The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (14 page)

He: 'You like it there?'

Me: 'It's pretty nice. The people I work with are interesting.'

'Plenty of prima donnas, right?'

'Yes.' I look obviously at my watch. 'Well, I'm off to meet a friend for lunch, have to run.' 'Are those real stockings?' 'Of course!'

'You're just too gorgeous. I wish I could take you out.' 'Well, you never know. See you around.'

jeudi, le 15 janvier

The self‐fisting is getting remarkably easier with practice. For those who would rather watch than touch ‐ and there are plenty of those ‐ this is proving very popular. However, I don't think any amount of practice would enable anal fisting, although someone did want to see how many fingers I could get up the back passage while he fucked me. I could feel the swollen head of his cock clearly through the narrow wall of tissue separating the two orifices, and wiggled the tips of my fingers to tickle his shaft. He came quickly, stayed hard, fucked again, repeat.

He (falling back on the bed after the third go in one hour): 'I used to be better at this, really.'

Me (pulling up stockings): 'How do you mean?'

'The old man's had it. I'd be surprised if it gets up again any time in the next month.'

'I wouldn't know, being a woman, but I think he's done 112

admirably.' I pat the now‐wizened bit of flesh. 'Good job, you.

Have a well‐deserved rest.'

'You really like what you do, don't you?'

'I think it would be hard to take if I didn't. My imagination is not quite sufficient to detach my mind from double penetration.'

vendredi, le 16 janvier

N and I drank cups of tea at mine and listened to the radio. 'All right then,' he said, 'you're abandoned on an island in the South Pacific. Which five records would you take?'

'A lot of rock, a lot of blues.' I thought a moment. 'Probably at least three blues albums.'

'On a desert island by yourself? Isn't that a bit depressing?'

'I'm already alone on a desert island. Except this isn't a desert, and it's cold and wet.'

'Remember you do have the odd man Friday,' he said, patting my feet. We fell asleep together on the sofa listening to Robert Johnson.

samedi, le 17 janvier

These are a few of my favourite things (that punters never ask for):

For me to come for real:
why should they? With someone I've just met, who doesn't know the unspoken road map to my body, it'll take a geological age, with his tongue propelled by more drive than an industrial bandsaw. Of course I fake it, when asked at all.

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Glass marbles:
infinitely better than the rubbery love‐bead variety. Cheaper than a glass dildo. Scales up well according to size and relaxation of orifice. The sound they make when they come out is as delicious as the temperature change going in.

Food sex:
I have never, ever been paid to lick chocolate sauce off someone or have it licked off me. In private, though, I like to think myself an excellent and carefully‐maintained plate (NB: does not include insertion of vegetables, which you don't eat afterwards anyway).

To turn up in my regular clothes:
random person sex is cool.

Random person sex with someone who looks random is even better. Also I'm very lazy.

Bathing him afterwards:
I love soaping a man's body, the slightly submissive attitude of kneeling to run my hands down the pillar of his legs, gently lifting each foot in turn to wash it. I adore drying a man, too: imagining what I would want dried first (face and hair), what needs gentle patting (armpits and genitals) and what might get forgotten (back of knees, between the shoulder blades). Plenty want to wash me, though, so perhaps they are acting on the same desire.

Rimming:
given a thorough wash with hot soapy water beforehand, I will do this. It feels like trying to push yourself into pursed lips. It's a challenge, and the tiniest flicker of your tongue goes further there than anywhere else. It's cunnilingus on the miniature scale. As with the last one though ‐ they do it to me all the time. I shouldn't complain, really.

To imitate an animal:
for some reason I imagined they would. They don't.

To imitate characters from
The Simpsons: it has nothing to do with sex, but I'm pretty good at it ‐ especially Milhouse and Comic Book Guy. Who knows, maybe I'll

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meet a man with a Patty and Selma fetish, and then my ship will have truly come in.

