Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “I don’t actually WANT to, Milt.” Probably the first time I’ve had to say something that blunt in his presence. “I’ve survived this long without it, and besides …” I smiled at the hair on his chest. “I like it when the man drives.”

  It would never occur to him, I guess, that girls like me don’t drive. He works in Manhattan but lives in New Jersey where everyone has to. Half the cars in Manhattan must be from Jersey.

  “It makes you stop and think.” Milt was staring at the ceiling. “You can have sex with the same woman twice, maybe three times, a month. You know her for more than a decade! Without ever knowing she can’t drive. The bottom line, kiddo—” he sat up and gave my waist a comradely squeeze “—is that men really don’t know a thing about women at all. And the longer we know you, the less we know.”

  Oddly enough, this is only a source of comfort for him. He sat up and rumpled my hair gently with his fingers.

  “But we’ll figure something out. Don’t worry. You can tell Allison that I feel her loss, and I’m on the case. We’ll get her some new toys,” he said decisively. “I wonder what kind of freak goes around stealing designer dildos out of ladies’ purses!”

  Later

  Whatever her shortcomings, Allison’s the buffer who keeps things normal and commercial. Now that she’s here, Milt has no reason to make comparisons between the unmistakable hotness of our one-on-one sessions and the more industrial sex we had this afternoon. It’s a pleasant seamless transition, and there’s no longer any danger of Milt getting to know me too well.

  Saturday, July 13, 2002 9:00 A.M.

  Last night, while Allison was giving herself a mini-facial in her bedroom, I went downstairs to confer with Duncan. He was in the library, straightening out the local history shelf.

  I decided to go for it: “Did Milt get a chance—?” This can’t be any different from discussing pubic hair with Lorenzo, my hairdresser. For a call girl, gay men are Sexual Switzerland, or—on a good day—the Allies. “We were thinking you might be able to drive us to Nice because, ummm.” We’re just two girls from New York shopping for tasteful dildos? “We’re looking for a certain kind of shop, you see.” I felt rather sheepish about losing my nerve.

  “Yes,” Duncan assured me, with a playful half-smile. “Milt’s driving himself to Aix tomorrow, he’ll be fine. But I have a better idea. Nice is rather a long way to drive for a day of shopping.” The lightness of his verbal touch! I felt my embarrassment receding. It made me want to throw my arms around him—a brother-sister sort of hug.

  He seemed to read my thoughts. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll go to Draguignan instead. In fact, I’ve been wanting to visit the plant nursery and take another look at some hedges for one of my English clients. There’s a man nearby who breeds free-range rabbits. I might pick up—What’s wrong?”

  I was examining the carpet—discreetly—for any telltale evidence of Astroglide spillage. And I was looking at the chair. The chair where I was sitting the other day, mostly naked, with my legs open, when I realized that I was curious about … Duncan. The chair where I was kneeling and thinking about him while Milt—

  I turned away, toward the bookshelf. “Nothing,” I said. “I was just wondering who lived here before. It’s a wonderful collection. And perhaps a little unusual to sell your house with the library intact. But not unheard of, I guess.” There are as many out of print books in English as in French. Laughter In Provence. Long Ago in France. Trampled Lilies.

  My heart started beating faster when I remembered myself sprawling on the chair. I remembered touching my panties, teasing my breasts, and—in my own way—using Duncan to entertain Milt.

  The sensation was unforgettable.

  He was staring at me with something like solicitude. His hand reached out to touch my arm, then pulled back. “Suzy? Are you—”

  “I’m fine!”

  “You look—”

  “I’ve had some strange news from New York, that’s all. I’m okay. It’s nothing serious. Just—” My inane story was falling apart before it even came together. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  He gave me that searching but polite look—one he specializes in because, like me, he has a very specific job to do, and it involves protecting other people’s privacy. It made me feel strangely close to him. We’re both here to earn some money but, in my case, it’s covert. He can never refer to what I do as a job. His diplomacy about shopping for sex toys is part of that. Only a gay man can really understand these things and handle them so well.

  But I had an irrational urge to grab his upper arms, pull him into me, and kiss him—really kiss him, for a long time, on the mouth. I’ve thought about doing other things—but not kissing, until now. Yes, it really is a shameful waste!

  “Is there something on your mind?” he asked.

  Finally, I came to my senses. “I’ve been trying to place your accent,” I said. “I keep wondering if you’re from New Zealand. But I don’t like to ask nosy questions. I’m sure you understand?”

  “I do,” he said. “And you have a good ear. I spent two years in Auckland and four years in a town called Aylesbury. But I was born in Halifax. And I won’t try to place yours,” he added. “It suits you to have a few secrets.”

  Saturday, later

  Just back from Draguignan.

