W-Z
W is for Whore
Working girl, prostitute, call girl, woman of negotiable affection, ho. I don’t think any one term is any more or less degrading than another. It’s simply a label, go with it, have fun with it. Indignation at someone else’s moniker for a whore is so outdated. So politically correct, so nineties. You sell sex for a living-what did you expect, to be billed as an “erotic entertainments consultant”?
“Sex therapist” wouldn’t be too bad, though.
X is for Xerxes
Xerxes was a great king of Persia in the fifth century BC.
(I couldn’t think of a good topic that started with X.)
Y is for Youth
Younger is better in the business. This is an ironclad rule-unless you’re over forty, in which case the agency will probably add a robust decade to increase the naughty-granny factor. Expect that your profile will not tell your age accurately. If actresses can continue to play ingenues well into their thirties, why can’t you? But it’s up to you to remember which lie you told whom and keep up the facade. The client is paying for an illusion, and letting slip that you were old enough to keep John Major in his constituency is not a good idea. Doubly so if he is a Labour backbencher.
Z is for Zippers
Someone once asked me to undress him using only my teeth. While in principle this sounds like an interesting task, there is one thing that cannot be undone with the mouth alone, and that is the zipper of a man’s trousers. You know how you have to hold them taut at the top when you unzip your own? You can’t do that without hands. It took about eight minutes just to get his trousers down and completely killed the mood. mardi, le 1 ^er juin
Angel rang. It was a bit of a surprise; I hadn’t heard from her in ages, only caught a glimpse of her from time to time, and had really not thought I’d hear from her again.
She was crying. I was in a taxi and couldn’t really hear her due to the noise of the cab, but it sounded like she was somewhere noisy as well, on a street or by a tube entrance. I told her I was on the way to meet a friend, and she could ring me later or drop by for coffee if she wanted a chat.
She did drop by. She smiled and breezed in, looking calmer and pulled together, but I knew it was only a matter of time until she broke down. Which she did, magnificently. Someone had just dumped her. A relationship-I had to confess ignorance that she was seeing anyone at all-had ended. By e-mail.
I was shocked. “No way to treat you, no matter what happened,” I cooed. I poured boiling water into a cafetiere, let it steep probably too long, pushed the plunger, and poured her a beaker of steaming brew. “So who was it?” I asked, out of mild curiosity.
“Didn’t you know?” she asked, looking up, tearstained face. “You’ll laugh.” It was First Date.
Bloody hell.
“And the worst part of it all, he is still carrying a torch for you.”
Bloodier hell. How do you comfort someone who has just been chucked for, among other reasons undoubtedly, a memory, and a pretty insubstantial one at that? “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
“You’re good at things, you’re talented,” she moaned. “I just don’t know, I disappoint people.”
“You can’t take that personally. Someone else being disappointed in you is their problem.” Cruddy way to soothe someone, I know, but I didn’t know what to say. This woman was more acquaintance than friend, and a stressful one at that. But I felt for her. I’ve been on both sides of that equation. jeudi, le 3 juin
An invitation came through the post a few weeks ago. I haven’t replied yet for not knowing what to do.
It’s a weekend in the country to celebrate a friend’s engagement, and promises to be a good time, with garden parties and drunken sing-alongs round a bonfire. And I would ordinarily be there like a shot, but for one thing. The Boy.
The odds that he was not invited are slender. With most exes, I would not mind, but I haven’t heard so much as a word from him since the near-miss at that birthday party some time back, there’s been no sign of the mystery car at all, and I therefore have no idea whether he still pines, or hates me, or has forgotten about me altogether. And I can’t decide which outcome would be the worst.
It would take only a minute to ring the bride-to-be and ask, but that would flag my concern, and if I know this couple at all, I know that other people’s discomfort is their sport. So best not say anything at all.
I could certainly use a weekend out of town, though, and it’s the best option going so far. samedi, le 5 juin
N and A3 and I dissected the interview. N has no real idea what I studied, but was unfailingly supportive and convinced the job will be mine. A3, on the other hand, works in a similar field and is, it must be noted, grumpy at best.
I’ve my own personal angel and devil figures, just as in cartoons. Though the idea of carrying their combined thirty-odd stone on my shoulders is laughable. mardi, le 8 juin
“They must at least be considering you,” N said. “I went for an interview in Newcastle once, and they rang up to reject me before I even got to the train to come home.”
