extra pound or two and we never utter so much as a peep. But Hand Gesture has earned the right to be mocked by automatically declaring anyone smaller than her to have an eating disorder. Which by definition is the entire living population of the world save the scarier neighborhoods of Glasgow and a few bubbes in Miami. A conversation with Hand Gesture will most likely include a passage along the lines of, “I ran into Ruth the other day, yes? She just had a baby-right back to her original weight, eating disorder-and she was telling me about a new band her partner’s in…” and so on and so forth. Endlessly. She saw your mum the other day? Eating disorder. That blonde on Teachers? Eating disorder. New slimline Vanessa Feltz? Bulimic cow. Conversely, nibble so much as a rusk in front of her, and you’re bingeing.
Anyway. Last week A3 was in town and rang to see if I wanted to meet for lunch. It was rather disorganized-he had two meetings beforehand, one in Bayswater and one in the City. But my daylight schedule is dead easy to rearrange, and we decided on 3 p.m. on Friday. Bought a sandwich an hour before, noodled around the shops for a bit, arrived at the restaurant. The staff looked a touch surly at having customers in the post-lunch hours, for which I felt not the tiniest tinge of guilt. A spotty student-type led me wordlessly to the table.
He sat me opposite Hand Gesture and her magnificently upholstered chest. Damn, I hadn’t known she would be there. Though if I had known, I probably wouldn’t have bothered turning up. She was the only other person there, scarfing through the complimentary bread and olives. So much for low-carb diets.
“Hello, darling,” I said, feeling none of the goodwill I hoped I oozed. “A pleasant surprise to see you.” I asked after her family and she brought me up to date on who was looking too skinny, who should eat something, and-while there was no physical evidence to confirm this-the stones that had been simply dropping off her lately through diet and exercise. She offered me a chunk of bread and, still rather full from the sandwich, I waved it away.
“You’re certain?” she asked, eyes scanning my breasts, which are by no stretch of the imagination as big as my head, much less hers. “You’re not one of these…”
I put on a pained look and fluttered a hand up to my chest. “Celiac disease, actually,” I said, twitching the corners of my mouth and making as if to cry. “They diagnosed last month. My bowels are literally falling out of me, I can’t digest gluten and have come out in a rash all over.”
“My… no. Really?” she asked, mouth slack.
I leaned forward conspiratorially. “The worst part is the explosive diarrhea,” I whispered, just as the rest of our party arrived and seated themselves. “You simply can’t imagine how awful it’s been. You’re ever so lucky. It would be a blessing to have real thighs again.”
Of course, this meant I had to nibble poached fish and a terrible salad for the rest of lunch, but it was worth an hour of neither words nor food passing her mouth. I’m not usually an unkind person, really I’m not. mardi, le 30 mars
The client leaned over me, pulling at his member furiously. “I’m going to come on your face,” he said. It was the sixth time in ten minutes he’d said it, growling, as if trying to convince himself.
That was all. “I’m going to come on your face.” No instructions for me, though I played with my breasts and nipples, sucked my own fingers after touching myself, hoping that would help. All that I had known before the appointment were the details of the meeting and a request to wear a lot of makeup.
My effort didn’t seem to help. He was looking at the wall, not at me. A few times his frantic hand slowed, and he dipped down to my lips. He was going soft and I sucked him hard again. He never looked down, not once. Then the masturbation would start again. And the mantra. “I’m going to come on your face.” I writhed on the sheets and groaned. No reaction. I bent my head forward and licked his inner thigh. Again, no reaction.
Half an hour later, he still had not finished. I murmured and probed, wandering fingers, gentle questions. But it seemed he wanted nothing from me, save to be the canvas he painted. It made me feel the way unturned clay must, wanting to form into something, some fantasy, but not being allowed. His shoulders slumped and he fell, sweaty, into my chest, “I’m sorry, honey, it ain’t gonna happen,” he said, as if it had been my idea all along. mercredi, le 31 mars
Funnily enough, the liaison with “my future husband” did not go to plan. I hold this up as a prime example of why my friends should not choose my dates, but A1 is undeterred and determined not only to make his mark as matchmaker, but to find the root of my problems with partners.
So he was idly surfing the Web while I hunted for any scrap of cake in his house. None was forthcoming, and I made a deal with the devil and concocted a cup of chocolate consisting of the heat-whitened end of a chocolate bar, most of a waxen bar of choc from an Army rat pack, and instant coffee. It swirled, oily and evil, in a white mug. “When and where were you born?” A1 asked.
“Why?”
“Natal chart.” Online astrology is one of the sure signs of imminent societal collapse. Told him anyway. “Oh dear. Oh, oh dear.”
“What’s that?” I sipped the greasy faux-chocolate drink. Foul, yes, but not unsatisfying. Must find a better method of dealing with hormonal cycles though-for it is spring, when a young woman’s fancy turns to bikinis.
“Mars is in Cancer.” (Or whatever on earth he said. I’m not au fait with this particular brand of superstition.)
“Which means what exactly?”
“You’re emotionally manipulative.”
“Alert the press. I wonder who didn’t already know that.”