They might just be backpackers. Who would appreciate the cash.
They might just be rapists.
The corridor turned sharp right just past their makeshift camp. The two young men-quite good-looking, actually-looked up as I came near. “Out late?” one asked.
I smiled. Could tell them the truth. Won’t. “Party,” I said.
“Cool,” the bearded one said. They went back to their conversation. Neither slowing nor swerving, I continued on out of sight. mercredi, le 7 janvier
He: “White wine, I presume.”
Me: “Why, how very thoughtful.” (he presents a glass, we toast and sip) “Rather drier than usual.”
“Thought I’d give it a try.”
As a regular becomes more regular, rules slip a tiny bit. They’re not supposed to be under the influence during an appointment-and neither are we-though a little alcohol isn’t expressly forbidden. Having seen this particular man several times, I know that he must indulge in a spliff before he sees me. I can smell it, and am surprised it doesn’t affect his performance.
Last night I arrived a few minutes early-Monday nights, light traffic-and caught him in the act.
Another habit he indulges in are inhalants during my visits. Now, I realize these aren’t illegal (at least, I don’t think they are), and am not opposed to drug-taking as such. Live and let live, victimless crime, and all that. I only rarely take anything stronger than a stiff drink-though those who knew me at uni would probably attest to the contrary.
Last night on his bedroom floor, I was sitting astride him. He, eyes closed, reached for the familiar small brown bottle and took a direct sniff. And then he offered it to me. What’s the harm? I thought, and sniffed, and did so again when he picked it up ten minutes later.
And what a rush it was. I felt my scalp, face, and ears pounding, like when you blush but more so. Every sound seemed intensified, a little tinny. My fingertips felt like paws, a foot wide.
Thank goodness it only lasted a minute or so.
The inhalant, that is. The sex was rather longer. jeudi, le 8 janvier
There are several things this job makes difficult to take seriously.
First: public transport. Perhaps in normal jobs, coming in twenty minutes late is excused with the “Northern Line, grumble, you know, bah” routine. But when a neglected husband has sixty minutes between lunch hour and his next meeting, and he took a Viagra and seriously has the horn, you cannot be late. The taxis and I are old friends now, darling.
Second: people giving you the eye on public transport. Maybe they think I’ll follow them off to a hidden love nest? Or they’ll follow me off and it will be love at first crowded, southbound-delays sight? No chance.
Third: one-night stands. Like the Army, I have fun and get paid to do it. Sometimes it’s not as fun but I always get paid. I clock more oral sex in a week from customers than in my entire time at uni.
Fourth: boyfriend troubles. I don’t want to be single and a prostitute. I don’t want to be without him in my life. We called a truce. Yes, really.
Fifth: fashion. Flat boots, short hair, cropped trousers, ra-ra skirts? I’d never get work again. vendredi, le 9 janvier
It was the Boy’s birthday, so he came up to visit. Things were nice-he was clean and polite and clearly on best behavior. For most of the night, things were easy, relaxed, even. I leaned more and more heavily on his arm and he responded with an arm around me. Thank goodness, I thought. Just a blip. Nothing to fret over.
We decided to leave our friends in Wimbledon early (the better to strain the bed, my dear) with the flimsiest of excuses, only to run into epic stoppages on the tube. After being stuck at Earl’s Court for an hour, Himself nodding off on my shoulder, a change of route was announced for our train. So we leapt off at Gloucester Road to make a transfer. Alas, the Piccadilly line was also toast.
I made an executive decision and dragged us outside to flag down a black cab. “How much is this going to cost us?” the Boy asked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll cover it,” I said. Noticed him leaning in to quiz the driver himself. “Oh, come on, you silly,” I scolded, bundling him into the cab.
I directed the driver first to an appropriate bank to withdraw cash. The Boy was sulking when I got back in the car. “The meter went back on while we were waiting,” he grumbled. “Probably added at least a pound to the fare.”
I wasn’t too bothered. “He was waiting a couple of minutes,” I said. Also, having grabbed a black cab instead of a minicab, I was fairly certain that-whatever the fare-he wouldn’t try to drive us all over hither and yon. I live out in the relative sticks and forty-pound round-trips into town are not unheard of. In the course of work, naturally, it’s an expense the client covers. Considering the time and the trip, if we got in for around twenty I’d be grateful.
The Boy pouted, withdrew his hand from mine and sulked out the window.
A bit later, we were about two miles from home. “I think we should get out here, we’re close enough,” the Boy said. The meter had just ticked over twenty quid, but I was in heels and uninterested in spending half an hour in the cold when we could be in bed making sweet lurrrve.
I looked at him sharply. “If you want to get out and walk, I won’t stop you.” I had no intention of going anywhere. This was his birthday, my treat, and what’s money compared to being home in each other’s arms?
The light turned green. The driver nervously checked his mirror. “Um, are you getting out here mate?” he asked.
“No.” The Boy crossed his arms and sunk lower in the seat.
We were at mine inside five minutes, safe and sound. Mortified at the scene, I tipped the driver three pounds. We walked up the steps. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Well,” I said.
“Well.”
“Are you going to apologize? Because I am livid.”
“I can’t believe you let him fleece you like that.”
“I can’t believe you acted like that. It’s only money.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“It’s my money to spend, and I want to spend it on getting us home together. It’s no more than a round at the pub would have cost.”
Cue a nightlong argument in which, ironically, the whore bears the standard for Money Is Meaningless, while her boyfriend recounts favors done and expenses incurred by him throughout the past year. If he truly wants to change careers, perhaps accounting would suit. It ended rather abruptly with me writing a check for something approaching my hourly fee and shoving it into his hand. “Will that do?” I asked. “Does that make you happier?”
After a strained morning he wandered off to chat up the neighbor and palpate her shinier, better techno toys. There is no worse sound than the greedy giggles of a redhead displaying a PDA in juxtaposition with her cleavage.
I spent the better part of an hour scanning train schedules. samedi, le 10 janvier
We were exhausted from arguing all night. He had a train to make at London Bridge. I was meeting friends and we left the house at the same time. At the tube station, we sat with an empty seat between us. He pored over a map of London pointlessly.
A Northern Line tube arrived. The carriages near our end were empty. I jogged up and hopped on. The doors remained ajar a few moments. I sat and looked around-he hadn’t followed me on. I looked to both ends of the carriage. Popped my head out the door. The Boy wasn’t there. The doors closed.
I sat down again, put my head on the large bag in my lap, sighed. A couple of stops passed. People crowded in, some groups, talking. I got off to change at Euston and momentarily thought about going back. No, I figured, he’d be long gone. But I stood on the platform, waited through a few arriving trains, just in case. After ten minutes I gave up. Sat down across from a young Asian man, a girl wearing a headscarf and headphones, and a bored- looking blonde with her shopping.
Just before London Bridge a face popped in front of mine. I jumped. It was him. I was surprised, didn’t know what to say. This was obviously the wrong reaction.
“Oh, never mind,” he said, going to stand by the door.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
“What do you mean? I’ve been here all along.”
