“When I play with myself, honey, it isn’t always about a vibrator. Sometimes it’s me running a filthy little reel in my head of what men think when they take a chance on me.”

After more than a week back from holiday and finally seeing some of my clients again, I sigh at the reality of this business. I’ve lost count of how many times the same man has tried to book me on the same day, only for me not to be able to make it. Those who do get through… more on that later.

Like this: three in the afternoon, calendar dead quiet, not a single booking in sight. I’m primed, waiting for someone who just happens to have an hour to kill between real-life appointments. Maybe a meeting got cancelled, maybe they’ve wrapped early, and they think, why not? A quick bit of entertainment, and since I’m nearby, why not give me a try? And it always seems to happen after I’ve already spent hours at home, showered, dressed, ready, hoping to catch someone horngry, me included. But nothing. Just junk-mail notifications. And as the hours drag, the craving shifts. So I kick my heels, get rid of my lingerie, put on something casual and step out of my flat.

Horngry first, then hangry.

And of course that’s when it happens, ding ding ding. Messages I actually want to see, from clients I like, the ones I’d happily open the door for. All arriving just as I’m swallowing a garlicky lunch.

I think: maybe I can rush back, make it work. But I can already picture it, me fresh from a 2-minute shower, stockings mismatched because the pair they insisted I wear is hiding somewhere I can’t find. Condoms, lube, towels tossed onto the bed like an afterthought. The setup is there, but I am not at my best, rushed, half ready, not the version I want them to remember.

That’s timing. Cravings don’t plan themselves. They don’t politely slot next Thursday at 7.30. They flare up and want to eat now. I know this feeling because I’ve lived it in other ways. I’ve been horngry first, restless, ready to pounce on whoever shows. But when nothing comes, the craving shifts. Suddenly I’m stomping out of my apartment, no longer picky, not caring if it’s a proper meal or the nearest junk food joint. By then I’m hangry, shoving money at the first counter I see just to get fed.

That’s why I tell them: book me early, pay the deposit, secure the slot. Almost everyone I managed to see in the last week had done just that, booked me days ahead, locked me in, and got the best of me: rested, styled, polished. The proper meal.

Those who left it late still got fed, but it was slap-dash, messy, unplanned, like biting into an overstuffed sandwich from a hole in the wall, juices dripping down your hand. I did manage to see one of them, but I still wonder what sort of impression I left for him.

I understand why men book last minute too, their schedules are tight, and when a window cracks open, they think of me. And I’ll always appreciate that. The only real problem is timing, nothing else.

That’s the tug of war in me. Sometimes you want the dinner you mapped out. Sometimes you want drive-thru right now. Hunger and horniness colliding – HORNRY. And when I’m home with no booking on the calendar, I’m hoping the same thing: to catch someone horngry enough to want to eat me now.

So when I play with myself, it’s not only my body I’m stroking. It’s the thought, how timing changes everything. One side whispers: be the lady, the booking, the plan. The other blurts: fuck waiting, I want to eat now.

I push the empty plate away, chew a mint that doesn’t stand a chance, and step out into the street with garlic still warm in my mouth.

The phone keeps buzzing in my bag. Too late, too late to catch me at my best.

Or maybe, I’ll just rush back, let him eat me, garlic and all.