I like record stores; I like music. This was a chain store, though, its lower level full of DVDs and books about music. The few racks of actual albums were heavy with chart-toppers and low price deals. I stole upstairs to the jazz and blues section.
Most of the other customers were kids killing time just like me, though not caked in quite so much makeup. Would the client be at the appointed meeting place, I wondered, or was he out too? Perhaps he was even in here? I looked round. There was one man, blond and thin, leaning over the end rack. Attractive in a sort of corruptible- young-lecturer way. I sauntered by and glanced over his shoulder.
His slender fingers played with the corner of an Isaac Hayes disc. “Good choice,” I murmured, and he almost dropped it in surprise. I must have looked a sight-overdressed, bulging coat, and face like a fright mask of makeup. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I made for the ground level, shoes clattering on the stairs.
When I met the client, he was, of course, not the man from the shop.
It was an overnight job: staying until sunrise. The manager has received such positive feedback about my skills as a disciplinarian that she lists it prominently in the website portfolio. I’m not naturally dominant, but I don’t mind doing it. Now it seems all clients want the treatment.
He: “There’s nothing quite like the buzz from fucking strangers.”
Me: “Can I quote you on that?”
“Yes.” (pauses) “What are you doing with your hands?”
My fingers were tented, bearing my weight above him. “I don’t want to knock the paintings off the wall.” I gritted my teeth.
“Good idea. Try not to, then.” Cripes, mate, it’s not as if it’s your own house. Hmph. Pretty demanding for a submissive, I thought.
(later still)
He: “You’re a class act, my dear.”
Me: “I didn’t know anyone actually said that, outside the movies.”
“Have to get my lines from somewhere.”
N met me outside the hotel just before sunrise. He’s a close friend, we used to date, he knows what I do, and can double for George Clooney in the right light. As in, pitch black. N was smirking. “Have fun in there?” I opened my coat to show him two whips tied to the inside lining. “You brought the Persuaders. So you were having fun.”
“Sort of. Yes. He couldn’t stay hard, so we drank the minibar and watched Channel Five for the last hour.” We got into N’s car, which was parked on the pavement. “And he gave me a silver bubble blower.” I took the gift out of my purse. It was in a wooden box wrapped with gold and black ribbons, and shaped like a tiny champagne bottle.
I wasn’t feeling tired and neither was he. “You want to blow bubbles?” N asked as we drove over Tower Bridge. We turned and drove up the leafy Embankment, and the growing light of the morning made the water glint darkly. N knows about the tides of the Thames; he’s seen bodies dragged out of the river; he knows where the terrapins and seals go when the weather is warm. He pointed to a building with a swimming pool in the basement, said he used to swim there when he was at school because it was the closest one. And that bridge, he remembers the woman who threw herself off it, pockets full of pebbles, but who didn’t realize the air would catch in her layers of clothing so she couldn’t sink. When the rescue boats came to drag her out, she fought them off-“Put me in, put me in!” I sat back, eyes half closed, as he told me more of the city lore. We ended up at Charing Cross station at sunrise, blowing soapy scraps of bubble juice diluted with manky Thames water onto the first commuters of the day. mardi, le 4 novembre
Small handbags, bah. The magazines can tout this or that tiny purse of the season. But considering what I typically leave the house carrying, a pair of folding scissors (stray threads are the enemy) a pen (my memory is good, but not that good) phone (phone agency on arrival and leaving) condoms (polyurethane as well as latex-some people have allergies) a spoon bottle of lube lipgloss (reapplying lipstick after a blowjob is too complicated) compact and mascara small vial of scent (anything citrusy is nice) tissues spare knickers and stockings keys, bankcards, other normal detritus and sometimes, nipple clamps, ball gag, and a multitailed rubber whip, a capacious holdall is the order of the day. Packing all that into a Fendi baguette is a black art not even Houdini could master. mercredi, le 5 novembre
I was reminded of a phrase I had forgotten existed- turning tricks.
Turning tricks! What an intriguing concept! I imagine a Vegas dealer turning over the flop, an Edwardian society belle sifting through a silver plate of calling cards, a dominatrix flipping bound captives like so many grilling sausages. vendredi, le 7 novembre
My parents are quite nice. I know I’m biased, but it’s true. In spite of having left home years ago, I’m still in contact with one or both of them on an almost-daily basis.
They don’t know, officially, what I do. They know I’m in the sex trade but that’s it. Knowing my mother and her middle-class sensibilities, she probably tells her friends I’m a sales rep for Myla or something.
So while they officially don’t know, I suspect they unofficially do know. Or at least have a clue. Mum and Dad, they’re not stupid people.
I rang home for no particular reason. “Hello, honey,” Daddy said. “Still beating the streets? Ha ha ha.”
“Ha,” I bleated flatly. “Mum there?” He grunted and handed the phone over.
“When are you coming home?” she asked. No hello. No asking after my health. No one in her family has bothered with polite pleasantries since antediluvian times. Straight to the point, that’s them.
“Couple of weeks?”
“How’s the job search going?”
I umm ed and err ed. I couldn’t remember what I’d last told her. That I was looking for work, or starting on a research project? Thinking about postgrad programs, or applying to some? “Not bad, a few things out there, no interviews yet.”
Actually, it’s not quite all lies, I had a job interview.
Don’t get too excited-it wasn’t a real one. I was instructed to meet a client at a hotel, and was e-mailed his specific requirements for my interview technique. He required a shy, almost virginal secretary who would be powerless under his persuasion. Needless to say, A levels (not the academic sort) were required.
We finished early and snapped out of character. I found a lime-scented cream in the bathroom and massaged his tense shoulders. “Do you find my fantasies odd?” he asked.
“Odd?”
“Do you think it demeans women?”
I chose my words carefully. “I think this is the appropriate outlet for it.” We talked a bit longer. Interestingly, his background was very similar to mine-his mother comes from where my father is from, and vice versa. The conversation strayed to places, attitudes, foodstuffs, sport. As we spoke homesickness hit quickly and hard, and I was suddenly looking forward to the holidays.
My mother seemed satisfied with the evasion of her question. “Let me know when you’re visiting, yes? And if you’re bringing anyone, yes? So I can make up the rooms.”
“Of course,” I lied. Setting a date would have been pointless, because she inevitably forgets. On the day I turn up at home, suitcases in hand, she can always be counted on to exclaim, “Oh, was it today you were coming home? I thought it was tomorrow!”
She put Daddy back on the line. “Tell that nice boy of yours with the glasses I said hello!” he chirruped. That was a boy called A4, a lovely young lad who was very clever and always smiled. My father still says from time to time that he hopes we’ll marry. I don’t know if this is a sign of senility or a misguided attempt at matchmaking. A4 was three relationships ago. We’re still friends, though. I sighed, and wished them a pleasant weekend, and rang off. dimanche, le 9 novembre
Prostitution isn’t my first foray into sex work. Not that I’m equating standing behind an attractively arranged display of dildos to real live wetsex. I can’t brook the sanctimonious tut-tutting of shop assistants who don’t even have wankbooths to empty. Checking stock of rubber dicks is all well and good, but not an exalted position from which to crap on strippers, porn actresses, and prostitutes for not doing their part for the sisterhood.
Anyhow. Perhaps my odd CV did lead to the current job. Here’s the executive summary:
• as a student, was rather short of money
• someone suggested stripping. By “someone” I mean my then-boyfriend Al. By “suggested” I mean “used to
