Read The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl Online
Authors: Belle de Jour
mercredi, le 20 avril
Brief phone call to Mum. By her choice, not mine – whoever this new man is, he’s keeping her busy. Before she rings off, though, she offers the extremely disturbing advice that I should put off getting married as long as possible.
Er, did she even notice which daughter she was talking to? I’ve been staunchly anti-marriage since about the age of eighteen. Months.
Marriage is a fantastic institution for one and a half people to enter into. I would marry if only the right person came along, really I would. But all the men on my list of ideal husband material (as opposed to just fanciable) are imaginary, or dead, or gay, or some combination of these.
• Ian Curtis (dead)
• Morrissey (gay)
• Judge Dredd (imaginary)
• Joe Orton (gay and dead)
• Gromit (as in Wallace and) (imaginary)
• D. Boon (dead and gay)
• Humbert Humbert (imaginary and dead)
• Inigo Montoya (imaginary)
• J.T. Leroy (imaginary and gay)
• Quentin Crisp (gay and dead)
• Virginia Woolf’s Orlando (imaginary)
• Waylon Smithers (gay and imaginary)
So you see the problem.
vendredi, le 22 avril
Belle’s Guide to Your Holidays, part 4: Romance
There is nothing more romantic than an affair while on holiday, right? Wrong. Just because Audrey Hepburn made twitterpating through Rome on the back of a Vespa the last word in feminine aspiration doesn’t mean that a surprise foreign engagement will or even should happen to you.
One thing is for certain: the moment your sandal-clad feet emerge from the hotel you’ll be fighting the men off with a shitty stick. Why? Is it because they genuinely prefer our pallid European flabbiness to the local options? Look around you – the local girls are dressed for the runway and cute to boot. You, in your Topshop T and cheap sarong are not an irresistible goddess. You’re on holiday, and all girls on holiday are easy.
You’re probably eyeing some Latin hottie right now, thinking that if it all works out maybe he’ll come visit you in Bedford or you could meet again next summer. Meanwhile he’s eyeing you thinking that, if it all works out, he’ll never see you again.
It is neither of the actors in this one-act drama I pity … Your heart and ego, however bruised, will heal from the inevitable end of this romance. No, it’s the doe-eyed innocent in Accounts Receivable who’s been lusting after you over pints every Thursday for the last six years. If only he knew that all it took to win your heart, or at least temporary access to your pants, was cheap seafood, a dodgy beard and tan and an accent out of ’Allo ’Allo!
Not to worry, I won’t let him in on the secret. What, and ruin my own summer romances?
So we charge ahead, regardless of the consequences, because foreign men are as famed for their bedroom skills as we British women are for sampling them. It’s a nice story, and makes good cultural PR, but it’s not true. You don’t go to a buffet expecting Michelin-starred cuisine. Josef Stalin (himself possessed of a deep tan, luxurious moustache and mellifluous voice) once said that quantity has a quality all its own. In that sense the men you will meet on holiday are true and dedicated card-carrying members of the Party.
However, I know nothing I can write will stop women letting some D-list lothario have his wicked (and disappoint-ingly brief) way with them on holiday. The best I can do is advise rigorous condom use with zero exceptions.
samedi, le 23 avril
J rules again. For one thing, he’s spending less time with the Screamer. Not that I didn’t like her, but if I’m going to be up all night I want a slice of the action. And incest is not my style.
For another, he’s noticed that I’ve not been out much since the Boy left, and has taken me to see Tomás at work – I’ve already had everything on the menu, but it really is all very good, and it’s lovely to see friendly faces.
‘You’re full of shit.’
‘No, I promise you – listen carefully.’
‘Hmm …’ I squint and concentrate more on the music. ‘Fuck me, you’re right! Mexican music does sound like polka!’
‘See?’
Tomás’s brother brings our meals, and comes round again to collect our plates – it’s slow in the restaurant tonight so he’s given most staff the night off. He waves off any payment and sits down with us afterwards.
