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

W was as mystified by the attraction as I was. “What do you think when I’m hitting you?” he asked one afternoon. We were sitting on a bench in Regents Park watching the geese and swans. Every few minutes, satisfied no one was coming down the paths, he’d hit me again.

“Nothing,” I said. There was only the moment when his hand would stop stroking my cheek and I knew the smack was coming; the first hard impact of his palm against the side of my face; the eye-wetting sting of pain; the warm glow of heat there afterward. It was perhaps the only time when there was nothing else in my head. It hurt, but the pain was neutral: there was no hate or disgust behind it. It was pure and exhilarating like any other physical experience. Like the moment of orgasm where you forget yourself, your partner, the world.

“Do you get angry with me?” he asked.

“No.”

W visited my house only once. He whipped me through a shirt, then topless, stopping only when I started to bleed. In the shower at the top of the stairs, he covered me in piss, then forced my face down in the puddle as he beat the back of my thighs. After he spent his load on my face, he held a mirror up. “You are such a picture,” he sighed. Eyes stinging with come, I half-opened my lids to see a red-cheeked girl squatting in a white tiled bath. And he was right. It looked good. Not in a cover-of- Glamour way, mind. I smiled broadly.

Once on holiday in Scotland I furtively sent W letters. “Ate a packed lunch and contemplated the dimensions of your hands,” read the first, tentative one. Later: “Next time you see me, don’t forget to bring a torch and those ropes.”

And the last, written a day after I stood out in the cold night air while the midges chewed me alive and W outlined in detail exactly what he wanted to do to me: “After you told me how you would beat and defile me, I came back inside dripping wet.” Yes, I was still in love with someone else, but that was a model-gorgeous, gentle lad, who would never even hear me on the toilet, much less contemplate painting my face with his feces.

The relationship felt too tightly wound to survive, destined for a breakup, a spell in prison, or, worst of all possible worlds, a suburban marriage with occasional light S amp;M. W couldn’t bear the thought either, and one night we engineered, on the flimsiest excuse, the demise of our affair. And I-polite yet firm, like a woman in film noir-smacked him.

“You’ve been wanting to do that since we met,” he said.

That never stopped me wanting him. Two weeks later I sent a note. “There are still marks on my left breast from your fingernails. I miss you.” vendredi, le 12 decembre

Phone call from the Boy last night. It consisted of the usual moaning and gnashing of teeth, both in a sexual way and at our fate of being star-crossed lovers with the A23 betwixt us.

Toward the end of the conversation, things turned a bit more prosaic. “My dad’s going to be in London a couple of nights this week.”

“Why’s that?”

“Retraining courses for work,” the Boy said. “I know he’s dreading it. He hates London. I mean, what is there to do when you’re stuck in the city by yourself and don’t know anyone?”

One thing came to mind immediately. Dear God, I hope he doesn’t call an escort. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Your dad’s a smashing chap, someone’s bound to take him out on the town one night.” Please, don’t let him call an escort. And please, I know it’s a lot to ask.. please don’t let it be me. “Maybe your mum could go as well?”

“No, she’s busy this week.”

Fuck. My logical mind knows it’s statistically unlikely. Still, I have three hotel visits in the next two days and can’t help wondering. If time has taught me anything it’s that (a) cheating is a common human condition and (b) the stars always align against me. samedi, le 13 decembre

Went to Bedford for a booking last night and caught a late train back. There was almost no one on the platform: a youngish professional wearing sneakers and headphones, a few lone women. I wondered if they were going home from work, and if so, why this late? The trains were running behind and it seemed we were waiting ages.

A clutch of teenaged boys jumped on, drunk and raucous. One of them eyed me up whilst the others harassed the fat boy in the group. They took one of his shoes and played an increasingly violent game of keep-away which culminated in his loafer being chucked out the window at another train. He began screaming and tackled two of the other boys. They got off at Harpenden, unsurprisingly, and the carriage was mine alone as far as Kentish Town.

I felt inexplicably happy and walked home instead of taking a cab. Neither high heels nor drunken idiots frighten me much-when you spend a life in stilettoes, pavements are no hardship, and I’ve shrugged off enough come-ons that I could write the book on losing losers. I sang aloud, a song about lovers who want each other dead. Several empty night buses rumbled down the road. A man on a bicycle passed me and said, “Great legs!” He slowed down and glanced over his shoulder to gauge my reaction. I smiled and thanked him. He rode on.

It was cold and clear. I looked up, and was surprised at the number of stars. dimanche, le 14 decembre

The manager rang to deliver the details of a client to meet near Waterloo. “This man, he is verrrrry nice,” she said. I decided on top-to-toe white, mainly because I had a new lace basque that had never seen the light of day (or night, for that matter), also because all my other stockings had runs. He’d booked two hours, which I took to mean that he wanted something odd or that he wanted conversation.

This was the latter. I rattled the brass door knocker and a shortish man answered. Older, but not ancient. Deep characterful grooves on either side of his thin-lipped mouth. Charming house and nicely decorated. I tried not to look too much like I was assessing the interior. We drank our way through two bottles of chilled chardonnay, discussed the Sultan of Brunei’s gambling habits, and listened to CDs. “I suppose you’re wondering when we’re going to get down to it,” he said, smiling.

“I am.” I looked up at him from the floor where I was sitting barefoot. He leaned down and kissed me. It felt like a first-date kiss. Tentative. I stood up and stripped the dress over my head.

“Just like that,” he said, running his hands over my hips and thighs. The thin fabric whirred against his dry palms. Standing up, he turned me around and bent me over a table. His mouth pressed to the gusset of my knickers and I felt the hot steam of his breath through the fabric. He stood again to slip on a condom and, pushing the gusset to one side, took me from behind. It was over quickly.

“I’ll take you on my next holiday, baby,” he said. “You deserve to get out of the city.” I doubted this, but it was nice to hear.

He had loads of fluffy towels and a giant bath for afterward, and we ate crisps and drank wine a full hour past when I was supposed to go. It was odd; I felt the cab turned up far too soon. He asked for my real name and direct number. I hesitated-against agency policy. Then again, the manager herself had indicated that more than a few girls do this. I gave it to him and texted the manager to let her know I was on my way home.

It was cold outside, even the few steps from the door to the cab. I had a long coat and woolen scarf on and was secretly pleased I wouldn’t even be going as far as a tube station or bus stop. The cab driver was from Croydon, and we chattered about Orlando Bloom, New Year’s fireworks, and Christmas parties. I told him I worked at a well-known accountancy firm. I don’t think he was fooled for a second. Instead of going home, I directed him to a club in Soho. The cash, when I pulled out the bills to pay him, made an unfeasibly large lump in my hand.