The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (24 page)

The sailfish, the swordfish and the mako shark can all swim at a speed of over 50 miles per hour. If you meet someone unpleasant at a club it's unlikely you'll be able to escape as quickly.

Lions have been known to mate over fifty times a day. This is probably the sole criterion to become King of the Jungle.

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A rhinoceros's horn is made of hair. Men who are lacking in the horn department, on the other hand, are not advised to grow longer hair to compensate for the fact.

Human birth control pills work on gorillas. If you have more success finding contraceptives and a female gorilla than a mate, something has gone horribly wrong.

Time is limited and some opportunities may never repeat themselves. Take a tip from swallows of the genus
Hir‐undo,
who mate in mid‐air, regardless of the number of people on the flight.

As an aside, while researching this list I ran across a site of dolphin dildoes. By which I do not mean dildoes shaped like dolphins. I mean dildoes the size and shape of a dolphin's member. Eep.

jeudi, le 25 mars

N and I had breakfast at a greasy spoon (his: full fry‐up and chips; mine: scrambled eggs on toast). He's not been sleeping well and it shows, but can't explain why. Maybe long hours at work, maybe family worries, maybe a belated sense that it should be spring but it is so cold and wet that the internal clock is still ticking over in winter‐time. Someone we know started a rumour last week that the clocks went forward before Mothering Sunday instead of this weekend, and it threw him off. He's not had a night's rest since.

He's heard things, things about me. Stories are getting around.

Nothing earth‐shattering, just a comment or two coming back round to him. Have I mentioned N appears to be the secret hub of all knowledge in London? You know a name ‐ he knows someone who knows someone. Is some-204

thing you heard true? He can get the goods. He's a dealer, and his drug is information.

There's envy involved, usually the engine behind the worst, most damaging rumours. Other things. I hate this
Sturm und
Drang.
Someone I slept with who asked me to keep it secret ‐ I didn't even write about it ‐ turned around and told, oh, about half of the city. A few personal things. That I don't mind. It's the asking for privacy, then blatantly stripping it off, that I care about.

Poor etiquette in a lover.

'Maybe I should say something to him about it,' I said.

'Not a good idea,' N advised. He pointed out that this man is young and feckless, and I was more likely to give him a pat on the head and a coo of forgiveness than the slap he so clearly deserves.

'The onus is on him now. He's the one who's going to feel uncomfortable when he sees either of us.'

'Maybe I should start rumours of my own.'

'Keep your own counsel. Better in the long run.'

'I feel my evil antennae twitching,' I said, waggling forefingers in the air.

'Don't.'

'Ah, bollocks, that reminds me . . .'

'What?'

'On his way out the door, he asked me if it was true I'd had a threesome with you and someone else.'

'What did you say?'

'Yes.'

He cringed. 'Well, I don't care, and you obviously don't, and I don't think the other girl does either. But I wonder why he was interested? If I were him, I would have asked me and not you.'

'Yes. Or asked if I'd ever been in a threesome, in case angling me into one was a possibility.'

'Exactly. I wonder why he was so interested in a piece of 205

trivia about my private life as he's getting out of your bed?' N

scratched at his stubble. 'One too many one‐night stands,' he said.

'Be careful what you say about someone else's sex life.'

I shrugged. I drank the very strong, very fresh coffee. He asked if I'd seen the car outside my house again. I have. He asked if I needed anything. I said I didn't.

'Get out if you can,' he said.

'The business, the house or the ex‐boyfriend?' I asked.

'All three,' he said. 'I don't know what you're planning, but whatever it is, have a spare rabbit hole.'

He pushed a crust of toast around the plate. The cafe that had been crowded when we sat down was almost empty of people. I bought a piece of carrot cake for later. He tipped the waitress and drove me home. His left hand rested on my knee the whole journey.

'Just be careful,' he said.

I waved him off and went upstairs.

(Knickers today: transparent black with cream lace edging and a peephole in the back. These are currently topping the league table of favourites.)

vendredi, le 26 mars

Am entertaining for the weekend and N is coming round to hoover the flat. He volunteered. Wonder if I leave the washing‐up, will he volunteer for that as well?