“What were you going to Newcastle for?” I asked.
N gave me an odd look. “Never you mind,” he said. “Point is, you have to be more patient. They’ll let you know in due time.”
He’s probably right, but it doesn’t stop me fretting. Could I have given a better presentation, I wonder, or answered their questions more professionally? Did something about my clothes or manner put them off? How did I stand up against the others? If I get the job, will I fit in, will I disappoint them? Do any fit men work there? mercredi, le 9 juin
As near as I can figure, possible reasons I have not been contacted yet about the interview include:
• They have decided to hire someone else, and neglected to tell me.
• They have decided to hire me, and neglected to tell me.
• They are making an offer to someone else first and waiting for a response before rejecting the other applicants.
• They are rejecting the other applicants before contacting the successful candidate (i.e., me).
• The letter has been lost in the post.
• The letter has not been lost in the post, but was delivered to the wrong house.
• The letter was delivered to the wrong house, and the occupant died suddenly on the way to the door, and no one has found him or the letter yet.
• The letter was delivered to the wrong house, and the occupant has a dog, who ate the letter.
• The letter was delivered to me, but as a test of my mental acumen, cunningly disguised as one of the thousands of circulars that come through my door daily, and I mistakenly threw it away.
• The letter was delivered to me, and rapidly disintegrated.
• The letter was delivered to me, and soon thereafter I suffered acute head trauma, erasing my memory of either the letter or the trauma.
• And my memory has filled in the erased portions, so not only do I not remember any of this, I do not have any mysterious gaps in my recollection.
• I dreamt the interview.
• The letter has not been sent yet.
• They haven’t made a decision yet. jeudi, le 10 juin
I couldn’t take waiting any longer. I rang the personnel department. The woman on the other end of the call was kind-voiced, slightly dappy-I had to give her the job reference number three times. She apologized-apparently there had been problems with the internal mail and the letters hadn’t been posted yet, though a decision had been made. I gnawed the fingers of my left hand while she looked for the information.
“Ah, here you are,” she said. “It looks like you’ve gotten it.”
My heart leapt. I grinned. “Really?”
“You are Louise, right?”
And just as quickly, it fell back to the pit of my stomach. “Er, no.” The pudding-faced girl. How had they chosen her over me?
“Oh, sorry!” she tittered. “I’m afraid you haven’t been successful, then.” I thanked her and rang off.
Phone call from Dr. C, who is visiting his parents and wants to drive up and visit next week. I suppose the current situation gives me some free time at least. Silver linings and all that. And I am definitely going to that engagement party. Nothing hath charms to soothe the wounded ego quite like alcohol and flirtation.
So I should be away all weekend. Sod’s Law: if in the city with no escape, the days will be blazing hot and sunny; the minute I step foot outside this urban sphere, it will chuck it down endlessly. And I will be wearing open-toed shoes with white trousers. If you experience unpleasant weather this weekend, be assured that it is my fault entirely. dimanche, le 13 juin
The benefits of sex with an ex:
• No chance of being shocked by what he looks like naked the first time. That horrible mole is right where you left it.
• Not having to awkwardly ask for contact details after. If you don’t have them, it’s not by accident.
• He knows where your buttons are, how many there are, how long they need to be pressed, and whether they should go side-to-side, up and down, or in little circles.
And the drawbacks:
• There’s probably a good reason you’re not together anymore. A very good reason.
• One of you will think this means the relationship is back on.
• There is absolutely no way you can tell any of your friends without coming off as the world’s biggest prat. After all, they had to live with you post-breakup, right?
Cripes. I’m going to commence a head/wall interface now. Back later when I have knocked some sense into myself. lundi, le 14 juin
So, yes. Sex. With someone I honestly expected never to have sex with again.
The Boy. The effing Boy.
Still sorting it out. It’s a mess. He gave me a lift back to London and now won’t leave. But I would like to confirm that-at least before the slightly tipsy postcoital glowing phase ended and the horrible, horrible veil of Oh-Dear-Me-Not-Again descended-it was good.
