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

Many clients are in London on business. Most book a girl for the beginning of their stay rather than the end, and if they like her, book her again during their stay. If they don’t get on, there’s still time to try another. That he had waited until his last day made me think he wasn’t expecting to have to pay for a liaison on this trip, and booked a girl out of desperation or boredom.

“Red or white wine?” he asked, perusing the contents of the minibar. To be honest, I prefer spirits, but will only choose from what is explicitly offered. If they do not specify-as in “What would you like to drink?”-I either ask for whatever they’re having themselves or a glass of water. My mouth tends to go dry early on, and the first lip contact should be moist, welcoming, but not quite sloppy.

He held the glass out to me, we raised a half-ironic toast-“to new friends”-and drank. I noticed the arm holding his glass was tattooed. A small dagger in black. It looked ominously alive.

“Nice,” I said, reaching over to finger the inking. The first moment of contact can be hard to engineer. Men who kiss you at the door are easy to fall into physical intimacy with, but more often the client is nervous, and I make an excuse to reach across and make contact. Almost as if by accident, like the moment on a date when the other person’s proximity is an implicit permission to grab and kiss.

He took my wineglass away and pushed me back on the bed. His forearms were stronger than his softening middle, suggesting a former athlete going to seed. I looked up at him, lips parted. His trousers were half down and he was wearing no underwear. It occurred to me, just that moment, that there was something reckless about the way he handled me, and all the protection in the world would not stop him if he wanted to harm me. I leaned forward and took his cock in my mouth.

As a girl who is advertised as providing “all services,” I know many customers book me on the expectation of anal sex and am prepared for that. They typically let me suck them for a while first, move on to a brief encounter with vaginal sex, then either ask nervously about approaching the back door or accidentally-on-purpose start heading that way. This man did neither.

Pushing me back on the bed, he bent above me, moving my legs up above my head. He licked his fingers and worked three of them into my cunt. I reached forward to draw his hand out, and sucked the digits. I like to know what my own taste is, partly because I enjoy the flavor, partly to know what’s going on down there.

I stopped him and rolled to the side, extracted a condom from my purse, and pumped a heavy drop of lubricant on my finger. While he unwrapped and applied protection, I lubed my pucker. He burrowed his fingers back in and, using his wrist to pivot me backward, aimed his cock toward my back entrance. The full length sank straight in. He’d clearly worked it out beforehand-just the right angle for his member.

He pumped this way for half an hour and literally pinned me to the bed-all I could do was moan and make encouraging noises. His hand furrowed inside me, rubbing the bottom of my vagina to feel his own cock through the muscle wall. I felt the first shuddering spasms and his come fill the condom.

He didn’t want to be held. I went to the toilet and cleaned myself, came back and dressed. We discussed Iris Murdoch, and I left. There were no taxis outside, so I walked as far as Regent Street, where the lights of the shops and the cars blurred into illusion. mercredi, le 10 mars

I saw cherry blossoms this morning, it must be spring. They have probably been out for weeks but the tree near my door has suddenly and amply sprung into blossom. And the days, they’re growing longer too.

Today the builders left. The ginger one stood awkwardly in the kitchen as the landlady passed her eye over the white walls and clean pine cupboards. She didn’t seem half as pleased as I was with the result, but didn’t say anything, just signed off an invoice and left.

The other one, the tall one, nodded toward the table where he’d left the spare keys.

“Thank you. I’ve become very used to you, you know,” I said as he reached the door.

“No, thank you,” he said (in a South London accent I wouldn’t dare replicate in speech, much less writing-suffice to say they found my way of saying “room,” “house,” and “year” as amusing as I found theirs). “You’re quite a lady, you are.”

I laughed fit to burst. Lady, indeed. Lady in a green velvet thong at that. vendredi, le 12 mars

He: “It’s my first time.”

Me: “First time with an escort?”

“First time, full stop.”

(much fumbling ensues)

He: “Do tell me what to do. That’s why I wanted it to be a call girl. Girlfriends never say anything useful.”

(after)

He: “Honestly, how was that?”

Me: “Enjoyable. You have nice hands. Musician?”

(he nods) “What do you think of me in general?”

“Nice. Clever. Fit. You’re a fine catch for someone.”

“If you had met me somewhere else, would you fancy me?”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Not if I knew your age.” (he frowns) I say he looks older than that. But I didn’t sleep with nineteen-year-olds even when I was nineteen. (that doesn’t seem to have helped; he’s looking even more depressed) “I’d fancy you. I would. You’re a dangerous sort.” How so, he wonders.

Must be careful here. Say something truthful, but nice, and not obviously flattery. It’s tempting. “I wouldn’t want to be the first person to break your heart.” (he frowns again) But he shouldn’t fret. I’m sure there are plenty of women in the world who would. samedi, le

FRIENDS OR LESBIANS?

The rules are laughably simple: attach yourself to a female friend and-this is important-without resorting to kissing or dirty dancing, convince everyone within a reasonable radius that you are a couple. Why the ban on liplock? Because shaking it with the ladies in public is what straight girls do to pick up straight men.

This went so successfully once that I rebuffed a less-than-gentleman making advances on a friend. Threading my arm through hers, I asserted, loudly, “Back off, mate-the lady is with me. You want to take it outside or do I kick your sorry arse right here?” The sad specimen skulked away from the bar. Unfortunately, this chivalry did not result in a sexual reward from the woman in question.

Popular variant: Plant yourself in the corner of the room and speculate on whether the women you see talking to each other are friends or “friends.” Many a happy hour at university was spent thus.

THE CRASHING BORE

Embrace the chattering classes for an evening. You’re a freelancing consultant; your interests include South American red wines, Japanese culture, and season-two Buffy on DVD; your topics of discussion range through mortgages, high-protein diets, and why the congestion zone should not extend to Kensington and Chelsea. Enthusiastically recommend bars So Bar, Front Room, et al.

I saw the best minds of my generation smacked out on tapas and talking about parking restrictions in Zone 2.

I’LL HAVE WHAT SHE’S HAVING

Who hasn’t wanted to fake orgasm in a public place? Make like a Bailey’s advert and enjoy your drink more than a body ought to.

THE IMPLAUSIBLE OCCUPATION

When a man cracks on to you, make up a fake job to tell him when he (inevitably; men are conversationally predictable) asks what you do. Some tried-and-tested favorites include: aerial acrobat, mobile phone ringtone programmer, foot model, gamelan musician. See how long you can continue to make up specialized knowledge for your fake CV. Extra points if he actually holds that job. “Really? You’re an epidemiologist? What a coincidence!”