by Tracy Quan
“Why?” I asked. In a strange way, I could sort of see it—Allison as an interior decorator. But…
“I want to give something back,” she said earnestly. “And this is the right time in my life to do it. I was so inspired by the safe-sex workshop today! And I’m doing outreach tomorrow night with Gretchen on the van—this is what I love to do! If I get an MSW, I can do what I love and make a living at it!”
Before she started hooking, Allie went to Marymount and graduated with a B.A. in art history. Which led to a nice job at a Madison Avenue boutique selling dresses and suits to party girls and bored housewives. She also amassed a collection of great outfits at a nice discount—which, when she entered her new profession, came in handy. There was a logical trajectory: low-pressure private girls’ college, followed by a cushy clothing store job…followed by an even cushier stint as a call girl. But this is where the trajectory sort of wobbles a bit.
How does any of this prepare Allison for life as a social worker? “Doing outreach” on a van in the middle of a dangerous neighborhood? When all the drunks and yahoos, the bridge-and-tunnel drivers, are cruising around the streets of New York! Tenth Avenue is not where Allison should be spending her Saturday nights. But I didn’t want to take Jack’s side. She was visibly upset about the prospect of studying interior decoration.
“Are you sure social work is really right for you? Maybe that van won’t be as fulfilling when it’s a real job. And you do have an art history degree,” I added. “You could use it—”
“That’s what he says!” she objected. “But I didn’t know what else to study when I was eighteen years old! I didn’t like art history. I just didn’t know who I was at that point. I have no interest in decorating rich people’s homes. I want to help the people who don’t have homes. I’ve found something that gives my life meaning, and I want to make a difference. You’d be amazed at the number of women on the street who are homeless and addicted and persecuted—and the risks they take every day just to survive. If I go back to school, I can help those women full-time, and I’ll be taken more seriously.”
“Taken seriously. What do you mean? By who?”
“Everyone. Well, people like Gretchen.”
“You have to get a social work degree so that some sanctimonious ex-streetwalker will take you seriously? What kind of a movement is this? Why do you care what she thinks of you, anyway? She was horrible to you!”
“They have access to jobs and U.N. health funding! You can’t get paid unless you have all the right credentials! Right now, I’m just a volunteer!” Allison explained. “It’s sort of like working for a madam—that’s fine, but then you want to branch out on your own, make something of yourself. You know, I’m going to this conference in Costa Rica and Gretchen’s airfare is being paid for with UNESCO funds out of Venezuela, but I have to pay my own way! The professional activists never have to pay!”
Last time I looked, airfares were ridiculously low. Clearly, it’s the principle of the thing—being wanted, being paid for—not the price of the ticket.
“I can’t just see guys for the rest of my life!” Allison was saying. “Jack said he would get me started on a new career path, he said he would help me realize my dreams, but now he’s—I feel like he wants to destroy them! It’s not fair,” she added. “He says he won’t give me the money we agreed to unless I pick something else.”
“Jack is unstable,” I pointed out. “You can’t allow him to direct the course of your future.” I tried to look as sympathetic as possible, but secretly I was rejoicing. Maybe this signals the end of that arrangement, and we can all get on with our lives.
Jasmine sauntered toward us, looking very focused after her phone call. She sat down with a decisive smile on her face and began attacking the cheese plate. “Hey, remember that dot-com investment banker?” she said. “The guy I met at the benefit? We’re having lunch tomorrow for the first time. Jesus. What do you wear to the Lotos Club? I’ve never been.”
“Something low-key but expensive,” I suggested. “You don’t want to stand out. How old is he?”
“About…forty-eight? Fifty-something?”
“Go conservative, but not matronly.”
“Mmm. Look young enough to feed his ego.” She nibbled a forkful of ripe Brie.
“Right. But not too young. And wear your Bulgari knockoff, the bracelet. This way he’ll know what kind of present to buy you.”
“Maybe I’ll get some real Bulgari earrings to match the knockoff,” Jasmine mused.
