The client’s hands were square, long-fingered, and wandering. They reminded me of my boyfriend’s. He pawed my breasts, my thighs, and ventured inside.
I jerked suddenly. “Sorry-did I hurt you?” he asked.
I was on my side, he was spooning me, the offending fingers resting between my legs from behind. “Only a little.” I picked up his right hand and examined the nails. Clean, but longer than most. And rather jagged. “Do you bite these?”
“Yes.”
I rolled over the edge of the bed to reach my purse on the floor. “Hold on.” Brought back a small silver cosmetic bag and pulled out an emery board.
He shuddered. “I can’t take files,” he said. “It’s a nails-on-chalkboard sort of thing.”
“Trust me,” I said, and sanded his edges smooth. He ran his thumbs over the polished ovals, commented on the difference. “You’re far too nice for this job,” he said softly, which I took to mean either that he’d had bad experiences with escorts before, or most escorts are nice and I was just the first. Hoped it was the latter. mardi, le 2 decembre
So what’s a girl to do with a day off?
Besides shopping for knickers, naturally.
Booked in advance, plenty of warning. Boyfriend out of town, no gym session with N. Tried arranging lunch with Al, A2, and A4; no luck. No illness, no customers. A good proper lie-in. No errands, no appointments, and no laundry. Time to cook (and maybe leave the washing-up for another day). No cleaning lady and no calls from the manager. Nowhere to be, nothing to be. Just me on my own.
Best find that vibrator, then. jeudi, le 4 decembre
There is someone in London who just paid to lick the pucker of my arse for one hour. Isn’t that what everyone really wants in life, someone who’ll kiss your grits and enjoy it?
If someone had only told me from the outset such perfect clients existed, I would have jumped in straightaway. vendredi, le 5 decembre
“Have you ever been with a woman?” the client asked, stroking my breasts.
“Yes,” I said. He sighed. “Many. Outside of work.” It has been a while since the last. The Boy grumbles and pouts sometimes, because he knows about my past and has never had a threesome. I am wary of the problems that picking up a spare girl can introduce to a relationship. Better to go pro, I think. Maybe sometime in the future. Not now.
“Are you gay?”
“No, I just like women.” Probably equally to men for sex. But I would rather be in a relationship with a man, which I think reads as essentially straight. This was a conclusion won over much heartrending identification nonsense during university. Women: I’ll fuck them, but I don’t want to go home to one.
“Any woman?” Perhaps he had one in mind. I hoped not.
“Not all women.” samedi, le 6 decembre
I’ve been looking through the site again. The manager rearranges the profiles from time to time, to give this or that girl a lift in business, or to emphasize a new arrival to the agency.
My own profile compares reasonably against the other girls on the site and pictures around the Web. Nothing to stand out particularly; just like hundreds of others. It was a bit stunning to see just how many call girls were working in London. There seemed to be a leggy blonde or brunette sex goddess for every potential horny businessman on earth, with maybe a MILF or two to spare.
I remember the first time I saw myself on the site. The profile turned out decently enough. I wouldn’t have thought so, considering the way the photo shoot went. There had been some selective cropping and Photoshop magic, but the woman in the images is very definitely me. Would someone recognize me? Don’t be silly, I scold myself. No one who knew you and spotted them perusing escort sites would ever confess to it. Or would they go one worse and book an appointment?
The photographer for the escort agency met me at a hotel. Cute until she opened her mouth. She started in on me straightaway. “Hair-not big enough,” she said, and pulled out a teasing comb that looked as if it had served time in some of the country’s finer dog-grooming facilities. Her own pink lipliner was enlisted in the quest to make my lips look fuller, poutier. The lingerie I had brought, still in their store wrapping, were judged unsuitable-which is to say they were far too tasteful. “You would suit something… purple,” she said, throwing a cheap lace vest at me. At least it was unworn; it still had the tags on. This is how I found myself in colors I’d never wear, with makeup I’d never use, hair ten times normal size, writhing on the hotel furniture. “Keep those legs straight up in the air,” she said as my thighs shook from the exertion of holding pose after pose. “And… relax!”
We worked through a dozen standard glamour shots. “Are you getting bored yet?” she joked.
“Yes.”
She looked hard at me. “You’re bored? That’s terrible.”
“I was being ironic. Actually, I’m not bored at all,” I said, cupping my own breast for the thirtieth time.
“Pity about the bikini lines. So seventies porn star.” This from someone who put me in pink latex hot pants? She changed the film and shot through another roll. I couldn’t imagine there were any more impossible contortions to exact. After an hour I’d had enough and got up to change back into my civvies.
“Next time we see you, I will give you the name of a salon I know, where they do miraculous facials,” she said, a parting shot on my way out the door. Subtlety is not a strength in this woman.
The verdict came back within hours. Surprisingly, the manager seemed far more pleased with the results than either the photographer or I was. “Darling, the pictures, they are fabulous,” she purred on the other end of my phone. I’ve noticed she never introduces herself on the phone but launches straight into conversation. Must be a graduate of the same charm school as my mother.
“Thank you, I was worried about not looking relaxed.”
“No, they are perfect. Can you do something for me? Can you write something about yourself for the portfolio? Most of the other girls, I write something for them, but you should do this very well.” She seemed pleased to have bagged another graduate for the agency; perhaps they make commission on educational level?
Cripes. I am a tall, luscious… ah, no. Amusante, savoir faire? Save me. Self-motivated, works well in group… perhaps closer to the truth. I wondered, where are the CV clinics for whores?
In the end I was pleased with the result. I had liked the look of the agency’s website from the beginning, and especially the descriptions of the women. They seemed more honest than most-there was no messing about a girl’s size and what she did-but also less pornographic. Not a one contained guarantees that the girl pictured could swallow hosepipes, was a raging sex machine, or had last been featured in the pages of a top-shelf publication. The tawdry outfits from the photographer’s wardrobe looked unexpectedly sexier and more subtle in a picture than they had in person. I wouldn’t have admitted this to her for the world, of course.
And I wised up to the tricks the photographers used. After seeing the poses echoed in hundreds of pictures, the contortions I had been put through looked familiar.
There is clearly an art to the glamour shot. On the one hand, perfection is expected and nothing less is tolerated, so who wouldn’t consider pixel manipulation her best friend? On the other, those of us who do like the way our bodies look feel at a distinct disadvantage to those who would airbrush their way onto a catwalk if they could. Perusing the pictures revealed these trends:
• The bending-over bumshot. Everyone looks good like this. Roseanne probably doubles for Heidi Klum in such a pose. If you don’t see the full-on wobbly face-up, don’t be surprised if it turns out to be rather less (or rather, more) than you expected in the flesh. Also applies to the all-fours crawl and the face-down spread eagle.
• The tit grab. A double-A could take on Dolly-Partonesque proportions given the right tilting of the chest- flesh. What is the point? Many men like small breasts. As someone once said, more than a mouthful’s wasted (mine are a perfect handful, but you’ll have to take my word for it. And I’m not saying whose hands either).
• The deep-cleavage angle from above. See previous.
• The toe point. She’s not a trained balletist; she’s trying to make her legs look longer. I reckon if God had meant us to point our bare feet in midair, he wouldn’t have invented stilettoes.
• The evening wrap/well-placed fur. Fat arms, okay?
• The turned-up collar/long hair obscuring the cheek. Double chin, or lack of any at all.
• Knee-high boot and pencil skirt combo. In real life this is immensely sexy. Who hasn’t wanted to stroke the milky white strip exposed on a lady’s leg? In sexy photos, anyone willing to show only an inch of thigh at a time has
