He: "So why do you do this?"

Me: "I'm not sure I have an answer to that."

"There must be something that you at least tell yourself."

"Well, perhaps I'm the sort of person apt to do something for no good reason other than I can't think of a reason not to."

"So if someone told you to jump off a bridge..."

"Depends on the bridge. Depends if they were paying. Why?"

"Oh, no reason. Will you suck me now?"

Today I met someone for lunch I haven't seen in years. Knowing her own style (then, at least) to be rather laid-back I made an especial effort to de-whorify myself for the outing. Especially as I seem to be unable to get out the door these days without a fresh lick of nail varnish and a pair of silk holdups.

We are acquainted because her ex and my ex were best friends back then - in fact they still are. Whether their closeness is legal tender for a friendship between us is yet to be decided.

Afterward I gave the Boy a quick ring. He is still having job woes, the darling. On the spur of the moment I invited him to live with me. It's time I moved to a more sociable area of the city anyway, one in which the crack addicts may yet stagger by the door but at least don't collapse just inside.

"Money's an issue," he said.

"Come live off me while you look for a better job here, then," I said. "I can afford twice what I'm paying now, easily."

"This is all rather out of left-field," he said.

"You would be able to fly to see your family instead of drive," I said.

"True."

"And you have nicer furniture." My flat is furnished in the slightly naff flowery vein favoured by landlords of the aspirant class. "You don't have to decide. I won't take offence if you say no. But it's an offer, anyway." Ah, negotiating the terms of modern cohabitation. Who said romance was dead?

It would solve one problem - that of the belligerent Housemate. Though perhaps faced with the day-to-day of my comings and goings, he would soon go off the idea. But I sure could use a friendly face and a footrub with the beating these stiletto-clad feet take on a daily basis.

We sat in the car, silent. The light was on inside.

"I thought he was supposed to be out," I said.

"He was," the Boyfriend said. "At least, I thought he was." He looked like he might start crying. "Please, come in. You're my guest. I want you here and I'm sure he can stand it for a minute if he's on his way out anyway."

I knew there was a reason why the Boy always comes up to see me instead of the other way round.

You might recall our recent encounter with S, whose ex-girlfriend H was sleeping with the Boy's housemate, unbeknownst to S (but very knownst to me and the Boy). That same housemate was simultaneously two-timing his own girlfriend, who lived in the house, with an average of three girls a week. Again, she was in the dark, but we were very much in the light.

And in such situations, what can you do but hold your tongue?

Taking my bags, we went to the door. The Boy opened it and put his head round the corner carefully. "Why, hello, you're still in situ?" he cheerily queried of the Housemate. "I just wanted to let you know, I'm here with the lovely--"

"NO," bellowed the Housemate. "I will not have THAT WOMAN in my house."

Ostensibly, the Housemate dislikes me because of my job. It hasn't always been so. In fact, I have another theory altogether: he hates me because I am one of a very few women he could never, ever have. Not even if he paid for it.

For the Housemate is young, attractive, smart and wealthy. Has no trouble with women at all. And knows it. He has cracked on to me at least ten times in three years, with no luck whatsoever. I could never go off in secret with the Boy's ersatz best friend. And his girlfriend really does not deserve one more secret affair happening under her nose. Funny how and when morals decide to jump in, eh?

A cheater, I can take. But a liar I have no time for.

"Listen, she's leaving quite early in the morning, and you won't have to--"

"I said NO, didn't I?"

The Housemate can do this; he owns the house. The conversation continued in this tedious vein for the better part of ten minutes. Less than charmed, I went to the car and waited. When the Boy returned we nipped to the chip shop for a snack and, certain the Housemate must surely be gone, snuck back after an hour. But my temper and libido have suffered from this episode somewhat. Nothing a few cups of chocolate and an hour-long footrub couldn't cure, I'm sure.

I rang the bell of a building in Mayfair; no answer from the speaker - he buzzed me straight up. He opened the door of the flat and disappeared into the kitchen for a drink. Inside it was clean, almost sterile. Smoky glass mirrors everywhere - I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being in a restaurant. Rather incredible digs for someone I understood to be a student. Postgraduate bursaries probably extend far enough for a few pissups each term, but I doubt they cover these particular forms of entertainment.

