Anonymous
Belle do jour: Diary of an unlikely call girl
Prologue
The first thing you should know is that I’m a whore.
I don’t mean that in a glib way. I’m not using the word as an analogy for working a desk job or toiling away in new media. Many of my friends will tell you how temping for a year or ending up in sales is equivalent to prostitution. It’s not. I know this because I’ve been a temp, and I’ve fucked for money, and they are in no way similar. Not even the same planet. Different solar systems altogether.
The second thing is that I live in London. These two facts may or may not be related. It’s not a cheap city. Like almost all of my friends, I moved here after university with the hope of getting a job. If not a well-paying one, at least something interesting, or populated exclusively by handsome, eligible men. But such positions are thin on the ground. Almost everyone is studying to be an accountant now, including my friends A2 and A3, who are respected in their academic circles. Good God-a fate worse than death. Accountancy trumps even academia in the unsexiness stakes.
Prostitution is steady work but not demanding. I meet a lot of people. Granted, they’re almost all men, most of whom I’ll never see again, and I’m required to fuck them regardless of whether they’re covered in hairy moles or have a grand total of three teeth or want me to re-create a fantasy involving their sixth-form history teacher. But it’s better than watching the clock until the next scheduled tea break in a dismal staff room. So when my friends pull out the tired analogy of corporate-employment-as-whoring yet again, I nod knowingly, and commiserate with them, and we down cocktails and wonder where all our youthful promise went. Theirs is probably taking a commuter train to the suburbs. Mine is spreading its legs for cash on a regular basis.
Having said that, the leap to full-on prostitution did not happen overnight.
I ended up in London like thousands of other recent graduates. With only a small student debt and a bit of cash saved, I thought I was set for a few months, but that was quickly drained by rent and a thousand trivial expenses. My daily routine consisted of poring over the job pages, writing enthusiastic and sycophantic cover letters for positions I knew I’d never be interviewed for, and masturbating furiously before bed every night.
The masturbation was, by far, the highlight of those days. I imagined myself employed as a testing engineer for an office supplies manufacturer, in which the job involved covering my inner thighs with bulldog clips as someone screwed me vigorously. Or being the personal assistant to a powerful dominatrix, chained to her desk and eaten out by one of the other slaves, who in her turn was impaled on a dildo. Or floating in a sensory deprivation tank as unseen hands pinched and pulled at my skin, gestures at first gentle, then painful.
London wasn’t the first city I’d lived in, but it was certainly the largest. Anywhere else there is always the chance of seeing someone you know or, at the very least, a smiling face. Not here. Commuters crowd the trains, eager to outdo their fellow travelers in an escalating privacy war of paperbacks, headphones, and newspapers. A woman next to me on the Northern Line one day held the Metro just inches from her face; it was only three stops later that I noticed she was not reading but crying. It was hard not to offer sympathy and harder still to not start crying myself.
When work did come, it was always temporary, and usually paid badly. I did all the usual office drudgery, from answering phones (I never did figure out how to transfer a call without losing it) to filing (my alphabetization skills are probably surpassed by the average five-year-old; I always claim dyslexia, but am just lazy) to transcribing dictation (100,000 monkeys at 100,000 typewriters would do a better job). The day I came home with blistered fingertips from sealing envelopes was probably the worst. And even all this was better than the long, frequent periods in which I had no work at all.
So I watched my mean savings dwindle away as buying a Metrocard became the highlight of each week. And while I have a crippling lingerie-buying habit, even cutting down the intake of lacy things was not going to solve the problem.
Not long after moving, I had a text from an acquaintance, known through my friend N. This is N’s city and he seems to know everyone. He’s at least four of my six degrees of separation. So when he went out of his way to introduce me to this lady, I paid attention. Heard you’re in town-would love to meet when you’re free, the text said. She was a compactly sexy older woman, with a cut-glass accent and impeccable taste. When we had first met, I’d thought she was out of my league. But as soon as her back was turned, N indicated in half-whispers and furious hand gestures that she went like a train and liked women too. I dumped a gusher in my knickers instantly.
I saved that text for weeks as my imagination grew more heated and restless. Before long she had morphed into the latex-clad hell-bitch-boss of my nocturnal reveries. The wenches and sex-crazed office drones in my dreams were developing faces, and they were all hers. I texted back. She rang almost immediately to say that she and her new man would love to see me for dinner the next week.
