The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (12 page)

The inability of punters to produce an orgasm in me is no way a comment on their shortcomings. So far as their part of the bargain goes, they're doing a great job, and I enjoy sex for more than the merely physical tingle. Being desired is fun. Dressing up is fun. No pressure to either experience physical release for fear of damaging someone's ego, or give someone an orgasm for fear of never hearing from them again, is wicked.

Sometimes a race is a good day out ‐ regardless of where you finish.

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samedi, le 3 janvier

Text from the Boy: 'Are you okay? Feeling sad because I'm afraid you don't want to talk to me.'

I wonder if I'm abnormal sometimes. A little cold for love, slightly lacking in sentiment. As soon as someone's interest flags, my own feelings start to go that way too. As Clive Owen said in
Croupier,
'Hold on tightly ‐ let go lightly.'

I don't give people enough chances. But maybe I know when it's not right anyway. All romance is narcissism, A1 told me once. This was the same person who also told me women over thirty should never wear their hair long, so he's probably an unreliable source, but still. I'm doing us both a favour by not responding to the Boy's text.

There are other things that have happened, things I never wanted to think or write about because I was afraid of being rash, in case everything straightened itself out. It might still. I could ring, or send a text, but they seem such poor approximations of communication. If I can't sort out what's in my head, how can I put it into intelligible sentences? If I wait too long the decision won't be mine to make anyway.

I decided to go out and spend all my money on underwear, then throw my purchases about the room to decide my fate like a satiny, lace‐gussetted I‐Ching. Let the gods of Beau Bra decide. I bought a set in chocolate‐coloured lace, with pink satin ties at the sides of the knickers and between the cups of the bra, neither for work nor for the Boy.

The tube home was crowded with bargain hunters and tourists.

I tried to guess what each shiny paper bag contained. A package of handkerchiefs? Comic books? Perfume? There was a mass exodus into the north of the city, people rushing off at each stop: a woman who can't wait to get home and won't even take off her coat before tearing

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through tissue paper; a man who was pulling the wrapping off a new CD already, dropping ribbons of plastic on the floor.

Tonight I am going out with friends to an annual dinner. The men will be stuffed into their dinner jackets, which have grown mysteriously smaller since last year, and grumble about the skimpy main course. The women will swish from table to table in jersey and diamante, hair smooth as petals.

The tube lurched closer to my stop. The song on my headphones was buoyant ‐ the sort of pop confection on a thousand best‐of‐2003 lists. When I looked up, I saw how close the yellow handrail was to the ceiling light and brushed the cover with my fingertips. A pram rocked on the unsteady journey, knocking over a mother's shopping bags. I couldn't help smiling.

Further down the carriage, a bald man stared.

dimanche, le 4 janvier

N jewelled my arm for the formal event last night ‐ purely platonically, you understand. I was still angry with the Boy and taking the hard line that 'all men are twats, unless they're paying in which case they're twats who are paying'. N understood and accepted his appointment as 'twat' with grace. This probably meant he was trying to get me into bed.

We showered and dressed at mine, and I tied his bow tie before we left. He was planning to wear a ready‐tied, but I insisted on the real thing. I will not be seen in public with a man whose tie falls into any of the following categories ‐clip‐on, spinning and metallic. There is a time and a place for comedy eveningwear. I believe it passed when Charles Chaplin shrugged off his mortal coil.

Throats dry, we stopped for a pre‐revelry drink at a bar 96

that was cunningly hidden under another bar. Several dozen other celebrants were there as well and N introduced me around. A chirpy, raven‐haired Nigella‐alike planted herself to my left.

'Why, hello there,' she twanged. 'My name's T—' Her dress was doing a reasonable job of keeping her breasts restrained, but I didn't reckon on its chances for surviving the night.

I gave N a 'do you know this woman?' look. He shot me a 'no, do you think she'll sleep with me?' reply.

She put her perfectly‐manicured hand on my knee. 'I just love your accent!' she enthused. 'Where are you from?'

'Yorkshire,' I said. 'And yourself?'

'Michigan.'

