Second Sex

The diary of a polyglot call-girl, continued

"I encounter a problem with 'Giscard' (for want of a better name). I'd counted six jalapenos in. But when it comes to their removal, I count only five jalapenos out. He asks, why the pained expression, and I explain.

He shrugs and tells me that it is an occupational hazard. "When you do this kind of thing, you know... shit happens, as they say."

I chuckle and then pick up on the occupational bit. I finally pluck up the courage to ask why he is here in Cambridge. Is he an academic? His reply makes my heart sink.

"I am to take up a post as Lecturer in Modern French Literature. My specialisation is the post war feminist perspective."

"Oh my God! But that is one of my courses," I cry. My heart is racing.

"I worked that out just now," he says. "I noticed your essay on De Beauvoir."

"I don't believe it!" I reply. "But that is just too much of, of..."

"Of a coincidence?" He says. "Perhaps not. I was intrigued by your pen name, in the advertisement - Castor."

"Ah, I see."

"I wondered, could it be possible? Could this be a student who is reading de Beauvoir?"

"How embarrassing."

"Not really. When I was at the Sorbonne, I fuck my students all the time."

His sudden candour unsettles me. "I see." I reply hesitantly. "But not... not for money, I guess."

"Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Sometimes for the presents, sometimes for the, how should I say? Wisdom? But anyway none of this matters. I always enjoy it. They always enjoy it."

"I see."

"But the question I like to ask is this: By doing this, what you do, this job, do you then become the woman, as in...?"

"No, no, no." I insist. "This is strictly to pay my way through University. I am not trying to prove or disprove anything in... in de Beauvoir."

"Of course not," he replies. "But maybe you could prove something if you want..." He struggles for a moment, trying to find the words.

"Yes?"

There is a look of relief on his face. "I think I find the sixth jalapeno."

I laugh nervously, then continue, "You were going to say?"

He sits up straight. "I was going to say that, maybe if you write these experiences down, like this blogger they call Belle de Jour... and then you publish these experiences, then you can ask yourself what kind of woman are you becoming?"

But sadly I don't have the opportunity to answer him. Because at this point the doorbell rings. "Oh, fuck!" I cry. "That's my next client."

He looks shocked. "So soon?"

"Yes, it's a busy night... Listen, you've got to, got to go. Like quick. Thing is... you could be seen. You better hide in the communal loo, the one on the landing. I'll, I'll buzz him in... The problem is, otherwise, if he sees you... He might just possibly recognise you."

"Yes? Really?" he says shocked.

"Yes, really, really. It's only bloody well my Director of Studies for French Lit..."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Doctor Bertrand."

"Zut Alors! Bertrand? He is here?"

to be continued...

By guest blogger Campus Courtesan