For those of you on Facebook, there is now a fan page for Me! Glorious! Me! located here.

For everyone else, apologies for lack of updates - simply snowed under at the moment. Hope you are all keeping warm and enjoying truffles!

Happy-making things from the past week:

Loads of lovely nights out! Have not had so many invitations since I don't know when, making this the nicest December in years. Though the dry cleaner is sick of the sight of me already.

A girl at a gentleman's club (of which more another time) dancing to the Rammstein cover of Depeche Mode's 'Stripped' - and asking for my number later. Soz boys, but when you're hot you're hot.

Burn After Reading. How good is that film? Also saw that Angelina Jolie one which, while indisputably the feel-bad movie of the year, did at least offer another opportunity to worship the man, the legend, the Malkovich.

Speaking of cinema, delighted to notice in Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi that Shah Rukh Khan has a left-side fang just like mine! Wonky teeth rule. Also that in undercover geek mode he looks distinctly like my father's older brother - am now uncertain whether it is strictly kosher to continue fancying SRK.

Tucked away not far from my house, a pub serving perfectly kept Deuchars and Sunday dinners of shocking proportions. Yay for gentrification!

So now we have discussed N's Quantum Theory of Relationships, here is a new one for you: Belle's Bayesian Theory of Relationships.

For those of you not au fait with the ins and outs of probability theory, rest assured, I don't know from Fermat either. In fact my main source of statistical knowledge was an Irish gambling addict I lived with back at Uni. Here comes the science bit - Bayesian probability, as far as I understand it, is a method of predicting future performance based on past results. As A2's Canadian mate D likes to say to his toddlers when they are mid-strop, 'what we have here is an example of inductive reasoning.' Through observation and experiment, we can upgrade our opinions.

Or in other words, you choose the horse at the track based on its last few races, not because you like its name.

You might be saying to yourself, well Belle, this is bleeding obvious. Who doesn't assess a relationship in this way? And the answer would be, nearly everyone. Regular readers will have a sense of how exactly how flipping long I didn't factor in past unacceptable behaviour in my choice of mate - never, never again. Being perfectly honest ladies, we are excruciatingly guilty of this in almost every instance.

'What that implies is there is no place for faith in a relationship,' N groused during another of our marathon bath-chat sessions. I find I think more clearly in the bath. Pity I can't work from there, but ah well.

'What I'm saying is that faith is earned, not given,' I said. 'You are permitted to disagree.'

'Cheers, I will.' He would. He's hung up on a woman who has treated him like a cock-for-hire without giving back anything significant for, oh, I think about three years now. He is invested. She is not changing. And her personal track record would seem to suggest she can't.

'When she figures out what she wants, she'll see how good I am for her,' N said.

I rolled my eyes - thank fuck for phones sometimes. 'When she figures out what she wants, she'll start fresh with someone else,' I said. 'They never realise what they have until it's too late.'

'Last of the romantics, you are,' N said.

'Like the clown said, you only get one chance with Edna Krabappel.'

I have the feeling it's going to take a lot more time in the bath before he finally sees sense.

Hey kids.

Apologies for the lack of updates, but I did promise not to write about certain things... well. However there is no end to the self-important preachy shite regarding sexuality in general I can churn out, so why not enjoy this piece originally written for something else some time ago?

Sex, Lies and the Ghettoisation of Kink

I don't do kink.

Or rather, I do do kink, but only in the privacy of my sexual life. Where I don't do kink is in a community, whether in real life or online. To me, the very thought brings to mind unfortunate comparisons with 'care in the community', which is also of niche interest and largely ridiculed by the majority.

However, it would seem the kink community very much does me. Not a week passes without some armchair Master-or-other opining en blog what a shame it is that Belle de Jour was so scandalously lucky to have written a book, because He knows An Actual Prostitute, and can vouch personally that she is wittier, smarter, and better-read than me.

Usually, these opinions come from individuals called Balthasar, Master of the Dark or Bitchy McSlutress of the Universe and contain enough fifty-pence words to drown your average spelling bee (in blogworld, demonstrable ownership of a thesaurus is shorthand for 'good writing style'). You can also identify your bitter neighbourhood kinkster because they tend not to be au fait with the correct and grammatic use of 'whom' and can be counted on to insert it especially where its use is inappropriate. You can tell I love these people, can't you?

