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

If I wait too long, the decision won’t be mine to make anyway.

I decide to go out and spend all my money on underwear, then throw them about the room to decide my fate like a satiny, lace-gusseted I Ching. Let the gods of Beau Bra decide.

I bought a set in chocolate-colored lace, with pink satin ties at the sides of the knickers and between the cups of the bra. I don’t think I got these for either work or Boyfriend. The carriage coming back was crowded with bargain hunters and tourists. I tried to guess what each shiny paper bag contained. A package of handkerchiefs? Comic books? Perfume? There was a mass exodus into the north of the city, people rushing off at each stop. Someone who can’t wait to get home and won’t even take off her coat before tearing through tissue paper. A man who was pulling the wrapping off a new CD already, dropping ribbons of plastic on the floor.

Tonight I am going out with friends to an annual dinner. The men will be stuffed into their dinner jackets, which have grown mysteriously smaller since last year, and grumble about the skimpy main course. The women will swish from table to table in jersey and diamante, hair smooth like petals.

The tube lurches closer to my stop. The song on my headphones is buoyant-the sort of pop confection on a thousand best-of-2003 lists. When I look up, I see how close the yellow handrail is to the ceiling light and brush the cover with my fingertips. A pram rocks on the unsteady journey, knocking over a mother’s shopping bags. I can’t help smiling. Further down the carriage, a bald man stares. dimanche, le 4 janvier

N jeweled my arm for the formal event last night-purely platonically, you understand. Am still angry at the Boy and taking the hard line for now that “all men are twats, unless they’re paying, in which case they’re twats who are paying.” N understands perfectly and accepts his appointment as “twat” with grace. This probably means he’s trying to get me into bed.

We showered and dressed at mine, and I tied his bow tie before we left. He was planning to wear a ready-tied, but I insisted on the real thing. I will not be seen in public with a man whose tie falls into any of the following categories: clip-on, spinning, or metallic. There is a time and a place for comedy eveningwear. I believe it passed when Charles Chaplin shrugged off his mortal coil.

Throats dry, we stopped for a pre-revelry drink at a bar that was cunningly hidden under another bar. Several dozen other celebrants were there as well, and N introduced me around. A chirpy, raven-haired Nigella-alike planted herself to my left.

“Why, hello there,” she twanged. “My name’s T-.” Her dress was doing a reasonable job of keeping her breasts restrained, but I didn’t reckon on its chances for surviving the night.

I gave N a “do you know this woman?” look. He shot me a “no, do you think she’ll sleep with me?” look.

She put her perfectly manicured hand on my knee. “I just love your accent!” she enthused. “Where are you from?”

“Yorkshire,” I said. “And your good self?”

“Michigan.”

Charming. But the crowd grew restless, and we moved on to the venue. Unfortunately, T- and her date were sitting three tables from us. Dining at a table of mostly couples, I found myself seated next to the wife of a mutual acquaintance. She drunkenly looked me and N over. When he turned to talk to someone, she said, “So how long have you two been back together, then?”

“Er, ah, we’re just seeing what happens. Only friends, you know.”

“Of course you are.” She gave me a sly wink to indicate that she didn’t believe a word of it. This indictment might have carried more of a sting if she didn’t simultaneously spill red wine down her dress.

The speeches were the highlight of the evening. A multiply medaled Paralympian with a seemingly endless supply of sex jokes, followed by a sport personality, followed by a paunchy silver-haired man. The quality of the speakers was such that even I, a rank amateur at anything smacking of nonsexual exertion, could pretend to be interested for twenty minutes.

Then it all broke down for the disco. I danced, I drank, I danced some more. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed N on the sidelines bending T-’s ear. Good lad, I thought. After she went off to dance with her date, I sought him out.

“You sly dog. So did you get her number?”

“Actually, she was more interested in you.”

“Really?” I looked back at the dance floor, where she was being spun round and round by three men. Probably an experiment in centrifugal force and its effect on fabric strain. So far as I could see, the dress was still refusing to budge-whether due to magic or double-sided tape, I don’t know.

“Yeah, I think I ruined your chances though.”

“How’s that?”

“I said you’d only do it with her if I came along.”

“You complete twat!” I punched his shoulder, probably hurting my fist more than anything else.

He kissed the top of my head. “Just saving you from yourself, dear.”

SEX: A SPOTTER’S GUIDE

• Sex Shop: not normally known to sell sex as such. Lexical equivalent of calling a specialist vegetarian grocer a butcher.

• Hot Sex: reproduces, as nearly as possible, the visual effect of pornography. See also: Phone-In Sex.

• Good Sex: in which you get everything you want.

• Bad Sex: in which someone else gets everything he wants.

• Sex Kitten: a woman of reasonable charm, though often reliant on cantilevering lingerie.

• Sexual: usually related to the mating rituals of animal species or the burgeoning hormonal urges of youth. Word never used in an actual sexual episode without a lot of giggling. Exception that proves the rule, various Marvin Gaye songs.

• Sex Education: the interface between a banana and a condom. Not generally known to impart useful information.

• Sex Bomb: a weapon of mass destruction. mardi, le 6 janvier

I rang the bell of the building; no answer from the speaker-he buzzed me straight up. He opened the door of the flat and disappeared into the kitchen for a drink. Inside, it was clean, almost sterile. Smoky glass mirrors everywhere-I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being in a restaurant. Rather incredible digs for someone the manager said was a student. Postgraduate scholarships probably extend far enough for a few pissups each term, but I doubt they cover having a lady of the night in for a session.

He: “Don’t be so nervous.”

Me (startled): “I am relaxed. So what is it you study?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

He told me his name. “Really?” I said. It’s an odd, old-fashioned moniker. “My boyfriend is also called that.” Ex, I scolded myself. Stop thinking about him in the present tense. We discussed the client’s desire to move-to North London, which apparently has “the highest density of psychotherapists in the world.” Knowing a few people round that way, I understand why perfectly.

He: “You’re an odd one, I can’t quite figure you out.”

Me: “I’m fairly straightforward.”

“An open book, right?”

“Something like that.”

(later)

Me: “What is it you do again?”

He: “Psychoanalysis.”

Which made us comrades, if not exactly colleagues. The conversation strayed to evolutionary biology and the role of pheromones in attraction. How well you like someone’s smell is, apparently, related to the likelihood of producing children together with as few congenital defects as possible. Not the usual overture to incite romance, but it works well enough on me. He liked the sex intense, sensual, tongue-centric. I liked the mirrors. He held me open and took me anally, slithering in and out. After he came, I went to clean up and noticed a copy of Richard Dawkins’s latest book in the bathroom.