Secret Diary of a Call Girl

Read an Excerpt

November

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 1er 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

My parents are quite nice. I know I’m biased, but it’s true. In spite of having left home years ago, I’m still in contact with one or both of them on an almost-daily basis.

They don’t know, officially, what I do. They know I’m in the sex trade but that’s it. Knowing my mother and her middle-class sensibilities, she probably tells her friends I’m a sales rep for Myla or something.

So while they officially don’t know, I suspect they unofficially do know. Or at least have a clue. Mum and Dad, they’re not stupid people.

I rang home for no particular reason. “Hello, honey,” Daddy said. “Still beating the streets? Ha ha ha.”

“Ha,” I bleated flatly. “Mum there?” He grunted and handed the phone over.

“When are you coming home?” she asked. No hello. No asking after my health. No one in her family has bothered with polite pleasantries since antediluvian times. Straight to the point, that’s them.

“Couple of weeks?”

“How’s the job search going?”

I ummed and erred. I couldn’t remember what I’d last told her. That I was looking for work, or starting on a research project? Thinking about postgrad programs, or applying to some? “Not bad, a few things out there, no interviews yet.”

Actually, it’s not quite all lies, I had a job interview.

Don’t get too excited—it wasn’t a real one. I was instructed to meet a client at a hotel, and was e-mailed his specific requirements for my interview technique. He required a shy, almost virginal secretary who would be powerless under his persuasion. Needless to say, A levels (not the academic sort) were required.

We finished early and snapped out of character. I found a lime-scented cream in the bathroom and massaged his tense shoulders. “Do you find my fantasies odd?” he asked.

“Odd?”

“Do you think it demeans women?”

I chose my words carefully. “I think this is the appropriate outlet for it.” We talked a bit longer. Interestingly, his background was very similar to mine—his mother comes from where my father is from, and vice versa. The conversation strayed to places, attitudes, foodstuffs, sport. As we spoke homesickness hit quickly and hard, and I was suddenly looking forward to the holidays.

My mother seemed satisfied with the evasion of her question. “Let me know when you’re visiting, yes? And if you’re bringing anyone, yes? So I can make up the rooms.”

“Of course,” I lied. Setting a date would have been pointless, because she inevitably forgets. On the day I turn up at home, suitcases in hand, she can always be counted on to exclaim, “Oh, was it today you were coming home? I thought it was tomorrow!”

She put Daddy back on the line. “Tell that nice boy of yours with the glasses I said hello!” he chirruped. That was a boy called A4, a lovely young lad who was very clever and always smiled. My father still says from time to time that he hopes we’ll marry. I don’t know if this is a sign of senility or a misguided attempt at matchmaking. A4 was three relationships ago. We’re still friends, though. I sighed, and wished them a pleasant weekend, and rang off.

Copyright © 2006 by Bizrealm Limited on behalf of Belle de Jour