Better than good. He sat on my chest and fucked my mouth; he took me from behind, above, and below. I smiled and asked how he’d gotten so good with his tongue, thinking there must be some genius tart showing him the ropes now. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just think about it a lot.” I came harder, faster, and longer than usual, and for a brief moment I thought, If he never said anything stupid again, I could be quite happy with this.
Sod’s Law Mark II: he will open his mouth and say something stupid within thirty seconds of thinking that. And it was raining outside so I couldn’t make some excuse to vacate the flat, walk around for a bit, and come back when enough time had elapsed to be certain he’d gone. mardi, le 15 juin
There’s no why to ex sex, there’s only the how (long it will last, soon it will be over, fast can I leave). Most of my exes are friends, and most of my friends are exes, and I don’t fuck them afterward as a rule. But there are one or two who fall out of touch, usually because there was little in the relationship worth building a friendship on, and this was one.
The morning he left he offered me a lift to a meeting. Thank goodness, I thought, that means he’ll be on his way, hopefully never to return. Before we could go, though, he asked if I had any money on me. I didn’t. Except when working, I usually carry less spare change than the Queen.
He drove us via an ATM so I could make a withdrawal and pay him back for the tomatoes he had bought me. (N.B., these were replacing tomatoes I already had that he had helped himself to. So, I was paying for my own tomatoes twice. Nice.)
I emerged from the car shaking my head. Walked to the ATM. Withdrew a crisp tenner-the tomatoes hadn’t cost that much, but who knows, maybe he was going to impose a surcharge on my own toilet paper, or something-and walked back to the car. Put the note in his hand.
Closed the door. Kept on walking.
A text came through a minute later:
Am just filling up with petrol if you still want a lift come back and meet me.
I didn’t reply. He rang. Did I want a lift? he asked. “Yes, if you can act like a normal person,” I said. I described the direction I was going, said if he wanted to drive me, he could pick me up. He rang again a minute later. Said he was at the end of the road now and didn’t see me. I said it was because I was still walking. Hung up. He rang again, asked where I was. Described the road I was on, the building I had just passed, the route I was taking. Hung up.
He sent another text:
This is really stupid, I’m just 10 meters behind u the whole way. And as per usual, is exactly what I knew would happen.
A minute later, his car came up on my right. I stopped walking. He reached across and opened the passenger side door.
“I just got your text,” I said.
“And?” he said.
“Goodbye.” I shut the door firmly and walked on. His car lingered a minute until someone beeped a horn, and he drove up to the next roundabout and disappeared. And that was it. Put on headphones. The next song was about someone walking out the door, and I felt good, and smiled so hard it brought tears to my eyes. mercredi, le 16 juin
Had a call late last night. Not work-A1 was having some sort of crisis and his woman was nowhere to be found. He left four missed calls and a garbled message. When I tried to ring, it went straight through to the answerphone. Boys. It was late, but I put myself at the mercy of the London Underground and went to his.
The tube route between my place and A1’s involves two changes. And I worry that time of night about missing the last train and being stuck in Earl’s Court with a Metrocard and distinct lack of clue.
The tube is, by far, the most antisocial mode of transport yet invented. On the bus, you can shield others from your germs by sneezing into the back of their heads. On the tube, you are forced to share breathing space with every phlegmy disease vector from here to Uxbridge. And in spite of being nose-to-armpit with complete strangers and mingling more viruses than a Crichton novel, you are Not Allowed to Stare.
In normal circumstances this would not be hard. City dwellers are masters of the Appraisal Glance, in which a person is sized up and dismissed in the split second they come into view. But when you’re trapped in a hurtling canister on a bumpy track to Dollis Hill, the eyes literally have nowhere to go. You have to stare. But you’re not allowed to. This is why paperbacks are so popular; it gives you a shield to hide behind as well as an excuse to not hold on to the rail and stumble over the snowdrift of Metro s cluttering the aisle.
Waiting for a District Line train, I was aware of someone looking at me. I pretended to check my watch and look up and down the track. Some youngish man, wearing a suit. Probably just idly checking out everyone on the platform. Fair enough. I needed a shower and some sleep and probably didn’t merit a second glance.
The train arrived. I sat down. The man sat opposite me. Was that another look? No. Ignore it. I looked at his hand. It was a fine, well-shaped hand. Very attractive. I rested my forehead on a side handrail.
