Agent Orange.

AGENT ORANGE

“The art of life is to show your hand. There is no diplomacy like candor. You may lose by it now and then, but it will be a loss well gained if you do. Nothing is so boring as having to keep up a deception.” - Anonymous

Where do I start with this guy? I wouldn't normally say anything at all, and leave the delusional with the comfort of their, well, delusions, but he left me some real shitty feedback.

I will admit the first part wasn't his fault, apart from living in the sticks. That was his fault.

So I get to Finsbury Park Tube station, the machine will only give out tickets to Peterborough because this is Finsbury Park and no-one cares. I should have cancelled at that point and gone home, but no. I wait in the queue for the ticket office for twenty minutes while the guy there lets two customers fill in a form so he can take a break. Get to Baker Street and there is no tube for 45 minutes. I walk to Marylebone wondering why I ever bothered returning from the States and meet the only guy in the UK still working for a living - who puts me on the right train.

I get there, he isn't here to meet me and I have to ask around for the pub. That's where it should have turned into a nice evening with an entertaining transport story to break the ice.

Well, apart from the fact he had a Panama hat and a grey and white stripy blazer and looked like he thought he was in a Graham Greene novel, he seemed OK. Cleaning his teeth might have been a nice touch, before we met, but he must have been too busy choosing hats. He starts wanting to kiss me in the pub.

"Oh well" I think, "it's not like I ever have to show up here again."

He'd told me before I set off that he wanted an evening of dining and conversation, perhaps ten minutes fun and frolicks at the end of it, so I had given him something of a discount on his three hours. He sounded like a bit of a character, might be a cool evening. I've had plenty of those, with Unlikelier looking guys than this.

But now he is moaning about me being late and what are we going to do for time and I can stay over, at his place all night, if I like.

Kindly meant, that offer, I thought. Maybe. But I don't sleep well elsewhere. I decline. I can tell he isn't offering any extra. I said I would be going home later, as arranged. I'd get a cab if I had to, out of my money seeing as it was me who'd been late, but I was going home.

He carries on about that all night. This is some dude used to getting his way. Expecting his way. He wants his way and I, as a young woman, am supposed to let him have it. Except I'm not that young or that stupid.

He thinks I'm half his age. I'm not.

We got to the restaurant, which was a Chinese. Now you can always tell a classy Chinese as it will not have Sweet and Sour anything on the menu as that's something they invented for foreigners. This had Sweet and Sour everything, and his food turned up with a stupid sculpture of a seahorse or something, and my supposedly vegetable food was dripping with pork fat. It was vile.

Now enough minor things had gone wrong that I was beginning to go off this evening entirely. Had to keep my spirits up for the customer though. He might have been a nice guy underneath. Just a question of finding that level in him.

I'm sure every escort knows the feeling. You are with a naff boorish sort (I mean the dude even told me I was learning the "wrong sort of poker" because I'm learning Texas Hold 'Em and not Five Card Stud), the evening is getting incrementally worse with every passing second, you are trying to find any tiny thing in your companion to like, and being as polite as you can because you don't want to hurt anyone's feelings.

Then he asks for a doggie bag.

'Cos, you know, being a tightwad is such an attractive trait.

In the word's of Julia Roberts "I'm a sure thing", almost, being paid and whatever - but that never stops a guy trying to impress his escort, and I have never, in my life, been on a first date, paid or unpaid, where my companion has asked for a doggie bag. Besides which he hasn't got a dog. He has a canary.

I can see the waitress, glancing at me. I wasn't sure if it was pity or amusement but I catch her eye and she looks away, embarrassed. I try not to laugh.

She's working in a restaurant, probably a family business, "minimum wage" is but a dream to her because that legislation doesn't cover family businesses (you thought slavery was abolished? Think again) and I'd have spent the evening back there pot washing for free in a heartbeat, if I could. But I can't. I have a job to do.

This evening is getting worse, I can feel it. I don't know how much worse it is going to get precisely, but, unless he breaks the rules, at the end of it I have to leave him smiling with no clue about my real feelings. It's called 'customer service'. Most of the time I have a genuine affection for my clients. This time I faked it.

