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

Went across town by tube to meet him. He was already in the pub, having a drink with a friend whom he introduced me to. This friend’s claim to fame was having been the child star face of some commercials, and as he looked at least fifty it was no surprise I didn’t recognize the product-much less the adverts. We talked briefly about computers instead. I think they’re horrible little beastly things, with no great use besides facilitating the production and distribution of porn. Much like men, really. And not so bad for it.

The two-hander was in an upstairs room. It was clear from the start that I was not going to like it much, but First Date’s long muscular thigh was pressed against mine, and he laughed in the right places, and aside from the overacting going on twelve feet ahead of us, it was nice to be in a dark room together.

The audience filed downstairs afterward for drinks. I saw the lead actor some few minutes later and joined the crowd in paying him lavish, undeserved compliments.

“What did you really think?” said one of First Date’s friends, looking at me with a canny smile, when the actor had walked away.

“Bloodless,” I said. “Without passion.”

“Example?”

“I can do better than that,” I said. Turning to First Date, I quoted a line from the play, a line given by the lead actor. I pawed his shirt as if he were Helen of Troy-the pinnacle of feminine beauty. And he played it well, moving off my advances archly.

We both turned toward the friend. “Point made,” he said. First Date and I emptied our glasses and left.

He offered me a lift. It wasn’t really on his way, I knew, but I accepted.

We talked about everything and nothing. I outlined how things had ended with the Boy. He told me about his recent ex-girlfriend. My mind wandered to A2, and I found myself saying, “I suppose it was a revelation to learn that just because someone loves you, you don’t have to love them back. And you can’t tell that person their loving you is wrong.”

There was a pause. “That’s good,” he said, zipping round Hyde Park Corner. “Because I love you.”

Ack, no, please. I felt trapped by my own words. “Thank you,” I said. And I knew right at that moment I didn’t feel the same. Not yet. Maybe never. We went back to mine, had sex, slept. He woke early-habit of an honestly employed person, I suppose. We had a quiet breakfast and he went home. lundi, le 2 fevrier

Client: “May I take your picture?”

Me: (spotting the palm-sized video recorder nearby) “No.”

“Please? I won’t include your face.”

Hmph. Thanks. “No, I’m sorry-it’s not our policy to allow photographs or recordings.”

“I just want to see you spreading those lips while my dick goes inside.”

“Good, we can do that. We’ll use a mirror. But no pictures.”

“Other girls do it.”

“I’m not other girls.”

(pouting somewhat) “Other girls from the same agency do it.”

Is that supposed to swing my vote? Mister, I don’t care if you have snaps of my mother going down on your dog. “Terribly sorry, no.”

“Not even a photo? It’ll be mostly me anyway.”

“No.” This was getting tedious and, more to the point, taking up quite a lot of our time. I smiled sweetly, stood right against him, and played with the top button of his shirt. “Shall we?”

So we did, though he peppered the talk during our session with comments like “Wow, that’s amazing, wish I could get a picture of that,” and “You really should be in porn, you know?” (There was the time N and I toyed with the idea of funding a sabbatical in Poland by working in Eastern European skin flicks, but that’s another story for another day.)

He just didn’t let up. To the point where bucking enthusiastically and making all the right moves was becoming difficult because I couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched. At the end of the hour I was so spooked I couldn’t help scanning the room for hidden cameras. At least it was a hotel room and not a private house, but when he went to use the toilet I still opened all the drawers and looked under the bed.

It’s a good idea to stay suspicious, in my experience. It hasn’t served me badly yet. No one has ever taken advantage and I want to ensure it never does happen. That’s part of why I work through an agency.

I know my place in sex work is a privileged one, as far as having sex with strangers goes. Many-though not all-prostitutes are addicts, in damaging relationships, abused by clients, or all of the above. It is probably a measure of my naivete that I do not ask the few other WGs I meet if they are happy in their work. Honestly, I did not even notice that streetwalkers existed until well into my teenage years. Sometimes it’s hard to tell a girl heading for a club from one who’s, er, not.

Once at university I came home from a night out. I lived in a block of flats near the center of the city, and the taxi dropped me at the end of the road. As I walked up to the door, keys in hand, a man spoke.

“You looking for work, love?”

It took a second to realize what he was asking. “Oh. No.” I wasn’t wearing anything terribly suggestive, just-correction. I was a student, and students coming home from clubs invariably look half-dressed. It was an honest mistake.

But I didn’t scream or run or sneer. “Are you sure?” he asked.

From time to time there were streetwalkers in the area. One weekend I went out early to buy a paper and saw a woman staggering across a main road through the city. She was dressed as for a night out, but it was broad daylight; she looked too young to be a student, too underfed. Another time, sitting with friends in the local, we saw a woman come in to make change from a 20-pound note. The barmen exchanged looks; they clearly knew her.

“I’m sure,” I said, and refrained from adding, but thank you anyway. mardi, le 3 fevrier

The redesigning at home is going well, although I cannot be inspired to write much about soft furnishings. Suffice to say that the previous look (Laura Ashley meets Peter Max in Tahiti, where they decide to go on an acid trip together) is being updated to something vaguely within this century.

A most interesting object was delivered yesterday. The landlady had the furniture made some few years ago by a firm that kept the details on record, and they have been kind enough to supply attractive new cushion covers for the overstuffed monstrosity (I mean the sofa, not the landlady). The new covers were brought up just after lunch, along with detailed instructions on how to put them on and a tool to aid in application.

This tool, it must be said, looks exactly like a paddle.

A very classy paddle indeed. Of the same glowing hardwood as the frame of the sofa itself, with a smooth rounded handle mimicking the turned legs of the furniture. A tapering, broad, flat side, apparently for stuffing the cushions in their new skins.

But it doesn’t look anything like an upholstery aid to me. It is, quite frankly, a well-made and extremely horny paddle. It has a leather thong threaded through the handle, for goodness’ sake. And it matches the furniture.

I looked at the paddle, then at the deliveryman. “Do you want this returned when I’m done?”

“What? No, just keep it or chuck it away. We don’t need it back.”

“Thank you.” A more welcome and unexpected gift I haven’t had in ages. It’s as if Valentine’s Day has come early. mercredi, le 4 fevrier

Client: (setting the dresser mirror on the floor) “I want to watch you watching yourself masturbate.”

Well, this makes a change. “What with?”

“Your hands first. Then a vibe.”

“And then you…?”

“No, I just want to watch.”

He provided a chair and I sat. Wriggled out of my knickers and drew the skirt of my dress around my hips. There it all was, on display, as I’d rarely seen. Yes, I usually do a spot check after waxing and before going out, but this was different. And hand mirrors feature strongly in both work and sex at home, but this was just me, alone, inviolate. Belle from a fly on the wall. And being the self-obsessed creature I am, I was possibly as fascinated as he.