Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  It should also be possible to hide your money in one of the cups, in case you have an outcall. (Those slutty-looking half-bras that daringly expose the nipples are only good for incalls.)

  Time to rinse off my cellular renewing pack and pick out an appropriate bra for Ted. And find the Ziploc bag where I stashed all those G-strings and thongs.

  FRIDAY. 3/17/00

  Saint Patrick’s Day has paralyzed the city. Tomorrow, everyone (including me) will forget the entire affair but today, for a window of about eight hours, it’s sheer madness. The streets, the trains, even the foot traffic. You have to plan your day very carefully. I thank my lucky stars I don’t have to brave real traffic or commuter trains to go to a straight job every day.

  Milton just called from JFK, to make an appointment for Monday. “You’re my first local call,” he said. “Have you been misbehaving in my absence?”

  I giggled, ignored the query, and asked, “How was Japan?”

  “Japan, Malaysia, Hong Kong…exhausting! I’d love to see you today,” he growled. “But that parade screws everything up. The Irish are conspiring against the sex life of the Jews. I hope I can survive until Monday. How’s eleven A.M.?”

  “Noon,” I countered, remembering my shrink appointment. I’ve switched to the early morning because, well, I miss out on the best part of the business day when I use the afternoon for therapy. Or so I thought—until Milton requested the morning slot. Best-laid plans!

  SATURDAY. 3/18/00

  Yesterday Etienne showed up ten minutes early, looking awfully sportif in leather boots and an interesting green neckerchief.

  “What’s all this?” I asked. “No work today? Are the auction houses closed for Saint Patrick’s Day?”

  “My brother-in-law has decided we should observe casual Fridays. So I set an example for the entire group,” he said with a shrug. “As for this wearing of green, it is an honest coincidence, I assure you.”

  Etienne and his half-Brit, half-French brother-in-law run the_____ department at_____, which is handy. Etienne walks around the corner to my apartment in the middle of his workday, and he’s back at his desk before anyone knows he’s gone. I sometimes think our long business relationship owes more to geography than he’ll ever admit. Etienne’s vanity (as an accomplished flirt) requires that he respect my vanity. So he insists that what really brings us together every week or so is my seductive laugh, or my unique skin texture, or the way I look in a simple white G-string. Still, I’ve grown attached to his visits. And his flattery.

  Etienne was sipping on a Pellegrino, updating me on his outfit: “These jodhpurs I obtained at a riding shop downtown, though of course I do not ride. They are the best I’ve ever owned. Simple, well-made…excellent leather…”

  I admired his shopper’s acumen and shifted slightly on the couch. Provoked by my saucy smile, he began to approach my face. His intent was clear. When I pulled away, his kiss landed on my neck.

  “That really is not friendly,” Etienne said crossly, but I slid away, pretending not to hear his dissatisfaction.

  “It’s what keeps you coming back,” I giggled. I was heading toward the bedroom, conscious of my back view. In high-heeled mules, a long transparent blouse, and little else, I felt confident that he would get over this kissing thing—for at least five minutes.

  “Not really,” he said. “It most definitely is not your most appealing aspect.” Then he wandered off to the bathroom to freshen up.

  “Aha!” he announced, a few minutes later. I was kneeling on my bed, in a revealing bra and some tiny panties, examining myself in the mirror. “That’s a lovely circumstance to be in.” The nonsensical bedroom chatter continued, as he caressed my bare neck.

  I had not done very much (yet) to provoke his hard-on, but he was semierect—which, for a man over sixty, is not a given. Sometimes it takes Etienne a long time to get hard.

  “I suppose I have some appealing aspects?” I asked.

  “I suppose,” he chided me. “But I’m not sure they make up for the disagreeable ones.”

  I positioned myself horizontally across his long limbs. On my hands and knees, I coquettishly straightened my back, so that my body formed a bridge across his pelvic region. He was content to lie on his back gazing at me, while I pretended that my torso, thighs, and arms had accidentally arranged themselves into this submissive pose.