J kicks me under the table. I give him daggers. What, are we fifteen?
‘I think our gentleman companion here fancies you,’ J says in his most exaggerated English, hoping Francisco won’t work out what he’s saying.
Evidently he doesn’t, because he talks on. Now he and J are comparing tattoos – J has one of a screaming skull emitting smaller, flaming skulls from its eyes, which he swears he does not remember getting, though I reckon from the size and complexity of it, it must have taken some six hours to have done. Francisco pulls aside the shoulder of his shirt to show a delicate fairy etched there. I can smell his skin.
‘Does she have a name?’ I ask, my finger lightly tracing the wings.
‘Raquel,’ he says.
‘That’s lovely.’
‘The same as my daughter,’ he says.
Oh.
dimanche, le 24 avril
The Boy keeps saying how happy he’s been since coming here and he can’t wait to visit again. Also that it’s been over a week and I’m still one picture behind. I send him a photo he took on our holiday. My top was a little tighter than I remember and I look very busty indeed.
But the conversation never really recovers. Maybe he wasn’t exaggerating about his spelling after all.
mardi, le 26 avril
The heart is a lonely and extremely self-sabotaging hunter. We’ve gone back to the phone since the misspelling episode. But with less editorial power over what he communicates to me I notice that the Boy has contracted a bad case of mentionitis. At least four times in the last two days he’s made reference to ‘someone I know who works in the medical field’ and ‘a doctor friend of mine’. And I go back on my promise to stay off the diary, and have a peek – he’s spending time with Dr Blowjob again, Georgia. So this is how much the holiday meant to him. Fuck all. I suddenly regret sending the sexy photos.
mercredi, le 27 avril
It’s late. I’m cycling down the beach. The stars are more numerous here than at home – even with the streetlights I see entire constellations that you would never pick out in London. And I could never tire of the smell of the sea, or the sound of palm fronds in the wind.
When I pass the restaurant, I see Tomás outside and stop. Francisco is there, straddling a giant Harley-Davidson. Tomás must have left his car, because he’s climbing on to ride pillion. ‘Nice bike,’ I say, unsure whether there are different words for pushbike and motorcycle.
There probably are, because they both laugh. ‘So is yours,’ Francisco says.
‘I didn’t know you like those,’ I say, choosing to avoid the noun in question.
‘The restaurant is a second wife,’ Francisco says. ‘I call this my girlfriend.’
‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘You should come for a ride,’ he says, looking me in the eyes. He’s a good-looking man, and damn but does he know it. I think I soaked myself on the spot.
‘Maybe,’ I said, mounting my rather less high-tech model. ‘Race you home?’
They laughed again, and I waved the two brothers off into the clear, warm night.
jeudi, le 28 avril
The Boy rings as per usual. We’re just chatting, when I ask if he has any plans for the weekend. He says he’s going to a music gig.
That’s nice, I say. Who is it? He mentions one of my favourite bands. Wow, now I’m jealous, I say. Who are you going with?
‘Uh, uh, uh,’ Oh god, the stammer. I know he’s about to tell me a lie. ‘Mates from work.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Um, Andy and C-c-c-c-c-c-hris had an extra ticket, so, uh, I’m b-b-b-b-uying the drinks.’
I grit my teeth and let it drop. But as soon as he’s off the phone I check his email. Two new: one confirmation email for payment for the tickets from the venue, and one from Georgie.
Really looking forward to it! she wrote. I’m up for anything, just as long as it isn’t death metal! Yeah, I’ll bet you’re fucking up for anything.
vendredi, le 29 avril
So he’s asked her out to a gig. I shouldn’t be so upset, nor particularly surprised, except he’s taking her to see one of my favourite acts.
