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

I returned it within the half hour. Almost immediately the phone rang. It was the Boyfriend, and he was laughing.

“This is great stuff, kitty… but I don’t think I can use it.”

“No?”

“For one thing I don’t think the Army cares either way about the size of my member.”

“You don’t know that for sure. You could get anyone interviewing you.” I hear the services are really very modern these days.

“Nice thought.” I heard him scrolling down the e-mail from the other end of the phone. “Recovery time between ejaculations should not be in the Other Qualifications section.”

“It’s important to me, sweetie.”

“Doubtless. And ‘Oral sex: giving and receiving’ under Interests and Activities?”

“Are you saying they’re not?” We laughed.

It occurred to me to recommend my own line of work, not that he’d ever bite. The Boy is as straitlaced as a whalebone corset. I, by contrast, am widely considered among our acquaintances to be amoral. Even by the ones who don’t know what I do for a living.

D-G

D is for Disasters

For me, there’s no such thing as an insurmountable disaster. If it all goes horribly wrong, console yourself with the knowledge you’ll probably never see the customer again. Even if it goes right, you will probably never see the customer again.

That said, always be certain your phone is fully charged and within arm’s reach if needed. And keep a travel pack of baby wipes on hand for cleaning up all messes of biological origin.

E is for Eating

Whoring is like exercise: you can’t eat too soon before the appointment, or you risk blowing chunks at an inopportune moment. The usual timing of non-dinner dates means that normal meals are almost always out of the question. Have a generous lunch. Take a snack to nibble on the way home. Carry a spoon just in case.

E is also for Exercise

Someone once told me that girl-on-top positions can burn as many calories per hour as one of those gym stepper machines. Note that the gent is apt to give out before you have achieved a fat-burning workout, though.

F is for Forgetfulness

Always reconfirm appointment details with the agency. My memory is not worth relying on, and knocking on the door of room 1203 instead of 1302 can have unexpected-and probably not hilarious-consequences. I keep a small pad of paper handy.

That said, don’t write the details on the back of your hand, either.

G is for G-spot

You won’t need to know where this is at work. Tuck it away in the cupboard at home and save it for best. lundi, le 1 ^er decembre

The client’s hands were square, long-fingered, and wandering. They reminded me of my boyfriend’s. He pawed my breasts, my thighs, and ventured inside.

I jerked suddenly. “Sorry-did I hurt you?” he asked.

I was on my side, he was spooning me, the offending fingers resting between my legs from behind. “Only a little.” I picked up his right hand and examined the nails. Clean, but longer than most. And rather jagged. “Do you bite these?”

“Yes.”

I rolled over the edge of the bed to reach my purse on the floor. “Hold on.” Brought back a small silver cosmetic bag and pulled out an emery board.

He shuddered. “I can’t take files,” he said. “It’s a nails-on-chalkboard sort of thing.”

“Trust me,” I said, and sanded his edges smooth. He ran his thumbs over the polished ovals, commented on the difference. “You’re far too nice for this job,” he said softly, which I took to mean either that he’d had bad experiences with escorts before, or most escorts are nice and I was just the first. Hoped it was the latter. mardi, le 2 decembre

So what’s a girl to do with a day off?

Besides shopping for knickers, naturally.

Booked in advance, plenty of warning. Boyfriend out of town, no gym session with N. Tried arranging lunch with Al, A2, and A4; no luck. No illness, no customers. A good proper lie-in. No errands, no appointments, and no laundry. Time to cook (and maybe leave the washing-up for another day). No cleaning lady and no calls from the manager. Nowhere to be, nothing to be. Just me on my own.

Best find that vibrator, then. jeudi, le 4 decembre

There is someone in London who just paid to lick the pucker of my arse for one hour. Isn’t that what everyone really wants in life, someone who’ll kiss your grits and enjoy it?

If someone had only told me from the outset such perfect clients existed, I would have jumped in straightaway. vendredi, le 5 decembre

“Have you ever been with a woman?” the client asked, stroking my breasts.

“Yes,” I said. He sighed. “Many. Outside of work.” It has been a while since the last. The Boy grumbles and pouts sometimes, because he knows about my past and has never had a threesome. I am wary of the problems that picking up a spare girl can introduce to a relationship. Better to go pro, I think. Maybe sometime in the future. Not now.

“Are you gay?”

“No, I just like women.” Probably equally to men for sex. But I would rather be in a relationship with a man, which I think reads as essentially straight. This was a conclusion won over much heartrending identification nonsense during university. Women: I’ll fuck them, but I don’t want to go home to one.

“Any woman?” Perhaps he had one in mind. I hoped not.

“Not all women.” samedi, le 6 decembre

I’ve been looking through the site again. The manager rearranges the profiles from time to time, to give this or that girl a lift in business, or to emphasize a new arrival to the agency.

My own profile compares reasonably against the other girls on the site and pictures around the Web. Nothing to stand out particularly; just like hundreds of others. It was a bit stunning to see just how many call girls were working in London. There seemed to be a leggy blonde or brunette sex goddess for every potential horny businessman on earth, with maybe a MILF or two to spare.

I remember the first time I saw myself on the site. The profile turned out decently enough. I wouldn’t have thought so, considering the way the photo shoot went. There had been some selective cropping and Photoshop magic, but the woman in the images is very definitely me. Would someone recognize me? Don’t be silly, I scold myself. No one who knew you and spotted them perusing escort sites would ever confess to it. Or would they go one worse and book an appointment?

The photographer for the escort agency met me at a hotel. Cute until she opened her mouth. She started in on me straightaway. “Hair-not big enough,” she said, and pulled out a teasing comb that looked as if it had served time in some of the country’s finer dog-grooming facilities. Her own pink lipliner was enlisted in the quest to make my lips look fuller, poutier. The lingerie I had brought, still in their store wrapping, were judged unsuitable-which is to say they were far too tasteful. “You would suit something… purple,” she said, throwing a cheap lace vest at me. At least it was unworn; it still had the tags on. This is how I found myself in colors I’d never wear, with makeup I’d never use, hair ten times normal size, writhing on the hotel furniture. “Keep those legs straight up in the air,” she said as my thighs shook from the exertion of holding pose after pose. “And… relax!”

We worked through a dozen standard glamour shots. “Are you getting bored yet?” she joked.

“Yes.”

She looked hard at me. “You’re bored? That’s terrible.”

“I was being ironic. Actually, I’m not bored at all,” I said, cupping my own breast for the thirtieth time.

“Pity about the bikini lines. So seventies porn star.” This from someone who put me in pink latex hot pants? She changed the film and shot through another roll. I couldn’t imagine there were any more impossible contortions to exact. After an hour I’d had enough and got up to change back into my civvies.