her handbag-my chocolate High Street clompers were dull in comparison. “Darling, hello.” Air kisses.
She had to take a few calls during lunch, where I learned she speaks fluent German and Arabic. Domineering. God, the punters must love that. She asked about my experience. Some dominatrix works, some stripping, no sex with clients, all ages ago. She nodded. She asked if I had a partner; I said yes. She told me about hers, and how he didn’t know what she did for a living. I found that incredible-her phone had gone off three times already.
She ordered herbal tea. I had a coffee. I could feel the full weight of her gaze as I tipped a spoonful of sugar into the cup. Whether hunger or disapproval, I wasn’t sure. “So now we have to talk about services.” She pronounced the word like it had twelve vowels: suuuuuuuurvices. “Have you done A levels?”
A levels? Well, yes, but that was years ago. Who knew that academic fluency was a prereq for the job? Maybe the customers were more discerning than I thought. “A levels?”
“You know”-her voice dropped to a whisper-“anal.” I’m quite sure the waitress didn’t need to refill my coffee right at that moment. Weren’t there some decorative olive oil decanters she could be rearranging elsewhere?
“Oh, right. Yes, I can do that. Provided I haven’t been out for a curry the night before.” We laughed.
She asked if I would do incalls or outcalls. On incalls a girl sees her clients at her own flat (or one rented by the agency); outcalls take place in a hotel or a client’s home.
I chose outcalls only. The idea of someone knowing where I lived was uncomfortable. Hell, they wouldn’t even know my real name. Also, outcall girls earn more per hour-presumably for the convenience-and the client covers any travel expense.
The fee would be?300 per hour, more than thirty times what I would have made doing anything else. Of the fee, I would keep?200 per hour, plus the entirety of any tips or travel expenses.
The manager said she needed more up-to-date photos for her portfolio. The ones I had sent were fairly unsuitable, as they were nothing like the usual glamour shots, showing me in various states of inebriation at clubs and, in one, with something that looked suspiciously like vomit down the front of a silky black vest. All class. More air kisses and she was away, sticking me with the bill. Luckily it appears we have similar attitudes to food, i.e., admiration from a distance, so it was hardly a burden. Two pots of tea and an untouched stale pain au chocolat: 8 quid. Probably a bargain at the price. dimanche, le 16 novembre
I packed the Boy into his car and waved until he reached the end of the street. Before he even could have reached the motorway, he texted a kiss.
It’s been the better part of a year since starting this work, and he’s still with me. Not that it was easy at first, especially when I had to tell him.
The Boy came up to London for the day. He was having a job interview. I was unsure how to bring up the subject of my new employment. Gently, blurring the edges of truth if necessary? “Darling, I want you to know, I’ve been seeing men for money, but I do it fully clothed and they come in aluminum foil in another room. Every time. Did I mention I love you?” Or, be blunt and see what happens. “My dearest one, I’m a ho. Did you somehow fail to notice the bling?”
He gabbled about his family and work through sandwiches, coffee, our walk down the road to buy a pastry. Over a morsel of baklava I finally blurted it out. He didn’t say anything, just pursed his lips and nodded. But he didn’t object outright. I took a deep breath. “Of course, if ever you want me to stop, I will.”
He still didn’t say anything. We left the shop and walked in the sunshine. Falling leaves spiraled on the pavements; crunching underfoot, they smelled of earth and dust. My step fell in with his: we used to run together and are accustomed to the same length of stride. He put an arm around me, started to speak, but stammered. He tried again. “You’d be surprised. I’ve been thinking about it and I think it’s okay.”
I kissed him. We walked up to the British Library together, to look at the Lindisfarne Gospels. The Boy told me they were portions of the Bible in Gothic style written on skins. I’m not terribly au fait with the finer points of Christianity, but suspect the King James is not usually published on abbatoir by-products. The raw craftness of these sounded appealing. In the dim exhibit rooms the gold and painted vellum seemed to glow with animal intensity. Brutal ends to saints and the devouring of virgins always seem to feature strongly in the European arts of that period. The Boy told me of his visit to the Lindisfarne island, where he almost drove a car into the surf. I laughed, the sharp noise shattering the reverent quiet. We went home and watched television, cooked a meal together, and played lion attacking the Gothic maiden in a big white bed. He was the lion, of course. lundi, le 17 novembre
Client: “So why do you do this?”
