Belle de Jour - The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl

Im an author, the client said. Really, I said. What kind? Genre fiction, he said. He quoted a New York Times bestseller standing and a familiar title. Ah, I said. Like Mickey Spillane. Thats right, he said. I always liked that part at the end of My Gun is Quick, I said. Where Hammer tears the negligee off the heroine. Their single night of passion together.

I sat on his lap and he ran his hand over my thighs.

Feels like holdups, he said. (They were.)

What do you want tonight? I asked.

Simple man, simple pleasures, he said. I just like to come in a naked womans mouth.

This transaction may seem expensive, but if you think about the money and effort you might spend on a business trip, trying to court someone just to get to the possible stage of her naked and you coming in her mouth before its time to fly home, its not so pricey. And the result is guaranteed.

He removed my knickers and we undressed each other. He lay on the bed. You remind me of someone I was once in love with, I said. He looked doubtful. It was true he had the same high waist and ascetic limbs of a fourteenth-century tempera saint. An identical form and face to A2. I tickled the high arch of his foot and kissed the inside of his thighs.

After sucking him for a few minutes I asked what else he liked. Rimming, he said. Giving or receiving? Receiving, he said. I spread his legs wider and felt between the rounded cheeks of his arse. Here, I think it will go better with a pillow under you. He obliged. The pucker was tender, pink and hairless. Clean, it tasted slightly of soap. I put my lips back around his cock and tickled the hole with a damp finger. He came quickly and hard, filling my throat.

Its only been thirty minutes, I said. He was paying for an hour. I dont suppose you could manage again?

No, sorry, he said. Too old. Too tired.

Shall I stay and we can chat, or leave you? Or you could turn over and I could pummel your back in a poor imitation of a massage.

Id be fine if you left. Ill just go to sleep happy and satisfied.

Id wish you luck with the books but it sounds like you dont need it, I said. Must pick up a copy.

Get one in paperback, he said. See if you like them first.

I dressed, applied a fresh coat of lipstick. The money was in a hotel envelope. Wasnt it Dashiell Hammett who said you dont pay a call girl to do what she does, you pay her to leave afterwards?

Probably, he smiled drowsily. I closed the door softly behind me. There was only one taxi outside. I stepped in the back and was whisked home in the light and sound of a city evening.

Original title: The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl

Belle de Jour, 2005

Digital editor: nalasss

ePub base r1.0

Dedicated to F and N.

This book would not have been possible without the support and patience of Patrick Walsh and Helen Garnons-Williams, and their staff and associates, to whom are owed many thanks.

Belle de Jour is the nom de plume of a high-class call girl working in London. Her award-winning web diary was read by 15,000 people each day. This is her story.

It occurs to me that i a world of twelve-year-olds in sexy boots and nans in sparkly minidresses, the surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel at Heathrow is to look for the lady with the designer suit

Most people raise an eyebrow when they find out my closest friends are mostly men, and for the most part, men Ive slept with. Strange, I think. Whom else are you going to sleep with besides people you know? Strangers? Dont answer that

Belle de Jour

ePub r1.0

nalasss28.11.13

The first thing you should know is that Im a whore.

I dont mean that in a glib way. Im not using the word as an analogy for working a desk job or toiling away in new media. Many of my friends will tell you how temping for a year or ending up in sales is equivalent to prostitution. Its not. I know this because Ive been a temp and Ive fucked for money, and they are in no way similar. Not even the same planet. Different solar systems altogether.

The second thing is that I live in London. These two facts may or may not be related. Its not a cheap city. Like almost all of my friends, I moved here after university with the hope of getting a job. If not a well-paying one, at least something interesting, or populated exclusively by handsome, eligible men. But such positions are thin on the ground. Almost everyone is studying to be an accountant now, including my friends A2 and A3, who are respected in their academic circles. Good god a fate worse than death. Accountancy trumps even academia in the unsexiness stakes.

Prostitution is steady work but not demanding. I meet a lot of people. Granted, theyre almost all men, most of whom Ill never see again, and Im required to fuck them regardless of whether theyre covered in hairy moles or have a grand total of three teeth or want me to recreate a fantasy involving their sixth-form history teacher. But its better than watching the clock until the next scheduled tea break in a dismal staff room. So when my friends pull out the tired analogy of corporate employment-as-whoring yet again, I nod knowingly and commiserate with them, and we down cocktails and wonder where all our youthful promise went.

Theirs is probably on a trunk road to the suburbs. Mine is spreading its legs for cash on a regular basis.

Having said that, the leap to full-on prostitution did not happen overnight.

I ended up in London like thousands of other recent graduates. With only a small student debt and a bit saved, I thought I was set for a few months but my surplus was quickly drained by rent and a thousand trivial expenses. My daily routine consisted of poring over the job pages, writing enthusiastic and sycophantic covering letters, although I knew Id never be interviewed, and masturbating furiously before bed every night.

The masturbation was, by far, the highlight of those days. I imagined myself employed as a testing engineer for an office supplies manufacturer, and that the job involved covering my inner thighs with bulldog clips as someone screwed me vigorously. Or being the personal assistant to a powerful dominatrix, chained to her desk and eaten out by one of the other slaves, who in turn was impaled on a dildo. Or floating in a sensory deprivation tank, as unseen hands pinched and pulled at my skin, gestures at first gentle, then painful.

London wasnt the first city Id lived in, but it was certainly the largest. Anywhere else there is always the chance of seeing someone you know, or at the very least, a smiling face. Not here. Commuters crowd the trains, eager to outdo their fellow travellers in an escalating privacy war of paperbacks, headphones and newspapers. A woman next to me on the Northern Line one day held the Metro just inches from her face; it was only three stops later that I noticed she was not reading but crying. It was hard not to offer sympathy and harder still not to start crying myself.

So I watched my mean savings dwindle away as buying a Travelcard became the highlight of each week. And while I have a crippling lingerie-buying habit, even cutting down the intake of lacy things was not going to solve the problem.