  Manhattanites think they’re more European than other Americans, but I guess that’s a delusion. The fact is, Europe drives. Allie and myself—modern women who expect a man to do the driving—are only modern by Manhattan standards.

  “A perplexing anachronism,” said Duncan, as I followed him to the SUV. “So it’s a New York thing, is it?”

  “A badge of honor,” I told him.

  Allie was already strapped into the front seat. Thank God, because I might be tempted to sit there myself. Before setting out for Draguignan, she insisted on a visit to the Ste. Maxiphony cibercafé to check on her email. “I won’t be long,” she promised. “I just have to check in with Roxana.” When I followed her in, she looked surprised. Did she think I was spying on her? Or was I imagining that?

  “I have to stay in touch with Matt!” I explained. “He thinks I’m on a road trip with my mother!”

  I composed a harried-sounding message to my husband, reinforcing the impression that I’ve stayed in six different hôtelleries in seven days:

  This is the most exhausting thing I have ever done! Wish I could get my phone to work here! Lots of dead zones on these autoroutes. And, whenever we get to an internet café, it’s closed. These cute little French towns are impossible—if they’re not closed for lunch, they’re taking their siesta. Every town seems to have a different system. Result being—nothing’s ever open!

  A slight exaggeration, I suppose, but true enough by New York standards. I began a colorful description of the Var real estate Mother has supposedly been contemplating, then deleted my handiwork. The less said about this nonexistent experience, the better.

  I am cross-eyed from looking at one charming converted mas too many. Will write again soon, when we are in one place for more than two days. So far, Mother has not been tempted to sign on the dotted line. She sends her best.

  When we returned to the SUV, Duncan was talking on his phone. “She’s right here,” he said, as Allie climbed into the front, and I settled into my safe spot in the back. Handing his phone to me, he showed no expression when my fingers brushed against his. Milt was calling from a gas station on the N7. My eyes were trained on the back of Duncan’s neck, as I listened.

  “I’m on my way to Aix!” Milt was almost shouting. “And then I’m having dinner in Avignon. I won’t be back till midnight, so don’t wait up for me.” I wonder what he’s doing in Avignon, of all places, but asking would not be cool. Still. I had no idea Milt was so familiar with this region. “Why don’t you go out for dinner? Ask Duncan to recommend someplace nice. Or you could go to the convent. It’s on me. But that’s not why I called,” he said with a sly chuckle. “Ca
n you talk?”

  I reached for the door, and stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’ve been fantasizing all morning. That chick in Barcelona. The chick with a—with something extra. Can you ask Allison—”

  “One thing at a time. When we’re finished shopping for our toys, I’ll put in a few calls on your behalf. Have I told you about my friend Isabel?”

  “Baby! No! Who’s Isabel? Have I told you that you’re the perfect houseguest?”

  “She just moved to St-Tropez, and she might have someone for us.” I spoke very deliberately now. “She has a brand new collection, very exotic. And a driver. There’s a travel charge, unless you visit her apartment in St-Tropez. Now, if she can’t find someone who meets your exact specifications …”

  “The more the merrier,” Milt said. “Make the arrangements for us, and I’ll be there with bells on. St-Tropez is a lot of fun.”

  He’s not seriously considering a day trip to St-Tropez just to get laid—is he? I’m not sure I want Milt wandering into someone else’s lair—especially a madam with girls from all over the map, some perhaps being far more exotic than myself.

  I got off the phone quickly, making a mental note to watch what I say. Keep Milt focused on Isabel’s outcalls, instead!

  As for Draguignan, it’s as wide-avenued, alive and bustling as St-Maximin isn’t.

  “And,” said Duncan, “it’s relevant in ways that St-Max never will be again.”

  This piqued Allie’s curiosity. “Are you sure?” she asked in a surprisingly pointed way.

  “Yes. It’s got military relevance. You see that?” He pointed to a large white sign. “The Rhône cemetery’s filled with Americans who liberated southern France from the Germans in 1944. Battles make a place relevant. That’s why,” he said, looking sideways at Allie, “there are two of those boutiques in Draguignan and you can’t even find one in St-Max. Its economy is gathering dust now. St-Max used to be relevant because of its Church connections, but nobody cares what the Church establishment does anymore.”

  “Nobody?” Allie said.

  “Well, nobody who—not in France and not enough to fight over it. What are you getting at?” Duncan said.

  “Nothing.” Allie, blushing nervously, looked away. “I guess you’re right.” Allie began to fiddle with her backpack. “Tell us about the two shops! Which one do you think we should go to first? Did Nnnnn-Suzy tell you about the item I’m trying to replace? We’re looking for something that—”

  “Something tasteful!” I said a little too loudly. “I’d love to know more about the American cemetery. Has Milt been?”

