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

Good gracious. Is this some sort of euphemism? “Okay,” I said.

We went to the window, and he opened it. Outside was a large holly bush. He clicked his tongue and waited. I waited. There was only the sound of motor scooters and festive drunks emerging from a pub.

He clicked his tongue again and whistled. A small bluetit beeped back and flew out of the bush to land on his shoulder. When he opened his hand, palm-up, it settled there.

Turning back in the window, he told me to put out my own hand. I did. He showed me how to play a game with it-I snatched my hand away so the tit would fall, only to catch it again as it opened its wings. “That’s how I taught it to fly,” he said.

“You taught it to fly?”

“A cat killed its mum, so we brought the nest in,” he said. “We got crickets and fed them with a tweezer.” There had been six in the nest, but only one survived. He showed me another trick, where with the tit on his shoulder he would look to the right, then left, then right again-and it would peep in each ear as he presented it.

The others came back in, the older son flushed with the satisfaction of having parted my father from some portion of his wallet. The bird flew out and the younger boy closed the window. Their mother was chattering gamely about some other minor recent illness, owing, she was certain, to the quality of food within Her Majesty’s prisons. “You get hardly nothing, starving all the time, but you still get fat.” We stayed for another cup of tea and a chocolate bourbon, then my father and I went home in silence. mardi, le 23 decembre

Long coat… check.

Dark sunglasses… check.

One hour’s alibi to the parents… check. I’m out the door and free.

I was on time for the rendezvous. He was late. I sipped a coffee and pretended to read the paper. He slid in the door unnoticed, sat across from me. I nodded hello and pushed the package across the table.

A4 lifted the lid discreetly and looked in the box. “You sure these are the goods?” he asked.

“None finer,” I said. “Guaranteed results.” He exhaled, his shoulders unclenching. “If you don’t mind my asking, do you really need so much product to get through a week with your family?”

“They’d kill me otherwise.” He opened the box again and sniffed deeply. “Soon as they start to smell blood in the water, I can throw these chocolate truffles their way. That buys me at least a few hours.”

“Secret recipe,” I fibbed. Actually I’d found it on the Internet. Butter, chocolate, cream, and rum. So simple even I couldn’t cock it up.

A4 and I dated for some years, we even lived together for a time. We didn’t have, as they say, a pot to piss in, but it was a comfortable domestic arrangement and we had a lot of common interests. Namely, complaining about the rest of the world. It lasted until I moved away in the first of several unsuccessful attempts to gain useful employment. I was upset, recently, to find that he thought the post-student house we’d shared was “a hovel.” I always remembered it fondly.

“You’re a lifesaver,” A4 said. He’s the one my father still asks after, as if we’re still an item. He’s the one I have the most pictures of. There is one of him in the mountains in a silver frame on my bookshelves. He’s looking up at the camera, at me, a hand out to steady himself, and smiling. Sweet creature. Smiles often.

“You’ll pay me back another time.” mercredi, le 24 decembre

I miss living in the North. The stories are all true. People really are friendlier up here. The chips really are better. Everything really is cheaper. The women really do go out in midwinter wearing less.

I miss getting pissed for less than a fiver. jeudi, le 25 decembre

Right, I have been waiting absolutely weeks to say this.

Happy Christmas, ho ho ho!

(It made me laugh anyway. It’s Hanukkah, and I am eating white chocolate gelt at the moment, which is cooler than cool. And no sign of a gift from the Boy, which is somewhat less than cool.) vendredi, le 26 decembre

My first diary was a seventh-birthday gift. Fortunately, most of the intervening volumes have been lost. This morning, bored to death, I set about cleaning out a desk and found some old ones from a few years back. They were written in softcover exercise books with flowers drawn on the covers. They date from the time N and I met.

We met a few years ago and hit it off immediately. “Hit it off” being a coy way of saying “grabbed a room in the first hotel we could find.” A couple of days later, when we came up for air, he mentioned his female friend J and the possibility of a threesome. He’d had threesomes with her several times before and vouched for her beauty and overwhelming sexuality.

We were sitting in his car, looking at the river near Hammersmith. “Sure,” I said. I hadn’t been with many women, but considering all the ground he and I had covered in a weekend, it seemed impossible to refuse. He rang her to arrange a meeting, and this is how the diary entry continued:

We met J at her place and went for brunch. Food was nice, talked about sex and underwater archaeology.

Back at hers I made hot cocoa for N and me. When he went out of the room, she kissed me and asked how many women I’d been with. Lied and said eight or nine.

We drank the cocoa in the front room and N said he might have a nap. J took me to her bedroom, which held a big white bed and pillowcases that spelled “La Nuit” in a serif font.

We kissed and touched. J seemed tiny until I took off my shoes-in fact we are the same height. Her bum looked so good in the cream striped trousers, but even better naked. The night before, N had said I had the best arse he’d ever seen, but J’s, I think, is better. Her neck, skin, and hair all smelled so nice I was suddenly aware of my own sweat. “Did N do that?” she asked of the deep scratches on my shoulder. I showed her the dark bruises on my thighs and the faint marks from his cock on my face. She told me to lie down and blindfolded me and tied my hands.

She dragged a soft, multistranded whip across me. “Do you know what this is?” “Yes.” “Do you want it?” She saved the hardest lashes for my breasts and fucked me with a double-headed dildo. When I pressed my face in her crotch, she untied me and took the mask off. I licked her through the knickers and then took them off-J was shaven down below.

It was easy to get her off with my fingers. After which I noticed N watching from the open door. Asked how long he’d been there. “Since the mask went on,” he said. “I could smell the two of you before I even got to the door.”

At this point J’s boyfriend turned up and the diary gets a little vague. To make a long story short, he had a problem with N-namely, he didn’t want N to touch J. Out of frustration N blurted that if that was so, J’s man couldn’t touch me either. Instead, N tried unsuccessfully to fist me. I was so distracted I couldn’t come. J sucked her partner off, we all showered seperately, exchanged numbers, and N and I left. He dropped me at King’s Cross.

He asked if I needed anything before the journey. Something meaningful to live for, I quipped. Food and sex, he said immediately, and I laughed. I’ve reminded him of this flash of philosophy several times since, but he never remembers saying it. Walking through the station, I felt lighter than air, dazed. Happy.

“Well,” he said just before the train doors closed, “I guess four in a bed is too many.”

I remember masturbating on the ride north. It wasn’t easy; the carriage was crowded and people kept sitting next to me. I didn’t want to do it in the toilet. But I had hours to do it in and unbuttoned my trousers as slowly as needed for perfect silence. It happened with an Asian girl sitting next to me, turned talking to her friend a few rows back. I had a coat thrown over my lap and pretended to be asleep. Afterward I rang N to let him know. It was somewhere around Grantham, I believe. samedi, le 27 decembre