In weather like this, one must admit defeat, ignore the 'never too thin' mantra altogether and give in to a new paradigm. This can best be summarised as the tights-fishnets-socks under trousers, 'please don't let me have to use a public toilet juggling all this getup' design for life. It is perhaps a small price to pay for living in a winter wonderland of slush.

And in such days as these, only a cad would casually throw out a line like 'you've gained some on the hips.' Which is why I had to kill N and bury the corpse under a layer of permafrost on Hampstead Heath. No jury would convict.

Snow yesterday afternoon - near UCL, students dashed out of the Union and Archaeology to gather up handfuls of snow and throw them at each other. Clusters of girls walked by in twos and threes, huddling under umbrellas. Though it had gone dark, the light was calm, diffuse: a warm glow of streetlights reflecting off the puffy duvet-sized flakes coming down.

I went to meet one of the other As (A2), who hasn't had a date any time this geological era. He recently hooked up with someone at a conference, though, a girl from Manchester. It seems a long way to go for sex. He assures me it isn't just about the sex. A2 is a great chap, but an extremely poor liar.

We installed ourselves in a gastropub-cum-bar to watch the buses outside pile up in the icy street. It was one of these places with a high ratio of leather seating to bar space where they turn up the music automatically at 7pm, regardless of how many customers are inside. We were practically shouting over the background noise to hear each other.

"So what do you think of latex?" A2 bellowed.

"Latex?" I asked, unsure if I misheard. "A good idea, generally." Unhappily, I am discovering a recent sensitivity to the stuff, having come away from a blowjob at work with swollen, tingling lips. Hardly a scientific experiment, though. It could just as easily have been the spermicide on the Durex.

"No, I mean like -" he mimed putting on a rubber glove. "Latex. The feel of it, you know, for -"

"You're talking about rubber sex already?"

"She's a hell of a girl," he mused. "So, have you ever done it?"

The squeaky squeaky? "Not full coverage, no. You mean with the catheter and head mask and everything? No." Ugh. 'Up your urethra' is probably the least arousing phrase I can imagine, ever.

"I so want to go there."

"Careful, you'll scare her off."

"It was her idea. So - tips?"

"Lots of baby powder, I should think. I don't even want to think about what this would smell like."

"Mmm, I do."

Where do people come up with this stuff? And wouldn't it get rather sweaty in there? "Freak. You said this was - and I quote - not just a sex thing."

"Takes one to know one."

"Who, me?" I put a hand to my chest in mock surprise. "I would absolutely never. I'm as pure as the you-know-what," I said, nodding toward the snow outside.

"Sure you wouldn't. You having another?" A2 yelled over a godawful cover song by Blue.

"Something hot, if they have it. With plenty of alcohol. Only way to banish this music. And the mental image of you humping a blow-up doll."

People are either more trusting than I expect them to be or I appear more trustworthy than I think. Recently I successfully strongarmed the landlady into a spot of redecoration at my place. With the excuse that most of the kitchen fittings need replacing anyway, I have made the case for a full-on Chintz Removal which will hopefully culminate in a pagan ritual in which all Colefax and Fowler printsldare gleefully thrown onto a crackling blaze.

In the meantime, I will be experiencing minor household disturbance. Not unliveable, mind, just inconvenient. I was talking to one of the As about the impending redesign recently.

"Well, if they get their pants together at work I'll be at a conference the next fortnight. Do you want the keys to mine?"

"Surely, darling, but aren't you afraid I'll spill something on the carpet?" A is notoriously fussy about his home and has been known to reserve only a single shelf for his girlfriend's belongings. Even if she lives there.

"I trust you," he said, sipping a whisky and soda. "I know you know how to iron the sections of the paper just as I like them."

Ah, if only he were kidding.

Another case in point: a recent customer booked me for the better part of an evening at his own home. Having exhausted most of a bottle of gin, the springs of his bed and all reasonable conversation, he slipped away for a quick shower.

Such interludes make me nervous. It's not as if I plan to rob the place, but I am a compulsive confessor - even to things I haven't done. At school if the entire form was being reprimanded for the action of a single student, I am sure I felt the guilt most of all. Especially if I wasn't involved.

Most customers are wary of us anyway - when visiting a home instead of a hotel, they more often put off the bathing ritual or suggest a joint shower, so as not to leave me alone. I'm not offended.

But this client, he threw on a dressing gown and scampered off to the bath. I sat on the couch. Considered pawing through his CD collection, but decided that would be rude. I carefully examined the watercolours on the wall. And with nothing more to do, no calls to make or return, nothing to read, I did what any reasonable
person would do.

He emerged from the bathroom to find me busily washing up.

Perhaps I am more trustworthy than I thought.