He: "Don't be so nervous."

Me (surprised): "I am relaxed. So what is it you study?"

"I'll tell you later."

We discussed his desire to move - to Hampstead, which apparently has "the highest density of psychotherapists in the world." Knowing a few people round that way, I understand perfectly.

He: "You're an odd one, I can't quite figure you out."

Me: "I'm fairly straightforward."

"An open book, right?"

"Something like that."

(later)

Me: "What is it you do again?"

He: "Psychoanalysis."

Which made us comrades, if not exactly colleagues. The conversation strayed to evolutionary biology and the role of pheromones in attraction. How well you like someone's smell is, apparently, related to likelihood of producing children together with as few congenital defects as possible. Not the usual overture to incite romance but it works well enough on me. He liked the sex intense, sensual, tongue-centric. I liked the mirrors. After he came I went to clean up and noticed a copy of Richard Dawkins's latest book in the bathroom.

Me (dressing): "I enjoyed that. And, you smell nice."

He: "Excellent, that means we can have children."

We both laughed. "Not quite yet."

A late text from the Boy last night:

We were taken out for free drinks after work. Am now in a tree.

It's cold out there. I hope his rapidly shriking Boyparts make it home safely and are up for warming again soon.

It's a public health issue, I know.

I understand your feelings perfectly. This job I do, the number of people I come in contact with. Living in a city where disease flies in from all over the world. And the time of year - the festive season when people are out partying, splurging, doing things they wouldn't normally do because they think, hey, it's the end of another year. I've made it through. Then they wake up the next morning unsure of what they got and whom they were with. And even if you do remember, you never know at the time who has it and who hasn't.

I'm a disease-spreading vector. No one is safe, sure, but some of us are more at risk than others, even with all the precautions available these days - the free clinics, the vaccinations, the public awareness campaigns.

And it's important to me. There's no such thing as paid sick leave for call girls. And god forbid you end up in hospital.

So I want to set your minds at ease as much as I can. I want you to know.

I have had a flu jab.

I had two customers one hour apart, located only several blocks from each other. The wind and rain were too heavy to do anything but hole up for the duration. So, finding a conveniently located pub near Southwark, I popped in for a drink.

Being accustomed to tumbleweed moments when entering a local, I strode up to the bar and ordered a double rum and soda. The large screen precariously mounted above the (real) fire was tuned to football. Everyone was watching it, and so did I.

The septuagenarian barmaid aside - or should that be barmatron? - I was the only woman in the room. But the looks I got were neither contemptuous nor salacious.

The match ended in a draw. A few men came up from the back table to collect fresh pints. One of them stood next to my seat while waiting for his lager.

"When we saw you come in, we thought maybe you were the mascot."

"Is that so?" I said, rather confused.

"Ah well, it doesn't matter much, Celtic are still at the top of the group."

"So they are are. I did my best, anyway."

He laughed and returned to a far corner. It was then I realised my hat, which I'd left on the entire hour, was green-and-white striped. Some mascot. I drained my glass and ventured out to the next appointment.

A really very achingly long Monday in which...

...I made a three-hour round trip to buy lightbulbs.

...I discover the relationship between fingernail length and typing efficiency.

...my laundry has still not magically taken itself through the washing machine.

...even in normal clothes, I feel constantly ogled by strangers.

...happily, one of these was a Maggie Gyllenhaal-alike in green eyeshadow who got off the tube at Hyde Park Corner. Maggie, darling, if you're reading this, I love you!

...there is just enough time to ingest a meal which of necessity must be composed of uncooked things in the flat - limited, therefore, to a mango and a pack of Jarlsberg.

...I am home not an hour before going out the door again. Good night, London!

His hands were square, long-fingered and wandering. They pawed my breasts, my thighs, and ventured inside.

I jerked suddenly. "Sorry - did I hurt you?" he asked.

