You know, the story of how T and I met is kind of funny, and most of you haven't heard it yet. So here goes part 1:

The Boy and I split for good sometime late 2007, if the blog archive is correct (Google's generally better at remembering things than I am, so yeah). By April 2008 I was a bit down on work, where I lived, and fed up of going on a series of pointless dates with weird Geordies. Though for what it's worth, I did get a hell of a lot of material for Playing the Game out of those dates. But still.

I'd exhausted the limited possibilities of being set up by friends, joining Guardian Soulmates, and dipping a toe into Speed Dating. But let's be honest, who decided ticking boxes about eye colour or a 2-minute summary of your CV was a good way to meet a sex partner? What I needed was a drastically more honest - and less structured - approach. So I posted this on Gumtree in the Casual Relationships section:

By most criteria I'm a reasonable person - not secretly married, or a gold digger, or hiding a meth habit that makes Britney Spears look like Mother of the Year. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) At this point I'd take Britney, Kevin, and the entire cast of backing dancers over some of the frankly puzzling dates I've had recently.

Which brings us to the dilemma: how does an independent young woman find a casual relationship? Am not interested in one-night stands because, let's be honest, taxi fare from the Bigg Market back to mine is extortionate. Also one-off sex is usually crap. I'd like to meet someone several times a month (drinks, dinner and sleeping over optional) who has mojo to spare. Somewhere there must be a gorgeous man with a filthy mind who is up for hot regular sex...

Sounds simple, no? Maybe even appealing? And yet, I can't sodding give it away in Newcastle. There's no secret agenda. No games. I'm congenitally incapable of clingy. Mysteriously, my phone is not ringing off the hook. The trend seems to be meet a lad, go for a pint, and then... nothing. I like exploring the city's real ale haunts as much as the next girl, but this is the very limit.

There's no laundry list of requirements. Let's meet and see whether sparks fly. Granted, if you have a Nobel Laureate mind in a gym-honed bod, that would be a plus. But sexy is in the eye of the beholder - I also fancy Bill Murray.

So if you're a man between 25 and 35 who is not married and not flaky, then this girl would like to start a mutually rewarding sexual relationship with you. Bring your photo and a sense of humour; I'll bring the Astroglide and Nutella.

Peace out, man.

I started talking to several men, including T. His opening line was that he'd sung karaoke in the bar from Lost In Translation. A working knowledge of Bill Murray? Well, it at least showed he read to the end. We texted a few times, and I told him to meet me at a bar for a Thomas Truax gig...

Let me tell you about the best gift I ever received. And it's not a bit of sparkly jewellery, or a shiny car, or even a thoughtful trinket of affection.

I'm talking about my scars.

I had terrible acne as a teenager. By the age of 16 it was so bad a dermatologist said it was the worst she'd ever seen, which, ya know, is not super encouraging. And then it got worse. So bad that at the hospital where I volunteered mothers pulled their children away from me, convinced I was plagued with something contagious. Strangers avoided making eye contact.

At one point I could not wash my face without it bleeding. Many mornings I woke up stuck to the pillowcase. And oh yeah, the acne was only on my face. Not one blemish anywhere else on my body. To this day, I still never have seen a photo of anything like it - apart from some daguerrotypes of smallpox patients.

It was a very long, and very expensive, journey to improving my skin - remember, this all went down in America, where having a disfiguring condition you have no control over is not covered by health insurance, and duh, there's no NHS.

Long story short, a lot of Roaccutane and Dianette did for the acne but I got the scars as a memento. And more importantly, here's what I learned:

1. Beauty is fleeting. Thank fuck for that.

I had a narrow escape from being just another boring blonde - not to mention an early release from the cycle of self-hatred and frantic desperation that plagues many women as they age. Accepting my outward flaws helped me stop seeing them to the exclusion of everything else, and hey presto, most other people did too. Corollary 1a: The larger part of how people perceive you is how you present yourself.

2. People can be hurtful to strangers. That's their problem.

My best childhood mate had spina bifida. She walked on sticks and refused to use a wheelchair for reasons I only started to appreciate years later. Looking like a medical oddity gave me, for a very brief time, a very small taste of what she encounters every day of her life. It made me pity people who equate someone's appearance with their value as a person. This generalises magnificently to strangers judging you for, in fact, anything at all. Corollary 2a: The most vocal critics are often the most insecure.

3. Other people have things you don't. Big deal.

There is no such thing as the Most Beautiful Woman in the World (sorry Buttercup). Who cares? What is considered desirable is not especially worth getting hung up on. You may not be a six-foot Amazon so will never have legs up to your neck - but for all you know, that same supermodel would give her left arm to have your hair. This concept generalises to wealth, success, talent, and intelligence as well. Corollary 3a: Envy of other women's looks is a zero-sum game, and uses far too much time and energy to be bothered with.

4. Quality of love is not a function of attractiveness.

Elizabeth Taylor, for instance, has been married eight times. Beautiful people have dry spells and get their hearts broken like everyone else. The most worthwhile and loving relationships in my life all happened after my skin problems. And for what it's worth, I've been fortunate to date some pretty nice, smart (and attractive) men in my time. See Corollary 1a above.

5. Confidence doesn't come overnight.

It also doesn't happen in a vacuum; it requires nurturing. As with anything else worth having it's work. But let me tell you, it is so worth the work. A mate recently told me about a magazine 'happiness quiz' in which one of the questions was, "are you comfortable with your body, AND do you exercise regularly?" If you can see why this should not have been a single question, you're on the way to Getting It. Corollary 5a: Confidence happens when you let it happen. No one gives it to you, which is great, because it also means they can't take it from you.

