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

• To imitate an animal. For some reason I imagined they would. They don’t.

• To imitate characters from The Simpsons. It has nothing to do with sex, but I’m pretty good at it-especially Milhouse and Comic Book Guy. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet a man with a Patty and Selma fetish, and then my ship will have truly come in.

But for tonight, I have a date. A real date with someone who uses my real name and rings me on my real number. Okay, he may be a hologram, but I cannot know for certain yet. dimanche, le 18 janvier

I haven’t had a proper first date in ages. He’s an acquaintance of N’s, which gave us a conversational springboard, but I was quickly growing addicted to his looks, his voice, and his sense of humor. It surprised me to feel just as awkward and off-kilter flirting with someone as it always had before. Did I get a bit nervous having to leave a message on his answerphone? Check. Did I deliberate over what I was going to wear on our date? Check. Obsessing over the details, including Googling his name every few hours? Too right I did. Did my heart speed up just a tiny bit on seeing a text or e-mail from him? You betcha.

So we went out-the details are meaningless-and talked around and around each other, and around the topic of how mutually attracted we were. I kept looking at his hands when I thought he wouldn’t notice. He must have been looking at mine, because all of a sudden, on the train, we were holding hands (dear God, we were holding hands) and he was exploring the spaces between my fingers with his lips (just shiver) and I put my head on his shoulder (yes, it fit perfectly) and he smelled my hair (oh, yes, please).

Then we went and fucked it up by having fucking.

Maybe it was the glass or three of wine. The music, which was just at the right bpm to make my head spin. But then I so did what I should not have done-I went straight from cuddling and kissing into Whore Mode.

And this poor thing, he got the works. The little squeals. The wrist restraints. The full-on, sweat-soaked, bed-rattling, neighbor-waking, deep-throating, dirty-talking, facial-cumshot, use-me-baby-till-you-use-me-up works. He fell asleep straight after but I couldn’t close my eyes because I knew what had just happened. I had utterly hot, but completely soulless sex with someone who-up to that point-I actually wanted to see more of.

There’s that line about the likelihood of buying the cow when the milk’s on sale, you know the one I mean?

So we woke early and dressed. He escorted me to the station and I caught the first train home. I couldn’t look at him and felt like an utter idiot. Note to self, never have sex on a first date. lundi, le 19 janvier

Last night I dreamt about the Boy.

It was in a restaurant-cum-bar-cum-tunnel-to-the-underworld kind of place, located in a crumbling religious monument and with a playground out the back (can’t explain; dreams are just that way) and I was having a drink with a girl from the gym with great tits. Great Tits and I were having a conversation in which I was outlining the end of the affair, and she asked his name.

I said his first name. She said his second, loudly. “Ah, you know each other?” I was about to ask, when I turned around and saw GT was addressing him directly. He was there. Sitting with his new girlfriend, a well-known porn star.

Cue major discomfort as Great Tits and the Boy went through greeting procedures. I smiled at the porn star, who was inexplicably naked. Then the Boy and I were walking outside, on a grassy upward-sloping tunnel to the playground, and I stopped and lay down, and he lay down behind me. He said he missed me, he missed fucking me. I felt him grow harder and slide up between my thighs.

“You can’t,” I said. And he pushed the first inch inside.

At this point the porn star (who, it should be pointed out for the extremely dim, is NOT dating my ex in real life, this is just a dream), still inexplicably naked, positions herself on her back in front of me. I dive in. She tells me she doesn’t like direct clitoral stimulation. I rub her through the hood and tongue her inner lips. The Boy mounts me from behind.

I woke up half-wrapped in a bedsheet. I didn’t come. I can’t stop thinking about his hands, his hands. The way his hair felt. The smell of the skin on his back in summer. mardi, le 20 janvier

They say when it rains, it pours, but is there a saying for the complete opposite? Perhaps “When it’s dry, it’s arid”?

The most recent bookings have all been time-wasters and mind-changers. There is always a certain amount of this at work-like the man who wanted to book an overnight but didn’t ring the manager when he got to the hotel. So while I knew first name, time, and location, I wasn’t about to turn up and go round all the floors knocking at each door.

Can you imagine? “Room service? No? I’ll try next door then….”

He did contact the agency a few days later to apologize. Seems he simply didn’t write our number down and couldn’t ring again. Of course.

Other times the cancellation comes from my end-I get nervous if someone changes time and location more than once. Too many overly specific requests also tend to put me on guard. Dressing up is fine. Dressing up like your septuagenarian grandmother and being asked to bring my own mortuary foam is not. A finely tuned Creep Radar is a necessary part of the business. This is, after all, an occupation that ranks somewhere between nuclear core inspector and rugby prop for job safety. Except I’m issued neither a foil suit nor a pair of spiked boots for protection.

I have also learned never to trust a booking made more than three days ahead, as these people almost never call back to verify the appointment details. At first I imagined my work diary filling up weeks ahead. But the most reliable calls come six to twelve hours in advance, even from regulars. The longer someone has to think about it, it seems, the heavier guilt weighs on them. Or maybe they decide to do it themselves. A copy of Penthouse isn’t exactly going to give you a blowjob and a backrub, but then again, it’s more likely to be found hanging around your local off-license and can be had for under a fiver.

Lame excuses, cancellations, aggressive patients, dubious over-the-counter remedies. Now I know how a doctor feels.

At least the four As have descended on Jour Towers for a few days. Quote of the night:

A2: “So what are we doing tomorrow?”

Al: “Well, we’ll have to get that bottle of whisky first thing in the morning, definitely.”

You couldn’t buy a better bunch of chaps, I swear. mercredi, le 21 janvier

N is approaching the one-year anniversary of a breakup. I am of the belief that it usually takes as long as the relationship itself for the pangs to subside, which means he should have been over this one, oh, about nine months ago. His ex was a bit of flighty girl. Frankly I never thought they’d make it. I was right, but this isn’t the sort of thing you go telling your friends straight after the fact. Example:

“I sent her a Christmas card and a birthday card and she hasn’t so much as texted me.”

I’m thinking: Well, of course not, silly boy. She’s probably married to an oil tycoon and has a litter of children by now. I’m saying: “How dare she. That is so profoundly unfair.”

N has a charming ability to think the world of his exes. Naturally, I’m not complaining. “Pedestal-worthy” is a modifier more of my acquaintances should use. In the wake of his ex’s refusal to contact him, N is seeking out every other immortal beloved to have crossed his path- muy High Fidelity. It started last month with His First.

They exchanged phone calls for a few weeks. He was sweet about it. Talking to her seemed to bring a lot of memories to the fore-how they met and courted, secretly, over several years. Why she never wanted to marry or have children. The last time he saw her in person, the sad, strained final farewell. Like everyone else, I love a good passion. I love a good story even more.