The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (21 page)

A few times, passing off the cue, I slid my hand over his lower back. Hard as.

A3 glowered at me, growing more drunk and moody. Finally he mumbled something about the last train home. On his way out the door, he put his arms roughly around my waist. I kissed the end of his nose.

'Goodnight,' I chirped.

He squeezed harder, drawing me up on my tip toes, and planted a kiss full on my lips in front of everyone. He hadn't been that forward in years. I pushed my face past his mouth into the side of his neck. He breathed hot against my ear. 'You be careful.

Wouldn't want to damage that new lad,' he said, and left.

We put the cues away. The three of us finished our drinks. A4

gathered coats and went to the door.

I put a hand on Dr C's arm, holding him back until A4 had gone outside. I turned towards him, his bright open face. 'May I kiss you?'

'Please,' he said. We snogged in the open doorway, block-176

ing the exit. 'Where are you staying?' he asked. A2's sofa, I told him.

'I have a huge bed at the hotel,' he said. 'Perfect.'

A4 was outside and waved us off at the corner. About a block from the hotel, Dr C turned to me. 'You don't remember me, do you?'

'No?'

'We met three years ago. I thought you were sexy then, too.'

'I'm sorry, I don't remember.'

He smiled. We went through the hotel's dim brown lobby and up to the second floor. I nodded at an acquaintance on the way.

Sometimes it occurs to me how small the world is. By morning, I thought, all my friends and family will know of this.

The door was barely closed when we started grabbing at each other's clothes. Dr C was as fit in the altogether as he'd been dressed, and his hands as good as I'd imagined. I took his penis in my mouth. 'Ahh, that's fantastic,' he murmured. 'American girls don't know what to do with a foreskin.'

He felt right to me, he tasted and smelled amazing. The sex was good but not like at work. It was joyous, revelling in his body, feeling good for sharing mine. I couldn't stop touching him, nibbling him, wanting him. He felt like someone I'd been with for ever. And he took me again and again with amazing intensity.

Each time he came the muscular spasms ripped straight through me like a sound wave, setting off my own alarms, starting an orgasm from the inside out.

We slept a couple of hours, woke up, shagged again. Listened to the morning news on the radio. The usual stories: bombs, death, foreign elections. There wasn't much conversation. I didn't know what to say. Thank you, that

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was luscious, you know we're not going to see each other again, don't you? I was going to London in a couple of hours; he'd be flying back to San Diego later in the day. And yet it was a comfortable silence, the kind I could imagine stretching indefinitely into couplehood.

I brushed my teeth. When I came out of the toilet he was dressed. He watched me put on my coat; I had to meet a train. 'Do you need a taxi?' he asked.

How many times have I heard that question? 'No thank you, I'll walk.'

'It isn't far?'

'It isn't.'

He stood up, came over. Put his hands on my hips and kissed me tenderly. I'm reading too much into it, aren't I? It was a kiss that promised more if I wanted it. An open‐ended question that already knew the answer. 'Safe trip,' he said.

'Goodbye,' I said, and left. California is thousands of miles away.

I smiled. The morning was warmer and brighter than I had reason to expect it to be.

vendredi, le 5 mars

Back in London on a reasonable spring day ‐ not murderously hot, but pleasant enough to sit outside reading the papers and think about possibly leaving the coat at home. Was out and about when I saw S, one of the Boy's friends. The last I knew of him, he was freshly dumped by his redheaded lass, who was marking time with the Boy's housemate. I suppose technically S is my friend as well ‐

not knowing one of us better than the other ‐ but presumed that anyone who did not contact me within twenty‐four hours of the break‐up to offer a cup of brew and the advice that all men are bastards anyway, was probably on his side.

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I smiled and waved. He crossed the road and kissed me on the cheek. 'It's been ages,' he said. 'How are you?'

'In rude health, as ever,' I said. 'Not to mention rude everything else. How are the motorcycle lessons going?'

'Dreadfully well,' he said. 'I'm looking at a Ducati 996 T‐reg this afternoon.' The surest sign of a convert ‐ slipping impenetrable abbreviations into conversations. Bless his cotton socks.

