The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl [antikvár]

The first thing you should know is that I'm a whore.I don't mean that in a glib way. I'm not using the word as an analogy for working a desk job or toiling away in new media. Many of my friends will tell you how temping for a year or ending up in sales is equivalent to prostitution. It's not. I know this because I've been a temp and I've fucked for money, and they are in no way similar. Not even the same planet. Different solar systems altogether.The second thing is that I live in London. These two facts may or may not be related. It's not a cheap city. Like almost all of my friends, I moved here after university with the hope of getting a job. If not a well-paying one, at least something interesting, or populated exclusively by handsome, eligible men. But such positions are thin on the ground. Almost everyone is studying to be an accountant now, including my friends A2 and A3, who are respected in their academic circles. Good god - a fate worse than death. Accountancy trumps even academia in the unsexiness stakes.Prostitution is steady work but not demanding. I meet a lot of people. Granted, they're almost all men, most of whom I'll never see again, and I'm required to fuck them regardless of whether they're covered in hairy moles or have a grand total of three teeth or want me to recreate a fantasy involving their sixth-form history teacher. But it's better than watching the clock until the next scheduled tea break in a dismal staff room. So when my friends pull out the tired analogy of corporate employment-as-whoring yet again, I nod knowingly and commiserate with them, and