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

Then N arranged to meet His First in person, and his reminiscences went from the rosy-hued to the frankly sexual. He’s never had a woman since with bigger breasts. She taught him everything a man ever need know about going down on a woman. How she reacted to the taste of come. And so on.

“God, if she’ll let me, I’d love to have her again. Just once, just for old time’s.”

I’m thinking: There isn’t a single ex I would take back. I’m at least 95 percent sure of that. Usually. Depending on which way the wind’s blowing. I’m saying: “Darling, great idea. I bet it’s even better than before.”

“You mean they’re even better than before,” he said, making a groping gesture in midair with his hands.

“Of course. Of course that’s what I meant.”

He looked at me and smiled. “So if I manage to get her in bed, and she’s up for it, would you do a threesome with us?”

I’m thinking: Not a chance, hon. She’ll never say yes, and even if she did, I wouldn’t. I’m saying: “Go for it, sweetie. The more the merrier!”

N put his arm around my shoulders. “You’re the best woman ever, you know that?” Happily he will continue to believe so for the time being-I am reliably informed that His First didn’t let him get any more intimate than an awkward hug at the end. He can go on thinking I’m a sexual saint and it’ll never be put to the test. jeudi, le 22 janvier

“Darling, can you make a booking for this afternoon?”

I was varnishing my toenails and feeling slightly cranky. “No, I’m afraid it’s my time of the month.” I suspect she either doesn’t pay very close attention to our cycles or is too polite to call me on an obvious lie.

Except in this case it wasn’t a lie. It was a lie when I used it about, oh, two weeks ago.

“This maaaaan, he is very rich,” she said. “He keeps asking only for you.”

“Can’t do it,” I snapped, wondering where on earth I’d managed to leave the ibuprofen, and other incrementally more important things. Like not smudging the nail varnish as it dried, and reading the paper. “I don’t think he’d want blood on the sheets.”

“It’s a hotel call.”

“The hotel management. Whomever,” I said.

“Darling, what I tell the other girls is, just use a bit of sponge.”

A bit of sponge? “A bit of sponge?” What was this, some demented nineties contraception allusion, or the start of a slippery slope involving fulfilling Greek diving-suit fantasies?

“You just cut off a corner of a clean sponge, darling, and put it up your-”

“Yes, okay, I think I see where that’s going.” I shuddered. Having once-years ago-inadvertently forgotten a tampon during sex, I was not keen to repeat the experience. The thought of someone banging away at my cervical door as I grew ever more worried about the chances of retrieving a scrap of synthetic foam and, by extension, the inverse chances of ending up in the emergency room sounded distinctly untempting.

And barring that, what if he was hoping for a deep dive of the digits into my finger-licking nether regions?

“It should last the hour. When the other girls are on their time, I never book them for longer than an hour. You will be fine, darling.”

She was right, of course, though perhaps explaining the missing bit of washing-up implement to whomever next walks through my kitchen will be awkward. As for retrieval, truth be told, the client never even came close to troubling the sponge. vendredi, le 23 janvier

To my great surprise, the man I went on a first date with rang back. He hadn’t taken my guilty conscience as a hint at all-in fact, he’d been hiking in the North and simply not been able to ring. So much for my surgical brush-off, then. But just hearing his voice did make me smile. Perhaps it is worth pursuing after all.

He invited me out to a play. Unfortunately, I do like to keep evenings free for work, and haven’t been terribly in the black of late. Must be that pesky habit of spending all my money on underwear. I politely declined, but said we must get together later in the week.

“You can brush me off, I won’t take offense,” he said.

“Oh no, I’m not at all,” I backpedaled. “I really would like to see you soon.” It’s not every man who offers to take you on the town after knowing he can score with you regardless. Most would take first-date sex as an excuse to crack open a can of beer and watch Grand Prix on all forthcoming dates.

But First Date, I suspected, was nicer than that. Much nicer. “You promise?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Guarantee,” I said, smiling back. samedi, le 24 janvier

It is the Chinese New Year celebrations. This is not something I would usually know, except today on leaving an appointment the client gave me two gold-foil-wrapped fortune cookies. I didn’t think fortune cookies were particularly traditional, but enjoy the thought that perhaps a randomly chosen slip of paper in a cookie holds the key to one’s future. It’s no less likely to be true than looking in the back of the Metro, anyway.

The first fortune read:

You will receive a cheerful call next week. which amuses me no end. Was that meant to be the next week after the fortune was printed, the week after the cookie was opened, or just “next week” in general? A pedant could thus claim that if said cheerful call does not materialize between now and the 29th, it was in fact meant to mean next week.

The second fortune read:

You will appear on television in the next year. which is at once more frightening (bloody hell, I certainly hope not) and yet subject to the same restrictions as the first fortune. If I don’t appear on TV in the Year of the Monkey, then clearly it will be during the Year of the Cock.

For completely unrelated reasons, I am now looking forward to the Year of the Cock. dimanche, le 25 janvier

An odd side effect of this job is the sensitivity to personal smell.

I don’t usually shower straight after the appointments. There’s one regular client who bathes me at his house with a sponge and almond soap, but I tend to wait with others and shower at home.

So I may be walking out to a cab, or going up the stairs of my flat, and catch a whiff. Not of sex, not specifically-just someone’s scent. The smell of their skin or hair or hand cream that rubbed off on my skin and clothes. Sometimes it’s mixed with my own smell as well, and I know as soon as I can I will undress and sniff the creases of my clothing.

Will I remember these men if I smell them again? They say scent is the most powerfully memory-associated of all the senses. And that it is also the most neglected. It is so ephemeral. You become quickly tired of strong odors, but can’t get enough of the tease, the slightest waft of an almost-remembered association.

The Boy smelled strong but not unpleasant. He used to sweat incredible amounts. After a long session in the bedroom he would lift himself up, sweat dripping down his back and chest. The smell was light, the taste salty; sometimes I would lick him dry. Even a bit of heavy petting will cause droplets to come out on his back. One touch and his palms go damp. He swore high and low that I was the only woman to have had this power over him. I joked that he must be part dog: a panting animal.

Crossing the street I smelled a cologne that must have been the same as the psychoanalyst used. I remember touching the smooth green bottle in his bathroom. One morning I put on a pair of shoes that inexplicably reminded me of a client from earlier in the week. Did I think at the time “This man smells of leather/old sneakers/sweaty socks”? No. But there was a deep note of similarity, and by lunchtime, I had to take them off because I couldn’t stop thinking about work.