In peripheral vision I could see him looking me over a couple more times. Definitely more than necessary. But he didn’t seem predatory. Probably just wondering why I’m out, as I do with people all the time. Probably drunk. Who rides the tube in a suit this time of night sober?
I looked up. His blue eyes were staring at me. Cool as. I couldn’t help myself and grinned like a loon. He didn’t crack a smile. We both looked away quickly.
Argh, I thought. Giddy moron. But I can’t help it; if someone looks at me and I’m not expecting it, I smile. I must have seemed a complete idiot.
Two stops. His head turned back toward me. I looked at him. Smiled. Stuck out my tongue.
And he laughed. Looked away again.
Right. Two more stops. Both looking obviously in other directions. Quite obscene eye-avoidance, actually. My stop was approaching. I stretched. I could see him glance at me but refused to meet his gaze. What was he going to do? I could wave as I stepped off. I could say something.
I stood up. The train slid into the station. The doors opened. Go on, at least nod, I thought. Then: follow me off, follow me off. I stepped onto the platform. No, wait, don’t. He didn’t. Just some drunk lad in a suit, going home. The train moved into the night.
(A1 was fine, by the way. A bit tired and emotional is all. By which I mean drunk.) samedi, le 19 juin
Was standing with a female friend, C, at the bar of a club. N was meant to be meeting us later, but had texted to say he would be late. We stood at the bar with our drinks, cooly avoiding eye contact and in complete denial of the terrible, cheesy music the DJ was pumping out.
A man careened in our direction. “Say, ladies,” he said, and I thought, Isn’t it a bit early for someone to be this drunk? “It’s my friend’s birthday, like, and he’s just standing over there-” and he pointed into a crowd of disorganized faces.
C was already putting her polite-smile mask on. Wasn’t it obvious we were not waiting to be chatted up?
But chatting up was not what the young squire had in mind. “And he was wondering, would you two show him your tits?”
C’s mask didn’t crack. “Sorry, no,” she smiled politely, turning back to her cocktail. I smirked.
“You sure, ladies? It is his birthday and all.”
“No,” I said less politely, and turned away. C and I ordered more drinks. N was being very tardy. We tried to have a conversation over the music, which was much louder now, but could not, and ended up just smiling vaguely at each other. C toyed with the furry fringes of her exceptionally tactile sweater.
Two more men lurched in our direction. We only half-turned to acknowledge them. It was the same young man again, and another. “Hi, ladies,” the second man said. It occurred to me that men only call women ladies in a mockery of chivalry. “It’s my birthday tonight, and I was wondering, would you two please show me your tits?”
Well. At least he said “please.” C’s mask was impenetrable. “No.”
“No,” I echoed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling a look of false pleading.
Does this ever work? I wondered. He didn’t even offer money, for goodness’ sake. So women are expected to act like whores for free, and this is considered being a good sport, while actual prostitutes are objects of mockery and revulsion. You have to wonder.
“No,” a voice behind the boys said, and it was N, a head taller than either of them. The boys scarpered.
N gave me and C a lift. She’s young, almost a teenager, really. Actually, she’s in her mid-twenties but acts eighteen. In the nice sort of way.
We were talking about marriage. She was curious about N’s situation, why he’s still single. She asked if I wanted to marry and have children someday. I said no. She said she didn’t, either.
“Oh, you’ll cave,” N said to her. “You’ll find the right man and it will just happen.”
She bristled but didn’t argue with him. “So what do you think about my future, then?” I asked N. “Spinsterhood?”
He looked at the road. He was being careful with his words. “I think you’ve chosen your own path and don’t want anyone to interfere with that,” he said. “You value your freedom above everything else. So yes, I think that’s what you will have if you want it. I’m not saying you’ll never change your mind, but it would take a remarkable man, and I think you’ll want to be single for a long time still.” dimanche, le 20 juin
I was flopped on my bed, reading. The phone buzzed. Dr. C.
“Top of the road, you said?”
“Bottom of the road.” Actually, I’m never quite sure which is which, but if he didn’t see the number, he was probably at the wrong end.
He tapped on the door a minute later. “Bottom of the road?” I grinned. His smile was nicer than I’d remembered. He had a single bag and an old blue car. His brother’s, he said. I let him in.
