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
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.