The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (26 page)

We must be in sync ‐ N, who has been so good about not obsessing on his own ex, revealed that he'd been doing the same.

'So did you find anything?' I asked first. Nothing, he said. Maybe she was married. Maybe she'd moved. I thought it was too soon.

She was an impulsive girl, but settling down already would beggar belief even for her. He asked if I found anything.

'A little,' I said. 'Enough.' He's moved, he's probably single.

Nothing earth‐shattering. We sipped at our drinks. The food came. The first course was bigger than we expected; he finished mine off. The second course came, I just had a salad. I suppose I feel I've violated the Boy's privacy by looking, but couldn't stop myself.

'Mutual inability to let go,' N said.

'Yes.' We sat in silence a bit longer, chewing, waving off the ubiquitous fresh‐ground‐pepper boys with their porn‐sized grinders.

'So, meet any nice girls with big tits lately?' he asked suddenly. I laughed so hard I almost choked on a mouthful of rocket.

mercredi, le 7 avril

Child

Etymology: from Old English
did,
akin to Gothic
kilthei
(womb), Sanskrit
jathara
(belly). Function: noun.

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1.

A young person of either sex between infancy and youth.

2. One strongly influenced by another or by a place or state of affairs.

3. A product or result.

4. Anyone born in a year in which I had a double‐digit birthday.

'Guess what?' N smirked.

'What?' I was in no mood for guessing games.

'I've been talking to your little friend,' he said.

'Which little friend?' N meant Ten Pence Bet. 'So what do you know?' I asked.

'He's a student.'

'Loads of people are students these days. Your point?' 'He's
eighteen.''

Oh no, you must be joking. No one looks like that at eighteen.

'You're having me on.'

'First year at university, engineering something.'

I frowned. I thought of Ten Pence Bet, how smooth and unlined his face was. And how polite. Bells started going off in my head: good‐looking men don't stay nice for long. 'Figures. There ought to be a law.' I sighed. 'They shouldn't build teenagers to adult spec. It's just not fair.'

samedi, le 10 avril

'Have fun last night?' N asked. We were at the gym. I leaned against the wall just outside the door of the men's changing room while he laced up a pair of trainers. The announcement boards were crowded with fliers. Yoga, physiotherapy, five‐a‐side football, something called Ultimate. Ultimate what? I wondered. Ultimate stretching? Ultimate water‐sports? Oooh, get the rubber mat.

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'Okay,' I said. Yesterday was A3's birthday. I wasn't going to go because I was afraid of the Boy turning up. When I had told N

this, he said I'd be silly to let that stop me. So I fretted about what to wear, flirted with the idea of not going, then went anyway.

N started warming up on the treadmill. The machines on that side of the gym face a window. I can't imagine who thought the vista of illegally parked cars and staggering teenagers in the street below would be an inspirational view. 'Was your ex there?'

'He was.' The Boy turned up late, before the birthday party left the bar and went on to the club. I was talking to A3, we were eyeing up various people in the room and rating them on shaggability. 'Guy in the red shirt?' 'Only if drunk.' 'Him or you?'

'Both.'

Then A3, who was facing the door, caught sight of the Boy.

'Bloke in the blue‐checked shirt?' he asked.

I turned round, saw who it was and shuddered involuntarily.

'Fuck off.'

'Sorry, that was unfair,' A3 said.

'It's okay.'

'Did he say anything?' N upped his speed and broke into a jog.

'No, he kept a good distance.' Not knowing whether or not the Boy would be there was by far the worst part of the evening. I found it difficult to keep up conversation with anyone; my eyes were scanning the room for him constantly. If I saw someone who resembled him my mouth went dry and my words jumbled. But once I knew he was there, I relaxed.

The Boy didn't look at me, I didn't look at him. He hovered around the fringes of the large group, talking to people we knew.

N and I were both at a slow run. Sweat started to prickle my collarbone. 'Did you pull?' he asked.

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'Not really,' I said. 'There was one fellow in the bar, who came up out of nowhere. He pulled my hair hard and bit me on the neck, then walked away.'

'Really? What did you do?'

