… said the wise call girl.

It’s not since I was a student that I have spent much time reading. Relatively, even then, I did far less reading than most of my peers [Ed: Unless you count the hours AM spent “reading” porn mags.], but relying on public transport, studying several hours from home, and with smartphones and social media not having yet been invented, my world was a tiny bit more book oriented. [Ed: And porn-mag oriented. The tale of how AM spent much of a four hour train journey “reading” porn-mags is for another time.]

Not that I don’t usually have a book on the go these days, if not two. It’s just likely to have been on the go for months, if not years. There is currently a stack of three books beside my bed: one light and satyrical, another about which I know very little other than someone else loved it, and the third … well the third is a little more in keeping with this blog.

Belle de Jour – The intimate adventures of a London call girl

It’s a book that does exactly what it says on the cover – a memoir of prostitution. Whilst the book relates various instances of kinky fuckery, it is relatively restrained in it’s language and, in contrast to much of what can be found online, there’s disapointingly little detail. So if you want to read some hard core porn, I’d recommend you stick to blogs. Something like Vivid (Jupiter’s Lair’s recent contribution to Masturbation Monday) would certainly be a better read if you want the squelchy details of fingers and cunts.

However, Brooke Magnanti (the latterly outed author) is as skilled a diarist as I suspect she was an escort, and extra little nuggets of wisdom are scattered throughout the book.

So as I lay in bed this morning, too early to be awake, and far too early get up, I struggled to summon the will to tend to my erection. The clouds that herald Our iminent days with Dr Ruth are heavy in my mind, and it is difficuly to think of much else in the absence of distraction.

I reached for Belle de Jour.
It would have been preferably if I could have reached for Belle herself, as a way to fuck my anggst away, but I had to suffice with the book.
And in it I read…

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 restricting access to public services and benefits. He was 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 Footballers’ Wives sports the best cleavage. 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 any more.

The sageness of Brooke’s observation rang in my ears (meraphorically) and it was difficult not to relate it to the deterioration of Our marriage over the last few sexless years.

2 Responses to “… said the wise call girl.”

  1. Thank you so much for your kind mention, AM. I’m very flattered 💖

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