H-J
H is for Hobbyist
A hobbyist is a man who is a habitual user of escort services. These range from the experienced and infinitely charming high tipper to the boorish tightwad who compares you unfavorably to every other prostitute he’s been with. Be sure to treat every hobbyist as if he is the former. They will most likely write an Internet report on you.
I is for Invisibility
Don’t stand in the lobby of a hotel on the way out talking to your manager on the phone about the customer and what her cut of the take is. I’ve seen people do it; it’s horrid. What are you waiting for, hordes of adoring fans? Get out, get a cab, go home. Be discreet.
J is for Jealousy
When a regular customer-especially one you like or who tips well-moves on to another girl or otherwise inexplicably drops you, take it in your stride. They’re not paying for sex because they want a relationship, silly. There will be others. There always are.
J is also for Jet Set
Very few girls will travel outside a hundred mile radius on a regular basis. A repeat client may well offer to take you around the world on his yacht, but don’t be disappointed if it never exactly materializes. Even when they’re paying for the sex, men are apt to inflate their income and connections to impress and amuse you. All I can offer is, don’t count your frequent-flier miles before they hatch. jeudi, le 1 ^er janvier
N and I met in town last night to raise a drink and indulge in mutual holidaytide misanthropy. I hate going out on New Year’s, but being alone is infinitely worse. N’s preferred tipple these days is Bailey’s on ice, which is virtually pudding in a glass. As I lifted my glass, a man we knew pushed past, spilling half my drink on my jeans.
“What’s her problem?” I sniffed.
“Nothing a fortnight in a Turkish brothel wouldn’t fix,” N said. Thus inspired, we spent the rest of the evening compiling a list of people whose attitudes (we thought) would be much improved by such a holiday.
In need of a fortnight in a Turkish brothel (rough draft):
Naomi Campbell
Penelope Keith
Princess Anne
Cherie Blair
Pamela Anderson, though she may actually enjoy it
Blair’s Babes
(E)liz(abeth) Hurley
Paris Hilton
Myleene Klass
Any Jagger ex or offspring
Condoleezza Rice
Jenna Bush
Jessica Simpson actually, any blonde for whom the descriptors “It Girl” and “famous father” apply vendredi, le 2 janvier
Regarding orgasms at work:
I don’t. I don’t equate number of orgasms with the level of enjoyment of sex, nor good sex with the ability to produce an orgasm. At the age of nineteen, if I remember the person and the conversation correctly, I realized that sex was about the quality of your enjoyment and that doesn’t always mean coming.
On the other hand, I also remember that conversation largely consisting of comparing experiences with dropping acid. Nevertheless, the realization that sex is just an end in itself stayed with me.
Let’s be honest, this is a customer service position, not a self-fulfillment odyssey. They’re paying for their orgasm, not mine. Plenty of the men-more than you might think-never even come at all. They never imply it’s a failure on my part. Sometimes they’re just after human contact, a warm body, an erotic embrace. Most times, come to think of it.
The inability of punters to produce an orgasm in me is no way a comment on their shortcomings. As far as their part of the bargain goes, they’re doing a great job, and I enjoy sex for more than the merely physical tingle. Being desired is fun. Dressing up is fun. No pressure to experience physical release for fear of damaging someone’s ego, or give someone an orgasm for fear of never hearing from them again, is hella wicked.
Sometimes a race is a good day out-regardless of where you finished. samedi, le 3 janvier
Text from the Boy:
Are you okay? Feeling sad because I’m afraid you don’t want to talk to me.
I wonder if I’m abnormal sometimes. A little cold for love, slightly lacking in sentiment. As soon as someone’s interest flags, my own feelings start to go that way too. As Clive Owen said in the film Croupier, hold on tightly-let go lightly.
I don’t give people enough chances.
Maybe I know it’s not right anyway. All romance is narcissism, A1 told me once. This was the same person who also told me women over thirty should never wear their hair long, so he’s probably an unreliable source, but still. I’m doing us both a favor by not responding.
There are other things that have happened, things I never wanted to think or write about because I was afraid of being rash, in case everything straightened itself out. It might still. I could ring, or send a text, but they seem such poor approximations of communication. If I can’t sort out what’s in this head, how can I put it into intelligible sentences?
If I wait too long, the decision won’t be mine to make anyway.
I decide to go out and spend all my money on underwear, then throw them about the room to decide my fate like a satiny, lace-gusseted I Ching. Let the gods of Beau Bra decide.
I bought a set in chocolate-colored lace, with pink satin ties at the sides of the knickers and between the cups of the bra. I don’t think I got these for either work or Boyfriend. The carriage coming back was crowded with bargain hunters and tourists. I tried to guess what each shiny paper bag contained. A package of handkerchiefs? Comic books? Perfume? There was a mass exodus into the north of the city, people rushing off at each stop. Someone who can’t wait to get home and won’t even take off her coat before tearing through tissue paper. A man who was pulling the wrapping off a new CD already, dropping ribbons of plastic on the floor.
Tonight I am going out with friends to an annual dinner. The men will be stuffed into their dinner jackets, which have grown mysteriously smaller since last year, and grumble about the skimpy main course. The women will swish from table to table in jersey and diamante, hair smooth like petals.
The tube lurches closer to my stop. The song on my headphones is buoyant-the sort of pop confection on a thousand best-of-2003 lists. When I look up, I see how close the yellow handrail is to the ceiling light and brush the cover with my fingertips. A pram rocks on the unsteady journey, knocking over a mother’s shopping bags. I can’t help smiling. Further down the carriage, a bald man stares. dimanche, le 4 janvier
N jeweled my arm for the formal event last night-purely platonically, you understand. Am still angry at the Boy and taking the hard line for now that “all men are twats, unless they’re paying, in which case they’re twats who are paying.” N understands perfectly and accepts his appointment as “twat” with grace. This probably means he’s trying to get me into bed.
We showered and dressed at mine, and I tied his bow tie before we left. He was planning to wear a ready-tied, but I insisted on the real thing. I will not be seen in public with a man whose tie falls into any of the following categories: clip-on, spinning, or metallic. There is a time and a place for comedy eveningwear. I believe it passed when Charles Chaplin shrugged off his mortal coil.
Throats dry, we stopped for a pre-revelry drink at a bar that was cunningly hidden under another bar. Several dozen other celebrants were there as well, and N introduced me around. A chirpy, raven-haired Nigella-alike planted herself to my left.
“Why, hello there,” she twanged. “My name’s T-.” Her dress was doing a reasonable job of keeping her breasts restrained, but I didn’t reckon on its chances for surviving the night.
I gave N a “do you know this woman?” look. He shot me a “no, do you think she’ll sleep with me?” look.
She put her perfectly manicured hand on my knee. “I just love your accent!” she enthused. “Where are you from?”