He dropped his bag next to the sofa. Ack, I thought. Should have put some pillows and blankets out. Wouldn’t want him to think I assumed he’d be sleeping with me. We faced each other, said nothing, just smiling.
“So.”
“So. Go for a walk?”
“Walk it is.”
We wandered for hours. I didn’t even notice the time until the sun went behind the trees. He talked about his family, his work. He talked with his gorgeous mouth and his hands. We sat on a bench and watched round women walking their tiny, even rounder dogs.
“Home?”
“Home it is,” he said.
I offered to cook something for him. “To be honest, I’m not really that hungry,” he said. I wasn’t either. He brought a large bottle of liqueur out of his bag. There must not have been room in there for much else. We sat at my kitchen table with a bowl of ice and finished the bottle.
I was tipsy, so was he, but in a nice way, like the night we were first together. When the glasses and bottle were finally empty, I took him up to my bedroom. We kissed and fondled each other through our clothes. “Your breasts look great in this,” he said. “May I ask you something?”
Anything, I almost said. “What’s that?”
“May I whip your breasts? Through the shirt, I mean.”
I produced a rubber multitailed whip for him. He started with light taps at first. I laughed. “You can go harder than that,” I said. He did. It hurt. It wasn’t the hardest anyone had ever whipped me, but it felt like the most fun. I kept laughing. He didn’t say anything, but he smiled too, it seemed so ludicrous. When he finished, he put the whip down and his hands under the shirt.
“The flesh is warm,” he said. Lifted the shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra. “They’re pink.” He pushed me up against the wall and had me like that. Then we fell into bed and were almost instantly unconscious. lundi, le 21 juin
The phone woke me. I was groggy and answered without looking to see who the call was from. “Hello?”
“Hello.” It was the Boy. I shivered. I should have hung up. Didn’t. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Umm, at home.” No point lying. No time to think. “Where are you?”
“Outside.”
“Oh.” I put down the phone. Stretched, gently pushed the sleeping man beside me awake. “Um, I have a guest downstairs,” I said.
He must have heard something in my voice. “Who is it?”
“My ex.” A frown flickered across his face. He asked what I wanted to do. “Answer the door, I suppose.” He said I didn’t have to. That I could ring the police. I said I knew that. We dressed. He went down to the kitchen. I answered the door.
The Boy stood there. Shorts and a T-shirt. His car was pulled up opposite. He was alone. The street was quiet. He asked if he could come in. I let him.
He nodded at Dr. C in the kitchen. I introduced them. Asked if anyone wanted tea, breakfast. They said yes. I put the radio on. Everything seemed far too calm. I turned to the stove and scrambled eggs; put bread under the grill to toast. Made light chatter with both about the weather (pleasant) and what was on the radio (rubbish) and the news (depressing). I dished up and put plates of equal size in front of them.
The Boy dug straight in. His head bowed over the plate. It was odd to my eyes to see him sitting at the table after these few months.
“Aren’t you having any eggs?” Dr. C asked.
“Just a slice of toast,” I said.
“Lightweight fuel,” he said, smiled, and ate. The two of them were quiet. I couldn’t sit down, just paced lightly in front of the sink nibbling a crust. The Boy finished quickly and asked to use the toilet. I said he could. He had never had to ask before.
When he was out of the room Dr. C turned to me and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“Didn’t think there was anything to tell,” I whispered back. “Haven’t seen him in months.”
The Boy came back in. He asked if he could talk to me. I said he could. We stood there, in the kitchen, silent, Dr. C watching us. The Boy asked if he could speak to me in my room. I said yes. We went up the stairs. I left the door open. He sat on the bed, motioned for me to sit next to him. I sat. I knew we were within earshot of the kitchen.
“I have to ask you a question, I want you to be honest,” he said.
I bristled. What right did he have to ask me anything? And when had I ever not told him the truth? “Yes?” I said.
“Are you sleeping with this man?”
“Yes.”
“He slept here last night?”
“Yes,” I said, and it occurred to me to wonder how long the Boy had been outside.
“I can’t believe you would do this to me,” he said. I was mystified. Was I supposed to be keeping a tally of lovers to recount for him? Was I still supposed to answer to him, care what he thought of me, care what anyone thought? I asked him to go.