  “You have to examine Claudia’s handiwork,” I said, giving him a soft nudge with my right knee.

  He made room for me to lie down. “Ah, the infamous Claudia,” he said, pulling my panties aside. He stroked the soft hairs lying against my pubic mound. Two weeks ago, all my hair was removed, and now there’s a short silky growth. “This is more graceful,” he said. “More graceful than nature’s alternative. You must thank Claudia personally for me.”

  I giggled agreeably.

  Noticing that his fingers were traveling closer in, I twisted my pussy away gently, replacing his hand with my own. “Would you like to watch me?” I murmured.

  He purred his assent as I finessed my rejection of his fingers. Now I was pretending to manipulate my clitoris. My finger was rubbing the spot where my outer lips begin to open, causing a more manageable sensation to travel through my smaller lips. With the workday just beginning, I didn’t want to overstimulate my nerve endings.

  “I’ve heard that some people prefer the natural look,” I mused.

  “Bien sûr. But I do not care for an impenetrable forest. I like to rest my eyes on what I will be getting.”

  During my teens, I cherished my pubic hair because it made me feel so womanly. Now I’m more invested in feeling girlish, and I don’t like to see a single hair left standing when I go for my bikini waxing. Also I secretly enjoy the attention lavished on my pussy by the meticulous Claudia (who likes to remind me that she was doing this sort of thing “long before all the hype about those J. Sisters”).

  “Why do some gentlemen prefer an untrimmed bush?” I asked Etienne.

  He looked thoughtful.

  “Some prefer Nature’s bounty, others appreciate your tasteful—and tasty—topiary. That’s what makes a market,” he replied.

  I laughed, slipped out of my panties, and knelt beside his face.

  “You and your market theories.”

  “It would be boring if all participants had exactly the same parameters,” he said, as I parted my lower lips. “You scoff at my comments because women do not really favor free markets.” He gave my pussy a fond kiss. “The female is a natural monopolist,” he continued. “Nine women out of ten do not even object to Bill Gates. The moral argument against monopoly means nothing to a woman.”

  I felt the tip of his tongue near my clitoris. “Nor to this little lady down here—she is happiest when she has her monopoly.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  Later, while Etienne was primping in the bathroom, I put in a quick call to Allison.

  “Are we still on for three-thirty? The parade’s today,” I reminded her. “People can’t get around. He could cancel.”

  “He just called—we’re on,” she assured me. “And I owe you a date. You have to come!”

  When I got to Allison’s apartment, the session was already in progress. A large flowery sheet was draped over the couch, and her client was half-reclining, half-sitting. Naked, except for his glasses and toupee, he was smoking a joint and watching a porn movie. The sound was turned down, but not off, so the grunts and sighs of the actors were creating a small distraction. A little background sex.

  “Meet Stan,” Allie said cheerfully.

  “Make yourself comfortable!” he chimed in.

  I was wearing a sleek black pantsuit and pumps with very high heels. But Allie, in high black boots that reached her thighs, looked about a foot taller than usual. She was wearing masses of lipstick, a red lace teddy, and big teased hair. She giggled professionally.

  “Isn’t this fun?” she said. “I feel like one of those girls on the Howard Stern show!
And Stan brought us some poppers!”

  “Terrific!” I said gaily. “I’ll be right back!”

  I disappeared into the bedroom. Poppers give me a headache! But you have to make a guy like Stan feel that his drugs are as welcome as his wallet. The polite fiction is that the drugs are there for all of us to enjoy. I’ve known call girls who like to smoke pot, and quite a few with a weakness for coke. But I’ve yet to meet the working girl who can abide the smell of poppers.