Last night I had friends over, not so much a celebration as an excuse to clear the pantry of bottles that have been hanging around since time out of mind. Rang a few people, sent a few emails, all very last-minute. Happily chez Jour is just large enough to accomodate the dozen or so who saw fit to turn up without anyone having to go out on the roof. And I'd hate to do that to a body in this weather, really I would.

At one point, discussing the painting of the Italian renaissance and the Low Countries, the conversation segued elegantly to the revelation that there is an exhibition at the Royal Academy of pictures of women with come on them. If true, I am so there.

By 3am I was left with two rather drunken but helpful guests who collected bowls and glasses, loaded the dishwasher and shooed out the neighbour's cat. But they were clearly not in any condition to drive. Sleeping arrangements had to be sorted. Unfortunately, the two remainders were N and First Date, the fellow I disastrously slept with last week.

We hung on to the last shreds of conversation until it was far too late to do anything else. "Well," I said. "The bed sleeps two and there are three of us - so it's the sofa for some unlucky soul, I believe."

They looked at each other. They looked at me. Neither volunteered for the sofa. Neither volunteered for the bed.

"Seeing as the two of you are both tall, why don't you boys take the bed? I'm the only one short enough to sleep here easily." Again, no response. "Don't all volunteer at once, guys."

Another minute of silence passed while I tried to decipher the eyebrow semaphore that passed between them. "I'll have the sofa," First Date offered. We took turns changing in the bathroom and I brought out a quilt and two blankets before turning in. First Date spread out the blankets.

"It's going to be cold tonight," I said. "Won't you use the quilt?"

He shrugged. "Leave it out, just in case."

N and I went up to the bedroom. N shut the door. "Don't do that," I whispered. "He'll think we're having sex." I pulled it ajar.

"Why do you care? Besides, he's probably already asleep."

I didn't know why I cared. It just seemed a bad idea to close the door completely.

A few hours later I woke, mouth dry from too much alcohol. Walked down to the kitchen for a glass of water. First Date was curled tightly on the couch. He'd put on the quilt and looked very cold indeed. I went back up to the bedroom, took out the sheepskin, and wrapped it around his feet. He didn't wake.

Rang the manager to discuss upcoming time off. She was giggling too much to talk, which is distinctly not in keeping with her Eastern-European-glacial-uber-babe facade.

"Er, are you okay?" Maybe I caught her at a bad time, or in the throes of gleefully administering cracks of the whip to laggard customers, or something.

"Darling, have you heard The Darkness?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, they just crack me up. They are so funny."

"Mmm. Well, in their way, I suppose." Perhaps I am excessively judgmental in believing that anyone who looks like the bastard child of Robert Plant and Steve Perry via Austin Powers's dentist has no business as a rock god. "Is it okay if I have Monday and Wednesday nights off until further notice?"

"Of course, darling. Take as much as you need." She then broke into a warbling rendition of Get Your Hands off My Woman, which was marred by the fact that her falsetto was singularly incapable of approaching the stratospheric heights of the original. I sincerely hope she wasn't prancing around in a pair of lace-up white PVC trousers at the time. Then again, there would probably be unheard of prices for such a performance (if indeed it hasn't already become a regular feature of the Spearmint Rhino oeuvre).

Someone asked recently what services I would be unwilling to provide, and I was unable to think of anything good. Now 'imitating stick-insect Freddie Mercuries from Lowestoft' has become the first entry on the list.

When people say the words 'RSS feed' I imagine a small crying child, or a particularly insistent guinea pig. I'm not sure what an RSS is, nor why it needs feeding, but a kind reader has sent me a link to one and I shall be posting it in the sidebar soon.

It is the start of the Chinese New Year celebrations. This is not something I would usually know, except today on leaving an appointment the client gave me two gold-foil wrapped fortune cookies. I didn't think fortune cookies were particularly traditional, but enjoy the thought that perhaps a randomly chosen slip of paper in a biscuit holds the key to one's future. It's no less likely to be true than looking in the back of the Metro, anyway.

The first fortune read

You will receive a cheerful call next week

which amuses me no end. Was that meant to be the next week after the fortune was printed, the week after the cookie was opened, or just 'next week' in general? A pedant could thus claim that if said cheerful call does not materialise between now and the 29th, it was in fact meant to mean next week.

The second fortune read

You will appear on television in the next year

which is at once more frightening (bloody hell, I certainly hope not) and yet subject to the same restrictions as the first fortune. If I don't appear on TV in the Year of the Monkey, then clearly it will be during the Year of the Cock.

For completely unrelated reasons, I am now looking forward to the Year of the Cock.

Regarding orgasms at work.

