often tip after. More often than they do for the actual sex. Weird creatures.
P is for Plastic
Tits, not credit cards. Do men prefer perfection or the real thing? Are all the other girls in the agency that naturally buoyant, or is there surreptitious cantilevering at work? Should you save your profits for an upgrade? Even the most down-to-earth girl will start to wonder if her career wouldn’t enjoy the boost pumping up the volume might bring. If you wouldn’t do it in real life, though, I can’t say I’d recommend doing it at all.
P is also (obviously) for Porn
There’s a fair amount of snobbery from those who buy tastefully hot, hardbound picture books on Neolithic erotic cave paintings against those who appear in hard-core porn. Believe me, honey, the snobbery goes both ways. African tribal sculpture of a man with an erection does not a libertine make.
Basically, if there isn’t the possibility of come staining something in the process of its creation, it’s class-B porn. Sorry to burst your bubble. Jenna Jameson, massage parlor attendants, and the guy who mops the booth at the peep show work in sex. People who wear pink baby-doll tees and stand behind a counter selling organic recycled nonphallic vibrators don’t. Saucy art-house films set in France during the 1960s student protests are not porn. Double fist penetration while blowing a dog is. Rule of thumb: the more likely couples are to view a sex product as a relationship-strengthening tool, the less hard-core it is. lundi, le 1 ^er mars
Am still up North, sleeping on a sofa of one of the As, looking for a good massage therapist locally and drinking too many tequila-based concoctions. There is this cat, whenever she sees me she makes for my lap and rattles her purrbox like a rusty motor. Extremely cozy and warm-fluffy at the mo, and vaguely toying with the notion of never going back to London.
Kidding! I’ll be home in a day or two. Wearing my brand-new gossamer pastel blue underwear, to boot. mardi, le 2 mars
It is probably the lot of everyone to fear old age. When you are young, it does not seem possible that someday you will be as ancient as your relatives, and similarly impossible that they were even, in their turn, young.
It’s when you leave the first flush of youth that the fear starts to creep in. The eyes of old people on the street-people whom you did not even notice, not so long ago-seem to bore straight into you. You will be here soon, they seem to say.
Only recently I saw my own future. Or to be more precise, heard it.
I was at home. My mother and grandmother were talking in the kitchen, unaware that I, checking my e-mail in a room around the corner, could hear every word.
But I paid them no attention until my ears seized on one phrase. Pubic hair.
Specifically, my mother saying to her mother, “I feel old. Why, only the other day I noticed my pubic hair is now almost completely gray.”
To which my grandmother replied, “You think that’s bad? Wait until they start falling out.”
I think I had better kill myself now, before it’s too late. mercredi, le 3 mars
Of the four As there’s only one of them I haven’t slept with. This would be A3. When we first met, there was immediate, overpowering chemistry. We snogged a bit but didn’t go any further.
He lived in a neighboring city, and when he went home, I was lonely. You know the feeling where all the pent-up energy goes straight to your legs, and you just want to run and run until you jump off a cliff? I confided in A2 and told him what had happened. I’d fallen hard and had to see the man.
We devised a plan: I would turn up at A3’s door at the weekend as a surprise and see what happened. Meanwhile I had four days to plan and fret. So I did what any girl would do.
I slept with A2. Confused yet?
No? How about this, then-I was seeing A4 at the time. We were on the outs, but still an item, just. Jumping ship was high on the agenda, and this looked like a good opportunity.
So, A4 is out of town on a conference, I’m sleeping with our mutual friend A2 and planning to throw myself at the feet of A3. When the weekend comes, I turn up at A3’s door.
He had a girlfriend. I had no idea. Until she answered the door. Her confused smile said she had no idea what was going on, and I felt exactly as low as I was acting. I made like Paula Radcliffe on speed.
A4 and I split properly; A2 and I made a brief go of things and it didn’t work out. But it’s water under the bridge now: they’re all friends with each other. Most people who meet us reckon A4 is my husband, A2 my brother, and A1 our uncle-not because he looks old, we assure him, he just oozes manly authority. But there is the slight lingering problem of A3. After all these years, he’s still seeing that girl. And sometimes on a night out he gets a bit pissed and overly friendly with me.
Too little, darling. Years too late.
We were at a restaurant a few nights ago. A2 introduced me to a colleague of his. As if he had to point him out at all. I noticed the man as soon as he came in the door.
“Nice,” I whispered to A2.
“I thought he was just your type,” he said, smiling.
He was. Neatly dressed, fit body, hands I could imagine all over me. Smart, polite, gorgeous mouth. “So where’s he from?”
“South coast, originally.”
“Mmm. Where’ve you been hiding this one?”
“He lives in San Diego.”
“Ugh. Why?”
A2 shrugged. “Job.”
I frowned. I didn’t want a repeat of First Date. A seven-thousand-mile long-distance affair is out of the question unless handsomely remunerated for travel expenses. I’ve crossed the ocean for a heart of gold before, only to find it not worth the effort. But in the interest of social lubrication I flirted with him and the other boys over the meal. Afterward A2 was feeling tired and went home, leaving Dr. California in the capable hands of me, A3, and A4.
We went on to a pub. A3 was obviously drunk. “I like your pigtail,” he said, stroking the bellpull of my hair. His fingers curled around the end and tugged. The skin on the back of my neck tingled. Don’t get me wrong, I still fancy the pants off this man, but can’t be doing with painful love polygons anymore.
“Thank you,” I said, turning my head so it slipped out of his grasp.
Dr. California racked up a set of billiard balls. We four toured the table for a couple of hours, me on a team with Official Ex A4, he with Unofficial Crush A3. A couple of people I hadn’t seen in years walked by; we exchanged updates and laughs. My eyes followed Dr. C’s lithe form around the room-eyeing the table, setting up a shot, the confident swing of the arm below the elbow on the follow-through. Competence so turns me on.
A few times, passing off the cue, I slid my hand over his lower back. Hard as.
A3 glowered at me, growing more drunk and moody. Finally he mumbled something about the last train home. On his way out the door, he put his arms roughly around my waist. I kissed the end of his nose.
“Good night,” I chirped.
He squeezed harder, drawing me up on my tiptoes, and planted a kiss full on my lips in front of everyone. He hadn’t been that forward in years. I pushed my face past his mouth into the side of his neck. He breathed hot against my ear. “You be careful. Wouldn’t want to damage that new lad,” he said, and left.
We put the cues away. The three of us finished our drinks. A4 gathered coats and went to the door.
I put a hand on Dr. C’s arm, holding him back until A4 had gone outside. I turned toward him, his bright open face. “May I kiss you?”
“Please,” he said. We snogged in the open doorway, blocking the exit. “Where are you staying?” he asked. A2’s sofa, I told him.
“I have a huge bed at the hotel,” he said.
“Perfect.”
A4 was outside and waved us off at the corner. About a block from the hotel, Dr. C turned to me. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No?”
“We met three years ago. I thought you were sexy then, too.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”