He was calm. Oddly calm. Usually the Boy is fidgety and talkative, but he was silent and composed. He said he could let himself out; I insisted on walking him down. To the door. Out the door. I stepped outside after him and pulled the door shut. Dr. C was still in the kitchen. Heard the lock close after me. I didn’t have the key. Whatever the Boy was going to do, I wouldn’t let him attack a stranger. He would have to get through me.
The Boy realized this. He turned, the color back in his cheeks. “I have to talk to him,” he said with sudden urgency.
“No,” I said, and crossed my arms.
“I have to talk to him,” the Boy said. “He can have you, I just want him to know what… what he took from me.”
“He took nothing. He doesn’t even know who you are. Why should he? You let me go. Twice.” The Boy asked to go inside. I refused. He asked again, several times; I refused. I knew it was beyond his code of conduct to hit me, but I didn’t depend on that and I wondered just where his breaking point would be. A few people were starting to come up and down the road in the course of normal morning business. I counted on that to save me, if I needed saving.
The Boy was clearly getting nowhere simply by asking to be let inside. “Come on,” he whined. “The man’s big enough. He can clearly take care of himself.”
“You wouldn’t touch him?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t touch him.”
“Liar.” I could see his arms were crossed but his fists were clenching and unclenching over and over, turning the knuckles white then pink then white.
We stood. He looked at me. “Go to your car and drive away,” I said. He stood unmoved. I repeated myself. He went. I followed him out of the garden gate. Watched him get in the car. He was slow to put the key in the ignition. I waited until he drove away. Went back to my door and knocked. Dr. C let me in. We went up to my room and fucked. mardi, le 22 juin
In the morning Dr. C left. He had to drive back south. I smiled and made the bed as he packed his scant belongings. I didn’t know if we’d see each other again; the bruises across my chest were already faint but may last longer than the two of us being together. I didn’t know and didn’t mind.
There was a car on the corner, could see it from my window, and he knew it too. The Boy. I walked Dr. C to his car and waved him off the street, went back inside, locking the door behind me. The phone was ringing. I didn’t answer.
A few minutes later it rang again. “Hello,” I said.
“May I come in?” the Boy asked. I said no, I’d meet him outside. I locked the door behind me and slipped the keys in my pocket. Kept the mobile in my hand, just in case. He walked out of his car and met me at the gate. Asked to come in again. I refused. Said we talked in his car or not at all. He tried again, saw I wasn’t giving in, and I followed him back to where he was parked.
I sat in the passenger side and half-closed the door.
“I’m sorry, I know I’ve done so many things wrong, I’m so so sorry,” he said. His eyes had gone red, and his shoulders turned in. I was struck with a pang of tenderness. I said nothing, though. He kept on apologizing, crying. I let him. I thought of all the times when we were dating when he hadn’t apologized and it had torn me up, and of the few times he had and I’d hurried to soothe him and reassure him it wasn’t his fault.
No interrupting this time. I just let him get it off his chest.
It was hard to watch. I knew I could lift him, end what he was feeling. I knew I could make the next ten minutes a lot easier for us both-maybe even the next ten days, if we were lucky, until we argued again-by saying I’d have him back. But I knew there would always be an argument waiting round the corner for us. And whatever he said, people don’t just change. Not that they can’t change, but no one does overnight, and I had had enough.
And that’s what I told him. I just whispered that I’d had enough. He sobbed but didn’t keep begging.
This really is it, I thought. I thought about what N had said in the car. Was I dooming myself to the fate I’d chosen? Was this the last chance not just for him, but for me, forever?
“I loved you so much,” he said finally.
“I loved you too,” I said. Knew this really was the last time. And knew he knew it too. jeudi, le 24 juin
Was just back from the gym, sweating and tired. Switched the kettle on more out of habit than a need for a hot drink. Still, they do say tea when you’re hot.
The phone buzzed away on the kitchen counter. I looked at the screen. It was the manager.
I thought a moment, almost let it go to voice mail. Didn’t. Answered.
“Darling, there is a booking for two hours…”
Had I misheard? “Oh right.” Weeks of silence and now a booking out of the blue? “How have you been?”