I don't. I don't equate number of orgasms with the level of enjoyment of sex, nor good sex with the ability to produce an orgasm. At the age of 19, if I remember the person and the conversation correctly, I realised that sex was about the quality of your enjoyment and that doesn't always mean coming.

Let's be honest, this is a customer service position, not a self-fulfillment odyssey. They're paying for their orgasm, not mine (although I wouldn't turn down such an offer).

The inability of punters to produce such a response in me is no way a comment on their shortcomings. As far as their part of the bargain goes, they're doing a great job, and I enjoy sex for more than the merely physical tingle. Being desired is fun. Dressing up is fun. No pressure to experience physical release for fear of damaging someone's ego, or give someone an orgasm for fear of never hearing from them again, is hella wicked.

Sometimes a race is a good day out - regardless of where you finished.

"Darling, can you make a booking for this afternoon."

I was varnishing my toenails and feeling slightly cranky. "No, I'm afraid it's my time of the month." I suspect she either doesn't pay very close attention to our cycles or is too polite to call me on an obvious lie.

Except in this case it wasn't a lie. It was a lie when I used it about, oh, two weeks ago.

"This maaaaan, he is very rich," she said. "He keeps asking only for you."

"Can't do it," I snapped, wondering where on earth I'd managed to leave the Nurofen, and other incrementally more important things. "I don't think he'd want blood on the sheets."

"Darling, what I tell the other girls is, just use a bit of sponge."

A bit of sponge? "A bit of sponge?" What was this, some demented 90s contraception allusion, or the start of a slippery slope involving fulfilling Greek diving suit fantasies?

"You just cut off a corner of a clean sponge, darling, and put it up your -"

"Yes, okay, I think I see where that's going." I shuddered. Having once - years ago - inadvertently forgotten a tampon during sex, I was not keen to repeat the experience. The thought of someone banging away at my cervical door whilst I grew ever more worried about the chances of retrieving a scrap of synthetic foam and, by extension, the inverse chances of ending up in A&E sounded distinctly untempting.

And barring that, what if we was hoping for a deep dive of the digits into my finger-licking nether regions?

"It should last the hour. When the other girls are on their time, I never book them for longer than an hour. You will be fine, darling."

She was right, of course, though perhaps explaining the missing bit of washing-up implement to whomever next walks through my kitchen will be awkward. As for retrieval, truth be told, the client never even came close to troubling the sponge.

N is approaching the one year annniversary of a breakup. I am of the belief that it usually takes as long as the relationship itself for the pangs to subside, which means he should have been over this one, oh, about nine months ago. His ex C was a bit of flighty girl. Frankly I never thought they'd make it. I was right, but this isn't the sort of thing you go telling your friends straight after the fact. Example:

"I sent her a Christmas card and a birthday card and she hasn't so much as texted me."

I'm thinking: Well, of course not, silly boy. She's probably married to an oil tycoon and has a litter of children by now. I'm saying: "How dare she. That is so profoundly unfair."

N has a charming ability to think the world of his exes. Naturally, I'm not complaining. 'Pedestal-worthy' is a modifier often used when thinking about myself. So to deflect C's apparent refusal to ever speak to him again, N is seeking out each and every lost immortal beloved to have crossed his path - muy High Fidelity. It started last month with His First.

They exchanged phone calls for a few weeks. He was sweet about it. Talking to her seemed to bring a lot of memories to the fore - how they met and courted, secretly, over several years. Why she never wanted to marry or have children. The last time he saw her in person, the sad, strained final farewell. Like everyone else, I love a good passion.

Then N arranged to meet His First in person, and his reminiscences went from the rosy-hued to the frankly sexual. He's never had a woman since with bigger breasts. She taught him everything a man ever need know about going down on a woman. How she reacted to the taste of come. And so on.

"God, if she'll let me, I'd love to have her again. Just once, just for old time's."

I'm thinking: There isn't a single ex I would take back. I'm saying: "Darling, go for it. I bet it's even better than before."

"You mean they're even better than before," he said, making a groping gesture in midair with his hands.

"Of course. Of course that's what I meant."

He looked at me and smiled. "So if I manage to get her in bed, and she's up for it, would you do a threesome with us?"

I'm thinking: Not a chance, hon. She'll never say yes, and even if she did, I wouldn't. I'm saying: "Go for it, sweetie. The more the merrier!"

N puts his arm around my shoulders. "You're the best woman ever, you know that?" Happily he will continue to believe so for the time being - I am reliably informed that His First didn't let him get any more intimate than an awkward hug at the end.

They say when it rains, it pours, but is there a saying for the complete opposite? Perhaps 'when it's dry, it's arid'?