But for tonight, I have a date. A real date with someone who uses my real name and rings me on my real number. Okay, he may be a hologram, but I cannot know for certain yet.

dimanche, le 18 janvier

I haven't had a proper first date in ages. He's an acquaintance of N's, which gave us a conversational springboard, but I quickly grew addicted to his looks, his voice and his sense of humour. It surprised me to feel just as awkward and off‐kilter flirting with someone as it always had. Did I get nervous having to leave a message on his answerphone? Check. Did I deliberate over what I was going to wear on our date? Check. Obsessing over the details, including Googling his name every few hours? Too right I did. Did my heart speed up just a tiny bit on seeing a text or email from him? You betcha.

So we went out ‐ the details are meaningless ‐ and talked around and around each other, and around the topic of how mutually attracted we were. I kept looking at his hands when I thought he wouldn't notice. He must have been looking at mine because all of a sudden, on the train, we were holding hands (dear god, we were holding hands) and he was exploring the spaces between my fingers with his lips (just shiver) and I put my head on his shoulder (yes, it fit perfectly) and he smelled my hair (oh, yes, please).

Then we went and fucked it up by having fucking.

Maybe it was the glass or three of wine. Perhaps it was the music, which was just at the right bpm to make my head 115

spin. But I so did what I should not have done ‐ I went straight from cuddling and kissing into Whore Mode.

And this poor thing, he got the works. The little squeals. The wrist restraints. The full‐on, sweat‐soaked, bed‐rattling, neighbour‐waking, deep‐throating, dirty‐talking, facial‐cum‐shot, use‐my‐baby‐till‐you‐use‐me‐up works. He fell asleep straight after but I couldn't close my eyes because I knew what had just happened. I had utterly hot, but completely soulless sex with someone who ‐ up to that point ‐ I actually wanted to see more of.

There's that line about the likelihood of buying the cow when the milk's on sale, you know the one I mean?

So we woke early and dressed. He escorted me to the station and I caught the first train home. I couldn't look at him and felt like an utter idiot. Note to self: never have sex on a first date.

lundi, le 19 janvier

Last night I dreamed about the Boy.

It was in a restaurant‐cum‐bar‐cum‐tunnel to the underworld kind of place, located in a crumbling religious monument and with a playground out the back (can't explain; dreams are just that way) and I was having a drink with a girl from the gym with great tits. Great Tits and I were having a conversation in which I was outlining the end of the affair, and she asked his name.

I said his first name. She said his second, loudly. 'Ah, you know each other?' I was about to ask, when I turned around and saw GT

was addressing him directly. He was there with his new girlfriend, a well‐known porn star.

Cue major discomfort as Great Tits and the Boy went through greeting procedures. I smiled at the porn star, who 116

was inexplicably naked. Then the Boy and I were walking outside, on a grassy upward‐sloping tunnel to the playground, and I stopped and lay down, and he lay down behind me. He said he missed me, he missed fucking me. I felt him grow harder and slide up between my thighs.

'You can't,' I said. And he pushed the first inch inside.

At this point the porn star (who, it should be pointed out for the extremely dim, is
not
dating my ex in real life, this is just a dream), still inexplicably naked, positions herself on her back in front of me. I dive in. She tells me she doesn't like direct clitoral stimulation. I rub her through the hood and tongue her inner lips.

The Boy mounts me from behind.

I woke up half‐wrapped in a bedsheet. I didn't come. I can't stop thinking about his hands, his hands. The way his hair felt. The smell of the skin on his back in summer.

mardi, le 20 janvier

They say when it rains, it pours, but is there a saying for the complete opposite? Perhaps 'when it's dry, it's arid' ?

The most recent bookings have all been time‐wasters and mind-changers. There is always a certain amount of this at work ‐ like the man who wanted to book an overnight but didn't ring the manager when he got to the hotel. So while I knew first name, time, and location, I wasn't about to turn up and go round all the floors, knocking at each door.

Can you imagine? 'Room service? No? I'll try next door then . . .'

He did contact the agency a few days later to apologise. Seems he simply didn't write our number down and couldn't ring again.

Of course.

Other times the cancellation comes from my end. I get nervous if someone changes time and location more than 117

once. Too many overly specific requests also tend to put me on guard. Dressing up is fine. Dressing up like your septuagenarian grandmother and being asked to bring my own mortuary foam is not. A finely‐tuned Creep Radar is a necessary part of the business. This is, after all, an occupation that ranks somewhere between nuclear core inspector and rugby prop for job safety.