Charming. But the crowd grew restless, and we moved on to the venue. Unfortunately T and her date were sitting three tables from us. Dining at a table of mostly couples, I found myself seated next to the wife of a mutual acquaintance. She drunkenly looked me and N over. When he turned to talk to someone, she said, 'So how long have you two been back together, then?'

'Er, ah, we're just seeing what happens. Only friends, you know.'

'Of course you are.' She gave me a sly wink to indicate that she didn't believe a word of it. This indictment might have carried more of a sting if she didn't simultaneously spill red wine down her dress.

The speeches were the highlight of the evening. A multiple-medalled paralympian with a seemingly endless supply of sex jokes, followed by a sport personality, followed by a paunchy silver‐haired man. The quality of the speakers was such that even I, a rank amateur at anything smacking of non‐sexual exertion, could pretend to be interested for twenty minutes.

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Then it all broke down for the disco. I danced, I drank, I danced some more. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed N on the sidelines bending T's ear. Good lad, I thought. After she went off to dance with her date, I sought him out.

'You sly dog. So did you get her number?'

'Actually, she was more interested in you.'

'Really?' I looked back at the dance floor, where she was being spun round and round by three men, an experiment in centrifugal force and its effect on fabric strain. So far as I could see, the dress was still refusing to budge ‐ whether due to magic or double‐sided tape, I didn't know.

'Yeah, I think I ruined your chances though.'

'How's that?'

'I said you'd only do it with her if I came along.' 'You complete twat!' I punched his shoulder, hurting my fist more than him.

He kissed the top of my head. 'Just saving you from yourself, dear.'

lundi, le 5 janvier

Sex: a spotter's guide

Sex Shop:
not normally known to sell sex as such. Lexical equivalent of calling a specialist vegetarian grocer 'a butcher'.

Hot Sex:
reproduces, as near as possible, the visual effect of pornography. See also: Phone‐in Sex.

Good Sex:
in which you get everything you want.

Bad Sex:
in which someone else gets everything he wants.

Sex Kitten:
a woman of reasonable charm, though often reliant on cantilevering lingerie.

Sexual:
usually related to the mating rituals of animal 98

species or the burgeoning hormonal urges of youth. Word never used in an actual sexual episode without a lot of giggling. Exception that proves the rule, various Marvin Gaye songs.

Sex Education:
the interface between a banana and a condom. Not generally known to impart useful information.

Sex Bomb:
a weapon of mass destruction.

mardi, le 6 janvier

I rang the bell of the building. No answer from the speaker ‐he buzzed me straight up. The client opened the door of the flat and disappeared into the kitchen for a drink. Inside it was clean, almost sterile. Smoky glass mirrors everywhere ‐I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being in a restaurant. Rather incredible digs for someone the manager said was a student.

Postgraduate bursaries probably extend far enough for a few piss-ups each term, but I doubt they cover a lady of the night.

He: 'Don't be so nervous.'

Me (startled): 'I am relaxed. So what is it you study?' 'I'll tell you later.'

He told me his name. 'Really?' I said. It's an odd, old‐fashioned moniker. 'My boyfriend is also called that.' Ex, I scolded myself.

Stop thinking about him in the present tense.

We discussed the client's desire to move ‐ to north London, which apparently has 'the highest density of psychotherapists in the world'. Knowing a few people who live there, I understand perfectly.

He: 'You're an odd one, I can't quite figure you out.'

Me: 'I'm fairly straightforward.'

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'An open book, right?'

'Something like that.'

Later . . .

Me: 'What is it you do again?'

He: 'Psychoanalysis.'

Which made us comrades, if not exactly colleagues. The conversation strayed to evolutionary biology and the role of pheromones in attraction. How well you like someone's smell is, apparently, related to likelihood of producing children together with as few congenital defects as possible. Not the usual overture to inciting romance but it works well enough on me. He liked the sex intense, sensual, tongue‐centric. I liked the mirrors. He held me open and took me anally, slithering in and out. After he came, I went to clean up and noticed a copy of Richard Dawkins's latest book in the bathroom.

Me (dressing): 'I enjoyed that. And you smell nice.'

He: 'Excellent, that means we can have children.'

We both laughed. 'Not quite yet.'