I mean, it's so joyless, so predictable, so let's-play-master-and-servant, so... everything the rest of the world imagines kink to be. Why are there not more Mistresses Matisse in kinky world, people who clearly have fun with their sexuality rather than beating the world over the head with the (self-published, natch) Balthasar Master of the Dark's Essential And Unchallenged Assertion Of What Is True, Always? In an orientation you might expect rewards - no, demands - imagination, why are so many kinky people utterly lacking in lateral thinking ability?

The sad truth is, it's because they don't actually think for themselves, at least in no greater proportion than the rest of the general population. There are bright sparks and even geniuses but they shine like diamonds in a drain. It's a very simple trajectory the rest of them travel. Having rejected the cruel and incomprehensible world that rejected them first circa age 12, rather than forge a new reality they simply learned a new concrete paradigm - one typically rife with sci-fi and unironic consideration of the oeuvre of Sisters of Mercy (and I say this as a fan of both).

Hokay. Having now well and truly insulted half the readership, I'll tell you a little about what I write and what I don't write. My books are mass-market. Which means they're published by a Real Publisher, not an online one, and distributed via bookshops and supermarkets, not a sidebar on a blog. Which means, in a nutshell, they're edited. I have an editor (formerly the Fabulous Helen, now the Fabulous Genevieve) and a copy editor whose jobs are to make certain not only that each i is dotted and each t crossed, but also that the content is comprehensible to my audience - which, judging from the feedback, is a very general one.

Therefore my writing must pass the average reader test - if I use jargon, is it something Average Reader would understand? If not, it must be described more fully. So, the word 'flogger', while commonly used by many people, does not pass the test. In fact many commonly used kink terms don't. As an example, I recently made reference in my Facebook status to needle play and mentioned my nipples hurt, and loads of people posted on the Wall to ask why. And these are fans! If you scoff at that, imagine what the editors think about words like 'djambok' and 'cauterise'.

On a larger scale, it also means I self-censor the sex. Why? Because in the mass market, a description of a sex worker fisting herself passes muster... just about. However, a sex scene involving less prosaic uses of breast milk probably wouldn't. I can't explain why, say, bondage and large objects entering small holes are acceptably mainstream images of kink and unusual bodily fluids expressed by force are not, but that's the way it is, and such concerns are always in the back of my mind. I might write about it someday, but again - a lot of people don't know what needle play is, so it may take some time to get to, oh I don't know, vomit enemas.

Which could lead you to wonder why I am writing for the mainstream at all when they don't really understand me. The answer is because of the readers. If I wanted to sit in a room of other sex workers and bitch about sex work, I could have done that. But I didn't. I didn't because I thought my story was more generally relevant, even to people for whom woman on top is a big deal. Write about kink in a strictly kink-approved fashion, and you just bought yourself a ticket to Kinky Ghetto. Fact.

So why not be involved in the kink community and 'change it from the inside'? Because that's what people say about marriage... and you see how well that has worked. I have neither the stamina nor the interest. I want to live my life, not analyse the X-rated parts of it at a munch in the local Starbucks.

Next week: Sex and the tyrrany of the orgasm.

Last week the PR at Orion forwarded a note from the Grauniad to publish a photo of where I write as part of their 'Writers' Rooms' series. Under normal circumstances, I usually refuse requests from the Graun because of their (what I consider to be) extraordinarily retrograde views regarding sex workers and people who write about sex work from an actual informed perspective. However, I was willing to overlook this because I'm just a girl who likes saying yes. So I let it be known that I might consider it; of course, I would provide the photo.

Was not to be. Word came back today that the Graun could only do it if one of their own photographers took the shot.

Um, what part of 'anonymous' do they still not understand?!?

(Pity, really, as this Saturday's was of Grayson Perry's studio, and while I would have been far more interested in his dressing table, it did thrill me to think of sharing the same column space at some point in future. Ah well.)

What Happened Thursday, Part 3 of 3

'How many people have you had sex with then? It doesn't bother me, I'm only curious.'

'I don't know.'

'Really?'

'I stopped counting after number 22, when I was nineteen.' That was a bisexual goth chap with enviably long legs and remarkable stamina. 'I can make an educated guess to within the nearest fifty?'

'Go on.'

'About 150, 200?'

'That's not bad,' he said. 'Not too bad. It's not in the thousands.'

'No. And you?' There are at least four that I know of - me, his ex, the two other girls he's been with since we met. He held up his hand, like to tick them off his fingers. 'Oh fuck, you're going to say four aren't you?'

'No, but not a lot.' And he named them. Nine. Nine in total. Shitting hell. There have been weeks when I've slept with more people than that. 'I've gone for quality over quantity,' he said.

