Confessions of a Call Girl

After Andy Bodle spent thousands of dollars on escorts he met online, he had one more powerful desire left unfulfilled
August 17, 2017 – 08:43 am
As a courtesan

oldest professionWe know relatively little about men who pay for sex, but the available research suggests that most of them are married or have steady partners, and that they are not driven by an irrepressible biological need. In fact, the available research indicates that the motivation of many men is relatively low, and that in the vast majority of cases it would not take much to deter them from paying for sex.—Roger Matthews, professor of criminology at London’s South Bank University and author of Prostitution, Politics and Policy, 2008

Broadly speaking, my 29th birthday party was a success. Ninety guests turned up (of the 200 invited), the food was decent, and the few people who hadn’t already met got on famously. The evening would have been perfect but for one thing: when the music died and the last taxi pulled away, I was alone.

Over the previous few years, just about all of my friends had settled down. Every other weekend, it seemed, there was a stag night or a wedding. Those who weren’t having kids were moving out of town.

I, meanwhile, hadn’t had so much as a peck on the cheek for almost a year. Each woman I approached seemed to crowbar the word BOYFRIEND into the conversation more quickly than the last. And the few singles who had shown an interest were unsuitable for various reasons.

To make matters worse, my receding hairline had now receded to the point where “receding hairline” was no longer an adequate description of the situation. (I’ve since been reassured that baldness doesn’t unduly bother most women, but it bothered the hell out of me.) I was starting to think I would never again know the touch of a woman other than the jaded slap of a retirement-home nurse.

And opportunities to change things were thin on the ground. With my friends either exiled or under house arrest, and my stand-up career faltering, I was spending most of my evenings and weekends joylessly surfing the net and playing computer games.

Things were looking up on one front. After two years’ freelancing, I’d been made a full-time subeditor at the Guardian. The pay was good, I was earning extra from writing TV reviews and articles and, with no mortgage or girlfriend, my outgoings were minimal. In less than a year, without really trying, I found that I’d saved up £10, 000 ($15, 000). My first thought: deposit on a flat! My second, third and fourth: one-bed flat! Scummy part of London! Mortgage!

During my next surfing session, I stumbled across an online escort agency.

Until that night, it had never crossed my mind to pay for sex. Prostitution, for me, had always conjured up images of kerbcrawlers, ladyboys and knee-tremblers in needle-strewn alleyways. Sure, I’d seen Pretty Woman, but that was just Hollywood hogwash. Wasn’t it?

As depicted on the website I discovered, and dozens of others like it, the sex industry was safe, clean, simple … glamorous, even. There were pictures and biographies of the girls, so you could see what you were letting yourself in for. You visited them in plush rented apartments. And as the sites repeatedly pointed out, it was all 100% legal, because you were paying for the girl’s companionship, not for sex. It was just like going on a date—an expensive date, granted, but one that would almost certainly end with a kiss. And the girls … well, the girls made Julia Roberts look like Les Dawson in drag.

I looked at my empty bed. I looked at my empty diary. And I looked at my bank balance. Then I picked up the phone.

I prepared for that first illicit rendezvous exactly as I would for a real date. I went to the gym twice as often and for twice as long. I booked some sunbed sessions. I got a haircut—well, a number 2 all over—bought some new clothes, and read all the papers so that I’d have something interesting to talk about.

When D-day came, I was terrified. Would the person who answered the door be the girl advertised? Or would it be an eastern European thug waiting to rob me and dump my body in the Thames?

My fears were unfounded. The girl behind the door was the girl in the photo (minus an airbrush stroke or two). She was sweet, she was great company, and if she didn’t enjoy herself, she was one hell of an actress. I went home that night feeling a little guilty, but happier than I had been in ages.

From that night, I was hooked. I tried several different agencies and several different girls. Over the next 18 months, I spent something in the region of £15, 000 ($22, 500) on prostitutes.

Each time, I faithfully observed the rituals of courtship. I always showed the girl the utmost courtesy, I always took her flowers and champagne, and I always paid for at least one extra hour so that I could get to know her first. (It was on my fourth visit that Daniella—a cute, funny 26-year-old Canadian—laughed and told me that no one else did that; most guys just paid for one hour, got down to business, then buggered off. But I liked doing it this way. It felt normal. Almost.)

My fifth visit was to Roberta, a stunning blonde Brazilian based in Mayfair. When I walked in, she looked me up and down and said, “Thank God—a good-looking one for a change.” I looked behind me to check she wasn’t talking about someone else. The confidence boost was worth the £500 all by itself.

Such was the variety of escorts available—black, white, Latina; blonde, brunette, redhead; sassy, classy, naughty—that I never visited the same girl twice. Until, that is, I met Hayley. Hayley was 27 years old, from Lancashire, and exactly my type: petite, brunette, with a cheeky smile, gorgeous bum, and mind-blowing oral technique. And it may be that she was just very good at her job, but she genuinely seemed to like me too. On our second date, she gave me her real name—Jill—and her real phone number, and promised to come and see my stand-up routine some time.

For my 31st birthday, I treated myself to a whole night with Jill. It seemed a bargain at £2, 000. The morning after, I woke to find a cup of tea and a gift-wrapped box on the bedside table. After hearing that it was my birthday, Jill had gone out and bought me a foot spa.

After that, I felt as though we had a special connection—a relationship that transcended transactions. Maybe the whole Pretty Woman myth was true. Maybe, I thought, she really liked me; maybe I could persuade her to quit escorting and be with me.

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