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

In my first flat after university, I am unpacking dishes in the kitchen when the song comes on the radio. It is the first time I have heard it without a chorus of twelve-year-olds singing along.

That summer of the youth group was also the summer my parents’ friends start to call me “the little Alice.” As in, through the looking glass. “Where is the little Alice?” they ask, and I run from wherever I am, happy to impress. I am brought out at gatherings to impress with feats of memorization. They keep me in the room, a bit of a parlor game, come watch this ur-adult. I know they’re patronizing me by speaking this way, but at the same time I am pleased because I can talk back to them in their own language. One friend of the family refuses to dine at our table if not seated next to me. He asks what I think about politics, and I am surprised to learn I have an opinion. However uninformed. It really hasn’t changed much since, either. Then he asks me to recite poetry, going over it line by line. I recite it back verbatim. “Someday you might even absorb all this,” he says, laughing.

So I am in the kitchen, alone, listening to this song as an adult, not as Little Alice. The lyrics are quite sad, actually. Without realizing it, I have begun to cry.

FUCK: A SPOTTER’S GUIDE

• Good Fuck: makes a lot of noise, alerting neighbors to actual sexual activity on the premises. Leaves nothing behind and does not phone immediately after. In short, should probably be charging for services rendered.

• Bad Fuck: counts ceiling tiles, then demands betrothal.

• Fuckable: not so much conventionally attractive as exuding animal qualities. Unless, of course, that animal is an otter.

• Fuckwit: not likely to engage in actual fucking anytime soon.

• Fucking Hell: is populated by women of the tanned arid blonde variety who would rather talk about their diets, spirituality, and tiny dogs than engage in sex. See also: Chelsea, Tantalus.

• Fucked Over: no longer the recipient of regular fucks. mercredi, le 11 fevrier

In the last week, I have been set up on three more dates. This might mean my friends are concerned about my emotional well-being, or afraid of what might happen if I am single for too long, or both. And I don’t want to get attached to First Date too quickly; while he’s a nice person and we get on well, the more I think about him, the more I find his intentions a little… intense.

None of the intended gents, however, were quite what I had in mind for a love match.

Bachelor #1 was a lovely bloke-tall, strange dark eyes, devastating Welsh accent. If there’s anything that drives me batty, it’s the mellifluous tones of men from the Valleys. Superficial, I know, but we all have our weaknesses.

Alas, the fellow must not have been clued on the details of my working life. Halfway through the starter, he related an elaborate anecdote which essentially came down to ridiculing his best friend for “dating a whore’s sister.” Ah. Well. Pity.

The meal was nice, though.

Bachelor #2 met me at a pub already drunk. Another fine figure of manhood, but having distinct problems negotiating the relationship between his body and the force of gravity. Inside of half an hour he was clinging to the bar for support, having discovered I am unsuitably small to support fifteen-odd stone of wavering man-weight.

A couple of hours later we were in the queue for a club. In spite of the rain and general yuckness, they were operating a one-in, one-out door policy when the place itself was clearly nowhere near full. Bachelor #2 took umbrage with this indignity and decided to address the bouncers on the matter. They, quite reasonably, chucked the lad out on his ear. I peeled him off the pavement, got him back to his in a taxi, located a bag of peas in his freezer, and slapped it on his swelling cheek before making my excuses. Being already unconscious, I doubt he noticed.

Bachelor #3 was the sort of person for whom the mantra “Better to keep quiet and be thought dim than open your mouth and remove all doubt” was created. After a solid hour of my bright chatter (being personally unafraid of whether people think me dim or not), he finally came out with a few winners:

“I can’t say I’m a fan of [the subject I studied at uni].”

Wiping out an entire academic discipline with a single sentence. That’s fine, that’s okay, I’m not precious about such things. So off again the conversation went, this time to music, a subject about which he was somewhat more animated.

“I’ll listen to anything, except country and western.”

What, a life without Dolly? Without Patsy? The Flying Burrito Brothers? Admittedly, the current crop of Nashville output is appallingly samey, but to write off the likes of Wilco and Lambchop altogether?

To paraphrase the country-and-western diva, I waxed my legs for this? jeudi, le 12 fevrier

In a taxi, sort of drowsing off in the back. I’d had the sort of day where you wake up already tired and it never quite comes together from there. My phone started ringing.

“Darling, I hope you’re okay.” It was the manager. I’d forgotten to alert her on leaving the last client.

“Sorry, yes, I’m fine.” The taxi sped north, the streets were quiet. “Everything was fine, he was very nice.”

“You always say they’re ‘very nice.’ You sound so happy.”

“Happy? I suppose so. I’m not unhappy.” I mean, the man was somewhat trollish, but she’s not interested in knowing.

“That’s because you haven’t experienced any aggression in the job yet.”

I laughed. Compared to real relationships, these men are absolute pussycats, and easily pleased pussycats at that. Even sleepy and disconnected, nothing I couldn’t handle-so far. “I suppose it just shows how well you take care of me,” I said.

Arrived home soon after and went to bed. I had my phone under my pillow just in case, as I was expecting another call. It rang around midnight.

“Darling, are you still up? Can you do another appointment?”

“Mrrrrrf arrrrrm mmmmmmmph fhmmmmmm.”

“Okay, you get some sleep. Stay happy, darling.” vendredi, le 13 fevrier

Usually I hold fairly positive opinions on clients-being as they are the water that floats my soap, and usually pleasant enough in a ships-passing-in-night kind of way. If someone waxes fanatical on the charms of his school nurse circa 1978, for instance, or insists on making me read out the newspaper in a fnar-fnar porny voice while he imagines he is having Fiona Bruce up the backside, I just steel myself and get on with it. But some things are beyond the pale. Some things chill me to the bone.

When the client referred to yesterday’s hotel visit as “afternoon delight,” for instance. For the love of Harvey N, man, have you no taste whatsoever? samedi, le 14 fevrier

But of course, the manager is wrong. I am not all that happy. ’Tis the blessed season of togetherness, where we honor the anniversary of the beheading of a Christian saint by exchanging overpriced tat.

The crass and obvious fakery of the Valentine holiday is powerful enough to get even me down. It’s not simply the fact of being alone, though I am not technically alone-in London, you really never are-I have friends aplenty and work enough. No, it’s more the smug mutual pampering couples get to experience.

I don’t begrudge anyone their good time. I’ve been known to smile at couples canoodling on the tube or drunkenly fumbling on a park bench whilst pregnant women and little old ladies are forced to stand. If you have an other, significant or somewhat less than, I wholeheartedly encourage you to lavish one another with lurrrrve on that day.

What gets my goat is the shameless cashing-in by manicurists, hairstylists, and purveyors of raunchy lingerie. I make an effort to keep myself baby smooth and silkily attired at all points in the year, and what’s my reward? Nothing. Book a spoil-yourself spa weekend for two in February, though, and it’s discounts ahoy.