Hmm. Well to quote Uncle Joe Stalin, quantity has a quality all its own. 'Actually mine is probably a bit more than I said. Maybe three hundred. Definitely not more than four hundred, absolutely not more than that.'

We slept, our limbs entangled all night. In the morning he'd remembered there was a tenth girl after all. And everything was fine, as if the entire evening had never happened. Except that isn't quite right, because it obviously had, as I was grinning madly, and said the things I meant rather than the things that would mask my real thoughts, and kissed him goodbye at the door for once instead of waving him out.

 

...now if you don't mind, I would like to draw the curtain over what happens between me and T from this point on. It wouldn't be fair on him to see the early stages of a relationship written about as they happen, especially when he has no means of answering back. Thank you to everyone who wrote me about him for your encouragement and support.

What Happened Thursday, Part 2 of 3

I tucked a tartan blanket around his shoulders and we settled in front of the telly. At the first advert break I asked how he liked the show.

'Apart from the personal interest, it's not something I would watch.'

I nodded. 'Me either.'

I know! I'm a fucking hypocrite. I love Lucy and Avril and Paul and Roanna and Becky and of course Billie is beyond awesome and you all rock my fucking face right the fuck off, but I can't help being a smug middle class University Challenge type. Soz.

He fell asleep during the second episode but woke again and we had sex again. Better this time - far better. Tender and urgent at once. We lingered naked in the damp dark.

'You know what I think?' he said.

'No, I don't know what you think.'

A beat. 'Do you want to know what I think?'

'Yes, of course.'

'I think you should be less defensive.'

'I know. It's...'

'We have great sex, and sometimes things feel very intimate, but then you...'

'...the brick wall, right?'

'...become this bitch. And you don't need to.'

It is the truth. I've always known it. The sort of thing the Boy probably would have said, but only ever when we were screaming at each other, when the brick wall was so high nothing would have gone in much less stuck. Coming from T I could hear it this time, knew it was the truth, that it was meant with no judgement.

That was when it dawned on me exactly whom he reminds me of - J.

J's the one from the second book, my cousin the ex-addict and dealer, who let me live at his when I was running away from the first book, afraid even to be in Britain when the reviews came out. J is the one who has seen his father a handful of times since childhood. When we were small, so close in age, skinny fair freckly little things, people thought we were twins.

J has known me all my life - not most of it, like A1, nor half of it, like A4, nor a lot of it, like N - literally, all my life. He is the person for whom it truly does not matter how much time passes because nothing between us has changed. He is the street smarts to my book learnin', the horse sense to my logic, the chill to my raging inferno. He is the one family member who never judges me. For all of you still wondering why my parents don't know, it's because I don't believe they could handle it. J is the only relative who could and I fucking respect him for it. Not unlike I respect T, even though it's early days.

Whatever else happens after this point T will always be in the category of Man to me - no, it's not simply about having the appropriate equipment. A Man does the right thing and has the right attitude and buys you a beer after a shite day and does not expect a fucking medal for emptying the rubbish. Sure they cry, but never for attention. They were my history teacher at school and my housemate at uni. They are not perfect and make no apologies for that. They are the ones played in films by Clive Owen and Shah Rukh Khan. They do what they say on the tin. N's there. A1 and A4 are. OOP - hey, remember him? we're still friends - is in that gang. A few others I know, a few I've only had the pleasure of knowing briefly. And J, he all but defines the concept. Now T.

What Happened Thursday, Part 1 of 3

Toothbrush came round at half eight. We talked about the previous weekend; he was away looking for a place to live in his new city. He mentioned he'd been with someone else, which is cool, but condomless, which is not so. Arrrrrrgh seriously. Did we really grow up in the same decade? The idea that he could be so casual about his and others' health gave me pause. Of course no one's perfect, but I have slept with a grand total of three - yes, three - people sans latex. Ever. Was this really someone to whom I was prepared to bare my soul? I was irritated with him, stressed from the previous fortnight, and frightened to tell him about the show. As a result the sex was... functional. Okay but not great.

'What's on your mind?' he said after.

I lifted my head from my crossed arms. 'Nothing.'

'You don't seem yourself tonight.'

'You're right. It's a bit... I was going to tell you something, that secret I mentioned... you know? And you sort of stole my thunder.'

'So what is it?'

I had been preparing for this moment almost two weeks. N suggested I be as straight to the point as possible; A4 reckoned I should tell him the sex work part first and forget the rest if it seemed things might be going badly. F just said he knew it would be okay. I had crafted a thousand little speeches in my head: verbose, historical, flowery, plain. But when it finally came down to it I blurted out the whole lot. Rather inelegantly. In about ten seconds.