'Nothing.' But my knees had gone to jelly. The stranger had held my hair for a long moment, staring at me. I stared back. He pulled harder. Our gaze didn't break. I knew all my friends were watching. Fuck them. Then the man who bit me walked back to his friends. He didn't say anything.

'What did he do?'

'Nothing.'

'Really?' N ran on for a bit. 'Maybe he was doing it for a bet. So how late were you out?'

'Late late.' We went on to a club. I was talking to a friend of A3's from home, a very pretty short girl with spiky hair. I kind of fancied her and was aware that the Boy (whose voice I could hear behind me) was probably watching. We queued and went inside.

The music was old‐school, they even played Vanilla Ice. I couldn't stop dancing. The Boy stayed on the edge of the crowd.

I flopped into a chair, sweating heavily from the exertion on the dancefloor. A3 picked up my feet and put them on his lap, massaging my instep in the open black stilettos. Someone snapped a picture of us. I closed my eyes to the heat and haze of the club. Music has always had the power to change my mood. Or perhaps it was the drink. It was easy to forget everything around me.

N jumped off the treadmill and we went to stretch. 'And that was it? You danced for a while and went home?'

'No ‐ at least four men tried to chat me up.' One of them knelt down while I was still sitting, shut‐eyes, enjoying the music. 'I've never seen anyone look so happy,' he said. Ha, I thought. 'Thank you,' I said. We started talking. He wanted to dance, I didn't.

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'Get anyone's number?' N winced, as he tried to urge more length out of his hamstrings.

'Just one worth noticing. A trolley dolly from BA.'

'Male or female?'

'Male.'

'Nice‐looking?'

'Aren't they all?' The Boy stuck around for a long time, but even he was gone by 3 a.m. There was still a hard core of us buying round after round in honour of the birthday boy. The flight steward was more persistent than the other men who'd come up during the night, and gave me his card. I waved him goodbye as we staggered out to find the night buses.

'Weights?' N said, edging towards the frightening bench apparatus in the corner.

'Go on, then.'

dimanche, le 11 avril

I retrieved my bag and brought out a box of condoms. He held the member in front of my face while I tore the corner of the wrapper open. I held the shaft and balanced the unrolled rubber on the tip of the cock.

'Do you have to do that?' the client asked.

'Afraid I must,' I sighed. 'Minimises the risks involved.'

'I trust you,' he said.

'That's very kind,' I said, and smiled. 'Trouble is, I don't know where this thing,' and I gestured at the instrument he brandished before me, 'has been.'

'Oh,' he said, and was quiet a moment. 'It's just that, I really don't like the smell those things leave on it.'

I thought. 'I could give it a good hot water and soap scrub in the bathroom instead of using a condom,' I offered.

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'Would that do?' Against my policy, but it was low risk for him and almost none for me.

He sighed in relief. It was a big fleshy black dildo ‐ his own cock stayed well zipped up. I took the dildo over to the sink, being careful to wash all the soap off carefully so he wouldn't taste any when he sucked my juices off it later.

lundi, le 12 avril

Went to a club. Saw Angel, who was wearing a skirt that was more of a glorified belt. The girl just has unbelievable legs. The music was loud; we didn't speak, I wouldn't have known what to say to her anyway. Danced together and jumped and sang along when the DJ spun The Jam's 'That's Entertainment'. Looked at the boys who were watching us ‐realised none of them were old enough to know the tune. They probably weren't even born then. I smiled evilly.

I picked out one young man, a tall, thin and freckled lad, who looked like a stretched‐out version of the Boy. Led him back towards the toilets where we snogged, pulled up his dark green shirt, licked his nipples. 'Do you live close to here?' he asked, surprised. I shook my head no, asked if he did. He didn't. I pushed out the back exit and we fucked on the steps by the bins.

mardi, le 13 avril

It's widely circulated and well known that You Get What You Pay For. I don't agree. Some things come for free and some at a cost, but one isn't better than the other.

There are downsides to unpaid casual sex, of course. Aren't there always? By engaging in truly random, one‐night 229

attachments, you open yourself up to stalking, relationships and all other manner of sexually transmitted ills. For some reason, we as a nation have collectively decided that a drunken snog in a crowded club is an acceptable overture to everlasting love. It isn't.

