The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (6 page)

'It's important to me, sweetie.'

'Doubtless. And "Oral sex: giving and receiving" under Interests and Activities?'

'Are you saying they're not?' We laughed.

It occurred to me to recommend my own line of work, not that he'd ever bite. The Boy is as straitlaced as a whalebone corset. I, by contrast, am widely considered among our acquaintances to be amoral. Even by the ones who don't know what I do for a living.

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Decembre

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D - G

D is for Disasters

For me, there's no such thing as an insurmountable disaster. If it all goes horribly wrong, console yourself with the knowledge you'll probably never see the customer again. Even if it goes right you will probably never see the customer again.

That said, always be certain your phone is fully charged and within arm's reach if needed. And keep a travel pack of baby wipes to hand for cleaning up all messes of biological origin.

E is for Eating

Whoring is like exercise: you can't eat too soon before the appointment, or you risk blowing chunks at an inopportune moment. The usual timing of non‐dinner dates means that normal meals are almost always out of the question. Have a generous lunch. Take a snack to nibble on the way home.

Carry a spoon just in case.

E is also for Exercise

Someone once told me that girl‐on‐top positions can burn as many calories per hour as one of those gym stepper machines. Note that the gent is apt to give out before you have achieved a fat‐burning workout, though.

F is for Forgetfulness

Always re‐confirm appointment details with the agency. Knocking on the door of room 1,203 instead of 1,302 can have unexpected consequences. I keep a small pad of paper handy rather than rely on my memory.

That said, don't write the details on the back of your hand, either.

G is for G-Spot

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You won't need to know where this is at work. Tuck it away in the cupboard at home and save it for best.

lundi, le 1 decembre

The client's hands were square, long‐fingered and wandering. They reminded me of the Boy's. He pawed my breasts, my thighs, and ventured inside.

I jerked suddenly.

'Sorry ‐ did I hurt you?' he asked.

I was on my side, he was spooning me, the offending fingers resting between my legs from behind. 'Only a little.' I picked up his right hand and examined the nails. Clean, but longer than most. And rather jagged. 'Do you bite these?'

'Yes.'

I rolled over the edge of the bed to reach my bag on the floor. 'Hold on.' Brought back a small silver cosmetic case and pulled out an emery board.

He shuddered. 'I can't take files,' he said. 'It's a nails‐on‐chalkboard sort of thing.'

'Trust me,' I said, and sanded his edges smooth. He ran his thumbs over the polished ovals, commented on the difference. 'You're far too nice for this job,' he said softly, which I took to mean either that he'd had bad experiences with escorts before, or most escorts are nice and I was just the first. Hoped it was the latter.

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mardi, le 2 decembre

So what's a girl to do with a day off?

Besides shopping for knickers, naturally.

Booked in advance, plenty of warning. The Boy out of town, no gym session with N. Tried arranging lunch with A1, A2 and A4; no luck. No illness, no customers. A good proper lie‐in. No errands, no appointments and no laundry. Time to cook (and maybe leave the washing‐up for another day). No cleaning lady and no calls from the manager. Nowhere to be, nothing to be. Just me on my wee tod.

Best find that vibrator, then.

jeudi, le 3 decembre

There is someone in London who just paid to lick the pucker of my arse for one hour. Isn't that what everyone really wants in life, someone who'll kiss your grits and enjoy it?

If someone had only told me from the outset such perfect clients existed, I would have jumped in straight away.

vendredi, le 4 decembre

'Have you ever been with a woman?' the client asked, stroking my breasts.

'Yes,' I said. He sighed. 'Many. Outside of work.' It has been a while since the last. The Boy grumbles and pouts sometimes, because he knows about my past and has never had a threesome. I am wary of the problems that picking up a spare girl can introduce to a relationship. Better to go pro, I think. Maybe sometime in the future.

Not now.

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'Are you gay?'

'No, I just like women.' Probably equally to men for sex. But I would rather be in a relationship with a man, which I think reads as essentially straight. This was a conclusion won over much heart-rending identification nonsense during university. I'll fuck women, but I don't want to go home to one.

samedi, le 6 decembre

I've been looking through the agency website again. The manager rearranges the profiles from time to time, to give this or that girl a lift in business, or to emphasise a new arrival.

My own profile compares reasonably against the other girls on the site and pictures around the web. Nothing to stand out particularly; just like hundreds of others. It's always stunning to see just how many call girls are working in London. There seems to be a leggy blonde or brunette sex goddess for every potential horny businessman on earth, with maybe a MILF or two to spare.

I remember the first time I saw myself on the site. The profile turned out decently enough. I hadn't thought it would, considering the way the photo shoot went. There had been some selective cropping and photoshop magic, but the woman in the images was very definitely me. Would someone recognize me? Don't be silly, I scolded myself. No one who knew you and spotted you while perusing escort sites would ever confess to it. Perhaps, I thought then in horror, they might go one worse, and book an appointment!

The photographer for the escort agency had arranged to meet me at a hotel. Cute until she opened her mouth. She 45

started in on me straight away. 'Hair ‐ not big enough,' she said, and pulled out a teasing comb that looked as if it had served time in some of the country's finer dog‐grooming facilities. Her own pink lipliner was enlisted in the quest to make my lips look fuller, poutier. The lingerie I had brought, still in its store wrapping, was judged unsuitable ‐which is to say it was far too tasteful. 'You would suit something . . . purple,' she said, throwing a cheap lace vest at me. At least it was unworn; it still had the tags on. This is how I found myself in colours I'd never wear, with make‐up I'd never use, hair ten times its normal size, writhing on the hotel furniture. 'Keep those legs straight up in the air,' she said, as my thighs shook from the exertion of holding pose after pose. 'And . . . relax!'