I feel quite envious. Of course, I have the freedom to sneak around, but everyone seems to have that freedom. Big deal. Now that I’m engaged to a guy who’s an up-and-coming player, I can’t exactly run around town cultivating Wall Street sugar daddies, enticing men into buying me love trinkets. In fact, the only men I can play with at this point are straight-ahead johns.
Jasmine was impressed with my vicarious game plan.
“Wear black or brown,” I told her. “A great scarf, and how about that V-necked blouse you got at the Bergdorf sale? You can hint at cleavage. Maybe…” I hesitated. She’s not going to sleep with this would-be sugar daddy tomorrow. She’s just introducing herself. “Maybe this is where a water bra comes in handy. Can you wear a 34C?”
“You’re right! And I can!” she said happily. “Even though I’m really more like a 36B. I guess dating isn’t such a waste of time, after all. You seem to have developed good instincts.”
I was discreetly tucking a bra into Jasmine’s Ferragamo backpack when I noticed Allison staring at me, looking wounded.
“Maybe I can spare one for the street van?” I suggested. “I really do have to return the others, though. And I have some shoes you might be able to use.”
“Oh, that would be nice!” Allison agreed. “I know there’s someone out there right now, working on one of those avenues, who could use a new bra. If we would just think of ourselves as a community—”
“Get out the violins,” Jasmine muttered.
“We could change the world!”
“I just hope that bra doesn’t start a civil war in the outreach van,” Jasmine said. “The road to hell is paved with the intentions of do-gooders.”
Out on Lexington Avenue, Jasmine hailed us a cab. I was relieved when she encouraged me to sit in the middle. I should have known that all those two needed to set them back on the path of discord was an evening in each other’s company.
But now I’m two water bras lighter! I really must return the bras today before I meet Matt and Karen—before anyone else persuades me to give one away. Karen’s taking us to see some more co-ops, and the first one is at—Yikes. Really? That’s not possible, is it? I thought 444 was still a rental.
MONDAY. 3/27/00
I used to be the kind of girl who worries about whether to sleep with a “freebie” on the second date or the fourth. Whether I should or shouldn’t put the condom on my boyfriend with my mouth; I didn’t want Matt to think I was a lot more experienced than he was. I like being seduced, being treated like a Nice Girl, being taken by a guy who does most of the work in bed—when I’m not working, that is. Letting your boyfriend put the condom on is key to passing for a Nice Girl in bed. (Once, I maneuvered a condom onto a boyfriend while he wasn’t looking. We had been fucking for a good ten minutes before he noticed what he was wearing. I admit I was feeling mischievous—but I didn’t think he would take it that way. He gave me a resentful puzzled look, and things went from weird to worse in that relationship. I’ve never made that mistake with Matt!)
But now—now that I’m wearing a ring—I worry about how to advise my boyfriend on a real estate deal. I’d like to go back to worrying about my sex life. Real estate makes me feel…
“…like an imposter,” I told Dr. Wendy this morning. “I’m afraid to make a wrong move with this co-op. So far, he seems to think I’m very serious-minded, looking at all the angles. The truth is, I’m afraid to offer any opinion at all.” I paused to brood. “If he buys it be
fore we get married, I don’t have to go before the board!” I added.
“And you’re afraid of the co-op board?”
“Nooo, not exactly. Well, yes.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Now that he’s thinking about buying, we’ve been looking at lots of different apartments. And this weekend, the broker took us to a building where I used to work!”
“Really!” Wendy looked either amused or curious. I wasn’t sure which.
“Yes, I worked in a house for about two weeks in this really great building just off Sutton Place. When I was about twenty-three. And the apartment we looked at this weekend is in the same line! The same layout, three floors down from the place I worked in! The J line—it’s a two-bedroom with an extra powder room.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“Well, I would have preferred two full bathrooms.”
“I meant—” Wendy massaged her temple for a second.