So let us get that straight right away.

The men I have encountered in my working life can be characterised by a single feature ‐ timidity. Whether it's requesting watersports or going through the back door, by and large the punters seem uncomfortable with demanding what they, as paying customers, are implicitly entitled to. If one thing can be predicted it's that the more exotic the request, the more times he will ring the manager pre‐appointment to discuss it. One‐night men, on the other hand, tend to just take.

Don't get me wrong. I find a client's sometime inability to express his inner desires charming. Sweet, even. But it's amusing when I ask what a man would like to do, and he replies, 'Whatever you want to do.'

You mean, go home and watch television while sipping hot chocolate in my pyjamas? I think he would feel my fee was somehow less than justified. But still better is the mumbled, 'Oh, you know, the usual.'

No, I don't know. For you the usual might be open‐air rope bondage with a ring of ponygirls. I know it is for me.

Your typical club‐stud, on the other hand, has a take‐no-prisoners approach to his needs that I find refreshing. You're there, he's there, the DJ is playing 'Carmina Burana', which is definitely the signal to collect your coat and get out, and you're the only two people not playing find‐my‐tonsils in the taxi queue.

It's a foregone conclusion what will happen next and the only guarantee is that someone's wrinkly bits will make it to CCTV in the next half hour. And to be honest, I don't pick up random men because I want a love match.

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Nothing less than a full cervical bruising will do, and I am rarely disappointed.

Or as N puts it, when you know you're not going to see her again anyway, why not push the boundaries?

Who else but a non‐paying stranger would insist that he would only do the deed if my womanhood was partially lined with ice chips first? Who else would try ‐ unsuccessfully ‐ to fist me while driving (NB: not ideal in city traffic)? No client would dare, for fear I would whip out a calculator and start totting up the additional cost of this service.

There's a lot of talk in escort circles of Girlfriend Experience (GFE). That's because it is by far the most requested thing we offer. I have been cuddled to within an inch of my life by well-meaning chaps whose only previous acquaintance with me was via a website. I've sipped red wine and watched telly with single gents until the taxi beeped its horn outside. And no pick‐up, to my recollection, has ever stretched out on the counterpane and told me stories of his childhood in Africa.

The last gentleman before the boy at the club ‐ and I am rather stretching the meaning of the word 'gentleman' here ‐who followed me home on a random, stayed exactly ninety minutes.

We did the deed, considered doing it again, then he fretted about his recent ex, dressed and left. I was somewhat offended that he turned down the offer of a cup of tea. Still, I went to bed having gotten what I wanted out of the night, which was a good and forceful banging.

Clients are another species altogether. They have invited me on holiday, asked my opinion on the possibility of extraterrestrial life, and cleaned my shoes while waxing poetic on the proportions of my profile. The most upholstered compliment I ever received from a pick‐up, on the other hand, was 'Coffee? A clean towel?

This is great ‐ staying at your place is like being in a hotel.'

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Ah, no. I've been in plenty of hotels. And the men aren't paying for fluffy towels.

jeudi, le 15 avril

The client was a re‐visit. He was in law enforcement, and the first time out he'd taken me to a semi‐formal work event. From the ratio of nubile cuties to paunchy detectives, I may not have been the only paid girl there. Or perhaps the Met's PR efforts are paying off in unexpected ways. I had been seated next to my date, while one of his colleagues, a Scottish youth, looked down the front of my top in a way that suggested it was meant more surreptitiously than it came off.

This time the customer met me at his flat and asked a lot of questions, probably because we were alone. This can be dicey: are they just curious or potential stalkers? As they say, the truth is like the sun, its benefit is entirely dependent on our distance from it.

So I have a manufactured history that is mostly, but not completely, true. Minor but plausible differences in hometown, university, degree, current home. Other questions are simpler to answer.

'Have you ever dominated?'

'Honey, that was how I started in the business.' When 1 was a student and worked briefly as a domme, it was something I didn't especially enjoy and didn't want to do again. Largely because getting out of character was difficult for me. But maybe being more of a submissive in my private life led to some empathy for those who like to be dominated, because I've ended up doing it more than a few times in this job as well.