6. When someone says I am beautiful, they really, really mean it.

There is something about knowing someone sees you, quirks and all, and likes what they see... something rare and kind of overwhelming (in a good way). 'Beautiful' is one of those words (a bit like 'awesome') that has lost meaning in being overused as a generic affirmative. We call all sorts of people beautiful in one sentence and tear them down in the next. I'm happy to be different enough that anyone who uses it to describe me sees more than just hair and makeup.


(That's me and Billie - I'm the one on the left, obviously.)

I've been overwhelmed with messages of support in the last few weeks - and not a little criticism, which is only to be expected. Something unexpected, however, is that while the people who support have shared amazing, individual stories that it makes me smile to read, those in the opposing camp fall into several tried-and-true patterns. In a way it's good - seeing the subtext of people's arguments against me is a useful heuristic for sorting out those not worth my time.

So here it is! Your cut-and-keep guide to what people say vs. what people really mean: post-coming out edition. Hope you find it useful too! I'm considering making a board game version of this and calling it Rosie Boycott Bingo.

• When someone says:
  "I have too much respect for myself ever to do that."
  What they mean is:
  "My self-esteem is so fragile that stepping outside the mainstream would mess it up for life."
  
  
• When someone says:
  "She's not even that good-looking."
  What they mean is:
  "This woman's choices make me uncomfortable but I don't have the intelligence to address that so will criticise her looks instead."
  
  
• When someone says:
  "See? Other people in her family have problems. That explains everything."
  What they mean is:
  "In spite of the fact that all families have difficulties, I'm going to pretend otherwise in order to make an ad hominem attack."
  
  
• When someone says:
  "Stories like this glamourise a trade that enslaves and kills women."
  What they mean is:
  "I don't actually know the difference between the separate issues affecting call girls, massage parlours, brothels, and streetwalkers, and I'm not going to bother finding out."
  
  
• When someone says:
  "I wouldn't pay £300 for that."
  What they mean is:
  "I think a woman's value, sexual or otherwise, is entirely based on her looks."
  
  
• When someone says:
  "I have similar factors in my life and didn't choose this route."
  What they mean is:
  "I am unfamiliar with the notion that free will more or less assures that people will makes decisions I would not have done."
  
  
• When someone says:
  "If she liked the job so much why isn't she still doing it?"
  What they mean is:
  "I don't believe people can, or should, change direction in their lives without self-hatred and regret."
  

Interviews with me out today on the Freakonomics blog and New Scientist and a review in the Irish Independent. I especially like the comment on the Freakonomics page: [s]eems like there are a fair number of people projecting their sexual demons onto this woman. "Joe Smith", I'm going to steal that one, hope you don't mind.

In an email from an associate today, this comment re: the gutter press. "Can't they do something less offensive for a living? Oh, you know like distributing packs of cigarettes at the local school yard? Clubbing baby seals, working for Sarah Palin..."

Reminded me of something we used to say, that inside most porn actresses is a failed real actress*. Inside every tabloid hackette is a not-very-bright girl who dreamed of being Kate Adie but didn't have the work ethic or talent to make it happen. Journalists my sweet Tallahassee ass. You are to historical record what my books are to fine literature. There is a lot of manufacture of consent occurring... money being thrown around to chase non-stories, when the people who hold real power are still making dodgy deals in the back rooms with no fear of scrutiny (and for a lot more than £300 an hour, you can bet).

*A gross generalisation of course, for which the most obvious counterexample is the fantastic Sasha Grey.

Please note all media requests should be sent to either my publisher or agent. Anything received via my workplace or my personal and work emails, &c. will be ignored as I would only have to forward it to them anyway. Please do not come to my workplace as this compromises the security of patients and staff. Thank you for understanding.

Now I'm not anonymous...

Looking back over my diaries is sometimes embarrassing, sometimes hilarious (often unintentionally so). After a page or two I'm right back there – living in London, keeping up a double life, with all the effort that entails...

Which is just too difficult to do long-term. I suppose I always thought that the part of my life I wrote about would fade away, that I could stick it in a box and move on. Totally separate it from the ‘real me’.

What it took me years to realise is that while I've changed a lot since writing these diaries – my life has moved on so much, in part thanks to the things that happened then – Belle will always be a part of me. She doesn't belong in a little box, but as a fully acknowledged side of a real person. The non-Belle part of my life isn't the only ‘real’ bit, it’s ALL real.

Belle and the person who wrote her had been apart too long. I had to bring them back together.

So a perfect storm of feelings and circumstances drew me out of hiding. And do you know what? It feels so much better on this side. Not to have to tell lies, hide things from the people I care about. To be able to defend what my experience of sex work is like to all the sceptics and doubters.

Anonymity had a purpose then – it will always have a reason to exist, for writers whose work is too damaging or too controversial to put their names on. But for me, it became important to acknowledge that aspect of my life and my personality to the world at large.

I am a woman. I lived in London. I was a call girl.

The people, the places, the actions and feelings are as true now as they were then, and I stand behind every word with pride. Thank you for reading and following my adventures.

Love, Belle

Wore a Victoria Beckham dress for the first time yesterday - the Derizet in black - and good lord, is that thing figure magic. Not sure if it's worth the pricetag, but if anyone has a spare grand around and happens to be feeling generous... a pair of red Louboutins wouldn't go amiss either...