Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  Wednesday, June 12, 2002 79th Street

  Today, a call from Trish, trying to persuade me to see a new customer. “I know how you feel about new people, but he’s not from New York.”

  Last year, when Trish stopped calling, business slowed down, and I became impossible to live with.

  “He’s from Philly,” she told me.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  Thank God Trish is calling again, because it’s not easy to work at night when you’re married, and most of her business is in the daytime. Her dates are kinky and tiring, but lucrative. Without them, I barely meet my quota.

  You aren’t a pro unless you have a self-imposed quota, you feel like a failure if you can’t make your quota, and the heightened security in hotels has made it harder to keep up. I was starting to feel like a shadow of my single call-girl self—until I lowered my weekly quota to a level I can actually meet. Though Matt isn’t aware of my job, he totally benefits when business is good, and suffers when business is slow. Perhaps not financially, but in other ways.

  Come to think of it, my earnings can’t possibly hurt our bottom line. Unless I get caught, which would be awful. That’s why I’m afraid to see new customers—though I sometimes make an exception for Trisha’s.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “I just don’t want to run into anyone who knows my husband. Or his family.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell Trish about Elspeth’s former profession—which she could return to, if she ever runs out of Ubermommy juice. Trish might never work with me again if she finds out my husband’s sister was a prosecutor.

  “I hear you,” she said. “Can you bring those handcuffs? And a few changes? Something pastel and innocent for the first hour, and something bitchy for the second hour. Do you still have those black boots? The ones that lace up the back?”

  This new customer sounds younger than most of our dates, which makes him risky. Older guys (like Etienne or Milt) aren’t likely to be part of Matt’s circle. Should I really be doing this?

  “He’s calling in a few days to confirm,” she said. “His schedule’s crazy. He might have to cancel.”

  I crossed my fingers, feeling torn. If he cancels, I’m off the hook. I don’t want to get caught, but I don’t want to turn down business—especially from Trish. This might be my last chance to really work a lot.

  Time to get ready for Chip. I won’t get caught seeing him. He’s been in my book for years, a known quantity, and I knew his father for much longer—though Chip, of course, has no idea.

  Wednesday, later

  When Chip walked into the apartment, the memory of his father’s face was, once again, playing tricks with me. It never fails. I still miss his dad, though he’s been dead almost six years. He was gentle, quick, always happy to wear a condom.

  But Chip Junior is nothing like Chip Senior. In the bedroom, he’s determined to get his money’s worth—which means holding back for as long as possible while I straddle, doing most of the work. Just before I slid the condom on, he made some obligatory caddish noises about being “clean as a whistle, and-I’m-sure-you-are-too,” in an effort to dismiss the rubber.

  I, in turn, smiled pleasantly, as I always do, and made my obligatory comment about birth control. “And,” I chirped, “I’ll have you know I’m much cleaner than a whistle.”

  Abandoning the chirp, switching to sultry insistence: “I want you to wear this. So I can get you inside of me. It’s been too long since I felt your cock.”

  This routine has been going on for so long it qualifies as a tradition. I don’t trust Chip around the New Girls—I mean, real newbies who might not have professional manners. They’re liable to give in because he’s good-looking (if they’re softies), or lecture him about STDs until he can barely get it up (if they’re sanctimonious college girls).

  As I rode on his cock, I closed my eyes and played with my breasts. My nipples were getting hard. He reached up to touch. I bit my lip, made some hot little sounds, and moved his hand away, allowing it to rest on the side of my ass. I tried to keep my hands busy so he wouldn’t be able to get at my nipples. There’s something about his hand. He’s too forceful—not a brute, just intrusive.

  Sometimes it makes me think, “If this were a boyfriend.” But why should I come with this jerk? All his banter about money, condoms, cleanliness—I think the only reason I see him is his father. I miss those visits.

  But the involuntary connection between nipple and clitoris was making itself felt. I reached down to finger myself as he pushed his cock into me.

