The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (16 page)

'I trust you,' he said, sipping a whisky and soda. 'I know you know how to iron the sections of the paper just as I like them.'

Ah, if only he were kidding.

Another case in point: a recent customer booked me for the better part of an evening at his own home. Having exhausted most of a bottle of gin, the springs of his bed and all reasonable conversation, he slipped away for a quick shower.

Such interludes make me nervous. It's not as if I plan to rob the place, but I am a compulsive confessor ‐ even to things I haven't done. At school, if the entire form was being 129

reprimanded for the action of a single student, I am sure I felt the guilt most of all. Especially if I wasn't involved.

Most customers are wary anyway. When visiting a home instead of a hotel, they more often put off the bathing ritual or suggest a joint shower, so as not to leave me alone. I'm not offended.

But this client, he threw on a dressing gown and scampered off to the bath. I sat on the couch. Considered pawing through his CD

collection, but decided that would be rude. I carefully examined the watercolours on the wall. And with nothing more to do, no calls to make or return, nothing to read, I did what any reasonable person would do.

He emerged from the bathroom to find me busily washing up.

Perhaps I am more trustworthy than I thought.

vendredi, le 30 janvier

Snow yesterday afternoon. Near UCL, students dashed out of the union and archaeology to gather up handfuls of snow and throw them at each other. Clusters of girls walked by in twos and threes, huddling under umbrellas. Though it had gone dark, the light was calm, diffuse: a warm glow of streetlights reflecting off the puffy duvet‐sized flakes coming down.

I went to meet A2, who hasn't had a date any time this epoch.

He recently hooked up with someone at a conference, though, a girl from Manchester. It seems a long way to go for sex. He assures me it isn't just about the sex. A2 is a great chap, but an extremely poor liar.

We installed ourselves in a gastropub‐cum‐bar to watch the buses outside pile up in the icy street. It was one of these places with a high ratio of leather seating to bar space where 130

they turn up the music automatically at 7 p.m., regardless of how many customers are inside. We were practically shouting over the background noise to hear each other.

'So what do you think of latex?' A2 bellowed.

'Latex?' I asked, unsure if I misheard. 'A good idea, generally.'

Unhappily, I am discovering a recent sensitivity to the stuff, having come away from a blowjob at work with swollen, tingling lips. Hardly a scientific experiment, though. It could just as easily have been the spermicide on the Durex.

'No, I mean like,' he mimed putting on a rubber glove, 'latex.

The feel of it, you know, for—'

'You're talking about rubber sex already?'

'She's a hell of a girl,' he mused. 'So, have you ever done it?'

The squeaky squeaky? 'Not full coverage, no. You mean with the catheter and head mask and everything? No.' Ugh. 'Up your urethra' is probably the least arousing phrase I can imagine, ever.

'I so want to go there.'

'Careful, you'll scare her off.'

'It was her idea. So ‐ tips?'

'Lots of baby powder, I should think. I don't even want to think about what this would smell like.' 'Mmm, I do.'

Where do people come up with this stuff? And wouldn't it get rather sweaty in there? 'Freak. You said this was ‐ and I quote ‐

not just a sex thing.'

'Takes one to know one.'

'Who, me?' I put a hand to my chest in mock surprise. 'I would absolutely never. I'm as pure as the you‐know‐what,' I said, nodding towards the snow outside.

'Sure you wouldn't. You having another?' A2 yelled over a godawful cover song by an unmentionable boy band 131

'Something hot, if they have it. With plenty of alcohol. Only way to banish this music. And the mental image of you humping a blow‐up doll.'

samedi, le 31 janvier

In weather like this, one must admit defeat, ignore the 'never too thin' mantra altogether and give in to a new paradigm. This can best be summarised as the tights‐fishnets‐socks‐under‐trousers,

'please don't let me have to use a public toilet juggling all this get-up' design for life. It is perhaps a small price to pay for living in a winter wonderland of slush.

And in such days as these, only a cad would casually throw out a line like 'you've gained some on the hips'. Which is why I had to kill N and bury the corpse under a layer of permafrost on Hampstead Heath. No jury would convict.

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Fevrier

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K - N

K is for Killer Moves

Or, the thing for which a girl is known. For some it's the look, others the intimacy, others a peculiar talent. Anal and light domination come up fairly frequently with me, but they're not the killer moves. It's the oral. I've been complimented on oral technique often enough to ask a man before I start on him whether he wants to come in my mouth or not, and if so, how long should I make it last? Many of them do not believe the timing of their orgasm is in my hands (or lips, as it were). Of course it is, silly things. That's why you're the men.

L is for Lousy Kissers

There are a lot of these in the world. It's not your duty to reform them, though a gentle suggestion, well‐timed, can be the best thing a man gets out of the encounter. Other times you have to know when to hold your tongue.

Especially when he cannot hold his.

M is for Music

I blame the conventions of overbearing cinema soundtracks for the crap that is supposed to accompany a session of hedonistic lovemaking. Music is a matter of taste, and it's usually obvious whether a man has put something on because he wants to hear it and it turns him on or because he thinks it's what ought to be done. Doing the deed to the syrupy strains of Luther Vandross is a misguided attempt to set the mood. Someone who pounds your arsehole to the beat of Stravinsky's
Rite of Spring,
on the other hand, is clearly passionate about the music.

N is for Noise

The alternative to music. He wants feedback; give it to him. But for goodness sake, don't lay on the porn

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screeches in a cheap imitation of passionate frenzy unless he clearly requests it. They're paying for sex, not stupid.

dimanche, le 1 fevrier

First Date and I agreed to meet to see a play. No big‐budget West End production, this: he suggested we go to a show put on by some of his friends at a pub. It was something by one of my favourite Renaissance playwrights, and I was dubious of the adaptation. 'You'll be amazed what they've done with it,' he assured me. 'A real two‐hander.'

I giggled. I think perhaps the phrase means something different to luvvies than it does to call girls.

The night after the party, when he slept in the sitting room and N in my bed, all three of us rose early and had a cup of coffee in the kitchen. I walked them out to the street, waved N off in his car, and walked First Date round the corner to his. I was scared I might be in for a touch of the coldness I'd shown him, but no, he lit a kiss on my mouth before driving away. Perhaps another chance was deserved.

Went across town by tube to meet him tonight. He was already in the pub, having a drink with a friend to whom he introduced me. 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 recognise the product ‐much less the adverts. We talked briefly about computers instead. I think they're 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 135

Date's long muscular thigh was pressed against mine, and he laughed in the right places, and aside from the over‐acting going on 12 feet ahead of us, it was nice to be in a dark room together.

The audience filed downstairs for drinks afterwards. I saw the lead actor 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. And he played it well, moving off my advances archly.

We both turned towards 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, 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.

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lundi, le 2 fevrier

Client: 'May I take your picture?'

Me (spotting the palm‐sized video camera 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): '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 such as '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 en-thusiastically 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

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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 naivety 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 centre 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 realise 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 change a £1o note. The barmen exchanged looks; they clearly knew her.

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'I'm sure,' I said to the man, and refrained from adding,
but
thank you anyway.

mardi, le 3 fevrier

The re‐designing 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 on an acid trip with Peter Max in Tahiti) is being updated to something vaguely within this century.