I was on my side, he was spooning me, the offending fingers resting between my legs from behind. "Only a little." I picked up his right hand and examined the nails. Clean, but longer than most. And rather jagged. "Do you bite these?"

"Yes."

I rolled over the edge of the bed to reach my purse on the floor. "Hold on." Brought back a small silver cosmetic bag and pulled out an emery board.

He shuddered. "I can't take files," he said. "It's a nails-on-chalkboard sort of thing."

"Trust me," I said, and sanded his edges smooth. He ran his thumbs over the polished ovals, commented on the difference. Followed this with a hand massage using apricot oil, and a second try at insertion, and both of us were amply rewarded. No extra charge for the manicure.

Special Film Edition! As I've been staying in with drinks and videos all week, we've been having a little North London Prostitution Film Festival. Sorry darlings, but the event is muy exclusive - guest list runs to two. And the paparazzi have been, frankly, disappointing.

Women who are not working girls but should be:
Elizabeth Hurley (as discussed earlier)
Gillian Taylforth (ditto)
Laura Dern
Sue Barker

Women who have played WGs, but shouldn't have:
Julia 'Sexless' Roberts
Jodie Foster (no one must defile the goddess)
Jane Fonda
Elisabeth Shue

Perfect casting:
Laura San Giacomo. The Boy says: "Rowr!"
Patricia Arquette
Louise Brooks
Mira Sorvino

Special Award for Services to Tongue-Manipulation Ability During a Scene in Twin Peaks in Which She is Interviewing to Become a Prostitute:
Sherilyn Fenn

The Is She or Isn't She? Obfuscation Award:
Audrey Hepburn

Acceptable as a robot whore, but only just:
Daryl Hannah

My favourite movies about prostitutes:
Le Notti di Cabiria
Belle de Jour (obviously)
Frankenhooker

Live by the phone, die by the phone: but never again will I leave it on during dinner! Between the Great Portland Street station and when we left the restaurant on Marylebone High Street, it must have gone off twelve times. Say what you will about springtime and a man's fancy turning to romance, I believe there's something about the impending holiday season that really sets libidoes on eleven.

Back in business by Monday - even I can't spin out birthday celebrations indefinitely. And there'll be all sorts of good things in my stocking, promise.

9 pm: Whilst readying ourselves for a night out (all shaving shaven, all brushing brushed, all scrubbing scrubbed) we finished off one of those terrible Cosmo-esque sex quizzes.

Me: "At what time is a man most likely to be aroused - A, morning, B, midday, or C, night?"

He: "Is there a D, 'all the time' option?"

10 pm: Met friends at the Blue Posts, commandeered the big leather seats by the fire (also blocking the cigarette machine, and the stairs, which makes one wonder about the people who devised this layout). Set about attempting to fill the greater percentage of my stomach with rum.

Midnight: A club nearby, I think. It all grows a bit hazy. Multiple shots imbibed involving schnapps, which is evil. I lost a pair of gloves.

2 am: Emboldened by recent gym-going, asserted that I was strong enough to pick the Boy up. Wobbled on my heels and we both fell back on the floor. Certain if I wasn't so drunk, I would have felt a right twat.

3 am: Oxford Street, everyone marching along and singing Seven Nation Army in unison. No one can remember all the words, except for the part about Wichita. We lose the few celebrants who haven't begged off yet to bus stops along the way.

Sometime after that: Minicab. We collapse in the approximate location of my bed twenty minutes later.

9 am: I get up to use the toilet. When I come back, the boy is standing in the door. "Close your eyes," he says. I do. He puts one arm under my arms and one under my knees and carries me to the bed. Gently, he sets me down. I feel the softness of fleece under my back and toes. "Open them," he says, and I see that he has spread the bed with a soft white sheepskin blanket identical to the one on his bed. "Happy birthday," he whispers, and we make love three times.

A happy birthday indeed.

Via an email, I was reminded of a phrase I had forgotten existed - turning tricks.

Turning tricks! What an intriguing concept! I imagine a Vegas dealer turning over the flop, an Edwardian society belle sifting through a silver plate of calling cards, a dominatrix flipping bound captives like so many grilling sausages.

