date a stripper and would take me to the fleshpots with his friends, which I rather liked”
• it was not terribly hard work, the girls were frightening
• couldn’t stop giggling at the men talking to me between sets. Who wants to go over the finer points of Greek tragedy with a girl in a see-through bra?
• scratch that, I completely see the appeal, BBC 3 take note
• but it was a stopgap and I was dead scared of a tutor walking in. I left.
Then, a couple of years later,
• was at a vaguely witchy party with a housemate
• dressed in black and carrying a whip (mine). The housemate was dressed as Miss World, which is not relevant, but interesting
• a woman approached us, talked to me a bit, she had a dungeon, and plenty of equipment
• it paid far more than stripping, I managed to control the impulse to laugh
• stopped when I landed a “legit” job in a bookshop on weekends, less well paid, but access to loads of free books
• in retrospect, did not choose wisely.
But enough backstory. Today’s my birthday, and I mean to celebrate in style. lundi, le 10 novembre
9 p.m. yesterday: Whilst readying ourselves for a birthday night out (all shaving shaven, all brushing brushed, all scrubbing scrubbed), my boyfriend and I finished off a sex quiz from a glossy women’s magazine.
Yes, as you have probably picked up, I am a call girl with a boyfriend. A boyfriend who knows what I do. We’ve been together about a year. He doesn’t live in the city, though.
Yes, it causes friction. Mmm, friction. Not always a bad thing. Especially in bed. He doesn’t like my job but he has some abominable social habits too, like sneaking rum into people’s drinks when they’re not looking and voting Conservative.
He buttoned up a soft dark blue shirt, a gift from his mother. I sat at a dressing table, crossed my legs, and read out the questions in my sauciest voice. “At what time is a man most likely to be aroused-A, morning, B, midday, or C, night?”
He raised an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. “Is there a D, ‘all the time’ option?”
10 p.m.: Met A2 (one of my exes), A4 (the clever boy), and other friends at the Blue Posts, commandeered the big leather seats by the fire (also blocking the cigarette machine and the stairs, which makes one wonder about the people who devised this layout). Set about attempting to fill the greater percentage of my stomach with alcohol.
Midnight: A club nearby, I think. It all grows a bit hazy. Multiple shots imbibed containing schnapps, which is evil. I lost a pair of gloves.
2 a.m.: Emboldened by recent gym-going, asserted that I was strong enough to pick the Boy up. Wobbled on my heels and we both fell back on the floor. Certain if I wasn’t so drunk, I would have felt a right twat.
3 a.m.: Oxford Street, everyone marching along and singing “Seven Nation Army” in unison. No one can remember all the words, except for the part about Wichita. We lose the few celebrants who haven’t begged off yet to bus stops along the way.
Sometime after that: Minicab. We collapse in the approximate location of my bed twenty minutes later.
9 a.m.: I get up to use the toilet. When I come back, the Boy is standing in the door. “Close your eyes,” he says. I do. He puts one arm under my arms and one under my knees and carries me to the bed. Gently, he sets me down. I feel the softness of fleece under my back and toes. “Open them,” he says, and I see that he has spread the bed with a soft white sheepskin blanket identical to the one on his bed. “Happy birthday,” he whispers, and we make love three times.
A happy birthday indeed. mardi, le 11 novembre
So much for a relaxing break from work-every morning I wake to missed texts and calls from the agency.
The benefits of taking a few days off-aside from the chance to catch up on laundry-are largely spiritual. But one learns a few mundane things as well. Such as that it’s nice to let hair grow out a bit to get a good, clean waxing. Also, you remember what the hair was there for in the first place. Lubrication. No, really.
Pity the clients will never know this. mercredi, le 12 novembre
The manager of the escort agency rang. “Darling, is verrrry nice gentleman who loves your pictures. Are you free?”
“I’m afraid not, no,” I say, hoping the Boy doesn’t overhear.
“But he is verrrrry nice.”
“Sorry, no.”
A few months after the encounter with the older woman and her boyfriend, I located what sounded like a small, discreet agency on the Internet. The miracle of information interconnected by technology means that any site is only three clicks away from an escort service, really. The website was modestly designed compared to some others, but the girls were attractive and straightforwardly described. Most of them looked extremely normal-not scary robe-women, and not shudderingly unattractive amateur cam girls, either. Just reasonably normal women, but, you know, naked and straddling a garden wall. After e-mail contact and sending my photos, I finally rang to make arrangements to meet the manager at the dining room of a central London hotel. She sounded very young and had a very strong Eastern European accent. Polish, maybe? Should I ask?
“How will I know you?” I asked. “What do you look like?”
“When I was younger, everyone used to say I looked like Brooke Shields,” she said.
“Ah, you must be very beautiful then.”
“No, I am old and decrepit. Now people say I look like Daryl Hannah.”
I ended the call feeling disloyal. After all, my relationship with the Boy at that stage was fairly new, and here I was arranging to meet a madame and work as a whore. Would he have a problem with it? Stupid question, girl. My mind worked through the possible outcomes.
• He chucks me instantly, and tells all his friends.
• He chucks me instantly, and is too embarrassed to tell his friends.
• He doesn’t chuck me, but becomes scary and unbalanced as the result of dating a whore.
• He doesn’t chuck me, but becomes scary because he actually likes the idea.
• He offers to join in, pro bono.
• He offers to join in, and earns better money than I do.
• He’s okay with it and things go on as normal.
The first three seemed likely enough, while the last four varied in credibility from “no way” to “really no fucking way.”
I could have backed out at any time before meeting the manager, of course. A few days passed between making first contact through e-mail and the interview with the escort agency. I went out and restocked makeup supplies. On the day of the appointment, I spent all morning getting ready. This involved no small amount of eyelash curling, hair straightening, and wardrobe panicking. Sexy but not slutty? You’ll be wanting the dark silk top, then. Young but serious? Well-cut coat. As much cleavage as I could muster. Boots, of course-it is autumn in London after all. My nails are an acrylic nightmare but there was simply no time to do anything about them. I have a horrible habit of chewing the cuticles, and it wreaks havoc with anything manicurists try to do.
On the way to the meeting point, I passed a movie poster and convinced myself that I looked not unlike Catherine Zeta-Jones.
Right. Now pull the other one.
I arrived early and went to the toilet. Makeup was already coming off in some places, cakey in others. Turning the cold tap on, I flicked a few drops of water on my face, dabbed, and reapplied lipgloss. Better. Little did I know this mini-ritual would become a central theme in my WG experience. Poking my head into the restaurant, I could see it was deserted on a weekday lunchtime. The single bored Asian waitress walked round and round the planters of fake flowers. I wouldn’t want to be there either.
The manager rang and asked me to take a table near the window. Was this so she could spy on me and run off if I didn’t fit the bill? Was it an elaborate setup, some kind of sting? More likely, she was just covering her back. I ordered coffee and waited.
She arrived, as described. Long blonde hair. Horsey face. Tight dress and killer brocade boots that matched
