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

I have never been the sort of girl to make New Year’s resolutions. Such things are bound to lead to teetotaler parties, ill-advised marriages, or worse. Once I resolved to use floss and mouthwash before brushing every day for an entire year. This was before I realized (some 1.4 milliseconds later) that maintaining such a level of dental hygiene was not only unlikely to last an entire week, but also massively unattractive. Would you want to wake up to a full-on Broadway musical starring your beloved’s tonsils every morning? I think not.

Another year, I planned to keep a handwritten diary without giving up out of boredom or forgetfulness. Miraculously, I made it to the six-month mark, spurred on by simultaneous reading of the diaries of those vastly superior journalists Kenneth Tynan and Pepys. By comparison my own suffered from a lack of tales of having my wig deloused or all-night drinking sessions with Tennessee Williams. Nevertheless, even the most reluctant leopard may exchange her stole, and I have given some thought to what good deeds and resolutions I could enact in the next twelve months.

It is hereby resolved that I will never buy an own-brand bottle of lube again. Never.

I believe there is some chance of keeping this one. dimanche, le 28 decembre

Ah, the bosom of home. So comforting. So convivial.

So stiflingly the same as it is every year. I’m off down south again, before Mum notices the dent in the side of the car. lundi, le 29 decembre

(Phone rings) Me: “Hello?”

Manager (for it is she): “Darling, are you asleep?”

“Um, no?”

“Oh riiiight. You just sound so relaxed. I think to myself, I am so relaxed, but you are always much more relaxed than me. Do you read a lot?”

“Um, yes?”

“That would be why then. People who read are so relaxed. Anyway, I have a booking for you right away. I don’t know what it is all of a sudden, but everyone has gone mad for you.” They say that madames are known to play favorites with the girls, promoting some more heavily than others according to personal whim, but I have not yet noticed this. The business seems to have up weeks where I’m turning down offers and down weeks when I wonder if there’ll be anyone at all. But the manager always seems uniformly businesslike.

“Um, good?”

“Verrrrrry good, darling. I will text you the details. Enjoy your book.”

I had to take a different minicab from usual. The new driver did not endear himself-first he started going east, then seemed to be making a very elaborate loop that took in most of Islington. I was on the phone to A4 and only paying scant attention to the road. Twenty minutes later, when we turned back onto a road three blocks south of my house, I exploded. “I could have walked here faster!”

“Yes, well, traffic, this time of night,” he said.

I looked right, then left. There were no cars in either direction. “I can’t believe this.” At this rate, I reckoned I’d be ten minutes late and rang to let the agency know.

South of Hyde Park, he turned into a mile-long queue of traffic even I would have known to avoid. “Excuse me, do you know where you’re going?”

“Of course.”

Ha. “I’m running late for a meeting.” You know, the sort you go to in the middle of the night wearing lace-top holdups and matching bra and knickers under a flimsy dress.

“You know a better way to get there?” he sniffed.

“No, but it’s not my job to.”

“The traffic, this time of night, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Nonsense. You could have taken any of a dozen other routes. You drive me around my own neighborhood for twenty minutes? And turn straight into gridlock? Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

He checked his mirror to confirm this was, indeed, true. “Like I say, there’s nothing I can do.”

“An apology would be nice.” No reply. We sat in silence for ten minutes while the traffic crawled along. I fumed, and boiled, and generally stewed. “Can you just let me out?”

“Sure, lady, whatever.” I got out of the taxi without paying and stepped into solid traffic. We had just passed a minicab stand at the top of Noth End Road; I headed straight for it. The second driver had me at the appointment in five minutes for the bargain price of four quid, so I tipped another six.

Luckily the client was very understanding and offered me a drink. I love English archetypes: public schoolboy, thirties, managing director of his father’s company. The sort of person who says “chin chin” before a drink. Fan of Boris Johnson. I stripped down to underwear at the bottom of the stairs and he watched me slowly walk up.

I paused at the top of the steps, turned and looked over my shoulder. “So what do you want to do?”

“I want to make love to you.”

“Like the full-on Barry White kind?”

“Oh yes.” We wrestled in the bedsheets for the better part of an hour. His hair was soft and thick and smelled slightly metallic. “What can I do to make you come?”

“It’s very complicated. We’d be here all night.” I don’t come with clients. Some people don’t kiss, which I think is rubbish. It’s just lips after all. But orgasms I save for someone else. This isn’t difficult-I’ve never reached orgasm too easily.

“That sounds ideal.”

“Yes, but do you have a drill press and six goats? Also, the planets are not in the correct alignment.”

“Fair dues. I’ll know for next time.” He slipped me his card on the way out, said he wants to meet for a drink sometime. “The ball is in your court,” he said as I tripped down his steps to the waiting taxi. In the staccato beams of the streetlights through the car windows, I peeked at the card. Pink and green, engraved, fashionable font, and would have been tempted if I was single, though I can’t imagine how a couple that met in such a situation would explain it to their friends.

“I do not like his type,” the manager said when I rang her on the way home. “Surely he will write a report.” There are websites dedicated to punters reviewing the charms of various escorts, and even what you might think was a successful encounter does not guarantee a positive review. If only we could turn round and review them right back.

“Mmm.” The cabbie circled a random block in Kensington for the third time. They must think I don’t notice.

“So what was he like?”

“Perfect gentleman, actually.” A disbelieving snort down the other end of the phone. “Had him wrapped round my little finger.” Very quickly I got into the habit of saying that whether it was true or not. I don’t want her to worry and I don’t want to fall out of favor. mardi, le 30 decembre

“There is a client, he wants to pee on you,” the manager said. I swear if someone ever got hold of transcripts of my phone calls, they’d probably think I was a-oh wait, I am.

“He wants to what?” I asked, knowing very well what she said.

“Pee. On you. Don’t worry, darling, not in your clothes. You will be in a bath.”

“A bath of what? Urine?”

“No, just a normal bath.”

I sighed weakly. “You know I don’t do degradation.” Not at work, at any rate. I know it sounds odd, but even when W was treating me worst, I knew it was because he cared. I’d be reluctant to let a stranger do anything similar.

“Oh, no, not like that at all, darling,” she said. “He doesn’t want you to be degraded. He wants to pee on a girl who enjoys it.”

Eventually I agreed, but only with a significant markup in the usual fee.

The client was rather nice and seemed exceedingly shy. We talked for a little while and had a drink-spirits for me and a large beer for him. The better to fill the bladder with, I suppose. When it came time to do the deed, I stripped him from the waist down, got all my clothes off, and knelt in an empty bathtub.