He removed the condom himself afterward. I never did have a proper look at the result. dimanche, le 28 mars
I had been set up yet again, this time with someone introduced merely as “your future husband,” no pressure or anything. lundi, le 29 mars
I have this friend, right, only she’s not really a friend. More of an ally, or an acquaintance who won’t quite go away. And I’m not usually an unkind person, promise, I’m not.
I met her via A3, who kind-of sort-of had a thing with her a few years ago. By which I mean that he fancied her until he found out how desperately awful she was, at which point there was no turning back. As Churchill said, when you’re going through hell, keep going.
EOBAYH, we call her. Short for Each One Big As Your Head. This reference to her massive… tracts of land, being almost unpronounceable, has shortened itself to a two-hands-ballooning-from-chest gesture that signifies an overample bosom. Sample: “I ran into [hand gesture] the other day, apparently she’s doing the low-carb diet.”
“Yes? Is it working?” Because Hand Gesture’s assets are all natural, there’s a bottom to match the top. Not to mention a middle. And ankles you could safely moor Thames pleasure cruisers to.
(raised eyebrow in response, indicating that, if anything, she has grown more ample)
Hand Gesture probably has the highest ratio of failed diets and gym memberships to actual pounds lost of anyone I’ve met.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not polite to ridicule someone’s weight. A4, for instance, has been known to carry an extra pound or two and we never utter so much as a peep. But Hand Gesture has earned the right to be mocked by automatically declaring anyone smaller than her to have an eating disorder. Which by definition is the entire living population of the world save the scarier neighborhoods of Glasgow and a few bubbes in Miami. A conversation with Hand Gesture will most likely include a passage along the lines of, “I ran into Ruth the other day, yes? She just had a baby-right back to her original weight, eating disorder-and she was telling me about a new band her partner’s in…” and so on and so forth. Endlessly. She saw your mum the other day? Eating disorder. That blonde on Teachers? Eating disorder. New slimline Vanessa Feltz? Bulimic cow. Conversely, nibble so much as a rusk in front of her, and you’re bingeing.
Anyway. Last week A3 was in town and rang to see if I wanted to meet for lunch. It was rather disorganized-he had two meetings beforehand, one in Bayswater and one in the City. But my daylight schedule is dead easy to rearrange, and we decided on 3 p.m. on Friday. Bought a sandwich an hour before, noodled around the shops for a bit, arrived at the restaurant. The staff looked a touch surly at having customers in the post-lunch hours, for which I felt not the tiniest tinge of guilt. A spotty student-type led me wordlessly to the table.
He sat me opposite Hand Gesture and her magnificently upholstered chest. Damn, I hadn’t known she would be there. Though if I had known, I probably wouldn’t have bothered turning up. She was the only other person there, scarfing through the complimentary bread and olives. So much for low-carb diets.
“Hello, darling,” I said, feeling none of the goodwill I hoped I oozed. “A pleasant surprise to see you.” I asked after her family and she brought me up to date on who was looking too skinny, who should eat something, and- while there was no physical evidence to confirm this-the stones that had been simply dropping off her lately through diet and exercise. She offered me a chunk of bread and, still rather full from the sandwich, I waved it away.
“You’re certain?” she asked, eyes scanning my breasts, which are by no stretch of the imagination as big as my head, much less hers. “You’re not one of these…”
I put on a pained look and fluttered a hand up to my chest. “Celiac disease, actually,” I said, twitching the corners of my mouth and making as if to cry. “They diagnosed last month. My bowels are literally falling out of me, I can’t digest gluten and have come out in a rash all over.”
“My… no. Really?” she asked, mouth slack.
I leaned forward conspiratorially. “The worst part is the explosive diarrhea,” I whispered, just as the rest of our party arrived and seated themselves. “You simply can’t imagine how awful it’s been. You’re ever so lucky. It would be a blessing to have real thighs again.”
Of course, this meant I had to nibble poached fish and a terrible salad for the rest of lunch, but it was worth an hour of neither words nor food passing her mouth. I’m not usually an unkind person, really I’m not. mardi, le 30 mars
The client leaned over me, pulling at his member furiously. “I’m going to come on your face,” he said. It was the sixth time in ten minutes he’d said it, growling, as if trying to convince himself.
That was all. “I’m going to come on your face.” No instructions for me, though I played with my breasts and nipples, sucked my own fingers after touching myself, hoping that would help. All that I had known before the appointment were the details of the meeting and a request to wear a lot of makeup.
My effort didn’t seem to help. He was looking at the wall, not at me. A few times his frantic hand slowed, and he dipped down to my lips. He was going soft and I sucked him hard again. He never looked down, not once. Then the masturbation would start again. And the mantra. “I’m going to come on your face.” I writhed on the sheets and groaned. No reaction. I bent my head forward and licked his inner thigh. Again, no reaction.
Half an hour later, he still had not finished. I murmured and probed, wandering fingers, gentle questions. But it seemed he wanted nothing from me, save to be the canvas he painted. It made me feel the way unturned clay must, wanting to form into something, some fantasy, but not being allowed. His shoulders slumped and he fell, sweaty, into my chest, “I’m sorry, honey, it ain’t gonna happen,” he said, as if it had been my idea all along. mercredi, le 31 mars
Funnily enough, the liaison with “my future husband” did not go to plan. I hold this up as a prime example of why my friends should not choose my dates, but A1 is undeterred and determined not only to make his mark as matchmaker, but to find the root of my problems with partners.
So he was idly surfing the Web while I hunted for any scrap of cake in his house. None was forthcoming, and I made a deal with the devil and concocted a cup of chocolate consisting of the heat-whitened end of a chocolate bar, most of a waxen bar of choc from an Army rat pack, and instant coffee. It swirled, oily and evil, in a white mug. “When and where were you born?” A1 asked.
“Why?”
“Natal chart.” Online astrology is one of the sure signs of imminent societal collapse. Told him anyway. “Oh dear. Oh, oh dear.”
“What’s that?” I sipped the greasy faux-chocolate drink. Foul, yes, but not unsatisfying. Must find a better method of dealing with hormonal cycles though-for it is spring, when a young woman’s fancy turns to bikinis.
“Mars is in Cancer.” (Or whatever on earth he said. I’m not au fait with this particular brand of superstition.)
“Which means what exactly?”
“You’re emotionally manipulative.”
“Alert the press. I wonder who didn’t already know that.”
Avril
Q-S
Q is for Quality
Don’t get lazy. It’s perfectly acceptable for one’s mind to wander on the job, but totting up your credit card receipts while some poor john bones you from behind will not go unnoticed. Feigning interest is the social lubricant of modern life and not too much to ask in one hour out of the day. Think of it as increasing the chances of a tip and repeat business.
Q is also for Quitting
Some people say once you’ve been paid for sex, you are never really out of the business. I’ll report back in 2037 whether this is true.
R is for Relationships
This is not a film or a fairy tale. You will not end up marrying a rich, attractive single man you met on the job and live happily ever after. Do not date the clients, do not confuse the nature of the relationship. Enjoy the man if