There were still shops open and I wanted to spend the money in my bag. Heels clattering, I walked through an underground subway. At the end of one tiled passage were boxes ‐ rough sleepers. I am never sure whether to hold their gaze or not; swing wide or not. What is it that makes us so uncomfortable? Do the homeless have some kind of sympathetic magic that might rub off, rendering us penniless if we dare get too close?

Two young men, talking. I caught the gaze of one. Broad northern accents. I was aware of both the sound of my shoes echoing towards them and the weight of the money on my person.

A kind person would just heave the notes in their direction, wouldn't she?

Rubbish, another part of my mind chimed in. They'd only use it on drugs.

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Oooh, get you, high and mighty. Who just had sex for money?

Yes, well. At least I have a job. I'm not selling out. I'm not getting paid for something I wouldn't do for free anyway.

They might just be backpackers who would appreciate the cash.

They might just be rapists.

The corridor turned sharp right just past their makeshift camp.

The two young men ‐ quite good‐looking, actually ‐looked up as I came near. 'Out late?' one asked.

I smiled. Could have told them the truth. Didn't. 'Party,' I said.

'Cool,' the bearded one said. They went back to their conversation. Neither slowing nor swerving, I continued on out of sight.

mercredi, le 7 janvier

He: 'White wine, I presume?'

Me: 'Why, how very thoughtful.' He presents a glass; we toast and sip.

'Rather drier than usual.'

'Thought I'd give it a try.'

As a regular becomes more regular, rules slip a tiny bit. They're not supposed to be under the influence during an appointment ‐

and neither are we ‐ though a little alcohol isn't expressly forbidden. Having seen this particular man several times, I know that he must indulge in a spliff before he sees me. I can smell it, and am surprised it doesn't affect his performance. Last night I arrived a few minutes early ‐Tuesday night, light traffic ‐ and caught him in the act.

Another of his habits is using an inhalant during my visits. Now, I realise this isn't illegal (at least, I don't think it is), 101

and am not opposed to drug‐taking as such. Live and let live, victimless crime, and all that. I only rarely take anything stronger than a stiff drink ‐ though those who knew me at uni would probably attest to the contrary.

Last night on his bedroom floor, I was sitting astride him. He, eyes closed, reached for the familiar small brown bottle and took a direct sniff. And then he offered it to me. What's the harm? I thought, and sniffed, and did so again when he picked it up ten minutes later.

And what a rush it was. I felt my scalp, face and ears pounding, like when you blush but more so. Every sound seemed intensified, a little tinny. My fingertips felt like paws, a foot wide.

Thank goodness it only lasted a minute or so.

The inhalant, that is. The sex was rather longer.

jeudi, le 8 janvier

This job makes several things difficult to take seriously.

First: public transport. Perhaps in normal jobs coming in twenty minutes late is excused with the 'Northern Line, grumble, you know, bah' routine. But when a neglected husband has sixty minutes between lunch hour and his next meeting, and he took a Viagra and seriously has the horn, you cannot be late. The taxis and I are old friends now, darling.

Second: people giving you the eye on public transport. Maybe they think I'll follow them to a hidden love nest? Or that they'll follow me off and it will be love at first crowded, southbound delays sight? No chance.

Third: one‐night stands. Like the Army, I have fun and get paid to do it. Sometimes it's not as fun but I always get paid.

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I clock more oral sex in a week from customers than in my entire time at uni.

Fourth: boyfriend troubles. I don't want to be single and a prostitute. I don't want to be without the Boy in my life. We called a truce. Yes, really.

Fifth: fashion. Flat boots, short hair, cropped trousers, ra‐ra skirts? I'd never get work again.

vendredi, le 9 janvier

It was the Boy's birthday, so he came up to visit. He was clean and polite and clearly on best behaviour. For most of the night, things were easy, relaxed, even. I leaned more and more heavily on his arm and he responded with an arm around me. Thank goodness, I thought, just a blip. Nothing to fret over.

We decided to leave our friends in Wimbledon early (the better to strain the bed, my dear) with the flimsiest of excuses, only to run into epic stoppages on the tube. After being stuck at Earl's Court for an hour, Himself nodding off on my shoulder, a change of route was announced for our train. So we leapt off at Gloucester Road to make a transfer. Alas, the Piccadilly Line was also toast.