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

“It’s me,” I said.

“Oh.” More muffled talking.

“Um, can you let me in?”

“Wait in the back garden. I’ll meet you there.”

Heart sinking? It was obliterated. My stomach took up residence somewhere in the middle of my throat. “What’s going on?” I squeaked.

“Can you go outside?” he said, only slightly louder. There was more noise from inside the room.

“No,” I said, raising my voice. “Let me in.” He came outside-very quickly. Shut the door behind him firmly. I lunged for the door. He held me off easily.

“For goodness’ sake-don’t embarrass me,” he said. His eyes pleaded with me. No way, I thought. There’s someone in there. But there was no getting past him. He started to walk down the stairs, taking me, struggling, with him.

“What the hell is going on?” I shrieked. I could hear the other bedroom doors in the house opening, and his housemates came out to see what was happening. He bullied me into the kitchen. There was a girl in there, yes, he said. Friend of his housemate. In the spare foldaway bed? No, in his bed. Who was she? I screamed. Don’t embarrass me, he kept saying. Don’t embarrass me. She was a medic, he said. An army officer. A friend of a friend, but nothing happened. Like fuck it didn’t, no one shares a bed and look-you’re not wearing anything under that dressing gown, are you? I dove at his crotch. It was true, he wasn’t.

“Trust me,” he pleaded. “Go to the cafe at the end of the road. We’ll talk about it later?”

“Trust you? Trust you? Can I trust you?”

His face fell. He made accusations. He played the Whore Card.

The phrase “losing your rag” has always seemed imprecise. I didn’t know what it meant, exactly. One of those sayings that defies explanation and only makes sense in context.

This was the context. I lost my rag.

“You have never found me in bed with someone else. You never will. This is the price I pay for honesty?” I am digging my own grave, I thought. No one values the truth over perceived fidelity. I fuck other people for a living, and yes, I tell him as much as he wants to know, but, oh. Oh. Oh. My heart has always been in the right place, I think. My head stopped using words to communicate.

I left. I went to the shore and waited for the shops to open, bought a bag of coconut-covered marshmallows. The water was high and the wind against the tide made white horses on the sea. My phone rang and rang-the Boy. I turned it off. He left messages. Nothing happened, he swore up and down. It was a plot by his housemate, the one who hates me. The medic (blonde, thin, I waited long enough in the bushes over the road to see her come out. But not pretty. Not pretty) was very drunk, she fell asleep in his bed in her underwear, he was too tired to set up the spare bed for himself or go down and sleep on the sofa. Whatever. I didn’t ring back. I caught a train home and took three appointments that day. After, smelling of sweat and latex, I listened to Charles Mingus and drank port until the wee hours. We made it up through texts, over a few days.

Still sat at my parents’ breakfast table, the mug of tea cold in my grip. Daddy refolded the paper and left it at my elbow. Go home, go to work, get over it, I said to myself. mercredi, le 14 janvier

I ran some errands shortly before an appointment and walked to the hotel from the bank in full-on makeup, suit, and heels. As I passed the park a man stopped.

“My God, you’re beautiful. Are you a model?”

Cripes, has that line ever actually worked? “No, I work near here.” Think fast-what’s near here? “Over in Royal Albert Hall.” I couldn’t have picked a more unlikely place, could I?

He: “You like it there?”

Me: “It’s pretty nice. The people I work with are interesting.”

“Plenty of prima donnas, right?”

“Yes.” (looking obviously at watch) “Well, I’m off to meet a friend for lunch, have to run.”

“Are those real stockings?”

“Of course!”

“You’re just too gorgeous. I wish I could take you out.”

“Well, you never know. See you around.”

“Bye.” jeudi, le 15 janvier

The self-fisting is getting remarkably easier with practice. For those who would rather watch than to touch-and there are plenty of those-this is proving very popular. However, I don’t think any amount of practice would enable anal fisting, although someone did want to see how many fingers I could get up the back passage whilst he fucked me. I could feel the swollen head of his cock clearly through the narrow wall of tissue separating the two orifices, and wiggled the tips of my fingers to tickle his shaft. He came quickly, stayed hard, fucked again, repeat.

He: (falling back on bed after the third go in one hour) “I used to be better at this, really.”

Me: (pulling up stockings) “How do you mean?”

“The old man’s had it. I’d be surprised if it gets up again any time in the next month.”

“I wouldn’t know, being a woman, but I think he’s done admirably.” (patting the now-wizened bit of flesh) “Good job, you. Have a well-deserved rest.”

“You really like what you do, don’t you?”

“I think it would be hard to take if I didn’t. My imagination is not quite sufficient to detach my mind from double penetration.” vendredi, le 16 janvier

N and I drank cups of tea at mine and listened to the radio. “Alright then,” he said. “You’re abandoned on an island in the South Pacific, which five records would you take?”

“A lot of rock, a lot of blues.” I thought a moment. “Probably at least three blues albums.”

“On a desert island by yourself? Isn’t that a bit depressing?”

“I’m already alone on a desert island. Except this isn’t a desert, and it’s cold and wet.”

“Remember you do have the odd man Friday,” he said, patting my feet. We fell asleep together on the sofa listening to Robert Johnson. samedi, le 17 janvier

These are a few of my favorite things (that punters never ask for):

• For me to come for real. Why should they? With someone I’ve just met, who doesn’t know the unspoken road map to my body, it’ll take something like a geological age with his tongue propelled by more drive than an industrial bandsaw. Of course I fake it, when asked at all.

• Glass marbles. Infinitely better than the rubbery love-bead variety. Cheaper than a glass dildo. Scales up well according to size and relaxation of orifice. The sound they make when they come out is as delicious as the temperature change going in.

• Food sex. I have never, ever been paid to lick chocolate sauce off someone or have it licked off me. In private, though, I like to think myself an excellent and carefully maintained plate (N.B.: does not include insertion of vegetables, which you don’t eat afterward anyway).

• To turn up in my regular clothes. Random-person sex is cool. Random-person sex with someone who looks random is even better. Also I’m very lazy.

• Bathing him afterward. I love soaping a man’s body, the slightly submissive attitude of kneeling to run my hands down the pillar of his legs, gently lifting each foot in turn to wash it. I adore drying a man, too: imagining what I would want dried first (face and hair), what needs gentle patting (armpits and genitals) and what might get forgotten (back of knees, between the shoulder blades). Plenty want to wash me, though, so perhaps they are acting on the same desire.

• Rimming. Given a thorough wash with hot soapy water beforehand, I will do this. It feels like trying to push yourself into pursed lips. It’s a challenge, and the tiniest flicker of your tongue goes further there than anywhere else. It’s cunnilingus on the miniature scale. As with the last one though, they do it to me all the time. I shouldn’t complain, really.