T gave me an odd look. 'You're having a laugh,' he said.

'I'm not.' I jumped from the bed, gathered an armload of books off the desk and stood over him. 'Now either I'm the world's creepiest fan, or... this is the book in Italian,' I said, dropping it on the mattress. 'Romanian. Portuguese. Chinese. Russian. This is the promo pack for the show when it aired in the US, and this -' I fished a bit of glossy paper out from the pages, '- is the cover of the next book, fiction, first of a series of three, which is published in a month.'

He laughed. He said it was cool, said he'd read a bit of the second book, had noticed a similarity with things I'd said about my cousin J but never quite... yes, he was fine. It was cool. Things were fine. 'In fact I think it's funny.'

'Funny ha-ha, or funny weird?'

'Funny ha-ha.' He asked whether it was like a real secret, or whether he could tell his friends.

'It's a real secret. You're the first person I've told who didn't have to know.' The others, the people who know about the Belle version of me as well as the real one: the Boy, A4, N, F. By that time it was almost ten, so we went back downstairs to watch the show.

 

Top Tip from Justin at BISH: A drop of lube on the bell end before putting on the condom makes it feel like bareback... cheers Juz!

I simply don't know what to write next - about last Thursday or about the weekend. The blog is turning a little T-tastic, so am tempted to tell you about seeing SY (Sexy Yorkshireman, he hasn't had an abbreviation before but does now) on Saturday over following up on the last entry more chronological-stylee.

Hmm.

Well.

Sorry, am going to keep Thursday to myself just that bit longer. It's too good and is giving me much soul food at the moment. Yes, I'm a greedy bitch who never learnt to share. Get over it.

Right. T was considering multiple options for the weekend and chose at the last minute to spend it away. I had tickets to a formal do, so when he couldn't come, had to make alternative arrangements.

Having only written about meeting SY here, a retelling is probably in order. No, there is too much: let me sum up. SY and I hooked up a week after we met, sex was v v good, but three weeks in he gets an attack of the clingy. Unfortunately, I was still reeling from the Boy, weirdly getting wound up over MH (who was for the record so not worth that) - and SY is nearly a decade younger than me so while a lovely lad with loads of great qualities not relationship material. We parted on good terms. He started dating one of his co-workers, I continued doing what I do best, he texted a few months ago to apologise, inform me of his recent breakup and ask if I required a naked housekeeper. I forgave him, said if he still fancied it to try again in autumn. We'd not seen each other since January.

By the way, if it has occurred to you that with the glaring exceptions of N (from London obvs) and A2 (Devon) I only pursue Northerners, you are correct.

I arrived for pre-dinner cocktails five minutes early; SY was five minutes late. I'd taken the liberty of ordering drinks (scotch and soda for him, kir royal for me). 'Hello,' he smiled, and we kissed cheeks. 'You look gorgeous.'

'So do you.' I'd always suspected SY would look delectable in a dj and was not disappointed. It did seem, however, just a touch on the tight side and I said so.

'Give us more notice next time,' he said. 'I've not put this on since uni.'

Still, it was snug in all the right places - he'd clearly been hitting the gym hard this year. We chatted a bit and it was far less strained than I'd feared, helped by the fact that (apart from the second series, the three new books &c.&c. on my side) little of note has happened to either of us in the intervening time. He took my arm and we trotted off to the event.

'So what am I in for, exactly?' he said, eyes passing over the glittery crowd.

'Oh, did I not mention? You're the entertainment. That is one of those velcro stripper suits, yes?'

He laughed. 'The worst part is, you know I would.'

I raised an eyebrow. This is precisely why he was invited. Not that I wouldn't - very much - have enjoyed taking T along, but he and I have never been out dancing. SY, on the other hand, is a known quantity. Likes a drink, likes a dance, likes making a complete tit of himself in public particularly where loud music and shaking of one's arse are involved. Rather like myself, in fact.

As for the rest of the night, many fine whiskys were drunk. Much setting to rights of the world occurred. Mutual appreciation of the girls present abounded. And when the dancing started, SY and I did what we were born to do - dominated the floor. As it happened there were prizes, not that I would have abstained in any case.

For his extraordinary efforts, SY won a bottle of champers. I was only just pipped at the post among the girls by a blonde in sequins, but was assured that really the prize should have gone to me. Ah well - I can do only so much with clothes on.