  I changed into my “party outfit,” a bustier with matching garters and lace stockings. As I emerged from the bedroom, I wondered if my feminine pumps were vampish enough. Confronted by Allison’s towering boots, I felt like an erotic midget. But Stan was quite taken with me. He patted a spot on the couch and offered me a hit of his joint. I held the joint to my lips, looked off to the side, and blew out, anxious to keep my brain unfogged. Allison was prancing around the living room, saying things like: “Isn’t Suzy gorgeous? She just loves to watch me giving head. And she has such a delicious pussy!” Stan was nodding amiably. He handed me a bottle of hand lotion and closed his eyes as I began to massage his cock with lubricated fingertips. My hands slid down to caress his balls, and a small pool of hand cream collected on the sheet. Uh-oh—Allison’s couch! I scooped up the cream as best I could and rubbed it into his thigh. I heard a cracking sound and averted my nose from the popper aroma that was now filling the room.

  And so it went for the next three hours, with Allie and myself taking turns, getting our pussies licked for what seemed an eternity while we dodged the unsavory vapors. The living room now smelled like old gym socks. At one point, to get free from the fetid smog, Allison draped herself over an armchair so that all Stan could see from the couch was her smooth round ass perched above her thigh-high boots.

  I knelt behind her and pretended to lick her. After a few minutes, Stan came over and knelt beside me. He was trying to figure out whether this oral display was for real, but he was too tactful to say that. Instead, he presented himself as a member of the orgy, a voyeur without an agenda. Neither of us girls wanted him nosing around, but Allie had prepared for this contingency. On a small rosewood table behind the armchair, a bulbous dildo was standing on its base—dressed for action in a lubricated condom. Allison squirted some extra lube onto the head.

  “I want you to watch while Suzy fucks me,” she moaned loudly. “It’s Suzy’s turn to fuck me!”

  Stan returned to the couch and slowly began to massage his cock while I made a big point of manipulating the larger-than-life plaything—eyeing it lasciviously, inserting it between Allison’s thighs. Allie was making so much noise that I wondered if I had accidentally shoved it inside of her. (We have a standing agreement: just the tip, and only when absolutely necessary.) She used her hand to guide the oversized dildo to a safe harbor between her folds.

  This was hot enough for Stan, and it provoked his competitive spirit. We somehow managed to get ourselves into a daisy chain of activity that would have impressed Busby Berkeley. (But I felt more like one of the upside-down creatures in a Hieronymus Bosch triptych than a 1930s showgirl.)

  Stan was pumping me from behind while I played the assertive role with Allie. But soon it was obvious to all concerned that Stan wasn’t going to come this way. Actually, it became obvious to me first, then to Stan. Allie, who couldn’t see what was happening behind her, figured it out through a combination of past experience and deduction.

  We all agreed that Stan should roll another joint—which he did, while we took turns wrapping hot damp washcloths around his relevant body parts. Then, after loading a new porn video, Allie disappeared, to rinse off and apply fresh K-Y. I followed suit, hoping that Stan would be ready—finally—to come.

  There’s a point where the client begins to sense that his orgasm is becoming an issue. Stan was getting there. And his impending orgasm was causing intergirl tension. Allie sensed that I might be getting pissed off with her client and, by extension, with her. Which made me sort of paranoid about her mood. So I did my best to reassure her, and knelt between his legs on the couch, teasing him with my hands and my tongue.

  Was he ever going to ejaculate?

  When he finally came (thanks to Allie’s handiwork) I was astonished. Despite having declined multiple poppers, I had a major headache just from breathing the fumes. At $400 an hour, I couldn’t complain. I had exceeded my weekly quota—and I wasn’t the one with an entire living room to defume.

  As soon as he was gone, Allie rushed around, naked except for her thigh-high boots, opening windows and turning on all the air conditioners. The draft was so intense that our nipples stood up.

  “Where did you get those boots?” I said. “They must be about six inches high.”

  “Oh,” she squeaked. “They’re not as uncomfortable as they look. And they’re great for work. Listen, um…I hate to throw you out of here but I—I’ve got to change real fast and…” She looked flustered. “I have to be downtown in half an hour and I’m running late! I don’t want to keep Roxana waiting.”