'Smashing,' I said. 'Or rather, not, I hope.'

We laughed.

'Bite to eat?'

We sat in a dismal oriental cafe and ate mystery meats in an obvious base of powdered soup. At least the tea was copious, hot and free. S has been seeing a woman he met through whatever leather‐clad underground circles motorbike enthusiasts move in.

He had to run along and I was starting to suffer MSG‐related indigestion, so we walked down to Bayswater tube station together.

'I hesitate to ask this, but—'

'I was wondering if you'd bring him up.'

We paused on the pavement. The post‐lunch crowds parted and flowed around us. 'Mmm. I was just wondering, what did he say was the cause of the break‐up?' Cringe‐worthy, I know, but curiosity does get the better of one.

S flapped his hands helplessly. 'Oh, the usual man things,' he said. 'So little time, not being close enough ... I think he's quite immature, really.'

'You're not obliged to say that to please me,' I smiled.

'It's true. He has not had much experience with women.'

'I'm tempted to say if he goes on like that, it's not likely to improve.' Of course, I would say that, wouldn't I?

'That's what I told him.' S sighed and checked his watch obviously. I was probably keeping him, not to mention being a boring girl hellbent on analysing a failed

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relationship. Nothing makes a man get to his next appointment faster. S pecked my cheek. 'At any rate ‐ a pleasure seeing you.'

'Marvellous to see you. Best of luck with the motor.'

(Knickers today: butterfly‐printed with shocking pink lace round the leg.)

dimanche, le 7 mars

Am recovering from a fancy dress party and getting jiggy to the worst music of the last two decades while a rabbi threw himself on the floor and pretended to be swimming and a man dressed as a tree dirty‐danced over him. Because apparently Jews are literally commanded to get pissed and make noise on Purim.

Makes Carnival look rather timid in comparison, no?

Spent most of the morning hungover and reading multiple copies of the
Big Issue,
one bought from every vendor I saw on Friday, and nibbling the pastries a friend brought by first thing today.

May have to go back to bed now. Knickers today: none. Who wears knickers to bed?

lundi, le 8 mars

Sometimes I feel so tired and wouldn't mind someone else stepping in to do the grunt work while I take off on restorative jaunts north. The selection process for such responsibilities, though, would have to be air‐tight.

One criterion would have to be intelligence. And abs to die for.

I could sit‐up from now until the singularity and still 180

not have rippling muscles down there. Flat, yes. But not a six-pack. Not even a four‐pack of dry cider. Wherefore all the masochistic gym punishment? I should turf this job out to a better‐looking body double and stay in writing and eating biscuits.

People I wouldn't throw out of bed for pretending to be me: Karolina Kurkova

Carolina Kluft

theoretical y, anyone named Karolina

Anna Kournikova

Anna Nicole Smith

many, though not all, Annas

Lisa Lopes

Lisa Simpson

A reasonable fraction of the world’s Lisas

Liz Taylor

Liz Hurley

HM Liz II

Please send a brief cover letter (one side of A4 only) describing why you should be me, plus contact details and referees, to the usual place. I shall have my imaginary PA sort them and contact you for interviews.

Attach photo of self in best underwear. Style over substance, as ever.

mardi, le 9 mars

The client was a young man, probably not much older than me.

When I entered the room he was dressed casually, as any one of my friends, in a tight T‐shirt and baggy trousers.

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Immediately I felt over‐dressed, too high‐theatre in my suit and make‐up.

'Hello,' I smiled, and confirmed his name. There is always the slight possibility I might have knocked on the wrong door. Would someone turn away an unbidden hooker? Probably only when called on to pay before the sex.

'Hello,' he said. He had lovely, smooth brown skin and an American accent. The room was crowded with unpacked luggage and piles of books. Was he here on business? Yes, he said. Leaving tomorrow. He nodded towards the money in an envelope on the desk. I put it away without counting.

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 ask for either 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 182

the moment on a date when the other person's proximity is an implicit permission to grab and kiss.

He took my wine glass 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 flavour, 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 towards 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

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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 my arse.

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.

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 towards 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 pronunciation of '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.

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vendredi, le 11 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.'