Today the Boy and I had breakfast with S, recently dumped by H. S doesn't know H had been sleeping with the Boy's flatmate for several weeks beforehand. We have agreed not to tell him. He seems fairly chipper though, and is commencing motorbike lessons now that there is no girlfriend around to forbid it. S doesn't have his own bike yet, but has already christened it 'The Crotch Rocket.' I promptly offered to test drive his giant machine once it's up and running.

There are work knickers, and there are Boyfriend knickers, and never the twain shall meet.

Work knickers, I've learnt from experience, should be big. Not big white undies as such, but for some reason punters prefer metres of lace to bare flesh. Remember this picture of Liz Hurley that fuelled a thousand fantasies? Other pics from the same set show my favourite star-who-isn't-a-working-girl-but-should-be in far less clothing, but the black knickered, hold-up'ped Liz is the one that sticks. Call it the power of the tease. Call it the logic of the hourly rate: the more there is to take off, the better value they think they've had. Whatever. So work gets big lacy pants like these.

Boyfriend knickers on the other hand tend to be small. Thongs. Take it off with your teeth-type stuff. Sporty, functional, but cheek and lots of it. Covering less area than a swimsuit, not more. Gap is a favourite here.

Work knickers and boyfriend knickers don't even share geography - they occupy different drawers altogether.

There is, of course, the third, unspoken category, and that is Laundry Day knickers. These are usually of the solid cotton, 'sold in packs of three at M&S' variety. But shh, I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone.

The Boyfriend is in town, so I'm staying in for a few nights. We went to the gym, ostensibly so I could show him off, but mostly so he could show himself off.

First event was the rowing machine. I hate the rowing machine. Hate hate hate it. It is the Devil's Bicycle. It is my nemesis and wants me dead. However, I will gladly sit alongside the Boy as he thrashes the metal beast into flywheeled submission. After five minutes droplets of sweat appeared on the back of his neck. After ten, the rippling ribbons in his forearms were driving me to distraction. A glorious half-hour later I was aching to jump his bones.

Suitably panting, we headed for the bench press (which I can't do) and the bench pull (which I can). Suffice to say I am not fit to hold the man's towel.

For the piece de resistance I goaded him into chin-ups. Four sets of six, shirt off, ensuring that even the resident thick necked gym bunnies were suitably humbled. Cower in the wake of his manly pheromones, you six-packed Narcissi!

In order to reassert control we did something I am good at - stretching. A cliche perhaps, but I have always been able to put my legs behind my ears. A long session of contorting hamstrings ensured that, fragrant with sweat and lusting as only long distance lovers can, we never got past the carpark.

Well, we did. But our clothes didn't. And our dignity came nowhere near.

Ah, young love.

A client was latched on my nipples like a bulldog clip. "Careful there, premenstrual," I said, gently guiding his hands elsewhere.

"Tell me something you fantasise about," he said.

Not having to wear open-toed sandals in winter.

A sailing holiday with the Boyfriend.

Saturday nights off.

"I'm abducted by four men, stripped and tied up in the back of a car. They park the car and get out and masturbate on me through the open windows."

"Are there horses nearby?"

"There are a lot of horses nearby. We're in the middle of the country. We're on a farm. They're farmers."

"Can you smell the horses?"

"I can smell the horses, they're making noises in their stalls and getting very excited. Horses have giant cocks, don't they?"

"Oh yes. Yes, they do."

"When the farmers are finished, they take me to the stables."

"Don't fuck the horse."

"Oh no, I don't even get close. It's too big! And the horse... the stallion... is out of control, too excited. I think it's far too big. It sounds like it's going to break down the stall door."

"Urrrrrrrrr..."

We love Blogger chez de Jour, mostly because it sucks harder than a hooker in a straw factory. Apologies to those who had to suffer through the last post five times.

A call came on very short notice, so I had to take a different minicab from usual. The new driver did not endear himself - first he started going east, then seemed to be making a very elaborate loop that took in most of Islington. Twenty minutes later, when we turned back on to a road three blocks south of my house, I exploded. "I could have walked here faster!"

