The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle de Jour Page B
Authors: Belle de Jour
Ads: Link
Babes
(E)liz(abeth) Hurley
Lady Victoria Hervey
Myleene Klass
any Jagger ex or offspring
Theresa May
Tara Palmer Tompkinson
Sophie Ellis Bextor
any blonde for whom the descriptors ' It
'
Girl and ' double-barrell '
ed apply
93
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 realised 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 realisation that sex is just an end in itself stayed with me.
Let's be honest, this is a customer service position, not a self-fulfilment 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. So 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 either experience physical release for fear of damaging someone's ego, or give someone an orgasm for fear of never hearing from them again, is wicked.
Sometimes a race is a good day out ‐ regardless of where you finish.
94
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 Croupier, 'Hold on tightly ‐ let go lightly.'
I don't give people enough chances. But maybe I know when 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 favour by not responding to the Boy's text.
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 my head, how can I put it into intelligible sentences? If I wait too long the decision won't be mine to make anyway.
I decided to go out and spend all my money on underwear, then throw my purchases about the room to decide my fate like a satiny, lace‐gussetted I‐Ching. Let the gods of Beau Bra decide. I bought a set in chocolate‐coloured lace, with pink satin ties at the sides of the knickers and between the cups of the bra, neither for work nor for the Boy.
The tube home 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: a woman who can't wait to get home and won't even take off her coat before tearing
95
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 as petals.
The tube lurched closer to my stop. The song on my headphones was buoyant ‐ the sort of pop confection on
(E)liz(abeth) Hurley
Lady Victoria Hervey
Myleene Klass
any Jagger ex or offspring
Theresa May
Tara Palmer Tompkinson
Sophie Ellis Bextor
any blonde for whom the descriptors ' It
'
Girl and ' double-barrell '
ed apply
93
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 realised 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 realisation that sex is just an end in itself stayed with me.
Let's be honest, this is a customer service position, not a self-fulfilment 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. So 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 either experience physical release for fear of damaging someone's ego, or give someone an orgasm for fear of never hearing from them again, is wicked.
Sometimes a race is a good day out ‐ regardless of where you finish.
94
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 Croupier, 'Hold on tightly ‐ let go lightly.'
I don't give people enough chances. But maybe I know when 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 favour by not responding to the Boy's text.
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 my head, how can I put it into intelligible sentences? If I wait too long the decision won't be mine to make anyway.
I decided to go out and spend all my money on underwear, then throw my purchases about the room to decide my fate like a satiny, lace‐gussetted I‐Ching. Let the gods of Beau Bra decide. I bought a set in chocolate‐coloured lace, with pink satin ties at the sides of the knickers and between the cups of the bra, neither for work nor for the Boy.
The tube home 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: a woman who can't wait to get home and won't even take off her coat before tearing
95
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 as petals.
The tube lurched closer to my stop. The song on my headphones was buoyant ‐ the sort of pop confection on
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