We worked through a dozen standard glamour shots. 'Are you getting bored yet?' she joked.

'Yes.'

She looked hard at me. 'You're bored? That's terrible.'

'I was being ironic. Actually I'm not bored at all,' I said, cupping my breast for the thirtieth time.

'Pity about the bikini lines. So seventies porn star.' This from someone who put me in pink latex hot pants? She changed the film and shot through another roll. I couldn't imagine there were any more impossible contortions to exact. After an hour I'd had enough and got up to change back into my civvies.

'Next time we see you, I will give you the name of a salon I know, where they do miraculous facials,' she said, a parting shot on my way out the door. Subtlety is not a strength in this one.

The verdict came back within hours. Surprisingly, the manager seemed pleased with the results. 'Darling, the pictures, they are fabulous,' she purred on the other end of my phone. I've noticed she never introduces herself on the

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phone but launches straight into conversation. Must be an alumna of the same charm school as my mother.

'Thank you, I was worried about not looking relaxed.'

'No, they are perfect. Can you do something for me? Can you write something about yourself for the portfolio? Most of the other girls, I write something for them, but you should do this very well.' She seemed pleased to have bagged another graduate for the agency; perhaps they make commission on educational level?

Cripes.

I am a tall, luscious ... ah, no.
Amusant, savoir faire?
Save me.

Self‐motivated, works well in groups . . . perhaps closer to the truth.

Where are the CV clinics for whores?

In the end I was pleased with the result. I had liked the look of the agency's website from the beginning, and especially the descriptions of the women. They seemed more honest than most ‐ there was no messing about a girl's size and what she did ‐ but also less pornographic. Not a one contained guarantees that the girl pictured could swallow hosepipes, was a raging sex machine or had been featured in the pages of a top‐shelf publication. The tawdry outfits from the photographer's wardrobe looked unexpectedly sexier and more subtle in a photograph than they had in person (I wouldn't have admitted this to her for the world, of course). And after seeing the same poses echoed in hundreds of pictures, the contortions I had been put through looked familiar.

There is certainly an art to the glamour shot. On the one hand, perfection is expected and nothing less is tolerated, so who wouldn't consider pixel manipulation her best friend? On the other, those of us who do like the way our bodies look feel at a distinct disadvantage to those who would airbrush their way onto a catwalk if they could.

Perusing the pictures revealed these trends:

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The bending‐over bumshot:
everyone looks good like this.

Vanessa Feltz probably doubles for Heidi Klum in such a pose. If you don't see the full‐on wobbly faceup, don't be surprised if it turns out to be rather less (or rather, more) than you expected in the flesh. See also 'the all‐fours crawl' and 'the face‐down spread-eagle'.

The tit‐grab:
a double‐A could take on Jordanesque proportions given the right tilting of the chest‐flesh. What is the point? Many men like small breasts. As someone once said, more than a mouthful's wasted (mine are a perfect handful, but you'll have to take my word for it. And I'm not saying whose hands either).

The deep‐cleavage angle from above:
see previous.

The toe point:
she's not a trained ballerina; she's trying to make her legs look longer. I reckon if God had meant us to point our bare feet in mid‐air he wouldn't have invented stilettos.

The evening wrap I well‐placed fur:
fat arms, okay?

The turned‐up collar I long hair obscuring the cheek:
for double chin, or lack of any chin at all. Julie Burchill pulls this trick, which I think says it all.

Knee‐high boot and pencil skirt combo:
in real life this is immensely sexy. Who hasn't wanted to stroke the milky white strip exposed on a lady's leg? In sexy photos, anyone willing to show only an inch of thigh at a time has issues.

Bubble bath:
good for hiding a multitude of sins.
Bending
backward:
like the bending‐over bumshot but in reverse.

Poochy tummy extremely likely. Personally I'd rather see an inch to pinch than force someone to suck it in for an hour on the trot.

Crossed legs:
hasn't waxed.

Ankle socks:
ditto.

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Girlish bunches and teenage clothing sense:
is actually thirty-four.

dimanche, le 7 decembre

N, the hub of all gossip, was meeting me at the gym and coming back for supper afterwards. He has a keen interest in porn and the magazine collection to prove it. He told me about his plans for a trip to Amsterdam with a friend from work.

'Why not pick up some girls for a threesome while you're there?' I asked, leaning forward over the handles of a stationary bicycle. The threesome is his longest standing fantasy. After the grannies and horses, naturally.

I feel bad for N. Having tasted once or twice the fruits of group sex, it has become a full‐time obsession. He was the one, for example, who demanded I go over my night with the posh woman and her boyfriend in detail, even to the point of providing illustrative diagrams.

'Why, do you think Dutch women are any more willing than the English?'

'No, I mean you could hire some.'

'Mmph,' he said. He's an attractive man. While supportive of the concept of prostitution, I don't think he'd actually sample a professional. He started a slow jog on a treadmill while I pedalled. 'If there were legal brothels, I could hire out all the girls,' he mused.

'Now you're being greedy,' I scolded. 'If I remember correctly, once is usually enough for you.' With a few exceptions. Once in the distant past he and I had a threesome and so far as I know, he hasn't had another shot since.

'Ouch.' But he was smiling. And when he smiles, I think how sexy I found him, how his eyes crinkle like a film star's. 'Any chance you might—'

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'Sorry, darling, that train left the station years ago.' Eww, friends hiring me for sex. The thought hadn't even occurred. Must make a mental note to nip all future suggestions in the bud. Especially as they are not all at the same level of knowledge about my work. A2 knows outright, A1 and A4 know the general outline but not the details, and the less A3 knows, the better. N, of course, gets the full skinny, warts and all. Literally.