You spend a few days away, and suddenly all calls are from time-wasters and mind-changers. There is always a certain amount of this at work - like the man who wanted to book an overnight but didn't ring the manager when he got to the hotel. So while I knew first name, time, and location, I wasn't about to turn up and go round all the floors knocking at each suite.

Can you imagine? "Room service? No? I'll try next door then..."

He did contact the agency a few days later to apologise. Seems he simply didn't write our number down and couldn't ring again. Of course.

Other times the cancellation comes from my end - I get nervous if someone changes time and location more than once. Too many overly specific requests also tend to put me on guard. Dressing up is fine. Dressing up like your septuagenarian grandmother and being asked to bring my own mortuary foam is not. A finely-tuned Creep Radar is a necessary part of the business. This is, after all, an occupation that ranks somewhere between nuclear core inspector and rugby prop for job safety. Except I'm issued neither a foil suit nor a pair of spiked boots for protection.

I have also learnt never to trust a booking made more than three days ahead, as these people almost never call back to verify the appointment details. At first I imagined my work diary filling up weeks ahead. But the most reliable calls come 6-12 hours in advance, even from regulars. The longer someone has to think about it, it seems, the heavier guilt weighs on them. Or maybe they decide to DIY the situation. A copy of Sport on Sunday isn't exactly going to give you a blowjob and a backrub - then again, it's more likely to be found hanging around your local off-licence and can be had for under a fiver.

Lame excuses, cancellations, aggressive patients, dubious over-the-counter remedies. Now I know how a GP feels.

Here's how it ended with the Boy, a few weeks back now.

We were exhausted from arguing all night. He had a train to make at London Bridge - not a specific train, just a preferred one. I was meeting friends and we left the house at the same time. At the tube station, we sat with an empty seat between us. He pored over a map of London pointlessly.

A Northern Line tube arrived. The carriages near our end were empty. I jogged up and hopped on a less crowded one. The doors remained ajar a few moments. I sat and looked around - he hadn't followed me on. I looked to both ends of the carriage. Popped my head out the door. The Boy wasn't there. The doors closed.

I sat down again, put my head on the large bag in my lap, sighed. A couple of stops passed. People crowded in, some groups, talking. I got off to change at Euston and momentarily thought about going back. No, I figured, he'd be long gone. But I stood on the platform, waited through a few arriving trains, just in case. After ten minutes I gave up. Sat down across from a young Asian man, a headscarfed girl wearing headphones and a bored-looking blonde woman with her shopping.

Just before London Bridge a face popped in front of mine. I jumped. It was him.

"Oh, never mind," he said, going to stand by the door.

"Where did you come from?" I asked.

"What do you mean? I've been here all along."

"On this train? On this carriage?"

"Yes." He sniffed, held the handrail, looked out the window as the train slowed into the tube station. "Thanks for screaming. Now everyone thinks I'm a mugger or something."

"I didn't scream. You just surprised me. Are you sure you were on this train? You can't have been."

"I was standing right next to you the whole way."

"No, I looked around. I waited at Euston. You can't have been."

He stepped off the train, on to the platform. A stream of people parted to flow around his bulk. "If you want to talk to me, get off and talk to me."

I sat down again. "I can't. If you want to talk to me, get on."

"No, you get off."

The doors started to close. I said his name, strained, my voice sharp and high. "Don't be stupid. Come on."

The doors closed, we pulled away. Last time I saw the Boy he was waving.

I sighed. The train was almost empty. The blonde woman with the bags leaned across. "He was lying to you," she said. "He got on the tube at Bank."

KosherSex are selling a Ron Jeremy dildo. They just don't understand - what I really want is a Ron Jeremy strap-on.

Minor interruption of service as my best friends A, A, A and A (yes, really) descend on Jour Towers for a few days. Quote of the night:

"So what are we doing tomorrow?"

"Well, we'll have to get that bottle of whisky first thing in the morning, definitely."

You couldn't buy a better bunch of chaps, I swear.

I never leave the house without a

spoon - because meals are usually taken on the run, and I am currently enjoying a couscous phase.
pen - if you've ever tried to remember someone's name, mobile number and address, mumbling to yourself like a crazy woman whilst onlookers smirk, you'll never forget again.
small scissor - loose threads are the enemy of smart dressing.
box of condoms, bottle of lube - hopefully the reasons for which are obvious.
change of knickers - see above.
extra pair of stockings - ibid.
portable music - helps pass the time, and the earphones are an excellent disguise for when you are really eavesdropping on strangers' conversations.
something to read - because sometimes you get tired of your own thoughts.
phone - I could text for Britain. Really.

And these are all good things. But today I managed to leave the house without a hat, gloves, scarf, or indeed anything that could be construed as season-appropriate outerwear. I really must look into booking quality time off to go somewhere sunny, quiet and phone-free.