“Oh!” I said, giggling nervously. “I was spooked when I realized where we were! But I felt like the cat that ate the canary,” I admitted, “because Matt was really impressed. Now it’s a very fussy co-op building, but it was just a rental when I worked there. Well, I used to fuck men for money in basically the same apartment, and Matt was slightly intimidated. It gave me a sick thrill, I guess.”
“When did you reveal this part of your life to Matt?” Wendy asked. She was adjusting her glasses and sitting forward, ready for some major therapeutic action.
“He was intimidated by the apartment,” I said vehemently. “He doesn’t know anything about my past, and this is hardly the time to tell him!”
“Oh.” Wendy relaxed in her chair. “Say more—about intimidation.”
“You have to put down fifty percent, and we—he—can’t at this point. The other building’s only ten percent. And the tax-deductible portion—” I stopped chattering and took a deep breath. Jesus. Co-op hunting is making me crazy—almost as crazy as the Atkins diet is making Jasmine. I must stop thinking (and talking) like a real estate ad. “Look, it was just a little too close to home, okay? I realize now that if I have to talk to a co-op board, well, of course, I know how I’ll dress for the interview. But what if I run into a client? A lot of my clients are on the boards where they live! Last night I couldn’t sleep!”
“Okay,” Wendy said, in a calmer voice. “Most people experience self-doubt before an interview with a co-op board.”
I wondered if Dr. Wendy was disappointed: Instead of a confessing hooker who just blew the lid off her personal life, she’s getting another co-op board story. This can’t be her idea of a great day!
“You just said that Matt was intimidated by the requirements of the building where you once worked. So, you see? You’re not alone in feeling this kind of fear.”
“But he’s not afraid of the co-op board at the building where he’s really hoping to buy. It’s a ten-percent-down building! I’m embarrassed to admit that—” I caught my breath. “Look, it’s one thing to be intimidated when a building wants fifty percent down. But I can’t admit to Matt that I’m afraid to face the board at a building that only requires ten percent. He won’t understand!”
“Okay, but you can talk about it here. So, what’s the worst thing that can happen at the interview?”
“What if they ask embarrassing questions? Co-op boards want to see your tax returns, they can ask you where you went to college! What if we get turned down because of me? Because I can’t account for my past?”
“Many people are turned down by co-op boards. It’s more likely, since he’s buying, that if you’re turned down, he will be the cause. As a therapist, I dislike co-op boards. I advise anyone who asks—not that most people think to ask a therapist for real estate advice—that condos are less intrusive and less confrontational. And less stressful for relationships like yours.”
“Really. I should tell Matt to look at condos? But what reason would I give him?”
“He’s marrying you? As his future partner, you have a say here. Condos are easier to resell, but you may simply prefer to look at all the options. Since he asked you to help him make this decision, why not express a desire to look at some condos?”
“I don’t know! I feel so out of my depth! I’ve never really shared a man’s money or his financial decisions. It’s one thing when a boyfriend takes you out to dinner or buys you a dress or a piece of jewelry. And, of course, there are money issues with a john. But this is different.”
“How?” Wendy asked.
“A john—no matter how much you like him—isn’t your partner. He’s a customer. You get money from him, you don’t help him make decisions about money. Matt’s not acting like a john or a boyfriend.”
“No. He’s treating you like his future partner.”
“But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”
“There’s no script,” Wendy assured me.
“There must be!”
THURSDAY. 3/30/00
This morning, a call from Liane: “I know it’s short notice, but Bernie’s in town, and he so wants to see you!”
Short notice from Liane probably means that one of her newest girls has stood her up. But she’s too diplomatic to admit that. And I guess I’m enough of a sport to play along.
“Bernie?” I said. “Have I ever seen—”
“Dear, he’ll be here in an hour. If you get here soon, I’ll explain it to you. Dress simply. No lipstick. You saw him last summer. Remember? He thought he was your first client!”
