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

N is a bouncer at a gay club. Among other things. I popped in to see how he was getting on with his cold, and hopefully to raise his stock a little. This ploy might work if we ever met in a place where straight people go.

“Darling, is it wrong to be jealous of a drag queen?” I sighed, as the very image of Doris Day slid past me in a white fur capelet.

“Who’s the object of your envy this time?” he asked. I nodded toward the blonde goddess. “Oh, don’t be,” he said. “I hear she spends three hours every day just removing hair.”

It got me to thinking about my own trials and tribulations. There is no optimal method of depilation. Razors leave terrible stubble, worse when it’s winter. I have clocked the time between smooth skin and goosepimpled hell at about three minutes. Cream removers smell terrible and never quite get all the hair anyway. Those vibrating-coil epilators should be marketed to masochists only, and waxing is usually administered by a sixteen-stone Filipina woman named Rosie. Also, it leaves the most horrible rash for the first day.

This is not a complaint-it is a statement of fact on the condition of being female. Probably something to do with the Tree of Knowledge. In return for all this suffering, we do get a few benefits. Baby-soft nether regions. Easy cleanup. Increased sensitivity. I have to stay on top of it, being blessed with a follicular thickness that is the envy of most arctic animals. My mother by contrast used to joke that she shaved her legs once a year “whether they need it or not.” I struggled with a razor as soon as I could get my hands on one and flirted as a teenager with the notion of shaving the hair off my arms, too.

My hair removal regime involves a combination of waxing and shaving, largely because of an aversion to having things ripped out of my armpit. Crotch, though, that’s no problem. Go figure. “I know how she feels,” I joked as N stepped to the side and let a group of hooting students through.

“So how did it go?” he said, looking back out at the street.

“Fine,” I said. “Nice man.”

“Single?”

“Could be divorced.” I shrugged. “Photos of his wife or ex-wife everywhere.”

“Children?”

“Two, both adults.”

“Man, I would never,” he said.

“Liar.” lundi, le 15 decembre

We sat in the car, silent. The light was on inside.

“I thought he was supposed to be out,” I said.

“He was,” the Boyfriend said. “At least, I thought he was.” He looked like he might start crying. “Please, come in. You’re my guest. I want you here and I’m sure he can stand it for a minute if he’s on his way out anyway.”

I knew there was a reason why the Boy always comes up to see me instead of the other way round.

When the Boy last visited, we met his friend S for breakfast. Now, S had been recently dumped by H. What S didn’t know was that H had been sleeping with the Boy’s flatmate for several weeks beforehand, and we agreed not to tell him. S seemed fairly chipper though and is commencing motorbike lessons now that there is no girlfriend around to forbid it. S already planned to christen the bike he will buy “the Crotch Rocket.” I promptly offered to test-drive his giant machine once it’s up and running. Anyway, that same housemate who was sleeping with S’s ex was simultaneously two-timing his own girlfriend, E, who lived in the house, with an average of three girls a week. And while E had no idea, the Boy and I harbored no illusions about what sort of a man his housemate was.

And in such situations, what can you do but hold your tongue?

Taking my bags, we went to the door. The Boy opened it and put his head round the corner carefully. “Why, hello, you’re still in situ?” he cheerily queried of the Housemate. “I just wanted to let you know, I’m here with the lovely-”

“NO,” bellowed the Housemate. “I will not have THAT WOMAN in my house.”

Ostensibly, the Housemate dislikes me because of my job. He hasn’t always hated me. In fact, I have another theory altogether: he is annoyed because I am one of a very few women he could never, ever have. Not even if he paid for it.

For the Housemate is young, attractive, smart, and wealthy. Has no trouble with women at all and knows it. He has come on to me at least ten times in one year with no luck whatsoever. I could never go off in secret with the Boy’s ersatz best friend. And his girlfriend E really does not deserve one more secret affair happening under her nose. Funny how and when morals decide to jump in, eh? A cheater, I can take. But a liar I have no time for.

“Listen, she’s leaving quite early in the morning, and you won’t have to-”

“I said no, didn’t I?”

The Housemate can do this; he owns the house. The conversation continued in this tedious vein for the better part of ten minutes. Less than charmed, I went to the car and waited. When the Boy returned, we nipped to the chip shop for a snack and, certain the Housemate must surely be gone, snuck back after an hour. But my temper and libido suffered from the episode somewhat. Nothing a few cups of chocolate and an hour-long massage couldn’t cure, of course.

“What are we going to do, kitty?” he said, half asleep. “What are we going to do?”

“Come up to London and move in with me,” I blurted. It’s time I moved to a more sociable area of the city anyway, one in which the crack addicts may yet stagger by the door but at least don’t collapse just inside.

“Money’s an issue,” he said.

“You can live off me while you look for a better job up there, then,” I said. “I can afford it easily.” Oh, cringe, shouldn’t have said that, don’t remind him!

“This is all rather out of left field,” he said.

“You would be able to fly to see your family instead of drive,” I said. His family are very close to him in feeling, but not geography. Living in London would put him much closer to the major airports.

“True.”

“And you’d have nicer furniture.” My flat is furnished in the slightly naff flowery vein favored by landlords of the aspirant class. “You don’t have to decide. I won’t take offense if you say no. But it’s an offer, anyway.” Ah, negotiating the terms of modern cohabitation. Who said romance was dead?

It would solve one problem-that of the belligerent Housemate. Though perhaps faced with the day-to-day of my comings and goings, the Boy would soon go off the idea. But I sure could use a friendly face and a foot rub with the beating these stiletto-clad feet take on a daily basis. mardi, le 16 decembre

Most transactions in the business are paid in cash. I find myself at the bank rather often and tend to use the same one every day. Cashiers are naturally curious people who would have to be brain-dead not to wonder why I come in with rolls of notes several times a week and deposit into two accounts, one of which is not mine.

One day I presented the deposit details on the back of a slip the Boy had been sketching on. He studied art, at some long-forgotten time in the past, and still tends to doodle and scratch at odd pieces of paper. The cashier turned it over, looked at the drawing, and looked at me. “This is good. Did you do this?” she asked. “Yes, well, I’m a.. cartoonist,” I lied. The cashier nodded, accepted this. Which is how the people at the bank came to believe that I draw for a living. Whether they took the next logical leap of questioning why any legitimate artist would demand payment in cash is unknown to me.

One advantage of this job is not being limited to the lunch hour for running errands. Therefore, I tend to go shopping in midafternoon. “Live close to here?” the grocer by the tube station asked one day as I picked out apples and kiwifruit.