I had a date the other night - no, really. A real date with someone who uses my real name and rings me on my real number. Okay, he may have been a hologram, but I promise you the rest of it was real.

I haven't had a proper first date since starting in the business. He's an acquaintance of N's, which gave us a conversational springboard the first few days, but I was quickly growing addicted to his looks, his voice and his sense of humour. It surprised me to feel just as awkward and off kilter flirting with someone as it always had before. Did I get a bit nervous when faced with having to leave a message on his answerphone? Check. Did I deliberate over what I was going to wear on out date for two days beforehand? Check. Obsessing over the details, including Googling his name every few hours? Too right I did. Did my heart speed up just a tiny bit every time I saw a new text or email from him? You betcha.

So we went out - the details are meaningless - and talked around and around each other, and around the topic of how mutually attracted we were. I kept looking at his hands when I thought he wouldn't notice. He must have been looking at mine because all of a sudden, on the train, we were holding hands (dear god we were holding hands) and he was exploring the spaces between my fingers with his lips (just shiver) and I put my head on his shoulder (yes it fit perfectly) and he smelled my hair (oh, yes, please).

Then we went and fucked it up by having sex.

Maybe it was the glass or three of wine. The music, which was just at the right bpm to make my head spin. But I so did what I should not have done - I went straight from cuddling and kissing into Whore Mode.

And this poor thing, he got the works. The little squeals. The wrist restraints. The full-on, sweat-soaked, bed-rattling, neighbour-waking, deep-throating, dirty-talking, facial-cumshot, use-me-baby-til-you-use-me-up works. He fell asleep straight after but I couldn't close my eyes because I knew what had just happened. I had utterly hot, but completely soulless sex with someone who - up to that point - I actually wanted to see more of.

There's that line about the likelihood of buying the cow when the milk's on sale, you know the one I mean?

So we woke early and dressed. He escorted me to the station and I caught the first train home. I couldn't look at him and felt like an utter idiot. To top it off, I sent a text making it fairly clear that I wasn't going to see him again. And to no one's surprise he hasn't responded.

Note to self, never have sex on a first date.

These are a few of my favourite things (that punters never ask for).

For me to come for real. Why should they? With someone I've just met, who doesn't know the unspoken road map to my body, it'll take something like a geological age with his tongue propelled by more drive than an industrial bandsaw. Of course I fake it, when asked at all.

Glass marbles. Infinitely better than the rubbery love-bead variety. Cheaper than a glass dildo. Scales up well according to size and relaxation of orifice. The sound they make when they come out is as delicious as the temperature change going in.

Food sex. I have never, ever been paid to lick chocolate sauce off someone or have it licked off me. In private, though, I like to think myself an excellent and carefully-maintained plate (n.b.: does not include insertion of vegetables, which you don't eat afterward anyway).

To turn up in my regular clothes. Random person sex is cool. Random person sex with someone who looks random is even better. Also I'm very lazy.

Bathing him afterward. I love soaping a man's body, the slightly submissive attitude of kneeling to run my hands down the pillar of his legs, gently lifting each foot in turn to wash it. I adore drying a man, too: imagining what I would want dried first (face and hair), what needs gentle patting (armpits and genitals) and what might get forgotten (back of knees, between the shoulder blades). Plenty want to wash me, though, so perhaps they are acting on the same desire.

Rimming. Given a thorough wash with hot soapy water beforehand, I will do this. It feels like trying to push yourself into pursed lips. It's a challenge, and the tiniest flicker of your tongue goes further there than anywhere else. It's cunnilingus on the miniature scale. As with the last one though - they do it to me all the time. I shouldn't complain, really.

To imitate an animal. For some reason I imagined they would. They don't.

To imitate characters from The Simpsons. It has nothing to do with sex, but I'm pretty good at it - especially Milhouse and Comic Book Guy. Who knows, maybe I'll meet a man with a Patty and Selma fetish, and then my ship will have truly come in.

Anal sex is the new black.

Hands up if you remember when big-name porn stars didn't go there, when no one said it out loud, when the only people who presumably made regular trips up the poop chute were gay men and prostate examiners. A man who suggested his wife grab her ankles and take it like a choirboy was probably courting divorce, or at the very least burnt suppers for a month.

As with the mass amateurisation of everything, though, anal has gone mainstream in a big way. Girls who used to ask whether you can go down on a boy and still be 'technically' a virgin now wonder whether opening the backdoor still leaves you theoretically pure.

Hurrah, I say, because anal's wonderful. Then again I had the benefit of being introduced to the practice gently and considerately over a matter of weeks, by a man whose desire for me to be able to take him inspired the necessary patience to persevere. He started with massaging and stimulating the anus, then moved on to inserting his own well-lubed fingers. It wasn't long before small vibes were introduced. When we finally got to the main event, I was begging him to do it.