I don't run into the neighbours often, usually only on the way out the door. So either they think I lead an unutterably glamorous life of non‐stop parties and premieres, or they know everything.

Or they just think I like to dress up. Anyway, very little noise ever comes from those quarters. Until last night when I came home at 2 a.m. and was kept

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awake another hour by the distinct sound of books being thrown, one by one, against a wall. Odd.

Also, have noticed at the gym that my Achilles tendons seem stiff of late. Am told this is the result of habitual wearing of heels.

I know that every season we are bombarded with the propaganda that flat shoes are cute and sexy, too, but trying to talk me into low heels with a skirt is a conversion project along the lines of the settlement of the West Bank. Will simply have to stretch more.

samedi, le 27 mars

For all of the good advice I have received over the years, no one has ever opined on what may be the greatest challenge of my working life: how to deal with a non‐standard‐issue cock.

Penises can be strange for many reasons. They might have an unusual length‐to‐width ratio, or curve in a funny way, or remind you of your father's brother's penchant for turtle‐neck jumpers. In fact, there are probably more strange than unstrange ones. This gives the old man quite a scope for personality.

For the most part the differences can be stacked in the 'odd, but not distractingly so' or the 'odd, but not medically abnormal' bins.

And when a member confounds these classifications I never know what to say.

Treat the matter lightly? As in a saucy purr of 'My, what unusual tackle you have.' Show a modicum of medical interest and ask, 'Have you ever been to a doctor about that?' Recoil in horror? Ask advice on how he would like it handled? Or would sir prefer I didn't comment at all?

I had the pleasure of meeting a customer with a most normal penis. Normal in every detectable way. It was his 207

foreskin that was unusual. Instead of parting at the top, so the glans could nudge through, this gentleman's sheath opened at the side.

At the side. Of his penis. Halfway down the shaft. An aperture too small to wedge his cock through. Meaning that he was hooded at all times, even when aroused.

I smiled. Looked at it, looked at him. Didn't say anything. He didn't offer advice. Should I attend to the head (completely covered) or the opening (drooling with pre‐come, but several inches back)? He was older than me, divorced, so obviously someone had come across this anomaly before. Was it uncomfortable when he was hard? I wondered. Would he have problems with certain positions? Would this affect the condom?

Would it be insulting to ask?

I lavished attention on both the head and the opening, being careful not to curl my hand round the shaft too tightly. When we progressed to intercourse, I pinched the tip of the condom as I put it on to collect the semen, wondering if it mattered. He took me from behind, but didn't say if there was a reason above personal preference. He removed the condom himself afterwards. I never did have a proper look at the result.

dimanche, le 28 mars

I have been set up yet again, this time with someone introduced merely as 'your future husband'. No pressure.

lundi, le 29 mars

I have this friend, right, only she's not really a friend. More of an ally, or an acquaintance who won't quite go

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away. And I'm not usually an unkind person, promise, I'm not.

I met her via A3, who kind‐of sort‐of had a thing with her a few years ago. That is, he fancied her until he found out how desperately awful she was, at which point there was no turning back. As Churchill said, when you're going through hell, keep going.

EOBAYH, we call her. Short for Each One Big As Your Head.

This reference to her massive . . . tracts of land, being almost unpronounceable, has shortened itself to a two‐hands‐ballooning-from‐chest gesture that signifies an overample bosom.

Sample: 'I ran into [hand gesture] the other day; apparently she's doing the low‐carb diet.'

'Yes? Is it working?' Because Hand Gesture's assets are all natural, there's a bottom to match the top. Not to mention a middle. And ankles to which you could safely moor Thames pleasure cruisers.

Raised eyebrow in response, indicating that, if anything, she has grown more ample.

Hand Gesture probably has the highest ratio of failed diets and gym memberships to actual pounds lost of anyone I've met.

Don't get me wrong. It's not polite to ridicule someone's weight.

