Diary of a Call Girl

Behind the looming spires and academic gowns of Oxford’s facade, who’da thunk the sex industry was rampant? And I mean rampant. I am here under the great alias Iona Pussy to tell The Tab exclusively about my work in phone sex whilst also studying for my degree.  

Artist’s impression of Iona Pussy

Any conversation about sex in Oxford will no doubt descend into banterous tales of the Under 21s Rugby boys after Park End on Wednesday night wanking off the statues outside the Ashmolean and screwing anything with a pulse.

Or maybe the secret sluttiness of the lacrosse team, or that TILF from Wadham (tutor i’d like…). But no one ever considers professional sexual services, and I’m sure most of my mates would be pretty shocked to learn that I spoke to men on the phone, pretending to be a Swedish housewife or a naughty schoolgirl, helping them get their rocks off.

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But it is possibly one of the most brilliant jobs you could ever do; musing over Plato by day and morphing into kinky Policewoman by night, like a sexy superman. I will admit that the transition is not always that easy though: I’ll quite often find myself getting a bit academic on the phone, “Oh big boy, your erotic phallus…*cough*, sorry – I mean slide that huge cock….” Embarrassing with all the clients bar one, who actually likes me to be his shy-but-secretly-into-anal librarian. He definitely doesn’t mind my Oxfordisms; I could probably get him going by reading him one of my collections.

Unfortunately, if you’ve ever seen Anne Hathaway in ‘Valentine’s Day’ as the moonlighting call girl, it’s not a career path for the faint-hearted, and you will be called to put on some dodgy accents and subscribe to some less-than-reputable fetishes.

Apparently whilst she was researching for her role in the film she came across a man who could only cum “whilst being yelled at by a woman all in leather, with him on his hands and knees wearing a trench-coat, pushing a hard boiled egg across the floor.” But in my opinion that’s a perk of the job: the crazier the fetish the more interesting the sesh. Who knew some men were obsessed with shoving vegetables into, erm, organic places?

And besides, if an unhappy middle-aged divorcee wants me to meow like a cat and make copious ‘pussy’ puns then I am more than willing to do so for £20/ten minutes. Beats working at McDonalds.