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Saturday, August 18, 2007

adventures of a london call girl & her many cock(tails).

sorry boys, it’s chick-lit cocktail hour…

The frank and sharp-witted prostitute, Belle, has fast become one of my favorite literary characters. I found her diary for sale in a Hong Kong bookshop, thank god. my 12 hour trip (coach, mind you–hell in the sky) back home “flew” by reading about blow jobs, piss-drinking, cross-dressing and whoring of every sort. sure the sparkling sake i snuck on board might have had a little something to do with that! but, I’d never have found it here in the States; our bookstores must have decided it was too racy for us yanks, I guess. Shame, but you can still buy both volumes One & Two on amazon. (Be sure to go through when you purchase them and help out some needy pussy).

In her BELLE DE JOUR books, THE INTIMATED ADVENTURES OF A LONDON CALL GIRL, and THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF A LONDON CALL GIRL, Belle speaks of tipples, tits and astrology not so infrequently… oh, and belle’s one of those exasperating people who loves to hate astrology, yet reads their horoscope.


it’s a truism that food and sex are not only similarly pleasurable, but also may be enjoyed together. countless mills and boon novels and the entire oeuvre of mickey rourke have told us so. usually i would agree, but in the case of port and cheese, i must strenuously argue against. as a prelude to sex, yes, a thoughtfully selected 1985 vintage and some dorset blue vinny can be as potent a seduction tool as a barry white album. but in the bedroom itsefl? never. bailey’s is a perfectly acceptable tipple to lick out of the small of a lover’s back. drops of whisky are like a particularly erotic perfume and i’ve certainly had a gin cocktail, if you know what i mean. but port? in front of the fire, in a small glass, and quite emphatically sitting up.


When and where were you born?
Natal chart.
Online astrology is one of the sure signs of imminent societal collapse.
Oh, dear. Oh, oh dear.
What’s that?
Mars is in Cancer.
Or whatever on earth he said. I am not au fait with this particular brand of superstition.
Which means what exactly?
You’re emotionally manipulative.
Alert the press. I wonder who didn’t already know that.


Resolved: never to pick up the phone without looking to see who’s calling. ever. again. I thought it might be my neighbour, calling to arrange a meeting. It wasn’t. it was a call i should have known would come again. it’s an unwritten rule of breakups that one of the parties involved must make ill-advised, DRUNKEN, desperate calls to the other. and no matter how it ended, who broke up with whom, it’s these horrible DRUNK dialings that will be remembered. whatever moral high ground the person may have is immediately forfeited. at least that person wasn’t me. fucking horoscope.


So, yes. Sex. With someone i honestly expected never to have sex with again. The Boy. The effing boy. Still sorting it out. It’s a mess. He gave me a lift back to London and now won’t leave. But I would like to confirm that at least before the slightly TIPSY postcoital glowing phase ended and the horrible, horrible veil of Oh-Dear-Me-Not-Again descended, it was good. Better than good. Better than good. He sat on my chest and f… (use your imagination here girlz). There’s no why to ex sex, only the how (long it will last, soon it will be over, fast can I leave). Most of my exes are friends, and most of my friends are exes, and I don’t fuck them afterwards as a rule. But there are one or two who fall out of touch, usually because there was little in the relationship worth building a friendship on, and this was one.


What is it about men who know seven ways to kill you with their bare hands but just want to be pussycats in the bedroom?
Have you ever let someone take control? I asked. He was sat in a stuffy chair, and I was curled u at his feet drinking Shiraz and stroking the back of his legs.
I always wanted to, but—
Sweetie, I said, and reached up to stroke his chin, don’t be shy. That’s what I’m here for. A first-time submissive is usually easy to handle and eager to please. It takes months before they start trying deviously to control the action from below. I asked if he would let me tie him up. He said yes, what with? I wasn’t prepared, so I asked for a handful of ties. He led me upstairs to the bedroom and produced them.
I told him to undress. He did, as I sat cross-legged on the bed. I ordered him on to the bed. He hesitated for a moment. Get down, face up, legs and arms straight, I said abruptly. He did. I pulled my skirt up and crawled over him, heels still on. Straddling his chest, I tied his hands to the bed. At the foot of the bed there was nothing handy, so I looped the ends of the ties round the wheels of the bedframe and hoped they would hold. I could feel him craning his neck, trying to get his mouth closer to my bottom. “Lie back, I barked. If I want you to touch me you’ll know it. It was standard SM, nothing challenging. Tease and (extremely) light torture. But I did end up with the cleanest shoes outside of a Russell & Bromely.