Me: “I’m not sure I have an answer to that.”
“There must be something that you at least tell yourself.”
“Well, perhaps I’m the sort of person apt to do something for no good reason other than I can’t think of a reason not to.”
“So if someone told you to jump off a bridge…”
“Depends on the bridge. Depends if they were paying. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Will you suck me now?” mardi, le 18 novembre
One of my more potent fantasies is of the Boyfriend fisting me. This is not because he’s done it, but because he hasn’t. For one thing, he has the most gorgeous hands I’ve seen on anyone, male or female. Artist’s hands, I say, and he splays out this wide paw for me to admire. They ferret under my clothes when we’re in public; I rarely feel safe from manhandling. But I don’t mind. I want to feel planted on the end of his arm, an extension of him, controlled.
Even with regular erotic exercise I prove a bit too constricted for the Boy’s fist. The manuals say this will come with time, but let’s face it, I’m a busy girl and sitting around working his greased digits up my fluffy bits is the anathema of romance. I know the women in the shiny magazines all seem to be able to manage it these days. Back when oral sex was considered the height of depravity in the mainstream, the hard-core magazines were all showing nothing but anal sex. Now that anal sex can practically be broadcast on prime time telly, fisting is where it’s at for the truly sick. So much so that I wonder if I shouldn’t stay ahead of the curve by just skipping ahead to anal fisting instead. But the ladies capable of such things are probably either possessed of a far greater pain threshold than mine or descended from a train tunnel. My own history with the practice of fisting can be broken down thus:
First, a teenage boyfriend. He wanted it, I wanted it. He had narrow hands, I was dripping wet. Young, foolish, and incapable of getting more than twenty minutes’ privacy at either of our parents’ homes, we went out of town for a dirty weekend at a hotel. We were hardly in the room before I was stretched across the bed and he was concentrating manfully on the progress of his fingers inside me. Then his fingernails hit my cervix: ouch. Much fantasized, but never attempted with him again.
Second, N. Years ago, when we were still an item. He wanted it, I was dubious. It had been a long time since the teenager who tried to scratch me out, but I could still imagine the gritting pain. But N was experienced, he knew about the finger-curling wrist thrust necessary to get a whole fist in without the woman experiencing involuntary hysterectomy. Unfortunately, N also has hands that can span my waist. His last girlfriend had taken the fist many times, often whilst being buggered. She was also six feet tall and about twice my weight. We tried, many times, but never quite got there. I practiced with all manner of widening tools: vegetables, dildos, an extremely large-handled flashlight. No luck.
Third, my hand goes where no hand has gone before. Namely up a woman who is on the phone to her boyfriend in Italy. He’s paying me to make her come as many times as we can in an hour. This is also the day I discover you need to break the internal vacuum to take the fist out again, unless of course your intended is into suction. And I don’t mean the Jenna Jameson kind. Yeeks.
Fourth, one night, with a customer. And I discover that while someone else’s hand might be out of my reach (so to speak), my own is slender and small enough to make it in. Contortionally awkward, but successful nonetheless. Finally, a perfect fit. Only then do I discover the black art of fisting is not getting it in; it’s getting the damned thing out again.
I rang the Boy when I got home to let him know. I didn’t mention it was with a client. “Can you do it now?” he said over the phone.
“Probably,” I said. In pajamas, in bed. Under the duvet. “I’m just about asleep, though.”
“Oh.” There was a silence. “Can you just describe it now, instead?” he asked. Of course I could. “And then show me next time you see me?” Yes, of course, anything, love. I do not grow weary of you. Come see me, come take me away.
I woke to a missed text message from him: the best things in life r still free. i miss your cuddles most of all
