And in such days as these, only a cad would casually throw out a line like “You’ve gained some on the hips.” Which is why I had to kill N and bury the corpse under a layer of permafrost on Hampstead Heath. No jury would convict.
Fevrier
K-N
K is for Killer Moves
Or, the thing a girl is known for. For some it’s the look, others the intimacy, others a peculiar talent. Anal and light domination come up fairly frequently with me, but they’re not the killer moves. It’s the oral. I’ve been complimented on oral technique often enough to ask a man before I start on him whether he wants to come in my mouth or not, and if so, how long should I make it last? Many of them do not believe the timing of their orgasm is in my hands (or lips, as it were). Of course it is, silly things. That’s why they’re the men.
L is for Lousy Kissers
There are a lot of these in the world. It’s not your duty to reform them, though a gentle suggestion, well timed, can be the best thing a man gets out of the encounter. Other times you have to know when to hold your tongue. Especially when he cannot hold his.
M is for Music
I blame the conventions of overbearing cinema soundtracks for the crap that is supposed to accompany a session of hedonistic lovemaking. Music is a matter of taste, and it’s usually obvious whether a man has put something on because he wants to hear it and it turns him on or because he thinks it’s what ought to be done. Doing the deed to the syrupy strains of Luther Vandross is a misguided attempt to set the mood. Someone who pounds your arsehole to the beat of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, on the other hand, is clearly passionate about the music.
N is for Noise
The alternative to music. He wants feedback; give it to him. But for goodness’ sake don’t lay on the porn screeches in a cheap imitation of passionate frenzy unless he clearly requests it. They’re paying for sex, not stupid. dimanche, le 1 ^er fevrier
First Date and I agreed to meet to see a play. No big-budget West End production, this: he suggested we go to a show put on by some of his friends at a pub. It was something by one of my favorite Renaissance playwrights, and I was dubious of the adaptation. “You’ll be amazed what they’ve done with it,” he assured me. “A real two-hander.”
I giggled. I think perhaps the phrase means something different to luvvies than it does to call girls.
The night after the party, when he slept in the sitting room and N in my bed, all three of us rose early and had a cup of coffee in the kitchen. I walked them out to the street, waved N off in his car, and walked First Date round the corner to his. I was scared I might be in for a touch of the coldness I’d shown him, but no, he lit a kiss on my mouth before driving away. I thought perhaps another chance was deserved. It did rather show up my abilities as a hostess to force the poor lad to stay over on my sofa.
Went across town by tube to meet him. He was already in the pub, having a drink with a friend whom he introduced me to. This friend’s claim to fame was having been the child star face of some commercials, and as he looked at least fifty it was no surprise I didn’t recognize the product-much less the adverts. We talked briefly about computers instead. I think they’re horrible little beastly things, with no great use besides facilitating the production and distribution of porn. Much like men, really. And not so bad for it.
The two-hander was in an upstairs room. It was clear from the start that I was not going to like it much, but First Date’s long muscular thigh was pressed against mine, and he laughed in the right places, and aside from the overacting going on twelve feet ahead of us, it was nice to be in a dark room together.
The audience filed downstairs afterward for drinks. I saw the lead actor some few minutes later and joined the crowd in paying him lavish, undeserved compliments.
“What did you really think?” said one of First Date’s friends, looking at me with a canny smile, when the actor had walked away.
“Bloodless,” I said. “Without passion.”
“Example?”
“I can do better than that,” I said. Turning to First Date, I quoted a line from the play, a line given by the lead actor. I pawed his shirt as if he were Helen of Troy-the pinnacle of feminine beauty. And he played it well, moving off my advances archly.
We both turned toward the friend. “Point made,” he said. First Date and I emptied our glasses and left.
He offered me a lift. It wasn’t really on his way, I knew, but I accepted.
We talked about everything and nothing. I outlined how things had ended with the Boy. He told me about his recent ex-girlfriend. My mind wandered to A2, and I found myself saying, “I suppose it was a revelation to learn that just because someone loves you, you don’t have to love them back. And you can’t tell that person their loving you is wrong.”
There was a pause. “That’s good,” he said, zipping round Hyde Park Corner. “Because I love you.”
Ack, no, please. I felt trapped by my own words. “Thank you,” I said. And I knew right at that moment I didn’t feel the same. Not yet. Maybe never. We went back to mine, had sex, slept. He woke early-habit of an honestly employed person, I suppose. We had a quiet breakfast and he went home. lundi, le 2 fevrier
Client: “May I take your picture?”
Me: (spotting the palm-sized video recorder nearby) “No.”
“Please? I won’t include your face.”
Hmph. Thanks. “No, I’m sorry-it’s not our policy to allow photographs or recordings.”
“I just want to see you spreading those lips while my dick goes inside.”
“Good, we can do that. We’ll use a mirror. But no pictures.”
“Other girls do it.”
“I’m not other girls.”
(pouting somewhat) “Other girls from the same agency do it.”
Is that supposed to swing my vote? Mister, I don’t care if you have snaps of my mother going down on your dog. “Terribly sorry, no.”
“Not even a photo? It’ll be mostly me anyway.”
“No.” This was getting tedious and, more to the point, taking up quite a lot of our time. I smiled sweetly, stood right against him, and played with the top button of his shirt. “Shall we?”
So we did, though he peppered the talk during our session with comments like “Wow, that’s amazing, wish I could get a picture of that,” and “You really should be in porn, you know?” (There was the time N and I toyed with the idea of funding a sabbatical in Poland by working in Eastern European skin flicks, but that’s another story for another day.)
He just didn’t let up. To the point where bucking enthusiastically and making all the right moves was becoming difficult because I couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched. At the end of the hour I was so spooked I couldn’t help scanning the room for hidden cameras. At least it was a hotel room and not a private house, but when he went to use the toilet I still opened all the drawers and looked under the bed.
It’s a good idea to stay suspicious, in my experience. It hasn’t served me badly yet. No one has ever taken advantage and I want to ensure it never does happen. That’s part of why I work through an agency.
I know my place in sex work is a privileged one, as far as having sex with strangers goes. Many-though not all-prostitutes are addicts, in damaging relationships, abused by clients, or all of the above. It is probably a measure of my naivete that I do not ask the few other WGs I meet if they are happy in their work. Honestly, I did not even notice that streetwalkers existed until well into my teenage years. Sometimes it’s hard to tell a girl heading for a club from one who’s, er, not.