I’m not a superstitious person, but my fucking horoscope today came true! Someone from your past is trying to make contact, it read. Your best plan is to have an open mind in the weeks ahead. Hey, cut me a break. It’s right next to the sudoku, okay? I went online and checked my email – a note from L, the girl I was at school with. It was nice, for once, to have an unexpected email from someone I actually cared to hear from again instead of an ex.


Considering the economics of sex – in which a man is prepared to invest some time, and a bit of money towards gifts and entertainments, in order to coax a woman into bed – I am assured by clients that the cost of a call girl is on a par with the price of picking up a woman on a business trip. And she’s not likely to come by and cook your rabbit later. On paper it sounds great. Woman arranges her own transportation, BUYS HER OWN PINT AND PERHAPS A FEW FOR YOU, and should there be a resulting relationship, is not terribly fussed about receiving gifts, holidays or other trinkets of your affection aside from the affection itself.


I do love a beer. Source of amusement and – if the books are to be believed – one of the six beverages to change the world. Proof, as they say, that God loves us and wants us to be happy. But if you can’t judge a book by its cover, by what can you? It’s beer, naturally. I’m not talking about books here. I’m talking about men. There are exceptions to every rule, but the shakedown is as follows in the pub setting.

likely to spend most of the evening texting some other girl.
likely to spend most of the evening pretending to text some other girl.
likely to spend most of the evening showing you porn on his camera phone in a bid to impress you. Has never had a text from a girl.
someone’s divorced Uncle Tim.
secretly despises the taste, feels he ought to drink it.
socially inept computing student.
will break your heart.GUINNESS DRINKER NON-IRISH:
nursing broken heart.
lost in Hertfordshire.
not from London.
made an impulse decision when he couldn’t spot the alcopops.
from Norfolk.

Friends, I have an admission to make. I am seeing a cider drinker who is neither underage nor East Anglian. We are, I believe, in uncharted territory.

last month’s entry to her blog, BELLE DE JOUR, is pivotal if you’ve been following the details of her sexy, sordid life. she broke up with her soulmate after he cheated on her, inducing her to ruminate on our collective substance of choice:


So suffice to say it wasn’t a great weekend. I screamed a lot. I cried a bit. I REDISCOVERED THE JOYS OF DRINKING SPIRITS AT 9AM. He gave me a lot of I’m sorry but… which is pretty bad. And I can’t believe you’re throwing it away over something as small as this, which is the last refuge of a man so damn guilty he can’t even be bothered to deny it. And I think to myself, I didn’t throw anything away, I’m just carrying the trash to the curb. His car isn’t so big, so his stuff is only 1/3 out.

Onto bigger and better cock(tails) Belle…


mixed by Gwen-Intoxicated Zodiac

shaken in Sex,Tipple Talk


  1. Hey, we Chicago men don’t take kindly to being called Norfolkers!



    I have no idea what stereotypes surround that county. Damn Brits and their impenetrable codes.

    Comment by Jim — August 22, 2007 @ 3:04 am

  2. i second that, damn brits. oops, wait, half my family’s british… never mind!

    Comment by Gwen — August 24, 2007 @ 1:47 am

  3. My family is entirely Irish, so the enmity is hardwired.

    It made meeting the head of our clan (a British Protestant)…awkward.

    Comment by Jim — August 27, 2007 @ 11:09 pm

  4. i bet it did!

    Comment by Gwen — August 28, 2007 @ 7:32 am

  5. I’m a real-life sex worker (I used to be an escort, like Belle, but got tired of that and took up erotic massage instead) and I just don’t think that Belle is the real deal. My main problem with her is that she makes the sex seem so exciting and glamorous. My customers are generally well-to-do middle-class men, so they’re generally well-groomed and reasonably intelligent, but “servicing” their needs is just not that exciting. Also, one of the reasons I stopped being an escort is because it is is extremely hard to feel powerful when you’re being paid to do something sexually. I never felt forced to do something but, nonetheless, there are expectations and you HAVE to meet them, whether you like it or not, if you want to keep on earning money. But Belle never addresses that side of things. For her, being a high-class hooker is just a walk in the part.

    I really do think that she’s the creation of some clever author somewhere, and that’s a shame. This person has got rich by writing about – and misrepresenting – the lives of so many women.

    Comment by The Judgemental Whore — August 29, 2007 @ 10:12 pm

  6. that’s interesting. i had not heard that theory on belle before. thanks for your candor!

    Comment by Gwen — September 5, 2007 @ 4:04 am

  7. […] that my favorite hoar is posing in a martini glass? i love that. the same belle du jour that i have mentioned here before has struck it […]

    Pingback by Intoxicated Zodiac Blog » call girls love martinis, especially posing in them — June 24, 2008 @ 7:14 am

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