balance four candles in a fir wreath on my head is by the by.
The Boy and I met for drinks later that week but nothing happened. I felt uncomfortable following up on the promise of that first meeting. He did try at first-a lingering glance here, a trailing hand there-but soon learned the boundaries. He may have been a fully paid-up member of the bon ton, but he was no cad. Or perhaps he was biding his time. The relationship I was in was clearly not healthy. By the time I split with that boyfriend and moved to London, the Boy had new digs in Brighton. He drove up to meet me and moved everything into my new flat. We fucked for the first time among the scattered boxes and suitcases and piles of books on the floor. Wooden planks. I had friction scars for weeks after. samedi, le 29 novembre
I was cleaning off the makeup shelves, discarding crusty bottles of drying nail varnish and foundation-sodden sponges. I thought this job would just be a stopgap, but it’s been absolute months now. It’s become almost routine now but didn’t always seem like that.
Preparing for my first appointment had felt like making up for the stage. I remember laying out a liquid base and a stick one; eye shadow, liner, and mascara; lip liner, gloss. Preparation had started early. Too early. But I had no inkling of how to put it all together, how long it would take.
I showered and dried myself carefully in the white-tiled bathroom, looking for stray hairs missed by waxing and shaving. A quick blast of deodorant. Applied a drop of cologne to my cleavage and inside elbows. Put on a white lace bra and knickers, stockings, dried my hair. Part it here or there? Which way should it fall? Hair up or hair down? Fluffy or straight? I straightened the ends so they wouldn’t curl in the damp night air but otherwise left it alone. Small pearl earrings.
I put the dress over my head, then started on makeup. Foundation, no powder. A damp tissue applied lightly to take the excess off. Violet eyeshadow-only a touch. A dab of silvery white eyeliner just at the inside corner of my eyes. Cat eyes or not? Vamp or girlish? My hand was shaking slightly. Unwound the mascara, wiped the excess on a tissue, let it sit in the air a moment. Brushed on one layer. Then a second.
My eyes in the mirror stood out a mile from the rest of the face. I lined my lips, wondering how much to use and how much would come off on him. What would I have to take with me, would there be time to reapply? With the tip of my little finger I dabbed a liquid blusher on as lipstain. Gloss. More gloss. I thought of the manager’s advice: men love glossy lips. I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to think why.
A touch of gel to keep the hair off my forehead and cheeks. A clip to keep it back. I put the shoes on and buckled them at the ankles. Black, patent-leather stilettoes showing a long stripe of instep. Incredibly high heels, but once I’d run for a bus in them. I had danced till morning in these many times. Fuck-me shoes.
Then my coat. College scarf or fluffy blue one? The blue would leave fibers on the coat; I decided against it in the end. It was a cold night. Navy gloves with tiny buttons along the wrist. I stuck a pin with a butterfly in the coat lapel. Nervous; took deep breaths. Still a quarter of an hour to wait.
My mouth had gone dry. Went to the kitchen and poured a drink. Was alcohol a bad idea? Didn’t know. One couldn’t hurt. My lips left a crackling pink half-moon on the rim of the glass. Packed a handbag. I was sweating inside the coat and scarf and gloves. Still ten minutes until the taxi. Looked at the location for the appointment again on a map. Didn’t want to carry it with me. It was near a tube station. If I could memorize the directions from the tube station, I should be fine.
Went downstairs and stood outside. The cold wind tickled the damp hair at my neck. Looked down my road. No one was out walking. Very few cars came by. A bus paused at the bus stop, no one was waiting, it drove on. A small car came up behind it. A man looking out the window. That must be the cab, I thought. Focus. I’m working as of now. Smile, wave, give him the address. From here on, I am not me.
We found the house. Paid the driver. Up the walk, brass knocker on the door. A light on inside. My hair was falling in my face. I took the clip out and shook the hair loose. Smiled. Rapped at the door. No turning back.
The next morning I woke up in my own bed. Held my hand up, stared at it for ages. Was something supposed to be different? Should I have felt victimized, abused? I couldn’t say. The finer points of feminist theory didn’t seem to apply. Things felt as they always had. Same hand, same girl. I got up and made breakfast. dimanche, le 30 novembre
The Boy has been casting around for a new position for some time (working position that is, not sexual, though all offers gratefully received). He’s been unhappy at work for so long, but it’s secure, but this, but that, well, and so on, and so forth. His workmates are the same crowd he ran with at university. But now one of them has been made redundant and he’s starting to feel the full focus of the upper echelons of administration looking carefully at what he does. I keep suggesting military service, and not just because I think he would fill out a uniform in a most attractive manner. So he e-mailed his CV to see if there was anything I could do.
I returned it within the half hour. Almost immediately the phone rang. It was the Boyfriend, and he was laughing.
“This is great stuff, kitty… but I don’t think I can use it.”
“No?”
“For one thing I don’t think the Army cares either way about the size of my member.”
“You don’t know that for sure. You could get anyone interviewing you.” I hear the services are really very modern these days.
“Nice thought.” I heard him scrolling down the e-mail from the other end of the phone. “Recovery time between ejaculations should not be in the Other Qualifications section.”
“It’s important to me, sweetie.”
“Doubtless. And ‘Oral sex: giving and receiving’ under Interests and Activities?”
“Are you saying they’re not?” We laughed.
It occurred to me to recommend my own line of work, not that he’d ever bite. The Boy is as straitlaced as a whalebone corset. I, by contrast, am widely considered among our acquaintances to be amoral. Even by the ones who don’t know what I do for a living.
Decembre
D-G
D is for Disasters
For me, there’s no such thing as an insurmountable disaster. If it all goes horribly wrong, console yourself with the knowledge you’ll probably never see the customer again. Even if it goes right, you will probably never see the customer again.
That said, always be certain your phone is fully charged and within arm’s reach if needed. And keep a travel pack of baby wipes on hand for cleaning up all messes of biological origin.
E is for Eating
Whoring is like exercise: you can’t eat too soon before the appointment, or you risk blowing chunks at an inopportune moment. The usual timing of non-dinner dates means that normal meals are almost always out of the question. Have a generous lunch. Take a snack to nibble on the way home. Carry a spoon just in case.
E is also for Exercise
Someone once told me that girl-on-top positions can burn as many calories per hour as one of those gym stepper machines. Note that the gent is apt to give out before you have achieved a fat-burning workout, though.
F is for Forgetfulness
Always reconfirm appointment details with the agency. My memory is not worth relying on, and knocking on the door of room 1203 instead of 1302 can have unexpected-and probably not hilarious-consequences. I keep a small pad of paper handy.
That said, don’t write the details on the back of your hand, either.
G is for G-spot
You won’t need to know where this is at work. Tuck it away in the cupboard at home and save it for best. lundi, le 1 ^er decembre