A4, for instance, has been known to carry an extra pound or two and we never utter so much as a peep. But Hand Gesture has earned the right to be mocked by automatically declaring anyone smaller than her to have an eating disorder. Which by definition is the entire living population of the world save the scarier neighbourhoods of Glasgow and a few bubbes in Miami. A conversation with Hand Gesture will most likely include a sentence along the lines of, 'I ran into Ruth the other day, yes? She just had a baby ‐ right back to her original weight, eating disorder

–

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and she was telling me about a new band her partner's in . . .' and so on, and so forth. Endlessly. She saw your mum the other day?

Eating disorder. That blonde on
Teachers}
Eating disorder. New slimline Vanessa Feltz? Bulimic cow. Conversely, nibble so much as a rusk in front of her, and you're bingeing.

Anyway. Last week A3 was in town and rang to see if I wanted to meet for lunch. It was rather disorganised ‐ he had two meetings beforehand, one in Bayswater and one in the City. But my daylight schedule is dead easy to rearrange, and we decided on 3 p.m. on Friday. Bought a sandwich an hour before, noodled around the shops for a bit, arrived at the restaurant. The staff looked a touch surly at having customers in the post‐lunch hours, for which I felt not the tiniest tinge of guilt. A spotty student‐type led me wordlessly to the table.

He sat me opposite Hand Gesture and her magnificently upholstered chest. Damn, I hadn't known she would be there.

Though if I had known I probably wouldn't have bothered turning up. She was the only other person there, scarfing through the complimentary bread and olives. So much for low‐carb diets.

'Hello darling,' I smiled, feeling none of the goodwill I hoped was oozing. 'A pleasant surprise to see you.' I asked after her family and she brought me up to date on who was looking too skinny, who should eat something and ‐ while there was no physical evidence to confirm this ‐ the stones that had been simply dropping off her lately through diet and exercise. She offered me a chunk of bread and, still rather full from the sandwich, I waved it away.

'You're certain?' she asked, eyes scanning my breasts, which are by no stretch of the imagination as big as my head, much less hers. 'You're not one of these . . .'

I put on a pained look and fluttered a hand up to my chest.

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'Coeliac disease, actually,' I said, twitching the corners of my mouth and making as if to cry. 'They diagnosed last month. My bowels are literally falling out of me, I can't digest gluten and have come out in a rash all over.'

'My . . . no. Really?' she asked, mouth slack.

I leaned forward conspiratorially. 'The worst part is the explosive diarrhoea,' I whispered, just as the rest of our party arrived and seated themselves. 'You simply can't imagine how awful it's been. You're ever so lucky. It would be a blessing to have real thighs again.'

Of course, this meant I had to nibble poached fish and a terrible salad for the rest of lunch, but it was worth an hour of neither words nor food passing her mouth. I'm not usually an unkind person, really, I'm not.

mardi, le 30 mars

The client leaned over me, pulling at his member furiously. 'I'm going to come on your face,' he said. It was the sixth time in ten minutes he'd said it, growling, as if trying to convince himself.

That was all: 'I'm going to come on your face.' No instructions for me, though I played with my breasts and nipples, sucked my own fingers after touching myself, hoping that would help. All that I had known before the appointment were the details of the meeting and a request to wear a lot of make‐up.

My effort didn't seem to help. He was looking at the wall, not at me. A few times his frantic hand slowed, and he dipped down to my lips. He was going soft and I sucked him hard again. He never looked down, not once. Then the masturbation would start again.

And the mantra: 'I'm going to come on your face.' I writhed on the sheets and groaned.

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No reaction. I bent my head forward and licked his inner thigh.

Again, no reaction.

Half an hour later, he still had not finished. I murmured and probed, wandering fingers, gentle questions. But it seemed he wanted nothing from me, save to be the canvas he painted. It made me feel like unturned clay must, wanting to form into something, some fantasy, but not being allowed. His shoulders slumped and he fell, sweaty, into my chest. 'I'm sorry, honey, it ain't gonna happen,' he said, as if it had been my idea all along.

mercredi, le 31 mars

Funnily enough, the liaison with 'my future husband' did not go to plan. I hold this up as a prime example of why my friends should not choose my dates, but A1 is undeterred and determined not only to make his mark as match‐maker, but to find the root of my problems with partners.