Bernie! Right. The guy from Chicago who thinks I’m a college sophomore. When in fact there are people my age who teach college. Bernie thinks every girl he sees is doing it for the first time. Or (if he sees her again) the second time.
I threw some condoms and K-Y into my purse, changed into a pleated skirt and low heels. Were I to look like a real college student, I would have pierced eyebrows and tattooed buttocks or thighs—and Bernie would be horrified. So would Liane, for that matter. Both have a rather sanitized notion of what a “college girl” looks like. And it’s just as important to please the madam, a habit that dies hard with me, even though I don’t exactly need Liane’s business these days. But maintaining a Good Attitude—a better one than you need to have—keeps a working girl young.
Bernie is about sixty, very toned and virile looking with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He likes to think he’s either ruining a girl or helping her. It was hard to say which, as he talked me through his blow job.
“You’re getting better and better at this,” he said, pushing gently on my head.
I twisted my mouth away and looked up innocently.
“Do you like the way I suck your cock?” I asked in a breathy voice. “Am I doing it right?”
In fact, I just wanted to get his damn hand off the back of my head—and it worked. His cock stayed hard as I knelt in front of him. I reached into my panties, a look of quiet desperation on my face.
“That’s right, make yourself come. You’re learning to like this,” he said, “I think I’ll see you again, Suzy. Keep playing with yourself, baby…”
The fact that he was wearing a condom while I sucked him—a distinctly professional touch—didn’t mar the scenario for some reason.
I was sucking harder and faster, like a schoolgirl possessed, and he reached down to pinch one of my nipples. Ouch. This broke my concentration. I held his wrist and guided his hand toward the back of my head. After a few seconds of that, I brought his hand back to my breast. It’s okay to take a john away from one body part if he thinks he’ll gain access to another. I kept up the bait and switch, moving his hand every time he got too intrusive. Finally, to my great relief, he came. I moaned rather loudly while his cock was in my mouth and—a prerogative of all defiled co-eds—allowed him to dispose of the condom himself. No hot towel aftercare from this virgin hooker. But Bernie didn’t mind. While he dressed, he advised me to “be careful—don’t let Liane talk you into doing anything you�
�re not ready for.”
After Bernie’s exit, I emerged from the bedroom fully dressed. Liane was sitting in her favorite armchair, knees together, long slim calves almost slanted, looking me up and down.
“You’re taking such good care of yourself! Nobody would know how long we’ve been friends,” she said. “I don’t know what you did, but he insists he wants to see you next time. Why don’t you sit for a moment?” She smiled and gestured to a pot of mint tea on the small tiled table. “And how is it going with your boyfriend?”
I watched Liane pouring tea into two white porcelain cups. She wears two very tasteful rings on her right hand at all times. And her long pale fingers are always perfectly manicured, with the palest pink polish.
“He’s pushing for us to get married sooner—”
“Good!”
A beam of approval transformed her face, still pretty and delicate at seventy-something. Liane is long and slender and has stopped coloring her hair, yet looks positively intriguing when she smiles.
“He wants to buy a co-op now before prices get much higher.”
“Oh, he’s right. And don’t let any of your friends in the business get near him or his family before the wedding.”
“But I asked Jasmine and Allison to be my bridesmaids. Along with my cousin. And his sister’s the matron of honor—she already expects to meet them.”
“Don’t let that happen,” Liane said. “They’re your friends and they’re nice girls, but you can’t afford to risk it. His sister and your cousin will be in constant communication with them. You can’t mix these two elements of your life, dear.”
In her long pencil skirt and striped blouse, with a ladylike bow at the neck, she looked as relaxed as I would in jeans. I imagine she hasn’t bought new clothes in recent years; her suits and silk blouses are so well made, and she settled on a style she likes long ago. I’ve seen photos of her from the sixties, in Pucci pants and elegant dresses, with full wavy hair, but you never see her in a dress or pants these days. And her hair is a bit “smaller”—cut to the neck, professionally styled four times a week, like clockwork.