  As I walked out of Allison’s lobby, I couldn’t wait to get into the fresh air. On the sidewalk, I heard a familiar voice and turned. In the early-evening darkness, I could see a short man in a winter coat; the back of his head was slightly hidden by his plaid scarf and he was talking on his cell phone.

  Jack! Had he spotted me? As he entered Allie’s building, I hurried to the other side of the street. I reached for my phone and punched in Allie’s number, but her voice mail picked up. “Hey, it’s me,” I said, after the beep. “You might have to delay your exit. Jack’s bothering your doorman again!” The last thing she’d want is another embarrassing scene in front of the building staff.

  I moved behind a parked SUV, where I wouldn’t be seen but could still view the lobby. The doorman picked up the intercom phone. Jack’s hands were jammed into his coat pockets, and he looked nervous. But Jack didn’t leave the building. Instead, he walked right past the doorman to the elevator. I slowly realized that—whatever I might prefer to imagine—Allie was definitely expecting him.

  No wonder she was so anxious to air out her apartment! And change out of those slutty boots! Jack, as I recall, prefers Allie in sweet pink teddies and white lace. How could I have believed her ridiculous explanations?

  7 Johns and Lovers

  SUNDAY EVENING. 3/19/00

  Allie has been avoiding me, and it’s just as well. She has to know, if she got my voice mail, that I saw what was going on Friday night. Her flimsy falsehood—“I hate to throw you out of here but…”—had the briefest shelf life.

  This morning, while Matt was in the shower, I checked voice mail on my personal and business landlines. Then my cell phone. For one rueful nostalgic moment, I recalled a time when life was harder yet simpler. When I was a new girl—a young overworked call girl—with zero boyfriends, one phone, and one simple goal: I had to build my book. I mean, how the hell did I end up with three voice-mail boxes, anyway? Most girls do fine with just two. Once you’ve got a nice apartment, some decent clients, and enough time for a personal life, things get horribly complicated. To further confuse things, most of the girls have access to my business line only. But Allison has all my numbers. And, despite my irritation, I’ve been hoping for a message from her.

  There was a message from Liane (in business voice mail), followed by a call from Milton. A confirmation from my shrink on the personal phone—but still no voice mail from Allison. My fingers were itching to call Jasmine and Eileen. It’s reached the point where Allison’s “business decisions” have become everyone’s business. The other girls have a right, perhaps a need, to know about Allison’s betrayal. But Matt’s presence—he could have emerged from the shower at any moment—stopped me in middial. As did the nagging realization that I’ve been covering for her. Would the other girls see me as part of the solution or part of the problem? I’m not sure I really want to find out. Allie has entangled me in some airtight knot of evasions that I cannot afford to unt
ie. Did she do it on purpose? Could she? I prefer to think it was entirely accidental.

  Later, at Demarchelier, Matt picked up on my anxious mood. We were waiting for omelettes, and the sound of my brooding silence was driving us both nuts. “Something’s bothering you,” he said, in a romantic, masculine take-no-prisoners tone. “What’s wrong?”

  I never mention Allison to Matt anymore. That’s been my policy ever since she went off the rails last year. I don’t even want him thinking about her, because he might put two and two together—which would be a disaster. But I couldn’t help responding to his concern. Some part of me was reassured—and turned on—by the effort my boyfriend was making. I felt interesting, attractive and lucky; mine is a guy who listens. I should, of course, be careful when he starts listening too closely, but if you keep your entire life a secret, what do you talk to your boyfriend about at brunch?

  “Well,” I said, frowning a bit, “it’s about Allison. I’m sort of worried about her.” I chewed my lip to buy some time. While contemplating which version of the truth to tell Matt, I was already feeling much closer to him. What girl is not flattered when her guy jumps through an emotional hoop to reach her, to know more about her feelings? Even if she is also hiding something?

  Matt was temporarily distracted by the arrival of our food. He popped a french fry into his mouth, then refocused, a tender look of concern in his eyes. Did I really want my fiance to comfort me? Or do I just like to see him making the effort?