SY and I flopped on chairs in the corner, panting, watching the proceedings. 'That was fucking fantastic,' he said. 'I would pay money to see the two of you girls dancing again.'

'Have I mentioned I used to be a stripper?'

'I guessed. Woman of many talents.'

'One or two anyway,' I said. 'So is it back to yours then?'

SY shook his head. 'I'm not a homewrecker.' He was referring presumably to the huge amount of time I'd spent during the meal boring him with how amazing I think T is.

'You're not wrecking any home,' I said. 'It's not exclusive. He... you know, he sleeps with other people; so do I. Anyway I've a brunch south of the river in the morning and as you live that way...'

'A convenience fuck?'

'Don't pretend you'd be offended if I said I was using you for arm candy and a place to crash.'

'No,' he shrugged. 'And my housemate's away so we could do serious damage.' We made our excuses, found a taxi, sped off to his, and that was when I learned he'd been wearing a stripey posing pouch under that suit all along.

ObLitChat: SY is reading Understanding Organizations by Charles Handy. I would be reading this month's book club selection, Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl, but Amazon have yet to deliver it! Grr! Consoling myself with a re-read of Siri Hustvedt's The Blindfold.

Okay. So.

There is just too much to be able to write sensibly about last night. In the end, it was 5% rubbish, 95% USDA Grade A Prime Iowa-reared Corn-fed AWESOME POWER...

...and the show was not bad either.

More to come.

That comment to the last entry? A blip, really. Had got myself into a tailspin about several things:

• the recent death
• a worrying phone call from my ex
• worrying emails regarding a friend's recent disinclination to answer her phone,
• various work issues (in my opinion, the byzantine manners of office work are far worse than the comparatively straightforward politics of sex work), and
• what I perceived as mixed messages from T that were, in the end, not mixed at all and nothing to do with me.

But I am woman, and therefore will insert subtext where there is none. Twas ever thus. Sorted it out over a pint or three of bitter and an in-car snogging sesh.

So we were well into the session when T bent me over the arm of the sofa. He thrust a few times, then stopped. I looked back at him. What was he doing? He wasn't touching anything, hadn't gone soft, was just... looking at my thigh?

I supposed he must have seen. I'd been flogged on Friday and while most of the marks had faded quickly, the end of the whip had bitten - hard - into that little oyster of flesh on the inside thigh, leaving a series of raised purple spots that stubbornly persisted days later. He started again and we continued as before. He didn't mention it and I said nothing, in case that wasn't what had stopped him.

After the sex T showered. When he came back downstairs I was in knickers (black with pale blue lace), reading Private Eye (ideal man: Ian Hislop. Okay, no, but a girl can dream).

He whipped off the towel (mmm) and started dressing (aww).

'You off then?'

'Yeah,' he said, pulling a black t shirt over his head. 'Staying over's extra.'

I smirked. There are times I wonder if he already knows everything and is playing with me, but... no, I put those thoughts out of my mind.

He sat down, closed his eyes. 'Careful,' I said, considering the prize crossword. I am rubbish at crossword. Why don't Private Eye do a sudoku? I'm rubbish at those as well. 'You'll fall asleep.'

'Am halfway there already.'

'Do you want a drink before you go? Something hot?' I said. 'Coffee? Tea?' Me?

'Tea... yes, tea, I don't want to stay up all night.'

Pity, that would be my preference. Our eyes met. 'I'll miss this, you know, when you go.'

'Me too.' A beat. He punched me playfully on the shoulder. 'The Ice Queen is melting.'

'I... what? I mean, I like sex. Um. I'll get that tea then.'

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I fumbled with the kettle in the kitchen. This is... keep your head, girl, if it all goes wrong, he'll still be a nice memory. Focus on that. We made no promises. We had no expectations. It was practically a contract.

'Your tea.' What to say of the ice queen comment, if anything? 'I hope you don't really think that of me.' He took the mug and leaned back into the sofa. His hand played with the hair tucked behind my ear. It was... it was sweet. He pulled me to his side, and I snuggled into his shoulder. And we talked about the news, about politics, for almost an hour more. Fuck me but that is nice. Nice to talk to someone who isn't afraid of a woman with an opinion - the ex put the kibosh on such discussion once we had a single disagreement, and I should have taken that as the bad sign it was. Nice to talk to someone I don't care if I'm wrong around. Nice to talk, full stop.

His eyes wandered to the clock. 'Go on, get out,' I said and walked him to the door. When he was gone I snapped off the light downstairs, went up to my bedroom, and looked out from the dark house to the street below. It was minutes before he drove away. I pulled the curtains and went to bed alone.