Okay, I’m really upset because of her death metal comment. How lame exactly is this girl? On a scale of zero to Leo Sayer I’d say about point eight Leo Sayer. People that limp shouldn’t be let into concerts. This is the sort of woman who turns up her wee nose at the masculinity of rock because it’s all a bit sweaty. Maybe I’m a complete raving fangirl, but someone whose knowledge of music extends as far as her (no doubt fetching) eyelashes should be banned from gigs for life.
As long as it’s not death metal? Heaven forfend something might be jarring or challenging. Or loud. I bet on closer questioning she would also reject ‘gangsta rap’ and ‘angry female singers’. It’s the musical equivalent of ‘I love books, as long as they’re not hard’ or ‘I love movies, as long as they’re not subtitled.’ It’s people like her who keep Dido in royalties and James Blunt on Radio One. It’s not just death metal they hate, it’s anything that can’t be played low in the background at a dinner party.
I know life isn’t fair, but still. Elliott Smith stabs himself for no good reason, yet this person is still on ambulatory? John Peel falls dead on a Peruvian mountain, but she’s kitten-heeling her way into rockpits to chain-smoke and talk over the music with other dimwits? I moshed at a Wedding Present gig in three-inch heels back when girls like her were Blu-tacking pictures of Take That to the bedroom walls. Where’s the justice? Where’s my machete?
If only it really was a death metal gig. But I suspect even Varg from Burzum’s church-burning antics would fail to impress this chumpette. With luck someone will spill beer on her and she’ll be too mortally offended to bother the musical fraternity ever again.
My only consolation is that a rival so pathetically vanilla probably carries that quality through all aspects of her life. Straight suck and fuck, and a roast chicken every Sunday. A cottage on the Isle of Wight (if it’s not too dear). Which is on consideration exactly what the Boy wants from a woman – in spite of his protestations otherwise. I’ve been thrown over for a sniveling, pasty nonentity too many times to believe men actually want anything else.
Wasn’t it Jerry Hall who said that men need a whore in the bedroom and a maid in the kitchen? It’s not true. The kitchen part is correct. But they seem to keep their whores elsewhere. I suddenly want to find and kick this girl very, very hard. Repeatedly. And I want Will Oldham to write a song about it.
samedi, le 30 avril
An email from Georgie, sent from her work: Cheers for last night! I think I have tinnitus. We’ll have to do that again sometime but maybe something a little more mainstream? She blathers on a bit longer, but it isn’t anything you couldn’t get from a random Victoria Coren generator.
My stomach lurches and gurgles. I have to stop doing this. I make a promise not to read his diaries and email again.
Dear Belle
Dear Belle,
I have been sexually active now for five years, and have never been able to achieve orgasm ‘by the hand’ of any of my lovers – but it seems to work perfectly when I’m alone. Am I shy, stubborn, or simply a hard cookie to crumble?
Dear Onan,
Let me get this clear. Fucking, tick. Coming, tick. You’re just not doing both together. This is a problem? As Woody Allen said, at least masturbation is sex with someone you love. Perhaps you’re putting yourself under undue pressure to perform. Think of the poor souls who are unable to achieve orgasm at all. If it does trouble you, I would recommend letting your lover stimulate you in other ways while you bring yourself off, or go for a completely hands-off session in which your partner simply enjoys the show. In time you may gain enough experience and trust with someone for this to change, but five years is just the beginning of your sexual lifetime. Be patient.
Dear Belle,
Bob Geldof, Bono, or Tony Blair. Which would you do, by choice?
Dear Charidee Case,
Sir Bob, if only for the chance of presenting him with offspring not quite so ludicrously named.
Dear Belle,
I am a youngish lady who has suddenly decided that I have had enough of endless ‘proper’ relationships with men – you know the stuff, laundry, making tea, making love occasionally and unwillingly. Over the past ten years, I have compulsively gone out with someone and done my best to build every flirtation into marriage potential. I realised that this wasn’t making me happy, so I declared I wasn’t going to do it any more. And all that’s happened is that I have started sleeping with lots of my friends, boys and girls, all in a lovely non-committal way. I am very happy, so much so it is troubling me. What should I do?