And other folks must be catching on too, because simply everyone does it these days. By the time it was mentioned on Sex and the City all my friends shrugged. "So what?" they wanted to know. "We've been doing that for yonks."

I fully anticipate by next year Charlotte Church will have a glittery t-shirt that reads 'My Barbie takes it up the ass.' Maybe I should make one and send it to her.

Yes, anal. The new black. Out there is not so out there anymore. Last night N and I were perusing a top shelf mag he picked up for me, one page of which featured a woman of grandmother-age being fisted in both holes. And she was smiling. And to my surprise, I wasn't even phased. Few things shock me, really. But there is one that always gets to me - every time.

I know anal sex is the new black, because my bloody mother just rang to talk about it.

I ran some errands shortly before an appointment and walked to the hotel from the bank in full-on makeup, suit and heels. As I passed the park a man stopped.

"My god, you're beautiful. Are you a model?"

Cripes, has that line ever actually worked? "No, I work near here." Think fast - what's near here? "Over in Royal Albert Hall." I couldn't have picked a more unlikely place, could I?

He: "You like it there?"

Me: "It's pretty nice. The people I work with are interesting."

"Plenty of prima donnas, right?"

"Yes." (looking obviously at watch) "Well, I'm off to meet a friend for lunch, have to run."

"Are those real stockings?"

"Of course!"

"You're just too gorgeous. I wish I could take you out."

"Well, you never know. See you around."

"Bye."

Retro-installment: at the time, I wasn't going to post this, in case things turned out differently. But there seems no harm now.

A night out in honour of the Boy's birthday. We decided to leave our friends in Wimbledon early (the better to strain the bed, my dear) with the flimsiest of excuses, only to run into epic stoppages on the tube. After being stuck at Earl's Court for an hour, Himself nodding off on my shoulder, a change of route was announced for our train. So we leapt off at Gloucester Road to make a transfer. Alas, the Piccadilly line was also toast.

I made an executive decision and dragged us outside to flag down a black cab. "How much is this going to cost us?" the Boy asked.

"Don't worry, I'll cover it," I said. Noticed him leaning in to quiz the driver himself. "Oh, come on you silly," I scolded, bundling him into the cab.

I directed the driver first to an appropriate bank to withdraw cash. The Boy was sulking when I got back in the car. "The meter went back on while we were waiting," he grumbled. "Probably added at least a pound to the fare."

I wasn't too bothered. "He was waiting a couple of minutes," I said. Also, having grabbed a black cab instead of a minicab, I was fairly certain that - whatever the fare - he wouldn't try to drive us all over hither and yon. I live out in the relative sticks and forty pound round trips into town are not unheard of. In the course of work, naturally, it's an expense the client covers. Considering the time and the trip, if we got in for around twenty I'd be grateful.

The Boy pouted, withdrew his hand from mine and sulked out the window.

A bit later, we were about two miles from home. "I think we should get out here, we're close enough," the Boy said. The meter had just ticked over twenty quid, but I was in heels and uninterested in spending half an hour in the cold when we could be in bed making sweet lurrrve.

I looked at him sharply. "If you want to get out and walk, I won't stop you." I had no intention of going anywhere. This was his birthday, my treat, and what's money compared to being home in each others' arms?

The light turned green. The driver nervously checked his mirror. "Um, are you getting out here mate?" he asked.

"No." The Boy crossed his arms and sunk lower in the seat.

We were at mine inside five minutes, safe and sound. Mortified at the scene, I tipped the driver three pounds. We walked up the steps. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. "Well," I said.

"Well."

"Are you going to apologise? Because I am livid."

"I can't believe you let him fleece you like that."

"I can't believe you acted like that. It's only money."

"It's a lot of money."

"It's my money to spend, and I want to spend it on getting us home together. It's no more than a round at the pub would have cost."

Cue a night-long argument in which, ironically, the whore bears the standard for Money Is Meaningless, while her boyfriend recounts favours done and expenses incurred by him throughout the past year. If he truly wants to change careers perhaps accounting would suit. It ended rather abruptly with me writing a cheque for something approaching my hourly fee and shoving it into his hand. "Will that do?" I asked. "Does that make you happier?"

After a strained morning he wandered off to chat up the neighbour and palpate her shinier, better techno toys. These is no worse sound than the greedy giggles of a redhead displaying a PDA in juxtaposition with her cleavage.

I, meanwhile, am scanning train schedules.

Men, you're the men here. Explain.