For what it's worth, I don't think this is even going to make it to Thursday, or if it does, for much longer after. Call it feminine intuition, a wild guess, a hunch. I'd like to be proven wrong but if experience is anything to go by.... well.

Word of the day:

'embuggerance'

That is all.

This morning, after I went to work:

Horny bitch x

I laughed. Toothbrush has a way with words sometimes. A very sparse way, but still. Appropriate.

You know you love it x

After a short break, his reply:

Almost as much as you...

Hm, that was ambiguous. I'll take it to mean 'almost as much as you do', which is the safer assumption. Especially as my personal D-Day is still over a week off.

If I'm going to do this, I must ask him round for the appropriate day. I dithered over the wording of the text. Also whether to ask him over the phone or in person - no, figured this was the best way to avoid a protracted conversation before next Thursday. Just make it light, make it sound inconsequential...

If possible could you keep the evening of the 11th free please?

Meep. Not quite right, in fact a little needy and grating. Ah well. T to me:

That's a training night, better be good!

Ooh, sweaty after-gymming... no, no, try to think straight now, don't get distracted.

Could you make 10pm?

T to me:

Yessssss...

Me to T:

I mean, could you do both... wouldn't want you to miss training x

T to me:

Yeah, intrigued that's all

Oh dear, am I building this up too much? Will he be expecting, I don't know, a porn threesome or something, only to be confronted with the somewhat less exciting knowledge that he's schtupping an ex-prostitute?

Ah well, I will probably disappoint you then...

Because, you know, I usually do. Disappoint people that is. Just ask any of the exes. T to me:

You haven't yet x

'I haven't seen you like this in ages,' N said. 'I probably should be jealous, but I'm not, even though I'm going to lose you.'

We were hurtling between Epsom and Staines - well, on the M25 anyway, so perhaps it isn't the most accurate verb - because we were planning to meet a friend, only halfway there, we found out said associate had died early Sunday morning. Around the time the lightning started, in fact. But not knowing quite what to do or how to do it, we kept driving. There would be others turning up who didn't already know and so we decided to go, to wait, to tell them.

'You're not going to lose me,' I said. 'Even if it all works out, which my track record would tend to indicate otherwise, you're not going to lose me.' By unspoken agreement we said as little as possible about the unexpected death. I know what we were both thinking: about Saturday afternoon, the friend sitting between N and me, the sun on our shoulders, the laughter. Was there anything we might have spotted? Any sign we missed? If we had been drinking less, more observant, more empathetic, could either of us have prevented the inevitable? We didn't need to say it to each other, it was the extrasensory conversation between us.

Only when this happens do you realise how many things you say that imply death, the words that hang in the air - 'a little hard work isn't going to kill us' 'he was dead cute' - the words that make you cringe for a few weeks, while you make your promises and cling to your friends like there is nothing else in the world, until you forget again, start taking things for granted again. So we talked about Toothbrush instead.

'Could you see a future with him?'

I had to qualify the answer, of course. I don't know what T thinks of this. I don't know what his expectations are. He's moving. It would be unfair to expect an exclusive relationship from him in the next year; he's recently single. It would be unfair to expect an exclusive relationship from me in the next year; I am enjoying myself too much. We are going in similar directions, but not yet. I wish I'd met him eighteen months from now. We are very alike in certain ways, but... but...

'So that's a yes then.'

I sighed. 'I would not dream of saying it to him yet, but yes.'

'Fucking hell, B. Fucking hell.' We arrived at the picnic spot and waited for the few cars that did turn up - word had spread quickly among the others - then after an hour walked along the river to the pub. I had a pint of ESB, N had a shandy. We raised a toast to our friend. 'I can make a list of a thousand people I'd prefer to have dropped dead before him,' N said. I nodded. It was as much as we could say.

Anything could happen at any moment, I was thinking. You have to be prepared because who knows what you might regret saying - or more likely, not saying. I told N I had almost told Toothbrush, about this blog, about the show, about me, and bottled at the last moment. I didn't know yet whether he was aware of the show, what he might or might not know about the situation. What he thought of sex work in general, the whole thing.

'Bring him over when the new series starts,' N said. 'Just pop it on the telly, watch it, see his response. You'll get a good idea from that.'

Ten days, then. Ten days and I may never hear from him again after that. Anything could happen at any moment. You have to be prepared. I think I am.