I panicked for days about what to wear and splurged on a haircut and new underwear. On the night itself I tore my wardrobe apart, changing outfits a dozen times. Finally I decided on a tight aqua sweater and charcoal trousers-a little office-temp, perhaps, but modestly sexy. I arrived at the restaurant half an hour early, even after half an hour of trying to find the restaurant in the first place. The staff said I could only be seated when my party arrived. I spent the last of my money on a drink at the bar and hoped they’d cover the cost of the meal.
The sound of couples talking in the narrow rooms mingled with the burbling background music. Everyone looked possibly older than me, definitely better off. A few might have just come from work; others wandered in having been home to refresh. The door, each time it opened, let in a blast of chilly autumn air and the smell of dry leaves.
The couple arrived. We were seated at a table in the corner well away from the attention of the staff; I was tucked between them. He looked down the front of my sweater while she talked about art galleries and sport. As I felt his hand creep onto my right knee, her stockinged foot started to slide up the inside leg of my trousers.
Ah. That’s what they’re after, I thought, and hadn’t I known it all along? They were older, libertine, gorgeous. There was no good reason not to fuck or be fucked by them. I followed their lead in ordering: rich, buttery dishes. A mushroom risotto so thick it could barely be torn away from the shallow bowl, so glutinous the only way to dislodge it from the spoon was with teeth. Fish with the head still attached and its heat-glazed eyes staring up at us. She licked her fingers and I had the feeling this was a purposeful gesture rather than a lapse in manners. My hand slid over her skintight trousers to her crotch, and she clamped her legs together around my knuckles. At that particular moment the waitress decided our table needed more attention. She brought over a sampler of tiny pastries and chocolate treats, and the man fed his girlfriend with one hand, gripping my hand in the other, while my fingers crawled in her lap. She came easily, almost silently. I brushed her neck with my lips.
“Excellent,” he murmured. “Now do it again.”
So I did. After the meal we left the restaurant. He asked me to strip to the waist and sit in the front passenger seat while she drove. From the back seat he grabbed my breasts and pinched my nipples as we traveled the short distance to her house. I walked from the car to the door topless and, once inside, was ordered on my knees. She disappeared into the bedroom as he put me through a few basic obedience lessons-holding uncomfortable positions, holding heavy things in uncomfortable positions, holding heavy things in uncomfortable positions with his cock in my mouth.
She returned with candles and whips. While I have had both hot wax and the business end of a riding crop applied to my flesh before, it was a new experience to have it done with my legs in the air and lit candles plunged into me, dripping over my torso. After two hours, he entered her and, using his cock like the domme in my fantasy, drove her face-first into my pussy.
We dressed, she showered. He walked me out to find a black cab. His arm threaded through mine. Father and daughter, any passing stranger might have thought. We looked a comfortable pair.
“Quite a woman you have there,” I said.
“Whatever it takes to keep her happy,” he said.
I nodded. He waved down a taxi and gave the driver directions. As I stepped into the back he handed me a roll of money and said I was welcome anytime. I was halfway home before I unfolded the wad of notes and saw it was at least three times as much as the cab fare would cost.
My mind made the calculations-rent due, the number of days in a month, the net profit from the night out. I thought I should feel a pang of regret or surprise at being used and paid for. But it was nothing like that. They’d enjoyed themselves and to a wealthy couple the expense of dinner and a taxi was nothing at all. And, truth be told, I hadn’t exactly found it a chore.
I asked the driver to stop a few streets from my flat. The staccato sound of my heels on the pavement echoed off the housefronts. It was still summer, still warm at night, and the red candle-wax marks under my clothes glowed with sympathetic heat.
The idea of selling sex festered, it grew. But for a while I buried my curiosity about prostitution. I borrowed money off friends and started seeing a young man seriously. This was pleasantly distracting until the first overdraft statement from my bank arrived, suggesting I see them about a loan. The festering whispered and itched with every job application rejection and failed interview. I couldn’t stop thinking how it felt, swept away in the back of a black cab in the middle of the night. I could do it. I had to see.
And it wasn’t too long after deciding to do it that I started keeping a diary.
Novembre
Belle’s A-Z of London Sex Work
A-C
A is for Agencies
An agency in London typically takes one-third of the fee off a girl, excluding travel and tips. The man is expected to pay for travel expenses on an outcall, and this can add another 30 to 40 pounds.
Agency commission covers advertising, arranging and confirming appointments, as well as some security when needed. Some agencies deduct photography costs from a girl’s first appointments or ask her to pay up front. The agency I am registered with did not; photos and building a profile were free.
With luck, contact with the agency will be minimal. The last time I saw my manager, she criticized my lipliner. So much for feminine solidarity.
