Free The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle de Jour Page A

the toilet for fear that I would not be able to stop myself going through their cupboards.
    It was a longer drive than I thought. An hour or more out of London I started to get the familiar twitchy feeling. ‘I was thinking of masturbating,’ I said to the neighbour. ‘But you were going to stop soon for food, weren’t you?’
    ‘I’ll give you plenty of warning if I decide to stop,’ he said.
    ‘And let me know if you’re about to pass any lorry drivers?’
    ‘I will.’
    Unzipped my jeans and reached into my knickers with the left hand – already soaking wet. I slipped two fingers inside, then a third, rubbing my clit with the thumb. The radio was on, some droning Radio Four drama. I turned it down. It was distracting. Turned it down again so the actors’ voices were just a whisper. Closed my eyes. I don’t know how long it was before I came, twitching and grunting, but the same play was still on when I finished. Pulled my hand out, licked the fingers. We stopped soon after for a cream tea.
    We’ll share a bed tonight, but I bet nothing happens, I think. He’s a tactile creature who responds well to touch but is strangely passive. He either doesn’t fancy me enough to go through with cheating, or is frightened, or perhaps a bit of both.
    We sat outside a pub drinking bitter, watching mother ducks and their fluffy ducklings play in a shallow stream. He told me about girls he had flirted with, girls he had pursued. ‘I believe infidelity is essential to the health of a long-term relationship,’ he said. Perhaps. But he hasn’t done it yet with me or anyone else. Maybe he feels he needs to establish some kind of emotional feeling for the other woman before he cheats. Which makes him rather a different creature from the clients I used to see, who by the time they book a girl have already decided to go through with the cheating, regardless of who she turns out to be. Maybe punters are punters because they went that route first and found the fallout too damaging to their primary relationships. I don’t know.
    dimanche, le 7 novembre
    Conversations I’m glad are firmly in the past.
    1 Mum, I’m not a virgin any more.
It happened the term before I went to university. I thought I sort of loved the boy, he wrote me (very bad) songs and compared me to heroines in (very bad) books. He was ginger. It didn’t last. It wouldn’t have done to go to uni a virgin, anyway. My mother cried.
    2 Can you just test me for everything?
Now instead of troubling my GP with a rundown of reasons (invented) of why I need the full complement of tests for sexually transmitted infections (and then some), I go to a clinic. You almost don’t even have to ask. Blessed, blessed understanding.
    3 Take me off the agency books, and I mean it this time.
It really was as simple as that. I called up the manager and didn’t even say hello. Just that we were over and she could expect a final deposit into her account on Monday. And she didn’t try to talk me out of it. Suddenly, I feel lighter.
    lundi, le 8 novembre
    I was still feeling buoyant about leaving the agency when I came to work. The bag under the desk – no need for that any more! No need to work extra-strength condoms into my weekly budget, nor to keep two separate underwear drawers, one for clients and one for everyday. I was whistling as I came in the office and didn’t care much if Erin and Mira heard.
    Giles was sitting in my chair. ‘Um, good morning,’ I said. As far as I knew there was no team meeting this morning and I was not behind any deadlines. ‘Is everything okay?’
    ‘I’ve good news and bad news,’ he said, arching his fingers. ‘Which do you want first?’
    Was this some sort of sophisticated trap? Had my effort to extract myself from the sex trade been too slow, and someone had found my pics on the website? Was I about to be fired? Ho hum, good while it lasted, then. ‘Bad news, I guess.’
    ‘The bad news is I’m not going to be supervising your work