We go back to his place. It is a pub, and this is where it gets interesting, this is where I can actually do something for him.

Years ago I once walked into a failing nightclub. It was about to go out of business. I demanded a job - on no wages unless I could turn it around and I turned it into a thriving enterprise inside six weeks. I fixed everything that was wrong with it. Never done that before or since, but I did it and I did it very well.

My customer was tasked with something similar, for breweries. He turned around failing pubs. And this was his first failure at that. For once in his life he couldn't get the customers through the door.

"Oh look!" he says, hopefully, on viewing his security cameras from the flat behind the pub "a customer!"

The barmaid is sat there snogging a guy.

Well, I'm thinking, they are certainly pulling out all the stops..

"Oh no" he says, disappointed, "it's just her boyfriend."

He goes and tells her she can have the evening off. After that he takes me into the place.

From the outside is is an old, old building painted white. The sort that should have had a thatched roof, and it has big thick walls. A charming looking traditional country pub. Then I get inside it.

It's ORANGE.

Man it was so orange.

You can't get any oranger than this place.

There's a big floor to ceiling fireplace that should have had a roaring fire and inglenook seating, but there's a pool table where a stage should be for events, the carpet from hell (and 1973), the wooden bar is orange and from floor to ceiling it's all fucking orange walls.

"Dude.."

"Yeah?"

"It's orange".

"So?"

"Well that's why you aren't getting any customers".

Two years he'd been there, pumped a lot of his own money into the place to turn it around, he said, failed and was now leaving in three weeks, and I'd have sorted that place out with a new carpet, a coat of paint and a relaunch. Maybe get a music license too.

He looked at me like the thought had never occurred to him. He wanted to know what was wrong with orange, but I was only booked for three hours.

It seared itself into my brain. Oh the humanity! The orange!! EEUURRGGHHH.

You can't do that to people.

You can just about do it in a city bar, with subdued light and that stripy wood they use these days - somewhere uberdesigned and cool. Bits of orange here or there. But not in a country pub. Not with three foot thick walls.

The next day I saw my gentleman friend, Rodger. I'd dreamed about the place all night. I've heard of people having a phobia about the colour red, but not of orange. I'd acquired a real aversion to it now though. I told him about it all and hid my head in my hands.

He was amused, and a bit concerned. I went on at some length.

"It's really bothering you this, isn't it?"

"It was orange man! Orange. It was orange, the bar was orange and the carpet was from hell. It was such a lovely place and it was fucking orange. How could he not notice the place was orange???"

Every time I closed my eyes I saw that carpet and all that orange.

"Never mind" says Rodger, quite amused, "Perhaps in time the memory will fade. To a sort of burnt umber."

I do love Rodger.

So anyway we retired to the flat behind the pub and I had a drink. I needed it.

This three hours of chatting and having a relaxing evening with ten minutes fun and frolicks then turned into a whine-fest when he noticed I wasn't wearing stockings, which he noticed straight away as he jumped on me pretty quick. Still begging and pleading with me to stay the night.

Then he wants to do me up the ass as well.

Oh god. Is there no end to this man's talents???

I assured him, yet again, that I would be outta there after his three hours were up and I was. Paid 70 quid in cab fare to do it and it was a bargain.

You do meet them from time to time. The hopeless cases. Still, he enjoyed himself, that was the main thing. It is my job to never ever ever let a poor sod like this know what he is. I have to make him think he is a constant delight, Love's Young Dream. Most of my gentlemen friends pay for my time and companionship, a few of them pay to have their delusions shored up.

As he hadn't actually been dangerous I left him nice feedback too. Called him a "Character".

Rodger correctly assessed that situation as well. "I read the last feedback" he wrote "and assumed "a real character" was code for "a real tosser". "

Yup. Got it in one Rodger.

Mr Orange's field report about me said..