"Yes, well traffic, this time of night," he said.

I looked right, then left. There were no cars in either direction. "I can't believe this." At this rate, I reckoned I'd be ten minutes late and rang to let the agency know.

South of Hyde Park, he turned into a mile-long queue of traffic even I would have known to avoid. "Excuse me, do you know where you're going?"

"Of course."

Ha. "I'm running late for a meeting." You know, the sort you go to at 10pm wearing lace-top holdups and matching bra and knickers.

"You know a better way to get there?" he sniffed.

"No, but it's not my job to."

"The traffic, this time of night, there's nothing I can do about it."

"Nonsense. You could have taken any of a dozen other routes. You drive me around my own neighbourhood for twenty minutes? And turn straight into gridlock? Come on, I wasn't born yesterday."

He checked his mirror to confirm this was, indeed, true. "Like I say, there's nothing I can do."

"An apology would be nice." No reply. We sat in silence for ten minutes while the traffic crawled along. I fumed, and boiled, and generally stewed. "Can you just let me out?"

"Sure, lady, whatever." I stepped out and nipped back up North End road to a minicab stand. They had me in Chelsea Harbour in five minutes for the bargain price of four quid, so I tipped another six.

Luckily the client was very understanding and offered me a drink. I love English archetypes: public schoolboy, thirties, MD of his father's company. The sort of person who says 'chin chin' before a drink. Fan of Boris Johnson.

Me: "So what do you want to do?"

He: "I want to make love to you."

"Like the full-on Barry White kind?"

"Oh yes."

(later)

He: "What can I do to make you come?"

Me: "It's very complicated. We'd be here all night."

"That sounds ideal."

"Yes, but do you have a drill press and six goats? Also, the planets are not in the correct alignment."

"Fair dues. I'll know for next time." He slipped me his card on the way out, said he wants to meet for a drink sometime. I can't imagine how he might explain that to the chaps down the boat club. Kind of sweet, though.

"I do not like his type," the manager said when I rang her on the way home. "Surely he will write a report."

"Mmm." The cabbie circled a random block in Kensington for the third time. They must think I don't notice.

"So what was he like?"

"Perfect gentleman, actually." A disbelieving snort down the other end of the phone. "Had him wrapped round my little finger."

No sign of a report yet.

Poor Boyfriend, who has been looking to change careers. He's been unhappy where he is for so long, but it's secure, but this, but that, well, and so on, and so forth. He's leaning toward military service. So he emailed his CV to see if there was anything I could do.

I returned it within the half-hour. Almost immediately the phone rang. It was the Boyfriend, and he was laughing.

"This is great stuff, kitty... but I don't think I can use it."

"No?"

"For one thing I don't think the Army cares either way about the size of my member."

"You don't know that for sure. You could get anyone interviewing you."

"Nice thought. Confessions of a Job Seeker?" The Confessions of a... films feature heavily in our shared mythology. More than once he's been forced to imitate cheeky chappie Robin Askwith, a bit of a stretch for my gentle giant but a role he plays with relish. I heard him scrolling down the email from the other end of the phone. "Recovery time between ejaculations really should not be in the Other Qualifications section."

"It's important to me, sweetie."

"Doubtless. And 'Oral sex: giving and receiving' under Interests and Activities?"

"Are you saying they're not?"

N and I had a minor falling out at the gym. Nothing serious, such as whose glutes are benefiting more from adding lunges to the workout, but a parting of ways on the subject of David Blunkett's national identity cards. He: in favour, at which point I believe the words 'paranoid refugee hater' may have traversed my mind, if not escaped my lips.

We managed to keep from strangling each other and repaired to mine for risotto. Conversation stayed on safer subjects, namely shoes, rugby and who in the Footballer's Wives cast sports the best cleavage. He went for Donna (centre), I'm a firm fan of Chardonnay (left). At least we can agree on wanting oral sex from Gillian Taylforth. I'm sure we'll work out this schism in the end - both the cleavage debate and the ID card thing. That said, disagreements never resolve themselves as quickly once you can't fuck each other anymore.

