Miss Makeover : Jeremy Clarkson Written In Come

By on June 23, 2010


‘”I want to write my name in come all over you,” he said. I smirked. “You can’t fool me, you nicked that line from London Fields.”‘ Impressed by the real Belle Du Jour on a chat show, a smart, strong woman now revealed as a scientist who once worked as an escort, I read her book and found a client quoting from Martin Amis. Our narrator  recognises the quote instantly. While pigs fly across the sky behind them. No, of course I’m not jealous of her success, her telly series or her film deal.  How dare you?!  Well, I wish my clients quoted sharp, witty writers but they generally prefer to recycle Jeremy Clarkson, if  by some miracle they’re not talking at great length about themselves. Cue Belle Du Jour.  ‘He looked at me strangely. “Amis fan?” he said idly, pulling himself with one hand.”‘
This putative punter may be pulling himself with one hand in more than one sense but he’s still preferable to the hounds I deal with.

Sometimes I think my customers have a book full of handy hints.
1 Take enough cocaine to make yourselves temporarily impotent then talk endlessly about this utterly unexpected phenomenon. Then take lots more powders and potions, (Don’t worry about the excess poison which will be drained off by heavy sweating. You’ll be able to smoke many more cigarettes than usual so make sure you have plenty to hand.) 
2 Why not take fifteen years off your age on the telephone? This will give me the chance to practise my poker face as I arrive to find a white haired grandpops, whose Viagra use may well trigger a coronary. Maybe one day a waiting client will be reading a literary classic and maybe I’ll be clean and sober again soon. it could happen. You’ll see.

I am still attending Narcotics Anonymous, kicking and screaming. Actually sat like a sullen teenager, refusing to ‘share’. Too many grinning Christians, too few atheists (who don’t preach at you) and too many hugs. Most people arrange their lives so that they never meet evangelical Christians. I voluntarily go into church halls where recovering addicts are instructed to ring beginners and talk about God. I’m still clean or bingeing, as I have been since I was thirteen. I usually don’t need much of an excuse.  A difficult client, too many easy clients, (which means I actually am a whore instead of an artist slumming it temporarily), a phone call from my mother. I don’t need much. Just a wedge of notes in my hot little hand and I’m off, banging on my dealer’s door. He receives me, as he generally does, without a shirt. So: a great fat fuck, with a hairy flabby chest, eating ice cream straight out of a family sized carton. He once received me with his face coated in the stuff I crave, having fallen asleep in the serving dish. Yet he patronises me. Because I get high too quickly. Because I need it  too much. Because I lose it in public.  Time I gave up. Or my husband will keep on preventing me seeing my son.

Josh, my son, resembles the young Anakin Skywalker but is banished from my sight till my rather less pretty and witty husband will let me into his presence. I’m not a fit mother apparently. So I’m missing all those moments. Like when he asked for fish rectangles rather than fish fingers, having learned the word that very day. Once, aged five, having been woken for an early morning flight, he stretched wearily and, not fancying the arduous journey said, “I’m rather a man of rest.” What will he be saying now? Today? Another day I can’t get back?  I hate my ex. And his gargantuan-bummed wife. Just think what fun we’ll have on Narcotics Anonymous  step five when I’m supposed to write down every crime I have committed and present it to my sponsor. I tried to have someone killed. The father of my child. Never mind eh.


Take today. My shades protect me through another terrible tube journey. I might be Mistress of the Universe . It doesn’t mean I can read a map. Excuse the lapse into ‘I’m only a girl’. My mobile runs out of credit just as I reach the foyer of a certain hotel. Which leads to the usual panic attacks. I was only two minutes late as it happens but you can’t leave it any later as many of these clients are no longer in the first flush of youth. Any later and they might well be stone dead. The concierge lets me call a man whose second name I can’t remember on the hotel phone – which doesn’t look in the least suspicious. Oh no. I am greeted by a pleasant enough guy and a fully stocked mini bar. We compare divorce tragedies for a while before I realise that this smart, funny and warm gentleman can get all the social chit-chat he needs from work and family. It’s only me who’s missing intelligent conversation by virtue of frightening all my friends off. Even with my ups and downs softened by some legal brain drops I am still a little intense.  
I glove up and rootle around inside his ass for a while he lies there groaning with gratitude. Why won’t (many) wives do this? Is it really beneath them? Even men, those scrofulous dunces, have learnt about enemas and squeaky-clean anal hygiene these days. So they can’t complain it’s disgusting any more. Although the issue, as ever with wives, would be “Why isn’t this about me? Why is it about him?” Well, let’s face it. Most men would rather watch the football and most women would rather watch soap operas. A plague on both their houses. As usual, just giving someone a straight foot or back massage has them groaning louder than the average orgasm, quieter than his when he eventually comes anyway. Is massage really so difficult to learn? Or can’t wives and husbands be arsed after a while? Probably the latter, I suspect. Bored, selfish, lazy married people. Where would we sex workers be without them?


Leave Comment