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

He looked at me, looked at the wall above me, and sighed. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. I was starting to get cold. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

“It’s not going to happen. I’m too turned on,” he said. He looked down again. “If I look at you, I’ll get hard. If I look away, I’ll think of what’s going to happen, and get hard.”

“Try thinking of something that doesn’t turn you on.”

“Such as?”

“Your mother shopping for underwear for you. With you in tow. Aged thirty-five.” He started to laugh. I felt the first trickle hit my neck, roll down my breasts.

Afterward I showered while he watched me. He started to make vague shy-guy noises as I dried my hair and dressed. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“I think I have some more,” he said, blushing, gesturing toward his knob. “You don’t have to say yes, but I don’t suppose I could put it in a glass and-”

“Er, no thank you,” I said. “Health and safety and all that.”

“Some people drink it for their health,” he offered.

“Yes, and some people think an all-meat diet is good for you.” I put my coat on and kissed him on the cheek. “Perhaps another time, when I’ve had more warning.” mercredi, le 31 decembre

In London alone for New Year’s Eve.

The Boy was supposed to visit-at least that’s what I was told. Last night he rang after midnight to say he couldn’t come up, in fact he had gone skiing, perhaps I could fly out and join him instead?

With less than twelve hours’ notice. On December 31.

I hadn’t even known he was on holiday. Why couldn’t he get here? Because it would be too expensive to change his ticket, of course. I’m amazed that someone who professes so little ready cash can throw a pile together to hit the European slopes-but not to see in the new year with his girl. Nevertheless I scoured the Web to see if by some miracle I could be waking up in France. British Airlines were booking no flights before January 2. It was even too last-minute for Lastminute. com.

So I regretfully declined. He didn’t seem that bothered, to be honest. Suspicious? Of course. His travel companion on this little jaunt is none other than the housemate who hates me.

Went into town for lunch, a haircut, and to wander round the Victoria and Albert Museum. I spied with my little eye…

… that everyone who got on the tube at King’s Cross got off at Knightsbridge, leaving the crowded carriages virtually empty…

… a man walking two dogs-one huge rottweiler, one tiny pug. They were both burly, black-coated, and the rott took one step to every three of the pug’s…

… an adolescent girl tucking into salmon and cream cheese on a bagel, with chips…

… three men walking together in matching black knitted caps..

… and three girls coming the other way in mismatching pink knitted scarves…

… on Exhibition Road just outside the Natural History Museum, leaves from this autumn have been mashed by thousands of tires to leave an orange-gold pattern in the street.

H-J

H is for Hobbyist

A hobbyist is a man who is a habitual user of escort services. These range from the experienced and infinitely charming high tipper to the boorish tightwad who compares you unfavorably to every other prostitute he’s been with. Be sure to treat every hobbyist as if he is the former. They will most likely write an Internet report on you.

I is for Invisibility

Don’t stand in the lobby of a hotel on the way out talking to your manager on the phone about the customer and what her cut of the take is. I’ve seen people do it; it’s horrid. What are you waiting for, hordes of adoring fans? Get out, get a cab, go home. Be discreet.

J is for Jealousy

When a regular customer-especially one you like or who tips well-moves on to another girl or otherwise inexplicably drops you, take it in your stride. They’re not paying for sex because they want a relationship, silly. There will be others. There always are.

J is also for Jet Set

Very few girls will travel outside a hundred mile radius on a regular basis. A repeat client may well offer to take you around the world on his yacht, but don’t be disappointed if it never exactly materializes. Even when they’re paying for the sex, men are apt to inflate their income and connections to impress and amuse you. All I can offer is, don’t count your frequent-flier miles before they hatch. jeudi, le 1 ^er janvier

N and I met in town last night to raise a drink and indulge in mutual holidaytide misanthropy. I hate going out on New Year’s, but being alone is infinitely worse. N’s preferred tipple these days is Bailey’s on ice, which is virtually pudding in a glass. As I lifted my glass, a man we knew pushed past, spilling half my drink on my jeans.

“What’s her problem?” I sniffed.

“Nothing a fortnight in a Turkish brothel wouldn’t fix,” N said. Thus inspired, we spent the rest of the evening compiling a list of people whose attitudes (we thought) would be much improved by such a holiday.

In need of a fortnight in a Turkish brothel (rough draft):

Naomi Campbell

Penelope Keith

Princess Anne

Cherie Blair

Pamela Anderson, though she may actually enjoy it

Blair’s Babes

(E)liz(abeth) Hurley

Paris Hilton

Myleene Klass

Any Jagger ex or offspring

Condoleezza Rice

Jenna Bush

Jessica Simpson actually, any blonde for whom the descriptors “It Girl” and “famous father” apply vendredi, le 2 janvier

Regarding orgasms at work:

I don’t. I don’t equate number of orgasms with the level of enjoyment of sex, nor good sex with the ability to produce an orgasm. At the age of nineteen, if I remember the person and the conversation correctly, I realized that sex was about the quality of your enjoyment and that doesn’t always mean coming.

On the other hand, I also remember that conversation largely consisting of comparing experiences with dropping acid. Nevertheless, the realization that sex is just an end in itself stayed with me.

Let’s be honest, this is a customer service position, not a self-fulfillment odyssey. They’re paying for their orgasm, not mine. Plenty of the men-more than you might think-never even come at all. They never imply it’s a failure on my part. Sometimes they’re just after human contact, a warm body, an erotic embrace. Most times, come to think of it.

The inability of punters to produce an orgasm in me is no way a comment on their shortcomings. As far as their part of the bargain goes, they’re doing a great job, and I enjoy sex for more than the merely physical tingle. Being desired is fun. Dressing up is fun. No pressure to experience physical release for fear of damaging someone’s ego, or give someone an orgasm for fear of never hearing from them again, is hella wicked.

Sometimes a race is a good day out-regardless of where you finished. samedi, le 3 janvier

Text from the Boy:

Are you okay? Feeling sad because I’m afraid you don’t want to talk to me.

I wonder if I’m abnormal sometimes. A little cold for love, slightly lacking in sentiment. As soon as someone’s interest flags, my own feelings start to go that way too. As Clive Owen said in the film Croupier, hold on tightly-let go lightly.

I don’t give people enough chances.

Maybe I know it’s not right anyway. All romance is narcissism, A1 told me once. This was the same person who also told me women over thirty should never wear their hair long, so he’s probably an unreliable source, but still. I’m doing us both a favor by not responding.

There are other things that have happened, things I never wanted to think or write about because I was afraid of being rash, in case everything straightened itself out. It might still. I could ring, or send a text, but they seem such poor approximations of communication. If I can’t sort out what’s in this head, how can I put it into intelligible sentences?