The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (25 page)

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-withered end of a Flake, 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.

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'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.'

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214

Avril

215

Q - S

Q is for Quality

Don't get lazy. It's perfectly acceptable for one's mind to wander on the job, but totting up your credit card receipts while some poor John bones you from behind will not go unnoticed. Feigning interest is the social lubricant of modern life and not too much to ask in one hour out of the day. Think of it as increasing the chances of a tip and repeat business.

Q is also for Quitting

Some people say once you've been paid for sex, you are never really out of the business. I'll report back in 2037 whether this is true.

Rs for Relationships

This is not a film or a fairy‐tale. You will not end up marrying a rich, attractive single man you met on the job and live happily ever after. Do not date the clients, do not confuse the nature of the relationship. Enjoy the man if he's nice but never forget where the line is. Would you expect a personal trainer to follow a client home from the gym, or get together on weekends just to hang out? No.

Out of the question.

S is for Sexy

Sexiness is not a square‐yards‐of‐cloth to exposed‐skin ratio. Sexy is not the inevitable result of being blonde, tanned and thin (though it seems to work for television hosts). Sexy is the result of being pulled together and comfortable in your skin. Holding your stomach in when your clothes are off is not fuckable.

Slapping your ample behind and inviting him to ride the wobble is.

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jeudi, le 1 avril

Shark

Etymology: probably modified from German
Schurke
(scoundrel).

Function: noun, intransitive verb.

1.

Any of numerous marine elasmobranch fishes having a fusiform body, lateral gill clefts and are rapacious predators.

2. A crafty person who preys upon others through usury, extortion or trickery.

3. One who excels greatly in a particular field.

4. The act of entrapment of a person, usually younger or less experienced.

I've been eyeing up someone at the gym for the last few months.

This is not a habit, really. Gyms are for exercising, perhaps a bit of socialising, but the widespread idea of workouts as meat markets is gruesome by any standard. On the upside, if you do meet someone in an atmosphere of lycra‐clad, endorphin‐soaked madness, you can rest easy that he has seen you at your worst, covered in sweat and hair undone, and found you attractive.

On the other hand, I wouldn't want to date anyone who regularly saw me at my worst.

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At the start of the year, though, one man in particular caught my eye. Shy smile, soft‐looking hair, impressively muscled build. I made enquiries. Gleaned his name.

'Gay,' barked N, who is not gay himself but claims to have the most finely attuned straight‐man gaydar in the south of England.

It's rubbish, but I dare not say. 'Without doubt.'

'I don't think so,' I sighed, trying not to stare, as the object of our conversation worked his way around the free weights.

'Ten pence bet says he is.'

Them's, as they say, fightin' words. 'You're on.' 'It would indeed be a pleasure,' N said, rubbing his hands, 'to see the master shark lose this one.'

vendredi, le 2 avril

Conversations with clients are not exactly what one might call

'normal', but still have their rigid conventions. It's nice to know where someone is from, a general outline of what he does. Most of the men are business travellers or not frequent consumers of sex services. A little idle chatter puts both parties at ease.

There's a fine line between curiosity and nosiness, and while meeting a working girl is a bit like going on a first date, some lines of interrogation are simply off limits. These include questions about one's parents, location of one's house (as I only do outcalls), vehicle registration number . . .

On the other hand, the fact that you are unlikely to meet again means a customer can ask the sort of questions that would get anyone else a rapid introduction to the pavement. Context is everything.

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Example one: 'Do you think you'll marry and have children?'

I like children well enough. I especially like them when they go back to their parents. Sometimes ‐ sometimes ‐ I am struck by the charm of a precocious
bebe
and think rearing young 'uns would be a good idea. And if someone could take charge of children between the ages of eleven and sixteen, it would sweeten the deal immensely.

Clients are perhaps the only people to whom I will give an honest answer. The ambivalence towards a future family, the uncertainty whether this world is a suitable place to chain oneself to another being or beings, frankly, troubles me. As many of them are married and have children, they appreciate this. Occasionally they offer advice.

Some adore their children and family life. Some are . . . well, they're out paying for sex, aren't they?

My parents are sometimes fool enough to ask after my future plans for babymaking and receive the stock answer: 'I simply haven't met the right man.' Any paramour who dares let this query pass his lips is on a one‐way trip to speed dating and singleton hell.

Example two: Questions about taste in films, books and music.

Potential mates receive an honest answer. My taste in cultural minutiae might be dodgy, but it is my own, and anyone hoping to merge his material possessions with mine in a happy re-enactment of homo erectus setting up housekeeping in the Olduvai Gorge, will have to live with a collection of music that could best be described by the term 'selective appeal'.

In a client situation, I try to discern what his taste might be and stray not too far off the beaten mainstream. Trying to cover the finer points of free jazz while administering a soapy titwank is possibly straining the privileges of my position.

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Example three: 'How many people have you been to bed with?'

No client has ever asked. Sometimes they ask how long I have been working, but whether they attempt to deduce the number of my past lovers based on the answer is unknown. Given that my working practices have been sometimes sporadic, it's unlikely they would reach an accurate total.