Useless Twattery in the Broadsheets, #15,357 in a ongoing series:

"...and then remember how one journalist who interviewed Belle in the flesh noted that she was not really all that attractive. What a blow to her PR campaign a nondescript face would have been – much better to have no face at all and let the readers do the imagining."

Erm, whodat exactly? Reference please, as I seem to have amnesia about any such interview. The only journalist to ever be offered a face-to-face with me is Erica Wagner of the Times (who turned it down). Any journo who claims to have met Belle is a liar.

While there's something in the fact that in sex work, literally every niche interest can be and is catered to - and I have often reiterated that I am by no means the most gorgeous woman in the world - an ugly call girl would not expect to attract very much in the way of regular work.

(I won't even start on the implication that it should be necessary for me to be pretty in order for the writing to succeed, such a clunkingly anti-woman notion by someone who no doubt counts herself among the number of feminists.)

Oh but of course. A woman who will have sex for money couldn't possibly be pretty, could she? Why, that would mean those who give it away might start to feel slightly less smug. I may be no Helen of Troy but dare say I am better looking than your nondescript countenance, dear. Not to mention possessed of a pussy that makes men cry.

Things with Toothbrush are ticking over well, almost too well. I know: am woman, have blog, will worry. He came out with me and the girls last night, was polite and generally admired by all, though admitted after we parted ways from the gaggle that the previous few hours of conversation about R's sex-club-date and M's nude-beach-hopping had been for him something like being trapped in a live-action Sex and the City.

Oh, honey. If you only knew.

Supping that crucial one-pint-too-many, he asked whether I will visit when he moves next month. Our original agreement had been that no, this was not a situation either of us wanted, and some small part of me has been looking forward to his departure because it means I can take up with the lush boy from circa December again (not the monkey-hanger, the one after that. Do try and keep up). Not that I couldn't do so before Toothbrush goes, but apart from the odd liaison here and there my hardcore man-juggling days are mostly over. It's all about the serial monogamy, innit. I didn't answer either way because in spite of the aforementioned assumption I have been feeling ambivalent about this. I like him more than I am willing to admit.

Later, during the second-pint-too-many but before the t.v. - tactical vom for those not familiar with the concept, though I reckon most of you ladies will know exactly of what I write... there is also t.p., tactical poo, but that is usually to do with travel arrangements or pre-sex preparations - he suggested we should have a sailing holiday together next summer. I started rabbiting on about locations, appropriate yacht specs, realised how very couple-cosy this was becoming in the middle of a hipster bar no less, and darted off the the loo where I spent a few more restorative minutes than absolutely necessary reading the graffiti. And having a tactical vom.

Still, once home and past my second t.v. we did have sex four times in ten hours. So it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, right? Right?

ObLitChat: he is reading John Macnab by John Buchan and Montaillou, village occitan; I am reading The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas Kuhn.

It's been pointed out I never actually said how it ended with the Boy. For those of you who read the second book - apart from my agent, editor, N and F that makes what? About six of you? - you know it finished with me staying with him after I left the biz, even though he was cheating and lying about it. There were various reasons I chose that situation. Not all of them I wrote about, because some were too meta, but the list goes a little like:

• He was a good person once, and might be again
  
• I fear being with me made him less good
  
• I am afraid to tell anyone I am Belle
  
• Who'd love (arguably) the world's most famous whore, anyway?
  

These were things - save the Belle part - discussed with my cousin J when I went to stay with him (after the first book came out; a period approximately covering the second book). I hinted around the Belle stuff with J but he wasn't interested in the gory details. I admired that. J had been an addict and a dealer and managed to leave it all behind, and as far as he was concerned we are family and nothing in my past will ever change that. Or to use his own words, 'you know I got your back'. This puts him in a very small minority of my acquaintance: A1, A2, A4, N, and F are the others. That's tight group and I'm happy to keep it so.

Anyway, I told J about the Boy cheating. J also met the Boy. J's advice boiled down thus: I've been that man, addicted to cheating. Addicted to approval. It's not a good place to be, there's a lot wrong in his head for him to do this. When you wake up, and you will, you'll wonder why you were ever with him.

One day I woke up. That was the day I found pictures of him having sex with one of his workmates. On MY phone.

To my great shame this was ages after J's advice. I rang the Boy (he was working away at the time and we saw each other only on weekends). I told him I found the photos. For once, he didn't deny the truth.

I have written about the breakup in the upcoming fiction book. However, I didn't write how it actually happened. Instead I wrote about a time he accidentally dialled my number whilst snogging another woman in his car, which should have been one of the times I walked away but wasn't. The real situation, the humiliation of how and when the penny finally dropped was too much for me to write about several months ago. If I could rewrite the book today, I would tell how it really happened. As that is not possible I am telling it here.