Except I'm issued neither a foil suit nor a pair of spiked boots for protection.

I have also learned never to trust a booking made more than three days ahead, as these people almost never call back to verify the appointment details. At first I imagined my work diary filling up weeks ahead. But the most reliable calls come six to twelve hours in advance, even from regulars. The longer someone has to think about it, it seems, the heavier guilt weighs on them. Or maybe they decide to DIY the situation. A copy of the
Sunday
Sport
isn't exactly going to give you a blowjob and a backrub ‐

then again, it's more likely to be found hanging around your local newsagents and can be had for under a quid.

Lame excuses, cancellations, aggressive patients, dubious over-the‐counter remedies. Now I know how a GP feels.

At least the four A's have descended on Jour Towers for a few days. Quote of the night:

A2: 'So what are we doing tomorrow?'

A1: 'Well, we'll have to get that bottle of whisky first thing in the morning, definitely.'

You couldn't buy a better bunch of chaps, I swear.

mercredi, le 21 janvier

N is approaching the one year anniversary of a break‐up. I am of the belief that it usually takes as long as the relationship itself for the pangs to subside, which means he

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should have been over this one about nine months ago. His ex was a flighty girl. Frankly I never thought they'd make it. I was right, but this isn't the sort of thing you go telling your friends straight after the fact. Example:

'I sent her a Christmas card and a birthday card and she hasn't so much as texted me.'

I'm thinking: Well, of course not, silly boy. She's probably married to an oil tycoon and has a litter of children by now. I'm saying: 'How dare she. That is so profoundly unfair.'

N has a charming ability to think the world of his exes.

Naturally, I'm not complaining. 'Pedestal‐worthy' is a modifier more of my acquaintances should use. In the wake of his ex's refusal to contact him, N is seeking out every other immortal beloved to have crossed his path ‐
muy High Fidelity.
It started last month with His Fist.

They exchanged phone calls for a few weeks. He was sweet about it. Talking to her seemed to bring a lot of memories to the fore ‐ how they met and courted, secretly, over several years. Why she never wanted to marry or have children. The last time he saw her in person, the sad, strained final farewell. Like everyone else, I love a good passion. I love a good story even more.

Then N arranged to meet His First in person, and his reminiscences went from the rosy‐hued to the frankly sexual. He's never had a woman since with bigger breasts. She taught him everything a man ever need know about going down on a woman.

How she reacted to the taste of come. And so on.

'God, if she'll let me, I'd love to have her again. Just once, just for old times' sake.'

I'm thinking: There isn't a single ex I would take back. I'm at least 95 per cent sure of that. Usually. Depending on which way the wind's blowing. I'm saying: 'Darling, great idea. I bet it's even better than before.'

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'You mean they're even better than before,' he said, making a groping gesture in midair with his hands.

'Of course. Of course that's what I meant.'

He looked at me and smiled. 'So if I manage to get her in bed, and she's up for it, would you do a threesome with us?'

I'm thinking: Not a chance, hon. She'll never say yes, and even if she did, I wouldn't. I'm saying: 'Go for it, sweetie. The more the merrier!'

N put his arm around my shoulders. 'You're the best • woman ever, you know that?'

Happily he will continue to believe so for the time being. I am reliably informed that His First didn't let him get any more intimate than an awkward hug at the end. He can go on thinking I'm a sexual saint and it'll never be put to the test.

jeudi, le 22 janvier

'Darling, can you make a booking for this afternoon?'

I was varnishing my toenails and feeling cranky. 'No, I'm afraid it's my time of the month.' I suspect she either doesn't pay very close attention to our cycles or is too polite to call me on an obvious lie.

Except in this case it wasn't a lie. It was a lie when I used it about, oh, two weeks ago.

'This maaaaan, he is very rich,' she said. 'He keeps asking only for you.'

'Can't do it,' I snapped, wondering where on earth I'd managed to leave the Nurofen, and other incrementally more important things. Like not smudging the nail varnish as it dried, and reading the paper. 'I don't think he'd want blood on the sheets.'