The self-fisting is getting remarkably easier with practice. For those who would rather watch than to touch - and there are plenty of those - this is proving very popular. However, I don't think any amount of practice would enable anal fisting, although someone did want to see how many fingers I could get up the back passage whilst he fucked me. I could feel the swollen head of his cock clearly through the narrow wall of tissue separating the two orifices, and wiggled the tips of my fingers to tickle his shaft. He came quickly, stayed hard, fucked again, repeat.

He: (falling back on bed after the third go in one hour) "I used to be better at this, really."

Me: (pulling up stockings) "How do you mean?"

"The old man's had it. I'd be surprised if it gets up again any time in the next month."

"I wouldn't know, being a woman, but I think he's done admirably." (patting the now-wizened bit of flesh) "Good job, you. Have a well-deserved rest."

"You really like what you do, don't you?"

"I think it would be hard to take if I didn't. My imagination is not quite sufficient to detach my mind from double penetration."

Link to Leticia's blog now active - sorry for the confusion.

He: "White wine, I presume."

Me: "Why, how very thoughtful." (he presents a glass, we toast and sip) "Rather drier than usual."

"Thought I'd give it a try."

As a regular becomes more regular, rules slip a tiny bit. They're not supposed to be under the influence during an appointment - and neither are we - though a little alcohol isn't expressly forbidden. Having seen this particular man several times, I know that he must indluge in a spliff before he sees me. I can smell it, and am surprised it doesn't affect his performance.

Last night I arrived a few minutes early - Monday nights, light traffic - and caught him in the act.

Another habit he indulges in are inhalants during my visits. Now, I realise these aren't illegal (at least, I don't think they are), and am not opposed to drug-taking as such. Live and let live, victimless crime, and all that. I only rarely take anything stronger than a stiff drink - though those who knew me at uni would probably attest to the contrary.

Last night on his bedroom floor, I was sitting astride him. He, eyes closed, reached for the familiar small brown bottle and took a direct sniff. And then he offered it to me. What's the harm? I thought, and sniffed, and did so again when he picked it up ten minutes later.

And what a rush it was. I felt my scalp, face and ears pounding, like when you blush but more so. Every sound seemed intensified, a little tinny. My fingertips felt like paws, a foot wide.

Thank goodness it only lasted a minute or so.

The inhalant, that is. The sex was rather longer.

So Britney appears to be married, at least for the time being.

Pity some people feel they need a license in order to have sex.

A kind reader directed me to an Italian book site and I now have a copy of 100 colpi di spazzola... in my hot little hands.

So far, so delicious. I can feel slightly filthy and voyeuristic by reading someone else's memoir, and yet incredibly virtuous as I simultaneously exercise long-forgotten language regions of the brain.

Speaking of dirty little reads, I have also been perusing Leticia McKenzie. In the style of the girl herself I'll blank the following quote so those who prefer to read it in context, can (highlight below to see).

So I was being—I mean, I was lulling in bed as these images swirled around in my enthusiastic cranium. The teacher unbuttoned my shirt and stripped me naked, passing me around so that the eager students may see how to pleasure a woman. She instructed the students to take note of when I was the happiest; and I was continuously happy, enjoying the attention, mentally and physically. After several rounds of interesting performances—me giving all the boys blowjobs, them tying me up and whipping me, and branding me—finally, the teacher instructed them to put me through... a meat grinder. She said to study my reactions as I was reduced to ground Leticia in a pile on the floor. Truthfully, I enjoyed it; it was like I was being lowered into a warm bath as I excitedly swayed my hips and thrust my arms in the air with a silly grin. Oooh, being reduced to raw meat. I love it.

It's all so very Bob Flanagan, I just love it.

I accompanied N to a formal event last night - purely platonically, you understand. Am taking the hard line for now that 'all men are twats, unless they're paying in which case they're twats who are paying.' N understands perfectly and accepts his appointment as 'twat' with grace. This probably means he's trying to get me into bed.

We showered and dressed at mine, and I tied his bow tie before we left. I will not be seen in public with a man whose tie falls into any of the following categories - clip-on, spinning, and metallic. There is a time and a place for comedy eveningwear. I believe it passed when Charles Chaplin shrugged off his mortal coil.

Throats dry, we stopped for a pre-revelry drink at a bar which was cunningly hidden under another bar. Several dozen other celebrants were there as well and N introduced me around. A chirpy, raven-haired Nigella-alike planted herself to my left.

"Why, hello there," she twanged. "My name's A----." Her dress was doing a fine line in keeping her breasts restrained, but I didn't reckon on its chances for surviving the night.

I gave N a do you know this woman? look. He shot me a no, do you think she'll sleep with me? look.

She put her perfectly-manicured hand on my knee. "I just love your accent!" she enthused. "Where are you from?"