“Good, darling, good. Have I just woken you up?” Just back from the gym, I said. She approved. “Must keep in shape,” she said, and moved on quickly. “Listen, this gentleman, he is staying at Claridge’s, he has asked for you at ten o’clock.” A two-hour booking with travel and all services. At the highest hourly rate we charge short of extras for odd requests.
I bit my lip. Gift horse, mouth, and all that. But I’d already said I was going to meet A3 at the pub later. And I hadn’t gone for a wax in ages. Cutting the pubic hedge alone would take an hour. And I was tired, and hadn’t eaten yet, and a thousand things. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t do it. I’m certain one of the other girls would be happy to?” I suggested softly.
“He liked your profile, wants you specifically, darling. I can make small lies, but not a big lie like sending another girl.”
My goodness. Unheard-of honesty in a madame. Perhaps I’d just had the wrong end of the stick after all?
My voice grew stronger. “I so wish I could, but I have other plans,” I said. I could have made it-just. The money would have been useful. But I didn’t want to. A3 would be waiting, and I could imagine no better evening than letting him finish my pints and drone on about work.
“Okay, darling,” she sang. “You are always such fun. I will speak to you soon?”
“Speak to you soon. Good night.” samedi, le 26 juin
As it’s sunny, and because there is an outdoor portion of my home that is actually rather private but gives the thrilling illusion of public nudity, I have been kebabbing myself since the weekend.
Health professionals will tell you that only total abstinence is a guarantee to staying healthy, but I believe in the practice of safer sunbathing. When exposing delicate girlflesh to the sun’s radiation, protection is always necessary.
Also, I wonder if the time has come to start considering working from home. The world, as they say, is my oyster.
Not that I’ve ever had an oyster. Kosher laws and whatnot. Perhaps instead:
The world, as they say, is my chopped liver. dimanche, le 27 juin
“I’m an author,” the client said. “Really,” I said. “What kind?” “Genre fiction,” he said. He quoted a New York Times bestseller standing and a familiar title. “Ah,” I said. “Like Mickey Spillane.” “That’s right,” he said. I said, “I always liked that part at the end of My Gun Is Quick, where Hammer tears the negligee off the heroine. Their single night of passion together.”
I sat on his lap and he ran his hand over my thighs. “Feels like thigh-high stockings,” he said. They were. “What do you want tonight?” I asked. “Simple man, simple pleasures,” he said. “I just like to come in a naked woman’s mouth.” This transaction may seem expensive, but if you think about the money and effort you might spend on a business trip, trying to court someone just to get to the possible stage of her naked and you coming in her mouth before it’s time to fly home, it’s not so pricey. And the result is guaranteed.
We undressed each other and he lay on the bed. “You remind me of someone I was once in love with,” I said. He looked doubtful. It was true-he had the same high waist and ascetic limbs of a fourteenth-century tempera saint. An identical form and face to A2. I tickled the high arch of his foot and kissed the inside of his thighs.
After sucking him for a few minutes, I asked what else he liked. Rimming, he said. “Giving or receiving?” Receiving, he said. I spread his legs wider and felt between the rounded cheeks of his arse. “Here, I think it will go better with a pillow under you.” He obliged. The pucker was tender, pink, and hairless. Clean, it tasted slightly of soap. I put my lips back around his cock and tickled the hole with a damp finger. He came quickly and hard, filling my throat.
“It’s only been thirty minutes,” I said. He was paying for an hour. “I don’t suppose you could manage again?”
“No, sorry,” he said. “Too old. Too tired.”
“Shall I stay and we can chat, or leave you, or you could turn over and I could pummel your back in a poor imitation of a massage.”
“I’d be fine if you left. I’ll just go to sleep happy and satisfied.”
“I’d wish you luck with the books but it sounds like you don’t need it,” I said. “Must pick up a copy.”
“Get one in paperback,” he said. “See if you like them first.”
I dressed, applied a fresh coat of lipstick. The money was in a hotel envelope. “Wasn’t it Dashiell Hammett who said you don’t pay a call girl to do what she does, you pay her to leave afterward?”
“Probably.” He smiled drowsily. I closed the door softly behind me. There was only one taxi outside. I stepped in the back and was whisked home in the light and sound of a city evening.