Anonymous - Belle do jour:Diary of an unlikely call girl

“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 woman.

The verdict came back within hours. Surprisingly, the manager seemed far more pleased with the results than either the photographer or I was. “Darling, the pictures, they are fabulous,” she purred on the other end of my phone. I’ve noticed she never introduces herself on the phone but launches straight into conversation. Must be a graduate 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. Amusante, savoir faire? Save me. Self-motivated, works well in group… perhaps closer to the truth. I wondered, 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 last 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 picture than they had in person. I wouldn’t have admitted this to her for the world, of course.

And I wised up to the tricks the photographers used. After seeing the poses echoed in hundreds of pictures, the contortions I had been put through looked familiar.

There is clearly 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:

• The bending-over bumshot. Everyone looks good like this. Roseanne probably doubles for Heidi Klum in such a pose. If you don’t see the full-on wobbly face-up, don’t be surprised if it turns out to be rather less (or rather, more) than you expected in the flesh. Also applies to the all-fours crawl and the face-down spread eagle.

• The tit grab. A double-A could take on Dolly-Partonesque 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 balletist; she’s trying to make her legs look longer. I reckon if God had meant us to point our bare feet in midair, he wouldn’t have invented stilettoes.

• The evening wrap/well-placed fur. Fat arms, okay?

• The turned-up collar/long hair obscuring the cheek. Double chin, or lack of any at 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.

• Girlish pigtails 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 dip a toe into sampling the professionals. He started a slow jog on a treadmill while I pedaled. “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 as 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 find him, how his eyes crinkle like a film star’s. “Any chance you might-”

“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, Al 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.

The belt of the treadmill squealed and buckled under N’s bulk. “Are you done torturing that machine? Because I’m getting hungry.”

He drove us back to my house. It wasn’t late, but the city was already as dark as midnight. N was born and raised in London, and guided the car around back roads and alternate routes I didn’t know existed. The night air was still moist from rain in the afternoon, the streets shining with long red and white reflected lights, and I rolled down the passenger window to listen to the gentle shrr of tires on the road. “How much do you tell that man of yours?” he said after a long silence. N and the Boy know and don’t approve of each other, but since they live in different cities, rarely meet.

“Enough.”

“Can’t imagine he’s happy with it.”

“Can’t imagine he has a choice,” I said, affecting more bravado than I felt. If he turns out to have major objections, I thought, I’ll find something else to do.

Probably. lundi, le 8 decembre

Booking with a banker at a hotel near Bond Street. We drank some coffee, chatted about New York briefly, then got down to business. And, as they say, business is good.

He: “That was my first anal.”

Me: “Really? I’m surprised.” Perhaps not that surprised, since there have been more than a few first-time anals in my past. But surprised he didn’t mention it, and surprised at the spatial imagination of someone who manipulated me around his member so fluidly.

“Well, I enjoyed it.”

“I would tell you it’s my first time too, but you’d know I was lying.”

He (laughing): “So how did I do?”

“Excellent-just remember, lots of lube, and use fingers first. As you did.”

“Thanks-you’re too nice.”