  I won’t be able to have this kind of sex for much longer. And he won’t be the first customer I want to see after I—

  Omigod.

  How exactly do you deal with the evidence of a c-section in situations like this? The alternative is, um. Suddenly, my hips stopped moving. Vaginal delivery? Yikes.

  Chip, feeling teased and slightly frustrated, began seeking his own kind of delivery. There is just no way, I thought, forcing myself to concentrate on his cock. I must sort this out. And is that why Trish has such kinky dates? So she never has to get completely undressed?

  Later, as I tidied him up with a hot washcloth, I was tempted to quiz him about his children. He’s got two from his first marriage, and rumor has it he’s re-married, because he no longer sees girls at his apartment. The apartment, just off Park, where we’ve all cooed over the crayon art on Chip’s bathroom wall.

  If I didn’t know any better, I would assume he’s too waspy to send his daughter to a school like Sacred Heart, but I know more than I should. His Episcopalian dad knew me as Suzy and saw me twice a month. He sometimes talked, with a hint of exasperation, about an ex-wife who wanted their marriage retroactively annulled, so she could re-marry. That “temperamental Catholic” was Chip Junior’s mother. But, if I ask Chip where his kids go to school, he’ll probably think I’m trying to blackmail him.

  After seeing him to the door, I retrieved five hundreds from the top of my dresser and put them in my money drawer.

  It’s really too bad. I can’t ask any of my regulars to help me get our forthcoming child into one of the top Catholic schools! It might be what everyone else does, but asking the people you know isn’t an option for me. The downside of being in this business is having to rely on my husband’s connections.

  Relying on Matt is safe, sane, consensual—but rather unsatisfying. I probably know more guys who are plugged into the private schools than he does, but I know them too well, in the wrong way. To Chip, I’m Sabrina: a little bit classy, a little bit slutty, perpetually twenty-five (twenty-seven, tops). If “Sabrina” were to broach the delicate matter of getting her child into a Jesuit prep school, Chip would be dumbfounded. Doesn’t he come here to escape those conversations?

  Friday, June 14

  This morning, as I was leaving Thirty-fourth Street, already running late for my blow-out with Lorenzo, I was ambushed. I rushed back upstairs, thankful to be wearing black jeans, and opened a fresh box of tampons. So much for that!

  As I sat in the pneumatic chair, staring at my non-pregnant self in the full-length mirror, Lorenzo tousled my damp hair with his fingertips.

  “What’s wrong?” His thumbs were caressing my scalp. “You look … almost haunted.”

  “I’m totally haunted. I’ve spent the last ten days looking at strollers! Ordering Dr. Seuss books. Arguing with my husband about pre-schools. And worrying about how my body will look after a cesarian!”

  Of course, I don’t want Lorenzo to know what I was up to when the c-section dilemma introduced itself.

  “Relax,” he told me. “You’ll ask your doctor to make the incision very low. If you start wearing a more natural look down there, your hair covers the scar. Unless—you haven’t had laser, have you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Good.” His lips went into an opinionated pout. “Laser in the back, never in front. It’s called keeping your options open. There’s a time and place for everything.”

>   Today, there’s a soft layer of dark fuzz on my outer lips because I wax every three weeks. I remember how abundant my pubic hair was, during my teens. I was trying, then, to look more womanly. Is it now time to grow it back?

  “How do you know so much about … all that?” I asked.

  “It’s my job.” He rolled his eyes. “Hair is hair. And hair is everywhere. And wherever there is some hair—” he adjusted the chair “—I am right there. Don’t haunt yourself. I’m excited for you, darling. You get to be a total diva for the next—”

  “But I don’t!” I said. “I just found out I’m not pregnant!”

  “Not?” He pulled a hairbrush out of a drawer. “Did you—? Are you okay?”

  “Oh, I don’t think—you can’t call it a miscarriage when you’re only ten days late, can you?”

