Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Diary of a Likely Call Girl

In the UK, Belle de Jour’s book is “the Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl.” In the US, Puritan-founded nation we, it’s “The Diary of an Unlikely Call Girl.” I read it, and found myself thinking, ok, active and varied sex life, time as an exotic dancer, broke and in the big city, this is ‘unlikely’ how?

I suppose for the average white-bread book shopper, being white, middle class, educated, not addicted to any drugs and not burned with a curling iron as a child qualifies as unlikely to enter a sex-based trade.

I’m white. Middle class. I have a BA and an MFA, one from an excellent school and one from a state school that was convenient and close. My parents live in a nice house, and I live in as nice a house as my parents (an amazing realization when it hit, btw). I don’t do any drugs – I’ve never done any drugs. I’ve never smoked a cigarette except for that two weeks in 9th grade when I really wanted Cindy to like me and even then I couldn’t figure out how to inhale. I don’t even drink (alcoholism on both sides of the family, plus I dislike the taste, plus I was so unpopular in high school that learning to choke down beer wasn’t going to help). My parents were not abusive, though they demanded high standards (“6A’s and a B? Why did you get a B?) and there was rather a lot of teenage rebellion on my part.


Age 6? 7? 8? I surprised a man later arrested for pedophilia (Disney World babysitter, no less) by kissing back and asking for more kisses.

I actively – as actively as a thirteen-year-old can – let a friend of a family friend seduce me into a handjob with some mouth in the car on the way home from a canoeing trip.

When I did something to the car – can’t recall if it was a ticket or a mashed bumper – in 11th grade, possibly 10th, probably 10th, and my parents told me I couldn’t drive again until it was paid for, I called up an older friend (30’s at least, or prematurely all grey) and told him that I would have sex with him for $100. I remember coming out of the bathroom in his apartment having changed into a red silk shortie slip and high heels, nervous and shaking, I remember having missionary sex on the pallet bed in the corner of his unfurnished apartment, I remember another night he drove me 5 hours to my first rock concert, I was supposed to be spending the night at Becky’s and instead I slept the whole way back on the floor of the white van…

I started exotic dancing as a senior in high school. I was not popular. No-one openly admitted it if they thought I was pretty. I left school at 2:30 and worked the 3-10 shift (a shift I made up myself, always the creative worker) and danced in a teddy stolen from my mom’s drawer while guys told me how beautiful I was. One day my English teacher gave me a lift to work.

Dancing turned out to be a good way to make money between high school and college, and between college and more college. Long after I stopped, I still kept my thigh-high boots, combination lock and pasties in a box, only a few years ago admitting that I was now too old, it wasn’t a back-up job any more.

I read Mayflower Madam and was impressed by Sydney Biddle Barrows’ desire to run an escort agency as well as any business could be run. I read Belle de Jour and was not impressed by the lack of literary climax in her book, but noticed that she was certainly popular.

And I started thinking – could I make money as a dominatrix? Well, probably, I play that role well, but there’s not much market for it where I live, and it looks awfully complicated to set up a dungeon and build a clientele, let alone acquire all those props and costumes.

So this is what’s left.

I’ve been blessed with muscular intimate parts, a decent body and the ability to playact. I have a husband who pretty much loves me no matter what I do, though I’m sure not telling about this one, and a lover who knows all about it but also knows it doesn’t count, unlike the men I personally fuck to turn him on. I have a Safety Friend.

And right now I am fending off 30 private messages on one board and 10 on another, hearing that someone’s saying something bad about me in a secret area of a board (I can’t think why), and stressing about turnaround times on emails so I won’t give lousy customer service or alienate a potential client. I’ve always said, I’m never going to work less hard at anything I do, so I might as well work for myself. I can’t give less than a good job.

I think it’s going to kill me.


Tom Paine said...

Interesting that you were never called "pretty" as you have a great smile (the figure speaks for itself). And you write with a dry wit I really enjoy.

Mandy said...

Thanks :)

I am lucky to be pretty - it gets me so many places in life. Though I don't know how much of that is 'pretty' and how much is just 'pushy'...

I think in high school there is a certain kind of pretty that's easy to process, and that's what one's fellow students like. I see it when I work with students, and it's always interesting to notice who is pretty now but will have faded in a year, and who is going to be stunning as soon as she learns how to manage it.

Anyone who says 'high school is the best years of your life' is either lying or an amnesiac.

Denis Connor said...

Mandy, I feel uncomfortable asking this, but I'm going to: I have some comments on this entry but wanted to make them to you in private. Would you mind terribly contacting me in private email? (Address in my profile) If you're not comfortable with that, kindly disregard this message. It's nothing earth-shattering, but it is stuff I don't feel like leaving in a public comment section.

Anonymous said...

I want to hear more about the car bj and high school stripping!

niadarkandlovely said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
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