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[dasia mae knight]

Little Black Book Confessions of a Call Girl JUNE 30TH - JULY 4TH SUBMITTED BY Anonymous MONDAY Monday means Monday Bluesers. The nine-to-fivers, itching to take off their freshly ironed suits and get a little relief to really ease them into their working week.  Alfie* is particularly impatient. Unable - or maybe just unwilling - to bring himself to wait until office hours are safely behind him, he has me pay a visit to his office at 11am, wearing a trenchcoat, heels and not a lot else. If there's one thing that being in this business has taught me over the years, it's that men entirely lack imagination. That, and that they watch too much TV. Also, you honestly would not believe how much secretary porn there must be out there, because it's practically my bread and butter. Bent over Alfie's desk, I couldn't help but catch the eyes of a stern woman, staring out at me from a photograph with barely disguised disgust. The wife. They creep up on you from all sorts of places - glimpses of photographs in wallets, or wedding bands glinting on the bedside table. She seemed to almost accept the proceedings unfolding before her, even if they weren't to her taste. Passive. That's evidently Alfie's thing, as he soon goes on to prove. TUESDAY I pick up a client at work today, a guy who gets a little too handsy and gets kicked out - with my card. I do worry that this is a fireable offence. We meet up shortly after my shift ends, and it's not great, but that's not his fault. That sickly sweet smell of antibacterial body spray still clings to my skin, and his breath is loaded with the scent of all the beers that had undoubtedly gotten him into this situation in the first place. But it's not that. He's got a great beard, and these strong, firm hands... his touch feels so familiar, guilt ties knots in my stomach and I under perform. The next couple of clients only make me feel worse. WEDNESDAY Is there anything that a good sleep and morning coffee can't fix? After a bikram yoga session and lunch with my favourite person, I feel brand new. Work involves an unnamed footballer, and I'm not sure even he could remember his name if he tried. Not gifted, but a trier, which is odd for someone so successful. There's another guy, and his tastes are a touch more interesting. He's utterly devoted to the royal family. It's strange, but I'd never met a single person with any interest in the royals until I left Britain... anyway, that's not the point. He insisted on my playing the part of Princess Beatrice. Princess Beatrice. I've been asked to do a lot of things in my time, but that's certainly one of the worst. At least it makes a change from the schoolgirl get ups. THURSDAY Can't write today. I hate my job. FRIDAY Apologies for yesterday. David* is always a rough client for me, and indeed every other girl with the misfortune to come across him. I like to think of myself as about as far away from being sensitive to personal comments as it's possible to be, particularly when those comments are coming from my clients, but David... you can't talk to him for a minute with him without his distaste for women shining through. I used to think it was intentional, but now I think he doesn't even hear himself speaking. After discussing "some fat bitch" he had encountered on the subway for some time, he proceeded to turn his attention to me, engaging in foreplay that can only be described as rough. That's not exactly unusual - prostitutes attract all types, but one with upsetting frequency - and most men will stop when they manage to pull out a clump of your hair, recoiling in horror. Not David. Still, he tips well. Today was better, as I decided to give myself the 4th off. Better that than hearing all the jibes about beating England and whatever, because that never gets old... what really never gets old is hearing D rant on about jingoism. Thank god for that boy. I'm also meeting a former working girl for dinner tonight, so plenty of vent time for me! Hope you all have a wonderful weekend, and an especially great 4th. (Congrats on beating us.) xxx       * names have been changed to protect identities

[dasia mae knight]

Little Black Book Confessions of a Call Girl SUBMITTED BY Anonymous MY ORIGIN STORY It wasn't until I sat down to write this column after a hiatus that I realised I had never really explained my entry into this business to you before. Though this article dwells in the digital edition of a women's lifestyle magazine, I think it's important to address that for many, prostitution is not a lifestyle choice. It's the only way some women can survive. Whilst I love my job and I chose it for myself absolutely freely, I am not condoning it at all and it's so, so important to know that I've been lucky, that for so many it's an absolutely gruelling profession that they would do anything to get out of. We need to help these women. What doesn't help them is shaming sex workers, in fact, it's this puritanical attitude to female sexuality that forces them into the industry in the first place. If you lack the opportunities other women have, if you need to make a way for yourself but you're undereducated and don't have the same connections, you know that your sexuality is an asset you have that you can sell. If women weren't so routinely objectified in society, there'd be no call for prostitutes in the first place. I digress. My point is that I've had every opportunity in life and this is where I am, with no regrets. Have I lost friends? Yes. Have I disappointed my family? Yes. Have I lost boyfriends over it? More than I can count, and I won't lie to you, I think it's going to cost me the best I've ever had. Do I regret it? Not at all. Whilst I was at school I was taught to use my femininity. Not as part of the syllabus, obviously, but I learned very quickly that being a vaguely attractive female could get you certain things. I wore low cut tops and flirted with the boys, I went on dates and expected them to pick up the tab, I assumed feminists were all man-hating desperate ugly lesbians. I was a moron. Because those things aren't pluses, they're limitations. If you've got somewhere by being pretty, everyone knows it and undermines any good work you do. If a man pays your way he's not doing that for the sheer hell of it, he's doing it because he's expecting you in return. And it's that latter point that brought me around to the idea of stripping, and it's from stripping that I moved into escorting, as is so frequently done. Escorting is a more honest version of dating. Guy buys you stuff, you spend time with them, everyone wins. Guy buys you more expensive stuff, guy gets more of you. People often ask me if I'd want my future daughters to end up being escorts, and the answer is no, of course not. Not because escorting is inherently reprehensible, but because a society where you can put a literal price on a woman's time and body isn't one I want my daughters to be in. If they were, and they did choose to follow in my footsteps? Well, it just makes good business sense. I'll go back to writing diaries soon, I promise. Love to you all. xxx