  Lorenzo faced the mirror, a brush in one hand, a blow-dryer in the other.

  “If you want to be dramatic,” he said, “you can call anything a miscarriage.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  New York: The Loyal Opposition

  Friday evening Manhattan

  This afternoon, when I got to Seventy-ninth Street, I called Jasmine to announce my news. Actually, my lack of news.

  “Hallelujah,” she replied.

  “Oh?”

  “Now we can move on! You were in the seventh circle of limbo! ‘A little bit pregnant’ is not a good look for you. Or anyone!”

  “I see.”

  “Either you are or you aren’t,” she said. “If you are, you should be drinking elderberry tonic. If you’re not, have a Kir Royale, for God’s sake. Not a fucking spritzer! You must be dying for a real drink. I’ll meet you after my five o’clock.”

  I could hear Charmaine’s key in the front door of the apartment.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied coolly. Perhaps calling Jasmine was a mistake. Charmaine, in her spinning class shorts and floppy sweatshirt, disappeared into the bedroom.

  “It’s okay to have ONE DRINK during your period,” Jasmine was saying. “Then you’ll go back to cultivating potatoes with your husband. You know what I’ve been thinking? You should talk to your doctor about this. Isn’t there some way you can tweak things in favor of conceiving a potential buyer?”

  “A potential what?”

  “A male child! I think we’ll all be happier if you have a boy.”

  Christ. Not this again. If Jasmine had her way, there would be ten males for every one of us!

  “I think I’ll be happy if I deliver a healthy baby,” I told her. “I really don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

  “No hooker in her right mind wants to give birth to a girl. Your sister-in-law might love you for it. But your real friends will just resent you! For spawning more competition.”

  “More … what? You’re talking about my future children!”

  “Oh.” I wondered if Jasmine was coming to her senses. “I almost forgot. You’re planning to send yours to Catholic school. Well, of course. Everyone knows there are no Catholic hookers!”

  “I don’t appreciate—”

  “Listen, I almost forgot. Harry wants to see us together. Can you be here at noon on Monday?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” I asked her. Does she think we can just go back to discussing business? “You have some fucking nerve!” Then I hung up.

  Charmaine emerged from the bedroom, in her exercise bra and nothing else, looking startled.

  “What happened? Who was that?”

  “Jasmine!” I unclenched my teeth. My cellphone was starting to chime. I turned it off and threw it into my bag. “Jasmine has crossed a line.”

  “Oh.” Charmaine can’t raise her eyebrows because of the Botox, but the devilish expression in her eyes said it all. “Jasmine? In my opinion—”

  “Don’t say it,” I moaned. Charmaine has kept her distance, from the moment they laid eyes on each other two years ago. But Jasmine and I have been trading dates since our twenties. She helped me when I was in trouble and needed a lawyer. “We’ve known each other forever,” I said.

  “I don’t know why you put up with that girl.”

  Charmaine’s bare pussy—lasered to match her smooth, Botoxed forehead—was staring me in the face. Her up-to-the-minute enhancements were spilling out of her exercise bra. It’s not just that she’s twenty-three—her entire body looks like it was invented two years ago. She really is a New Girl, in more ways than one.

  “Well—” I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite, but now I wanted to change the subject “—you don’t have to put up with her, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She’s too young to understand my friendship with Jasmine, but she has her own business, pays her rent on time, and never seeks my advice. She looked, for a moment, like she was on the verge of giving me some, and I didn’t want to hear it.

  When I was sure that Charmaine was completely immersed in the white noise of the shower, I checked my messages.

  “Call me when your hormones stabilize. We can’t let your period stop you from seeing Harry!”

  What is Jasmine thinking? Does she really think I have no idea how to disguise my period? I have two diaphragms—one for each apartment—and a year’s supply of cosmetic sponges from Duane Reade.

  Which part of “You have some fucking nerve” does she not understand?