Frequently Asked Questions:

1. I don't plan to post a picture. Mostly because I work through an agency and don't want to cause trouble (honour amongst thieves, who knew?). This site is not to drum up business - it's just a diary.

2. I play safe. Nothing is foolproof, but I'm cleaner and more careful than most 'normal' girls. Thank you for the concern, though...

3. Yes, I really am a call girl. A bored journaliste could probably fake this blog but I'm not that clever. I wouldn't say no to a 'real' writing career but lack the necessary perseverance.

4. My experience in the business has been more good than bad. I don't think it's for everyone but then again neither is engineering.

5. My family is quite normal, and I am in touch with my parents almost daily. They know I do 'adult entertainment' and I leave it at that. On a similar subject, I am not a drug addict and have never been on the dole.

6. My ideal man is Alan Davies.

7. The Boyfriend and I have known each other years but only dated since January. He's a great lad, funny, smart, kind, sexy and the goofiest dancer I've ever met. How he controls his feelings over what I do is a mystery to me. Maybe he likes it.

8. When not profiting from my assets, I spend a lot of time reading and especially enjoy Jonathan Coe, Jeffrey Eugenides and Rick Moody.

9. At university, I studied a wholly academic humanities subject useless to the world at large. Given the choice of prostitution, temping or copywriting - the occupations in London which seem to be constantly hiring - I opted for this. Eventually.

9a. Yes, I am aware that such a career move probably indicates a lack of ingenuity or motivation on my part.

9b. But I do pay taxes, and the profession is legal after all.

10. I'll do my best to offer advice, but I'm probably no more qualified (and a lot less experienced - in giving advice, that is) than Em and Lo. And they're funnier.

I keep imagining the Boyfriend fisting me. This is not because he's done it, but because he hasn't. For one thing, he has the most beautifully shaped hands I've seen on anyone, male or female. But even with regular erotic exercise I prove a bit too constricted for his fist. The manuals say this will come with time, but let's face it, I'm a busy girl and sitting around working greased digits up my fluffy bits is the anathema of romance. Instead I give you a history of fisting in four parts (The Fist List, if you will):

First, a teenage boyfriend. He wanted it, I wanted it. He had narrow hands, I was dripping wet. A dirty weekend at a hotel out of town (we were young, foolish, and so on). His fingernails at my cervix: ouch. Much fantasised, but never attempted again.

Second, N. He wanted it, I was dubious. He knew about the finger-curling wrist thrust necessary to get it in without experiencing involuntary hysterectomy. N also has hands that can span my waist. His last girlfriend had taken the fist many times, often whilst being buggered. She was also 6 feet tall and about twice my weight. We tried, many times, but never quite got there.

Third, my hand goes where no hand has gone before. Namely up a woman who is on the phone to her boyfriend in Italy. He's paying me to make her come as many times as we can in an hour. This is also the day I discover you need to break the internal vacuum to take the fist out again, unless of course your intended is into suction. And I don't mean the Jenna Jameson kind. Yeeks.

Fourth, last night. Me, myself and I (and a witness to the fact). Finally, a perfect fit.

Text message from the Boyfriend on Sunday, who is farther away than usual this week:

the best things in life r still free. i miss your cuddles most of all xx

Then later:

louis theroux on channel 2 right now in a brothel in nevada!!!

What a star!

For the pedants in the audience, I realise Tower Bridge and Charing Cross are not adjacent. Some few minutes passed between driving over the bridge and getting to the station, obviously. Think of it as you would a novel or film where time skips ahead implicitly.

Sheesh.

I had an overnight job, midnight to sunrise. N met me outside a hotel at 7am. He was smirking. "Have fun in there?" I opened my coat to show him two whips tied to the inside lining. "You brought The Persuaders. So you were having fun."

"Sort of. Yes. He couldn't stay hard so we were drank the minibar and watched Channel Five for the last hour." We got into N's car, which was parked on the pavement. "And he gave me a silver bubble blower." I took the gift out of my purse. It was in a wooden box wrapped with gold and black ribbons, and shaped like a tiny champagne bottle.