"[Icicle] exceeded my expectations (based on no experience) in the most unexpected ways. She was (in no particular order) considerate; charming; both thoughtful and giggly at the same time; friendly; passionate (both physically and verbally); intelligent; empathetic; knowlegeable; discreet; and totally, totally, charming - such that I am under her spell.
From the first meeting, via the dinner, to the lounge and the bedroom, this was pretty much better than any real girlfriend experience I have ever had.
I didn't want her to leave and she left me with the impression that she didn't want to go. What more can you ask for?"

"..Lastly, if you are open-minded and receptive, you may learn a lot from this wonderful woman. I certainly did, and I consider myself pretty knowledgeable and erudite."

OK dude, learn this. No sane person ever describes themselves as "knowledgeable and erudite". And "7 out of 10" for venue. I ask you. It was a friggin' outcall, dumbass.

But he was obviously lovestruck so I had no idea how to break it to him that I never wanted to see hide nor hair of him again. But I didn't want to hurt his feelings, and he hadn't actually broken any rules - although he then started phoning and texting at all hours.

He had a sixth sense for when I was with someone. Not a client has gone by from that day to this who wasn't interrupted by one of his phonecalls. Many a cam session punctuated by bleeping texts. Plainly he has boundary issues along with all his other woes.

I tried to put him off, and there is no way I was making that trip again without slashing my wrists, so I reluctantly agreed to an appointment at my place yesterday.

To quote Julia Roberts again - big mistake. Huge.

Yet I can't see how I could have done anything else without destroying his illusion of a perfect evening. He had paid for the memory of a perfect evening, which he now had, and I couldn't very well destroy it without a damn good reason.

He wanted to meet for lunch first so I thought I'd show him what decent food was like and choose a local pub. One with a charming, architecturally appropriate interior and nice dinners. Thought he might learn something.

He whined about the time. Wanted to meet me at noon, that is - the crack of dawn - in case they'd quit cooking by two. Like a pub in Crouch End could possibly stay in business if they quit cooking at any time of day. This being Restaurant Central. After a few days complaining he finally looked the place up online and thought it didn't sound half bad.

Nice of him.

So we get there and he is trying to touch my face and I'm pointing out a little discretion might be appropriate. He whines I'm not wearing a skirt.

I never bloody wear a skirt round here. People know me. If I start wearing skirts in public they will assume I'm on the pull. With this dude? Every guy in N8 will assume he's Entitled if they think I'd desperate enough to date this dude..

But what's discretion to him? I'm the one facing the consequences of his indiscretion. He is a Consequence Free Zone. It'll all be alright. Oh yes.

I want to eat just chips and dip. I like the chips and dip here, but no. That's not good enough. I have to have proper food because I'm just a little girl who doesn't know her own mind so he gets me some flan thing that has wheat in it. As well as the chips.

I make an attempt at the stuff on the flan but I accidentally eat a bit of pastry and next thing you know I'm lying on the bench feeling very hot and very ill. I'm breathing fast and sweating. My stomach hurts.

I can see him looking at me out of the corner of my eye. Yes you motherfucker. I'm ill. I'll be over it in an hour but you can entertain yourself with some guilt while I yet again recover from the consequences of my own politeness.

"Guess what I'm looking at?" he says, "and they are heaving nicely."

I will swing for this twat, I swear..

He has sent his own food back of course. The poor barman looked like someone had kicked his puppy when that happened. This was too friggin' much.

I made my excuses then went to look for him. He was outside smoking a fag. "You aren't planning on giving him a discount, are you?" I ask.

"Gave him a free glass of wine".

"Can you put some arsenic in the next one?"

He laughs "I keep some behind the bar specially!"

Oh good.

So we leave the pub and head to the bank. After I'd discouraged him from linking arms which he thought was "more discreet" than not linking arms, because he is a mad bastard that's why, and he managed to not embarrass me or show me up in any way in the bank - I thought we were making progress. Might work on the dental hygiene next..

We go to get a bottle of whine, sorry, wine (genuine typo) and he wants to walk down the street carrying it in plain view, where I live, off to what is clearly a social occasion with a woman half his age in the middle of the afternoon.

No. You. Fucking. Don't.