"Yorkshire," I said. "And your good self?"

"Michigan."

Charming. But the crowd grew restless, and we moved on to the venue. Unfortunately A---- and her date were sitting three tables from us. Dining at a table of mostly couples, I found myself seated next to the wife of a mutual acquaintance. She drunkenly looked me and N over. When he turned to talk to someone, she said, "So how long have you two been back together, then?"

"Er, ah, we're just seeing what happens. Only friends, you know."

"Sure you are." She gave me a sly wink to indicate that she didn't believe a word of it. This indictment might have carried more of a sting if she didn't simultaneously spill red wine down her dress.

The speeches were the highlight of the evening. A multiply-medalled paralympian with a seemingly endless supply of sex jokes followed by a sport personality, followed by a coach. The quality of the speakers was such that even I, a rank amateur at anything smacking of nonsexual exertion, could pretend to be interested in sport for twenty minutes.

Then it all broke down for the disco. I danced, I drank, I danced some more. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed N on the sidelines bending A----'s ear. Good lad, I thought. After she went off to dance with her date, I sought him out.

"You sly dog. So did you get her number?"

"Actually, she was more interested in you."

"Really?" I looked back at the dance floor, where she was being spun round and round by three men. Probably an experiment in centrifugal force and its effect on fabric strain. So far as I could see the dress was still refusing to budge - whether due to magic or double-sided tape, I don't know.

"Yeah, I think I ruined your chances though."

"How's that?"

"I said you'd only do it with her if I came along."

"You complete twat!" I hit his shoulder, probably hurting my fist more than anything else.

He kissed the top of my head. "Just saving you from yourself, dear."

Underwear update - chocolate-coloured lace, with pink satin ties at the sides of the knickers and between the cups of the bra. I don't think I got these for either work or Boyfriend.

The carriage coming back is crowded with bargain hunters and tourists. I try to guess what each shiny paper bag contains. A package of handkerchiefs? Comic books? Perfume? There is a mass exodus into the north of the city, people rushing off at each stop. Someone who can't wait to get home and won't even take off her coat before tearing through tissue paper. A man who's pulling the wrapping off a new cd already, dropping ribbons of plastic on the floor.

Tonight I am going out with friends. The men will be stuffed into their dinner jackets, which have grown mysteriously smaller since last year, and grumble about the skimpy main course. The women will swish from table to table in jersey and diamante, hair smooth like petals.

The tube lurches closer to my stop. The song on my headphones is buoyant - the sort of pop confection on a thousand best-of-2003 lists. When I look up, I see how close the yellow handrail is to the ceiling light and brush the cover with my fingertips. A pram rocks on the unsteady journey, knocking over a mother's shopping bags. I can't help smiling. Further down the carriage, a bald man stares.

Text from the Boy:

Are you okay? Feeling sad because I'm afraid you don't want to talk to me.

I wonder if I'm abnormal sometimes. A little cold for love, slightly lacking in sentiment. As soon as someone's interest flags my own feelings start to go that way too. As Clive Owen said in Croupier, hold on tightly - let go lightly.

I don't give people enough chances.

Maybe I know it's not right anyway. All romance is narcissism, someone told me once. This was the same person who also told me women over 30 should never wear their hair long, so it's probably an unreliable source, but still. I'm doing us both a favour by not responding.

There are other things that happened, things that never made it here because I was afraid of being rash, in case everything straightened itself out. It might still. Thinking about it doesn't help. I could ring, or send a text, but they seem such poor approximations of communication. If I can't sort out what's in this head how can I put it into intelligible sentences?

If I wait too long the decision won't be mine to make anyway.

Tomorrow I should go out and spend all my money on underwear, then throw them about the room to decide my fate like a satiny, lace-gussetted I-Ching. Let the gods of Beau Bra decide.

The benefits of taking time off - aside from the chance to catch up on laundry - are largely spiritual. But one learns a few mundane things as well. Such as that it's nice to let hair grow out a bit to get a good, clean waxing. Also, you remember what the hair was there for in the first place. Lubrication. No, really.

Last night N came round to wish glad tidings for the new year. Over dinner and a conversation on woodland survival techniques, apropos of nothing, I started laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"I just had a terrible image in my head."

"Of...?"

"Ray Mears carving a dildo from native rosewood." The man can light a fire anywhere in under a minute, they say. He's welcome to stop by and stoke mine anytime.

IN MEMORIAM
Jennicam, 1996-2003

So. Farewell then
Jennifer Ringley
First of the camgirls.

It would seem the
Site is dead

But are you?

Webwhores hold your cams aloft
In solidarity!
We await your next project.

As does David Letterman.

by B d Jour (aged 25 1/6)