So, this is something I kept from you. Even an anonymous blogger doesn't reveal all. Partly because it seemed so amazingly unlikely, so.... for lack of a better word, cinematic, the reality of our relationship being over took some time to settle in. Partly because it doesn't fit with my accepted persona: most people think I'm nails. I'm not. I am, as N has often pointed out, a stayer and not a goer. I stayed far beyond when anyone else would have walked, and I even felt bad for going.

We were together for years, and I miss him. No - I miss what he was. He changed when his job changed, became harder, shallower, more defined by what he was rather than who he was, more concerned with appearances rather than reality. I miss the man I fell in love with. It has been ages since that man existed, however, and being single has been a process of accepting that man is not going to come bounding up to my door one morning, wearing the sloppy red fleece I always teased him about, clutching a cheap bunch of flowers and laughing with happiness when our eyes meet. I waited such a long time to see him again, changed so much about myself and my life in the hope he might reappear. It simply was torture in the end to be with someone who physically resembled the man I loved but fundamentally wasn't him (sorry, but I hated the ending of the last Doctor Who series, could not have accepted a fake Doctor at Bad Wolf Bay).

There is a saying that all past is fiction, and because that man doesn't exist, I am free if I so choose to weave him into my writing, bring him back to life, make him my own again. But it's only words on a page, innit?

Things ringing the bell on the Cute-o-Meter:

• Toothbrush (I hesitate to abbreviate this to TB, for obvious reasons) brings his own protein shakes when spending the night. Anerable!
  
• The Cat is very clingy these days. This translates as far more daily fluff removal, but also far less feeling underappreciated at home. I knew cutting his food to half rations would do the trick. Possibly related: fewer spider sightings.
  
• Recently discovered recordings of A2's 1980s appearance on Blockbusters, complete with NHS specs and flawless mastery of the Gold Run. So. Fucking. Cute.
  
• The Boy has been pestering me of late to say when he and his current masturbatory aid girl finish in six months' time, he wants to get back with me. Not cute as such, more like sad and pathetic, but awww, look at the little baby cry. Awww.
  
• Norman Mailer. Okay, also not cute. But re-reading (and v much enjoying) The Naked and the Dead.
  
• I haz a gardener! A good job really as what I don't know about gardening would fill a library dedicated solely to the subject of, um, gardens. He is sweet, smiley, and just the wrong side of married. Not that I would, of course. Not these days. Fun to have a practice flirt though.
  
• Go say hello to the Orbyn - she of the Christmas truffles and an upcoming dedication in my next book no less. Welcome back!
  

'Are you on the pill?'

'I am. Pregnancy at this point would be an unqualified disaster.'

'Okay.' (pause) 'Are you sleeping with anyone else?'

'Sometimes.' What to say if he presses for details? Claiming it's none of his business, even if it legitimately is none of his business, comes across as so agressive. On the other hand telling him about anyone else smacks of TMI. If he wasn't going to ask, I wasn't going to tell. 'Always protected of course. Why do you ask?'

'What? I'm not getting emotional or anything.'

'Okay.' Who said you were? Not me. 'Well, I have no interest in putting anyone at risk, least of all myself.'

'Right.' His face in silhouette is so clean, like a marble statue. Unblemished. It's hard to believe sometimes we're the same age.

'How about you - are you on the pill?' Am pointedly not going to ask if he's sleeping with anyone else. I know he has; it doesn't matter.

'Ha ha. Maybe I should be. You had two very good answers, though.'

'Lucky for you I'm a practical girl. You might make a habit of asking women these questions earlier in future.'

I turned to face upwards. In the dim light, the toile de jouy lightshade, the two of us on damp sheets, the silence. Struggling to think of words both true and kind, or not untrue and not unkind. I looked over again and he was watching me, smiling. 'What?'

'Just trying to see if I could make you look at me.'

'Well done. A great talent that. Did it take years of practice?'

'No, it's something you either have or you don't.'

'Like the Force.'

'Like the Force.'

'Still, even with all the inborn ability in the world, a few years' training on the moons of Alderaan probably wouldn't hurt.' Cringe. Alderaan has no moons, idiot. Double cringe - I can't believe I just said/thought that.

'Yeah.'

For those who haven't joined my book club, it might look like I haven't been reading anything of note lately - I know, I know, I need to update the sidebar. Here's a sampling of books that have crossed my path lately, just for a taster: