A clean towel? This is great-staying at your place is like being in a hotel.”
Ah, no. I’ve been in plenty of hotels. And the men aren’t paying for fluffy towels. jeudi, le 15 avril
The client was a revisit. He was in law enforcement, and the first time out he’d taken me to a semiformal work event. From the ratio of nubile cuties to paunchy detectives, I may not have been the only paid girl there. Or perhaps the Met’s PR efforts are paying off in unexpected ways. I had been seated next to my date, while one of his colleagues, a Scottish youth, looked down the front of my top in a way that suggested it was meant more surreptitiously than it came off.
This time the customer met me at his flat and asked a lot of questions, probably because we were alone. This can be dicey: are they just curious or potential stalkers? As they say, the truth is like the sun, its benefit is entirely dependent on our distance from it.
So I have a manufactured history that is mostly, but not completely, true. Minor but plausible differences in hometown, university, degree, current home. Other questions are simpler to answer.
“Have you ever dominated?”
“Honey, that was how I started in the business.” When I was a student and worked briefly as a domme, it was something I didn’t especially enjoy and didn’t want to do again. Largely because getting out of character was difficult for me. But maybe being more of a submissive in my private life led to some empathy for those who like to be dominated, because I’ve ended up doing it more than a few times in this job as well.
“Really?” The client nodded and pursed his lips. “Really.” He was tall, well over six feet. Thick framed and strong. Probably mid-forties. Bald. And single, which is (from what I’ve seen) as likely in clients as not. “I find that… fascinating.”
What is it about men who know seven ways to kill you with their bare hands who just want to be pussycats in the bedroom?
“Have you ever let someone take control?” I asked. He was sitting in a stuffy chair, and I was curled up at his feet drinking Shiraz and stroking the back of his legs.
“I always wanted to, but…”
“Sweetie,” I said, and reached up to stroke his chin. “Don’t be shy. That’s what I’m here for.”
A first-time submissive is usually easy to handle and eager to please. It takes months before they start trying to deviously control the action from below. I asked if he would let me tie him up, he said yes, what with? I wasn’t prepared, so I asked for a handful of ties. He led me upstairs to the bedroom and produced them.
I told him to undress. He did, as I sat on the bed, cross-legged. I ordered him onto the bed. He hesitated a moment. “Get down, face up, legs and arms straight,” I said abruptly. He did. I pulled my skirt up and crawled over him, heels still on. Straddling his chest, I tied his hands to the bed. At the foot of the bed there was nothing handy, so I looped the ends of the ties round the wheels of the bed-frame and hoped they would hold. I could feel him craning his neck, trying to get his mouth closer to my bottom. “Lie back,” I barked. “If I want you to touch me, you’ll know it.”
It was standard S amp;M, nothing challenging. Tease and (extremely) light torture. But I did end up with the cleanest shoes outside of a Nine West. dimanche, le 18 avril
N has taken a hiatus from his usual running commentary on sport and tits to focus on pussy.
His cat, that is.
Unlike my dearly departed feline, who would take to spring like a cat to a nest full of little flightless baby birds, using her catlike reflexes to jump cattily from branch to branch and scaring the living kittens out of any and all tree dwellers, N’s pussy has been dragging along, unable even to pull herself up the steps.
She came back from the veterinary clinic with a bandaged paw and a pinched look, as it was explained to me, having had a thorn the size of another cat drawn out of her foot. It had formed an abscess and-well, something too disgusting and technical to go into, really. But I gather it involved “draining,” which I presume has nothing to do with kitchen sinks. N has been looking after her with the tender mercy of a ward sister who missed her calling. It’s rather sweet.
Last night as we left the gym, he did not offer me a lift home, nor suggest a drink or a meal somewhere. Mumbling something about changing a dressing, he all but ran to the parking lot.
I smirked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting a little pussy on the side.” mardi, le 20 avril
Coffee with N and A1 for no better reason than to dissect my love life. Again. “So what happened to that trolley dolly?” N asked, sipping an Americano.
“Could have been something. But he called it off, by phone, this weekend,” I reported. It was annoying. Admittedly, he was probably more often in the air than in town, but this should be no barrier. In my opinion some of the best relationships involve not seeing each other.
“Did he have a reason?” N asked.
“Too busy with work. Couldn’t be bothered.”
“Did he actually say that second bit?” N looked puzzled.
“No, I’m paraphrasing.” It is probably too great a leap of faith to believe a man would be so guileless as to say that he was too busy with work and for that to actually be the case.
A1 shrugged. “Well, here’s hoping he realizes what he’s missing.”
“Doubtful. We never got past snogging.” Three dates, lots of conversation, a torrent of e-mail. Resulting in nothing more than a couple of awkward hugs and a bit of tongue-tying before Cinderella had to drive home. Wary of what happened the last few times, I didn’t think it right to push him too fast. But whatever his buttons were, I clearly was not pressing them.
“Really?” spluttered N. “I would have at least slept with you first.”
“Cheers, darling,” I said, blowing him an ironic kiss.
“I have a friend,” A1 ventured. “A bit on the short side, though..”
“Is that a euphemism? I’ve already seen your little friend, thanks,” I said, glancing at the crotch of his jeans.
“Ouch,” A1 said, and turned to N. “She’s getting angry,” he said. “She’s never this sharp when she has a regular shag.” mercredi, le 21 avril
I know a girl. A nice girl, a well-brought-up girl, whose vowels are all very round and correct and whose manners are exquisite.
This girl, I’ve known her a few years, since we both were students. Like me, her degree was mostly useless; like me, she’d moved to London to find her way. And found it mostly a drain on finances. Moving from temp job to temp job, or stringing two or three part-time and freelance projects together at a time to make enough money to keep the tiny, not-terribly-expensive flat she lives in.
And this girl doesn’t really know what she wants. She might fancy the academic life, but really more as retreat from the rest of the world than a genuine love for the world of letters. When I see her in pubs with friends, every few weeks or so, she always looks like a slightly shabby librarian, but I’ve noticed the way she moves and she could be so much sexier than that. Her legs are fantastic. I also know she’s been struggling with depression for some time, with-literally-the scars to prove it. And the men in her life are either abusive or doormats.
I buy her a pint, knowing it’s too late in the evening for her to get the next round, but that’s fine because she really couldn’t afford it. The money she does spend freely goes on books. She loves reading, this one, and get her on the right subject and her milk-white arms will be flying about, lit fag in one hand, expounding this or that theory or proclaiming this or that writer an unsung genius.
More often, however, she’ll mumble through a conversation and I will try twice as hard as I would with anyone else to keep it going. Because no matter what her better instincts, she always answers the question “So how are you keeping these days?” honestly. And it’s always something depressing.
What might make her life better? Who knows. Chronic money shortage is one problem. Feeling intimidated by every woman who comes within a quarter-mile radius of her current boyfriend doesn’t help. (Oh, yes, she’s probably pulled that accidental pregnancy scheme once or twice. Not faking it, of course, but conveniently forgetting a pill or three here and there, when the leash had to be tugged on a bit.)
So maybe it occurs to me, well, it’s no cure-all, but a few months in prostitution might do her the world of good. Have to primp and smile for once. Put the overdraft back in the black. Get her mind off herself every now and again.
But I can’t say anything. She’s waiting to hear on Ph. D. funding for this autumn. In a mostly useless subject. jeudi,