B is for Bad Hair
Sometimes the lead-up to an appointment leaves no time for the three-act fluffing and primping in a girl’s regime. The hair is usually the first to suffer. If I hurry, it tends to come out a bit limp and flat, a touch on the greasy side. There’s an emergency one-time, one-hour-only trick a girl at uni taught me: shake a light dusting of talc through the hair, then comb lightly. It’ll look good enough for long enough. Avoid moisture, though, or you risk gluing your head to the wall.
C is for Cash Only
I don’t take cards. Where would I put the swipe machine?
C is also for Chatter
Keeping up your own end of the conversation is not only useful, but probably the most relevant skill for the job. Pretend to be interested in everything. Be vague about political tendencies and other potentially inflammatory opinions. In other words, lie your head off. Think of it as proving ground for a future political career. samedi, le 1 ^er novembre
A client was latched on to my nipples like a bulldog clip. “Careful there, premenstrual,” I said, gently guiding his hands elsewhere.
“Tell me something you fantasize about,” he said.
Not having to wear open-toed sandals in winter.
A sailing holiday with the Boyfriend.
Saturday nights off.
“I’m abducted by four men, stripped and tied up in the back of a car. They park the car and get out and masturbate on me through the open windows.”
“Are there horses nearby?”
“There are a lot of horses nearby. We’re in the middle of the country. We’re on a farm. They’re farmers.”
“Can you smell the horses?”
“I can smell the horses, they’re making noises in their stalls and getting very excited. Horses have giant cocks, don’t they?”
“Oh yes. Yes, they do.”
“When the farmers are finished, they take me to the stables.”
“Don’t fuck the horse.”
“Oh no, I don’t even get close. It’s too big! And the horse… the stallion… is out of control, too excited. I think it’s far too big. It sounds like it’s going to break down the stall door.”
“Urrrrrrrr…” dimanche, le 2 novembre
A few things I have learnt on the job:
Fact. In a world of twelve-year-olds in sexy boots and grannies in sparkly minidresses, the surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel at Heathrow is to look for the lady in the designer suit.
The buildup to an appointment is almost always the same. The clients contact the agency after seeing the website. Then they ring, the manager rings me, she reconfirms with them, then they wait. I usually need two hours’ notice. One hour of plucking, showering, making up and hair; one to call a minicab and get to the meeting point. The makeup sits apart from the rest of my toiletries on its own shelf. I stand in front of a full-length mirror as the layers go on: powder and cologne; knickers, bra, and stockings; dress, shoes, makeup, and hair. Three outfits in the rotation-a modest but slinky gray jersey dress, a white-on-white checked suit, a tailored black linen dress with smart jacket. An infinite choice of underwear and shoes.
The last three seconds before entering the hotel are vital. Are the doors glass? If so, scan quickly for the lifts. Don’t go in and just stop; don’t ask the staff for directions. Sweep through, acknowledge them with a slight nod. If the lifts or toilets aren’t obvious, go for the nearest hallway, then get your bearings. If you leave an impression at all, it should be of a well-dressed lady. You are a businesswoman.
Not strictly untrue.
Lifts are useful. Time to dig through the purse for a phone, text the agency-they’ll want to know you arrived on time. If you’ve been running late, they’ll let the client know to expect you. Freshen lipgloss if needed; arrange clothing. Never be sweating or looking rushed. Find the door and knock briefly, firmly. “Darling, hello, pleased to meet you,” you say on entering the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Whether late or not. Even if you make it bang on time, the customer will have been counting the minutes. If anyone in the room is nervous, it mustn’t be you. Coat off, sit down. The client usually offers a drink. Never say no. If nothing else, have a sparkling water.
Collect the money before anything starts. One time I forgot to do this. The client laughed. “You must be new to this,” he said, and when I went in the toilet to clean up afterwards, he stuck the notes in the toaster in his flat. Don’t count it in front of him; there’ll be time later if you’re suspicious. Leave on time. If he wants you to stay longer, he has to ring the manager, arrange the price, and pay you right then. On leaving, a quick kiss. “An absolute pleasure. I hope to see you again.” Out the front, nod to the staff, as quickly gone as you arrived. Text or ring the agency once out of the hotel. If the manager can’t get through, she’ll ring the client, then the hotel, her own security if they’re nearby, then the police. She knows. She’s been in your shoes too.
My manager is sweet, an absolute doll. When she asks how it went, I always reply that the client was lovely, a gentleman, even if it’s stretching the truth. I wouldn’t want her to worry.