  Saturday, June 15

  This morning, as soon as I knew Matt was safely en route to his squash game with Jason, I bolted the apartment door and turned my phone on. With my right hand, I checked my messages. With my left, I emptied the dishwasher. Etienne, now in Frankfurt, managed to intercept one of his own voicemails while I was shaking a few remaining drops of water from a miniature whisk.

  “Bonjour, petite mignonne.” His elderly purr was reassuring, but it brought disappointing news. “I regret this trip is delayed. I’m glad you finally answered your phone,” he added. “I tried to call you from Cologne. Don’t change your number!”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Why would I do that?”

  “So many things are changing these days. I take nothing for granted. Tell me, how is New York? Do the girls still remember me? Is it true? Nobody wears high heels anymore?”

  “What? Oh. Don’t worry. We’re all wearing heels again.”

  “Not just in your bedrooms?”

  “Everywhere,” I said with more confidence. “I wore my favorite pair to dinner the other night.”

  “Really! Can you describe them?”

  “Not right now,” I said firmly. Etienne has never been a phone freak, and I would hate to be responsible for spoiling him.

  Some would say I’ve been guilty of that for at least five years! I don’t tell other girls that I come when he goes down on me. You never know what another pro might think—or say—about a working girl having real orgasms.

  “Why don’t you come back to New York?” I said in a warmer voice. “We can discuss my heels in person. I might even wear them!”

  “That would be my preference, cocotte. A live appearance. But—” He paused. “There is something I haven’t told you. Something which prevents me from examining those pretty feet in person. Not to mention the rest of your delicious body.”

  Oh dear. There comes a point in every girl’s career when some of her best customers start dying or faltering for reasons of age—and stop visiting. I held my breath. Not his prostate, I hope.

  “I have tried to enter the country three times in the last eight months,” he told me. “It seems my name is on one of those bothersome new lists.”

  Another one of Etienne’s polite fictions?

  “Or perhaps,” he continued, “my name resembles the name of someone else who is really on this list. But you have no idea. When this sort of thing happens, reality is beside the point. I haven’t been to London in six months either!”

  “You’re … on more than one list?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I can travel anywhere on the continent, as long as I don
’t fly! Or try to cross the channel. My American lawyer calls it House Arrest Lite.”

  “You have an American lawyer?”

  “And a French lawyer. And a Brit. You don’t want to know. I hope your life never becomes this complicated and tedious, mignonne.”

  “The city isn’t the same without you!” I was trying to sound light-hearted.

  “And vice versa!” he exclaimed. “Germany is quite boring. I promise you will hear from me when I resolve this.”

  As we hung up, another call was coming in. “I’ve been trying to reach you!” Allison, sounding breathless and distressed. “Did you get my emails? What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Jasmine said you weren’t feeling well.”

  “You can tell Jasmine I feel fine.”

  “Oh.” Now Allie was puzzled. “Maybe I misunderstood. I thought she said ‘acute medical symptoms.’”

  It is just like Jasmine to assume that this rift is the result of some biological malfunction, when it’s really a consequence of her own demented—and completely insensitive—worldview.

  “I have no idea what she’s talking about,” I said calmly.

  “Does that mean you can work?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ron’s coming over Monday, at five. He wants two girls.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Honestly,” she sighed. “I must be hearing things, because I’m sure Jasmine said you were turning down business and not answering your phone.”

  “Only where she’s concerned.”

  “What … happened?”

  “She crossed a line. And that’s all I wish to say.”

  “Omigod, does she KNOW you feel this way? You have to tell people how you feel.”

  “I don’t have to do anything of the sort! Jasmine is totally oblivious to anybody else’s feelings, including mine. Why should I discuss them with her?” I looked at the clock and excused myself from Allie’s impromptu sermon. “I have to go,” I told her. “I’m making a cheese soufflé for dinner. I need to concentrate.”