Non‐clients always ask. If I think the man has a good sense of humour, I tell him a number that is roughly accurate. Or at least within the same order of magnitude. I don't know the real answer myself. For geeky men with extremely good senses of humour, I offer the total in scientific notation or hexadecimal. If I think he does not have a good sense of humour, I try to change the subject or turn the question back on him.

Why does it matter? Quantity is no guarantee of quality.

Frequency definitely isn't. But a low total is not indicative of personality either. A high number of ex‐lovers could just as easily say 'I'm good at hostessing, and the lack of stalkers implies my selective powers are decent' as it does the more common interpretation of 'I'm a big wet girlslut with a drinking problem.'

Men ‐ and women ‐ who have been shocked by my answer were often heard to mumble, 'But you look such a
nice
girl!'

I am nice. Very nice indeed.

At the age of seventeen someone split with me because he was my third partner and this was an unacceptably high number to him. The next man, number four, claimed the number of my previous lovers was unacceptably low. There's no pleasing some people.

The last time I had a lover with more former partners (that I knew of) was at the age of nineteen.

Example four: 'We only have a quarter of an hour. May I come in your mouth?'

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In a normal situation, this might meet with a grimace at best and a restraint order at worst. At work, though, typical responses range from 'Go on then!' to 'Okay, but I would rather you came on my face.'

dimanche, le 4 avril

A year or two ago it became apparent how neatly I've left the first flush of youth behind. The Maginot Line was, of all things, music.

Watching videos after a prolonged absence from popular culture, I noticed to my horror that those who are not old enough to remember Lionel Richie the first time around consider him some sort of Grand PoohBah of soft rock. Lionel was everywhere, sporting mini‐dreads, bling and cred. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Did no one else have their early memories of music television inexorably scarred by the sight of Mr Richie crooning earnestly to his own clay head? Sometimes I fear for the younger generation, truly.

Which reminds me that my mother's birthday is looming and I really must remember to make her that Neil Sedaka Tzedakah box I'm always promising ‐ or is it threatening? ‐to craft.

lundi, le 5 avril

Shark

Etymology: Middle English, from Old English
weax;
akin to Old High German
wabs
(wax); Lithuanian
vaskas.
Function: transitive verb, intransitive verb, noun.

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1.

A substance secreted by bees and used for constructing the honeycomb, composed of a mixture of esters, cerotic acid, and hydrocarbons.

2. Any of various substances resembling beeswax; any of numerous substances that differ from fats in being less greasy, harder and more brittle and in containing principally compounds of high molecular weight (as fatty acids, alcohols and saturated hydrocarbons), or a solid substance of mineral origin consisting of hydrocarbons of high molecular weight.

3. Something likened to wax as soft, impressionable or readily moulded.

4. To treat or rub with wax, usually for polishing or stiffening.

5. The process of removing body hair in the most painful, yet somehow satisfying, way possible.

6. To follow the object of your affection around the room in an attempt to get them to take notice of you.

I stood by the paper towel dispenser, blotting sweat off my neck until the Ten Pence Bet came into view. He was setting up a bench‐press‐cum‐torture device. When he turned away to slide a weight off the rack, I slid in behind him.

'Work in sets with you?' Gym‐speak for asking if you can alternate on the weights. Never regarded as an overt come‐on: people who are waxing you are more likely to stand to the side and watch.

It was a ludicrous request, of course. I couldn't have spotted the weight he could probably lift with his little toe. 'You lifting?' he asked. Soft voice, nice.

'Maybe the bar plus twenty,' I said. Damn, I actually sound as though I know what I'm talking about.

He nodded. We went through three sets each. I stood on the opposite side of the bar as he pressed out his reps, 222

watching the long‐sleeved shirt strain at his chest. On my sets I tried hard to look cool and serious, not the giggling, feeble creature I play when N's in the gym. We finished on the bench and moved off to other sides of the gym. Play it cool, girl, I thought. Don't follow him around the room. Don't wax.

Half an hour later I walked through to the aerobic area. He was on a rowing machine, had been for a few minutes ‐the sweat was just starting to trickle past his hairline. I sat on one a few seats away and strapped my feet in.

'Hard workout day for you, then?' he asked.

I smiled. 'Just warming down.' I rowed through five minutes, watching his reflection surreptitiously in the glass opposite us. His sweat was really starting to pour. He had taken off the long-sleeved top. I finished and walked out the door behind him, caught a glance of his back squeezing together at the end of each stroke, the droplets sliding down the crevice of his spine.

I was alone in the hall leading to the changing rooms. Wait a few minutes, I thought. He'll come out and you can say something.

Don't. He'll know you waited.

Coward.

Tart.

What would I say, anyway? 'Oh, to be the person who gets to lick that sweat off you,' then walk away? The door cracked. I didn't wait to see who it was. I ducked in the ladies' faster than a greased goose.

mardi, le 6 avril

N and I went out for Italian and beer. We sat outside waiting for the food. It was a mild evening, I was a little tired 223

from a long session of working out frustrations in the gym and the drink went straight to my head. We talked about the coming month, what he was doing with work, a bit about women he was interested in. I confessed that I'd been doing a little Internet snooping on the Boy.