And sometimes it doesn’t go off quite right-like the time I inadvertently waved goodbye to an underendowed client by waggling my index finger. Cringe. That’s okay, perhaps he didn’t notice, and there’s always next time. lundi, le 3 novembre
The traffic close to the city center is unpredictable, and it’s better to be early to work than late. I had a meeting yesterday near Leicester Square. Arrived half an hour early and went into a record store to kill time.
I like record stores; I like music. This was a chain store, though, its lower level full of DVDs and books about music. The few racks of actual albums were heavy with chart-toppers and low price deals. I stole upstairs to the jazz and blues section.
Most of the other customers were kids killing time just like me, though not caked in quite so much makeup. Would the client be at the appointed meeting place, I wondered, or was he out too? Perhaps he was even in here? I looked round. There was one man, blond and thin, leaning over the end rack. Attractive in a sort of corruptible-young-lecturer way. I sauntered by and glanced over his shoulder.
His slender fingers played with the corner of an Isaac Hayes disc. “Good choice,” I murmured, and he almost dropped it in surprise. I must have looked a sight-overdressed, bulging coat, and face like a fright mask of makeup. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I made for the ground level, shoes clattering on the stairs.
When I met the client, he was, of course, not the man from the shop.
It was an overnight job: staying until sunrise. The manager has received such positive feedback about my skills as a disciplinarian that she lists it prominently in the website portfolio. I’m not naturally dominant, but I don’t mind doing it. Now it seems all clients want the treatment.
He: “There’s nothing quite like the buzz from fucking strangers.”
Me: “Can I quote you on that?”
“Yes.” (pauses) “What are you doing with your hands?”
My fingers were tented, bearing my weight above him. “I don’t want to knock the paintings off the wall.” I gritted my teeth.
“Good idea. Try not to, then.” Cripes, mate, it’s not as if it’s your own house. Hmph. Pretty demanding for a submissive, I thought.
(later still)
He: “You’re a class act, my dear.”
Me: “I didn’t know anyone actually said that, outside the movies.”
“Have to get my lines from somewhere.”
N met me outside the hotel just before sunrise. He’s a close friend, we used to date, he knows what I do, and can double for George Clooney in the right light. As in, pitch black. N was smirking. “Have fun in there?” I opened my coat to show him two whips tied to the inside lining. “You brought the Persuaders. So you were having fun.”
“Sort of. Yes. He couldn’t stay hard, so we drank the minibar and watched Channel Five for the last hour.” We got into N’s car, which was parked on the pavement. “And he gave me a silver bubble blower.” I took the gift out of my purse. It was in a wooden box wrapped with gold and black ribbons, and shaped like a tiny champagne bottle.
I wasn’t feeling tired and neither was he. “You want to blow bubbles?” N asked as we drove over Tower Bridge. We turned and drove up the leafy Embankment, and the growing light of the morning made the water glint darkly. N knows about the tides of the Thames; he’s seen bodies dragged out of the river; he knows where the terrapins and seals go when the weather is warm. He pointed to a building with a swimming pool in the basement, said he used to swim there when he was at school because it was the closest one. And that bridge, he remembers the woman who threw herself off it, pockets full of pebbles, but who didn’t realize the air would catch in her layers of clothing so she couldn’t sink. When the rescue boats came to drag her out, she fought them off-“Put me in, put me in!” I sat back, eyes half closed, as he told me more of the city lore. We ended up at Charing Cross station at sunrise, blowing soapy scraps of bubble juice diluted with manky Thames water onto the first commuters of the day. mardi, le 4 novembre
Small handbags, bah. The magazines can tout this or that tiny purse of the season. But considering what I typically leave the house carrying, a pair of folding scissors (stray threads are the enemy) a pen (my memory is good, but not that good) phone (phone agency on arrival and leaving) condoms (polyurethane as well as latex-some people have allergies) a spoon bottle of lube lipgloss (reapplying lipstick after a blowjob is too complicated) compact and mascara small vial of scent (anything citrusy is nice) tissues spare knickers and stockings keys, bankcards, other normal detritus and sometimes, nipple clamps, ball gag, and a multitailed rubber whip, a capacious holdall is the order of the day. Packing all that into a Fendi baguette is a black art not even Houdini could master. mercredi, le 5 novembre
I was reminded of a phrase I had forgotten existed- turning tricks.
Turning tricks! What an intriguing concept! I imagine a Vegas dealer turning over the flop, an Edwardian society belle sifting through a silver plate of calling cards, a dominatrix flipping bound captives like so many grilling sausages. vendredi, le 7 novembre