xx mercredi, le 19 novembre
I crouched between the man’s legs. His inner thighs were smooth and I brushed the skin with my fingertips. “How was your holiday?”
“Good, good. Japan is an interesting place. Have you ever been?” he asked, leaning back on the bed.
“No.” I took the hardening cock in my hand and pulled on its foreskin gently. It stiffened and lengthened in my palm. “What is your favorite thing to do there?”
“They’re an odd people, they have these places,” he said, pausing slightly as I took his member between my lips. “Simulating a crowded underground carriage. Where people’s bodies rub up against each other …”
He slipped out of my mouth; I began pumping the shaft with my fist. “I’ve always had a fantasy like that,” I said. “A crowded student pub, short skirt, leaning over the bar to get a drink, someone comes up behind me. And there’s no space to move, so not only can I not get away, no one else can tell it’s happening.”
“Mmm, that sounds good.”
“Will you promise me something?” I asked. “If you ever see me after this at a bar, will you just come up and do that?”
“You have my word,” he said, angling his erection back into my mouth. jeudi, le 20 novembre
The Boyfriend is in town, so I saw no clients. We went to the gym, ostensibly so I could show him off, but mostly so he could show himself off.
First event was the rowing machine. I hate the rowing machine. Hate hate hate it. It is the Devil’s Bicycle. It is my nemesis and wants me dead. However, I will gladly sit alongside the Boy as he thrashes the metal beast into flywheeled submission. After five minutes, droplets of sweat appeared on the back of his neck. After ten, the rippling ribbons in his forearms were driving me to distraction. A glorious half hour later I was aching to jump his bones.
Suitably panting, we headed for the bench press (which I can’t do) and the bench pull (which I can). Suffice to say I am not fit to hold the man’s towel.
For the piece de resistance I goaded him into chin-ups. Four sets of six, shirt off, ensuring that even the resident thick-necked gym bunnies were suitably humbled. Cower in the wake of his manly pheromones, you six- packed Narcissi!
In order to reassert control, we did something I am good at-stretching. A cliche perhaps, but I have always been able to put my legs behind my ears. A long session of contorting hamstrings ensured that, fragrant with sweat and lusting as only long-distance lovers can, we never got past the carpark.
Well, we did. But our clothes didn’t. And our dignity came nowhere near.
Ah, young love. samedi, le 22 novembre
Special Film Edition! As I’ve been staying in with drinks and videos all week, we’ve been having a little North London Prostitution Film Festival. Sorry, darlings, but the event is muy exclusive-guest list runs to two. And the paparazzi have been, frankly, disappointing.
Women who are not working girls but should be:
Elizabeth Hurley
Gillian Taylforth
Laura Dern
Sue Barker
Women who have played WGs, but shouldn’t have:
Julia “Sexless” Roberts
Jodie Foster (no one must defile the goddess)
Jane Fonda
Elisabeth Shue
Perfect casting:
Laura San Giacomo. The Boy says, “Rowr!”
Patricia Arquette
Louise Brooks
Mira Sorvino
Special Award for Services to Tongue-Manipulation Ability During a Scene in Twin Peaks in Which She Is Interviewing to Become a Prostitute:
Sherilyn Fenn
The Is She or Isn’t She? Obfuscation Award:
Audrey Hepburn
Acceptable as a robot whore, but only just:
Daryl Hannah
My favorite movies about prostitutes:
Le Notti di Cabiria
Belle de Jour (obviously)
Frankenhooker
Live by the phone, die by the phone, but never again will I leave it on during dinner! Between the Great Portland Street station and when we left the restaurant on Marylebone High Street, it must have gone off twelve times. Say what you will about springtime and a man’s fancy turning to romance, I believe there’s something about the impending holiday season that really sets libidos on eleven.
Back in business by Monday-even I can’t spin out birthday celebrations indefinitely. And there’ll be all sorts of good things in my stocking, promise. samedi, le 22 novembre
I noticed that of all the services the manager and I had discussed, there was one neither of us had mentioned. Oral. And there on the website for all to see, I was advertised as OWO. Oral Without. Without condom, that is.
To tell the truth, if she had asked, I would have said yes. I’ve done the deed with condoms in the past and my lips react badly to the latex and spermicide, swelling and tingling. And like all other sex acts, there is some risk involved, but nothing near what most things entailed. I wouldn’t do it if I had cold sores, for instance. Or if I was especially concerned about the staying power of my lipstick.
But I’m a swallower and always have been. Once it’s in there, it doesn’t taste any better to spit it out, and to be frank, it’s no worse than the taste of a woman. A girl I went to school with once described semen as tasting of “an oyster on a 2p piece.” I wouldn’t know, having never eaten either, but she’s probably not far off the mark. dimanche, le 23 novembre
Last night I was walking down the fag end of Fulham High Street looking for a cab. There is a bookstore on the corner-not the horrible kind assaulting you with endless stacks of remaindered Michael Moore and lattechinos to go, but the wonderful quirky kind. The sort of shop where the proprietor-who can remember your tastes, previous purchases, and make appropriate recommendations even if you’ve not been there in years-appears to live on site, and either owns a collection of identical outfits or never changes his clothes. The proprietor of such a shop is always a man, always.
Unfortunately, the shop was closed. Or perhaps fortunately-I had a wad of notes on me, some time to kill, and a distinct inability to refuse fusty booksellers. When I was a student, I calculated I spent more per term on books-and not ones related to my course, either-than I did on food. But the shop was locked up and dark. Outside the door a plain white shelving unit held a few paperbacks. Whether these were donations to the public or from the public I didn’t know. Being curious, I perused the titles. This is how I ran across the best thing I’ve ever read on a paperback cover: A girl can go anywhere if she believes in herself and has a mink coat.
Well, yes! Indeed! How true, and wonderful! How very Holly Golightly! Uncertain whether the books were for sale or not, but certain this novel was destined to be mine, I deliberated a moment before dropping a pound coin through the post slot.
(Now is a good time to point out that I do not actually have a mink coat. I have a fairly nice watch, and suppose it is the most politically correct luxury item one can get away with wearing. I wouldn’t want to be accused of either animal torture or funding cartels in the developing world. The possible exploitation of Swiss craftsmen is not a daily burden on my soul.)
The book, in case you are wondering, is B. F.’s Daughter by John P. Marquand, he of the Mr. Moto novels. It is the most delicious trash. Think Mickey Spillane meets Francoise Sagan in the lobby of Saks Fifth Avenue. ln 1946.
