I woke up half-wrapped in a bedsheet. I didn’t come. I can’t stop thinking about his hands, his hands. The way his hair felt. The smell of the skin on his back in summer. mardi, le 20 janvier
They say when it rains, it pours, but is there a saying for the complete opposite? Perhaps “When it’s dry, it’s arid”?
The most recent bookings have all been time-wasters and mind-changers. There is always a certain amount of this at work-like the man who wanted to book an overnight but didn’t ring the manager when he got to the hotel. So while I knew first name, time, and location, I wasn’t about to turn up and go round all the floors knocking at each door.
Can you imagine? “Room service? No? I’ll try next door then….”
He did contact the agency a few days later to apologize. Seems he simply didn’t write our number down and couldn’t ring again. Of course.
Other times the cancellation comes from my end-I get nervous if someone changes time and location more than once. Too many overly specific requests also tend to put me on guard. Dressing up is fine. Dressing up like your septuagenarian grandmother and being asked to bring my own mortuary foam is not. A finely tuned Creep Radar is a necessary part of the business. This is, after all, an occupation that ranks somewhere between nuclear core inspector and rugby prop for job safety. Except I’m issued neither a foil suit nor a pair of spiked boots for protection.
I have also learned never to trust a booking made more than three days ahead, as these people almost never call back to verify the appointment details. At first I imagined my work diary filling up weeks ahead. But the most reliable calls come six to twelve hours in advance, even from regulars. The longer someone has to think about it, it seems, the heavier guilt weighs on them. Or maybe they decide to do it themselves. A copy of Penthouse isn’t exactly going to give you a blowjob and a backrub, but then again, it’s more likely to be found hanging around your local off-license and can be had for under a fiver.
Lame excuses, cancellations, aggressive patients, dubious over-the-counter remedies. Now I know how a doctor feels.
At least the four As have descended on Jour Towers for a few days. Quote of the night:
A2: “So what are we doing tomorrow?”
Aclass="underline" “Well, we’ll have to get that bottle of whisky first thing in the morning, definitely.”
You couldn’t buy a better bunch of chaps, I swear. mercredi, le 21 janvier
N is approaching the one-year anniversary of a breakup. I am of the belief that it usually takes as long as the relationship itself for the pangs to subside, which means he should have been over this one, oh, about nine months ago. His ex was a bit of flighty girl. Frankly I never thought they’d make it. I was right, but this isn’t the sort of thing you go telling your friends straight after the fact. Example:
“I sent her a Christmas card and a birthday card and she hasn’t so much as texted me.”
I’m thinking: Well, of course not, silly boy. She’s probably married to an oil tycoon and has a litter of children by now. I’m saying: “How dare she. That is so profoundly unfair.”
N has a charming ability to think the world of his exes. Naturally, I’m not complaining. “Pedestal-worthy” is a modifier more of my acquaintances should use. In the wake of his ex’s refusal to contact him, N is seeking out every other immortal beloved to have crossed his path- muy High Fidelity. It started last month with His First.
They exchanged phone calls for a few weeks. He was sweet about it. Talking to her seemed to bring a lot of memories to the fore-how they met and courted, secretly, over several years. Why she never wanted to marry or have children. The last time he saw her in person, the sad, strained final farewell. Like everyone else, I love a good passion. I love a good story even more.
Then N arranged to meet His First in person, and his reminiscences went from the rosy-hued to the frankly sexual. He’s never had a woman since with bigger breasts. She taught him everything a man ever need know about going down on a woman. How she reacted to the taste of come. And so on.
“God, if she’ll let me, I’d love to have her again. Just once, just for old time’s.”
I’m thinking: There isn’t a single ex I would take back. I’m at least 95 percent sure of that. Usually. Depending on which way the wind’s blowing. I’m saying: “Darling, great idea. I bet it’s even better than before.”
“You mean they’re even better than before,” he said, making a groping gesture in midair with his hands.
“Of course. Of course that’s what I meant.”
He looked at me and smiled. “So if I manage to get her in bed, and she’s up for it, would you do a threesome with us?”
I’m thinking: Not a chance, hon. She’ll never say yes, and even if she did, I wouldn’t. I’m saying: “Go for it, sweetie. The more the merrier!”
N put his arm around my shoulders. “You’re the best woman ever, you know that?” Happily he will continue to believe so for the time being-I am reliably informed that His First didn’t let him get any more intimate than an awkward hug at the end. He can go on thinking I’m a sexual saint and it’ll never be put to the test. jeudi, le 22 janvier
“Darling, can you make a booking for this afternoon?”
I was varnishing my toenails and feeling slightly cranky. “No, I’m afraid it’s my time of the month.” I suspect she either doesn’t pay very close attention to our cycles or is too polite to call me on an obvious lie.
Except in this case it wasn’t a lie. It was a lie when I used it about, oh, two weeks ago.
“This maaaaan, he is very rich,” she said. “He keeps asking only for you.”
“Can’t do it,” I snapped, wondering where on earth I’d managed to leave the ibuprofen, and other incrementally more important things. Like not smudging the nail varnish as it dried, and reading the paper. “I don’t think he’d want blood on the sheets.”
“It’s a hotel call.”
“The hotel management. Whomever,” I said.
“Darling, what I tell the other girls is, just use a bit of sponge.”
A bit of sponge? “A bit of sponge?” What was this, some demented nineties contraception allusion, or the start of a slippery slope involving fulfilling Greek diving-suit fantasies?
“You just cut off a corner of a clean sponge, darling, and put it up your-”
“Yes, okay, I think I see where that’s going.” I shuddered. Having once-years ago-inadvertently forgotten a tampon during sex, I was not keen to repeat the experience. The thought of someone banging away at my cervical door as I grew ever more worried about the chances of retrieving a scrap of synthetic foam and, by extension, the inverse chances of ending up in the emergency room sounded distinctly untempting.
And barring that, what if he was hoping for a deep dive of the digits into my finger-licking nether regions?
“It should last the hour. When the other girls are on their time, I never book them for longer than an hour. You will be fine, darling.”
She was right, of course, though perhaps explaining the missing bit of washing-up implement to whomever next walks through my kitchen will be awkward. As for retrieval, truth be told, the client never even came close to troubling the sponge. vendredi, le 23 janvier
To my great surprise, the man I went on a first date with rang back. He hadn’t taken my guilty conscience as a hint at all-in fact, he’d been hiking in the North and simply not been able to ring. So much for my surgical brush-off, then. But just hearing his voice did make me smile. Perhaps it is worth pursuing after all.
He invited me out to a play. Unfortunately, I do like to keep evenings free for work, and haven’t been terribly in the black of late. Must be that pesky habit of spending all my money on underwear. I politely declined, but said we must get together later in the week.
“You can brush me off, I won’t take offense,” he said.
“Oh no, I’m not at all,” I backpedaled. “I really would like to see you soon.” It’s not every man who offers to take you on the town after knowing he can score with you regardless. Most would take first-date sex as an excuse to crack open a can of beer and watch Grand Prix on all forthcoming dates.