I had it off him and wrapped under my coat. It is possible that, by this time, I was getting a tad too sensitive about his behaviour but let's face it - the man is a disaster area. Goes through life oblivious to the consequences of his actions on other people then whines when they point out his error.

I was on alert, but still not alert enough. I am just getting my keys out, at my front door, the neighbours spend a lot of time near the window next to the door and the walls in the hallway are two layers of thin plasterboard. What does this fucker go and do??

Starts talking about how many men I might have had visiting here.

Un fucking believable.

I get him upstairs, he doesn't want to pay the money first, well he wouldn't, would he? He wants an all night shagfest then to pay for just an hour of it.

He massages me and nearly breaks my toes. Twice.

He drools into my ear and slobbers on my hair so much I get a towel and wipe it off, hinting at my displeasure with a meaningful glance. He thinks I am being silly.

Of course he does. 'Cos you know what? Guys come up to him all day long and slobber down his hair. Must do. Why else would he think I'm 'silly'. And he has a point. The slobber will wash off. That fucking Orange is with me for life.

But I am getting close to my chuffing limit. (And you know I'm cross when the Yorkshire comes out). I don't know when my temper is quite going to take over and relieve me of this plonker, but it might be any moment.

The life of a prostitute can be a glamorous whirl of fancy restaurants and engaging intelligent grateful gentlemen. Most of the time it's like a dream and I can't imagine ever wanting it to end, but once in a while you really find out what the Christians mean by the word 'sacrifice'. And you do it, not happily, but willingly. For one of god's own creatures. For a man who has so very little going for him you feel like crying. It is not the most fun part of the job, but it is the part I'm most proud of.

Then came the Final Straw. I'm getting up to look for something, trying to balance on one leg and he pulls me over, and I'm within a whisper of smashing my teeth in on his thick stupid skull. I am sure he would have been very sorry about it though. Afterwards. But tragically unable to afford the ten grands worth of cosmetic dentistry needed to fix his latest screwup. No I'd be the one footing that bill. Muggins here.

Then he met Reality. Icicle style. I expect it was quite a novelty for him.

"What are you doing???"

"What?"

"What the fuck are you doing???

"?"

"I'm sick of this! I can't take any more. It's alright for you isn't it? Worst that's going to happen to you is you get a bit of a sore head. I'm likely to get my teeth smashed in!!!"

He starts to argue, but I've Had It.

"I'm sick of you. Please leave. I'm sick of you! I'm fucking sick of all you fucking white middle-aged men." (Didn't quite mean that one) "When the rest of the planet go on about 'White Men' you are the exact White Man they have in mind!!

"Think you own the fucking place, don't you? I'm your age dude, didn't know that did you? And you think you can fucking well tell me what to do all the fucking time don't you? Nothing's ever right for you is it?? Did it ever occur to you I might know what I'm doing?? Now get the fuck out because I'm fucking sick of the sight of you. I'm sick of being patronised, poked, grabbed and drooled on."

"I wasn't drooling".

"Yes you were. You just drooled all down my fucking hair. My profile says "No grabbing no yanking not biting and no fucking drooling". And then you try to over balance me and I nearly smashed into you thick skull with my teeth. You think I want to spend the fucking afternoon down the Shittington? [local hospital] With my teeth knocked out and your skull split in two? Does that sound like a fun afternoon to you because that's what you just tried to fucking do to me!! Get the fuck out of here. I've had it!

"And you can keep the fucking money!"

He is outraged but starts to apologise. With no real understanding that there had been any problem at all up till now. Because I'm a professional. Too professional.

He starts whining again but I couldn't stand any more. I decide to leave myself. Before I killed the fucker. I get a dress on. A nice flowery one my boyfriend, Harrison, bought me. I pull on a coat, check I have my keys, then head out the door and down the stairs. He is following me but he isn't as fast. Because he's fat, that's why. And as the 'woman of his dreams' is about to disappear round the corner and hide in the pub (with a double vodka the barman gives her for free seeing the look on her face) - one last whinge echoes up the street. It's about my chuffing outfit, of all Goddamned things..

"You're not going to go out in that are you??"