What do you want?

What is your fantasy?

I was never a player for Team Love; you could say that I never quite believed in it. The thing that exhilarated me, was the feel of the chase. The pursuit. The discovery of someone quite unknown. The feeling of strangeness and completely mystery; the safety of hiding behind an identity that was somewhat anonymous. I could be anyone you wanted me to be; I could be your dream come true, or your most frightening nightmare.

Anything you want.

And all you have to do is ask.

If you were to judge a book by its cover, I would say that appearances can be quite deceptive. Walking along the streets, one or two might take a second look at me, but otherwise, I was just another girl. Long charcoal mane, snow white complexion and a slim physic with curves in all the right places.

Harlot. Scarlet. Call Girl. Street Walker. Prostitute. Courtesan. Some might even call me a whore. But personally, I would prefer the term Artist.

To me, sex is an art and every body is a blank canvas; a hidden land which awaits exploration and unearthing. I love the shapes, the smells, the feeling of bare flesh against my own.

But what I love most about what I do is that I can be anyone you want me to be; anyone, but myself.

◊◊◊

“Hello,” I said, as I quickly picked up one of two mobiles I had lying on my side-table.

“Chloe, Kat Rothberg called, she would like to know if you would be available tonight. Say around seven at the usual hotel.”

“Yeap, shouldn’t be a problem,” I replied.

“Good. I will confirm your appointment with her.”

“Thanks.”

◊◊◊

That was what it was like for me and my agent, I guess most would call her my Madame; I didn’t know her real name. The only time we ever really came in contact face-to-face was when I passed her a cut of my salary one a month. It was always on the twenty-fifth at the same dingy restaurant, same time.

I guess it was the same for all the girls, we had become professionals at keeping both our private and work lives separate.