I wasn't feeling tired and neither was he. "You want to blow bubbles?" N asked as we drove over Tower Bridge. Which was how I ended up at Charing Cross station at sunrise, blowing soapy scraps of bubble-juice diluted with manky Thames water onto the first commuters of the day.

Only in London, kids, only in London.

He: "There's nothing quite like the buzz from fucking strangers."

Me: "Can I quote you on that?"

"Yes." (pauses) "What are you doing with your hands?"

"I don't want to knock your paintings off the wall."

"Good idea. Try not to, then."

(later)

Me: "You taste nice. Been eating bushels of organic fruit and veg, right?"

He: "How did you know?"

"Women know. I used to date someone who ate a lot of fish, and believe me, I could tell. You always know what someone's been eating."

"Wow, I thought that was just a myth."

(later still)

He: "You're a class act, my dear."

Me: "I didn't know anyone actually said that, outside the movies."

"Have to get my lines from somewhere."

For all of their sex scenes, no film ever dramatises the Towel Moment. This is the point soon after finishing the act in which someone finds it necessary to either expel semen or mop it up. Or both.

This is not a concern on the job: condoms make cleanup a snap, or a damp flannel is passed round, or someone (usually me) is the recipient of a zinc-and-protein supplement. Sometimes I rub it in and go home as is ("I want to smell of you all night..." usually results in a decent tip).

At home things are different. I insist the Boyfriend turn his head for the undignified passing of the toilet roll and subsequent squirt into a wad of Andrex. The other morning, at his house, I put my leg up on a chair and found myself facing a full-length mirror. His wad slid out, pearlescent, warm. It was almost lovely.

"Darling, there's a call, can you be in Marylebone for four today?"

"Four, the time or four, the number?"

"The time."

This was a revisit. The client was in law enforcement, and the first time out he'd taken me to a semiformal work event. From the ratio of nubile cuties to paunchy detectives, I may not have been the only paid girl there. Or perhaps the Met's PR efforts are paying off in unexpected ways.

This time he asked a lot of questions, probably because we were alone. This can be dicey: are they just curious or potential stalkers? As they say, the truth is like the sun, its benefit is entirely dependent on our distance from it.

So I have a manufactured history that is mostly - but not completely - true. Minor but plausible differences in hometown, university, degree, current home. Other questions are simpler to answer.

"Have you ever dominated?"

"Honey, that was how I started in this business."

"Really?" He nodded and pursed his lips. "Really." The client was tall, well over six feet. Thick framed and strong. Probably mid-forties. Bald. And single, which is as likely in clients as not. "I find that... fascinating."

What is it about men who know seven ways to kill you with their bare hands who 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 up 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 becoming devious, manipulative bottoms. This one was no different and I came out with the cleanest shoes outside a Russell & Bromley. His belt was also put to good use. Working for a safer London, that's me.

There are several things this job makes difficult to take seriously.

First: public transport. Perhaps in normal jobs coming in twenty minutes late is excused with the 'northern line, grumble, you know, bah' routine. But when a neglected husband has sixty minutes between lunch hour and his next meeting, and he took a Viagra and seriously has the horn, you cannot be late. We take taxis, darling.

Second: people giving you the eye on public transport. If you've seen The Taking of Pelham 123 you know what I mean.

Third: one night stands. Like the Army, I have fun and get paid to do it. Sometimes it's not as fun but I always get paid. I certainly get more oral sex from customers than I ever did at uni.

Fourth: small handbags. Try cramming lube, condoms, a change of lingerie, spare stockings, a makeup kit, phone, diary and the occasional whip into a Fendi baguette. It's a black art not even Paul Daniels could reconcile.

Fifth: fashion. Flat boots, short hair, cropped trousers, ra-ra skirts? I'd never get work again.

In a world of twelve-year-olds in sexy boots and nans in sparkly minidresses, the surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel at Heathrow is to look for the lady in the designer suit. Fact.