OK, I'm going to admit it, it's me.
You can see the evidence there - growing up in Manchester, now living close to the A23. Don't be fooled by the compound verb-analysing.
It all started so innocently - a period of unemployment, arising from the vagaries of the temping game.
I found all the five star hotels in London, and one-by-one I checked them out. I decided which were the best - of course, I refer to the agency in my other blog, that's merely a fiction. I operate toute seule.
The money is good, but I didn't do it for the money. No, I did it for the book deal.
The book, of course, is nothing like the weblog. Turning one's blog into a book is Mil Millington/Salam Pax and last year.
On the blog I don't name names, and of course, I won't in the book. But when I mention clients like Tommy Blur, Danny Beckstone, Griff Grate and, of course, Amy Widdlestone, you may guess who they are.
You may think that the life of a call-girl is glamorous. Or you may disgust that I am no better than a street tart. I don't care. I am no worse than the woman that marries the rich man. I am no worse than the man that seeks cheap-thrilled one-night stands, paying or free. Am I any worse than the loner who wanks over their porn stash in the middle of the night?
I sell my body for money. For centuries women like me have been derided, scorned and ostracised. Why? In a patriarchal society men fear independent autonomous women. In my profession we are honest about what lies in everybody's heart. For centuries, sex has been merely the key to species survival. Women are not supposed to enjoy sex. Only in sex can a powerful man be brought - sometimes literally - to his knees. For centuries, respectable women were kept in metaphorical - and sometimes literal - shackles, because men feared the power of woman's sex. Women were told not to enjoy sex; the courtesan was a 'fallen woman' for the service of lustful men, whose wives remained at home constantly banged up or unable to have sex.
You go to work and sit in your cubicle from 9 to 5, under the fluorescent life, destroying your soul as you enter yet more kilobitage of data. What does it mean? I spend my days with people celebrating the glory of the body, living my life, relieving the dysfunctional men of their miserable wads. I am alive and fucking; you retreat to the 'other cubicle' to beat your meat or tickle your fancy.
I am not a darling of the literati, I know nobody from Guardian, Granta or Groucho, and I am definitely not a man. Cease speculating, and return to your bleak job and your Friday-night seven-minute missionary-position obligatory screw.