  We were pulling up in front of the Ero Shop on the Boulevard de la Liberté. In the window, a neon sign, punctuated with a big X and a red heart, announced on one side: “Prêt à Porter. Cabine.” On the other: “Fermé dimanche et jours fériés. Ouvert nonstop.”

  A French business that doesn’t close for lunch?

  “Couples come here,” said Duncan. “The Pink Market on Clemenceau’s more down market. I’ll be back in a jiffy. I’m going to pick up some rabbits for Sunday dinner. Best rabbits in the region!”

  In the Ero Shop, I pulled Allie aside. “The last thing I want to discuss with him is the specifics of your double dildo!” I told her. We were standing in front of a glass case containing some of the largest butt plugs I’ve ever seen. I looked away in horror and took comfort in the sight of some silly purple handcuffs. “It’s enough that he’s taking us here—he doesn’t have to hear about what we’re buying.”

  “He seems so open-minded,” she protested. “It’s not as if he doesn’t KNOW that we work!”

  “Of course he knows. But he’s Milt’s staff. You have to walk the line in a situation like this. He’s respectful of our privacy. He’s—he’s a gentleman. We want him to stay that way.”

  Should we buy the Passionate Purple Twin Twister for fifty-nine euros? Why not. I pulled it carefully off the wall. As we wandered through the aisles, I saw the usual party gags—a German jock strap with a donkey face (“mit sound”)—and lots of flexible jelly dildos with names like Toy Joy and G-Stick, in vibrant tropical colors. But no tasteful high-end Pyrex.

  “We’ll just have to make do with something bouncy and pedestrian,” I sighed.

  “Did Duncan say something about—” Allie wrinkled her brow. “Rabbits? For Sunday dinner?”

  Milt and I have really been looking forward to Duncan’s lapin dijonnaise. “They’re free range!” I told her. “Don’t you want to try something new?”

  Her eyes popped open in distress.

  Oh dear. It’s bad enough that my best friend is a former cheerleader. For the first time since my arrival in France, I actively wish I hadn’t stopped speaking to my other best friend. Jasmine would NEVER have qualms about a good rabbit dish. As long as it’s on Atkins.

  “Don’t tell me you had a fucking pet rabbit!” I hissed.

  Allie wrinkled her brow again. “As a matter of fact, I did. She died when I was eight, of natural causes. And her name was Nancy.”

  I almost dropped our brand new dildos onto the shop floor.

  “Duncan will be very happy to make you a niçoise salad. I’ll talk to him when we get back to the house,” I promised, trying not to show my discomfort. “Just—just—don’t forget to call me Suzy!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  France: Noli Me Tangere

  Sunday morning

  An early breakfast with Milt, just the two of us, poolside, while Allie had coffee in her bedroom.

  “Yesterday was a success!” I told him. “We had dinner in Villecroze. And Allison found some toys she wants to try out. At the Ero Shop in Draguignan. You were missed.”

  “That little auberge in Villecroze? Good choice.” Milt cocked his head in the direction of Allison’s window on the second floor. “Rapunzel’s not bored I hope?”

  “Not at all! Allie and I were thinking …” I waited for Milt’s inevitable response, a mischievous, hopeful leer. “Maybe,” I offered, “you’d like to watch us playing with our new toys in the nursery.”

  “Later this morning?”

  “Can you wait until Allison gets back from church?”

  “Allison’s a churchgoer?” Milt looked surprised, avuncular and highly titillated—all at once.

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s a habit with her, but her heart’s set on attending Sunday Mass at this particular church, and I think she wants me to go with her. She got really intrigued when Duncan talked about the basilique. She’s very curious about the history of St-Maximin. She might want to look at the monastery.”

  “If you ask me, the monastery’s cozier. And the service is better! But the church has quite a reputation,” he said. “I think you should keep her company. This town’s not exactly a shopping mecca, and I don’t want you ladies getting bored.”

  It would never occur to me to attend Sunday Mass—but I’m glad if Allie wants to play religious tourist. It gets Milt out of my hair for a few hours, lets me off the hook (because it’s HER idea), and reinforces the idea that we’re two nicely brought up girls with wholesome cultural interests—who just happen to turn tricks for a living. Together.

  It’s the kind of thing every decent customer likes to think, and makes our bedroom activities seem ever more piquant.

  Sunday, later

  When we entered the basilique, Allie looked around eagerly. “Where’s the holy water?” she asked me. She was carrying a guidebook: Christianity’s third most important tomb.

  Has she ever been in a Catholic church before? Well, she’s making up for lost time. I pointed to the font, but the disposable camera she pulled from her brand new Vuitton backpack had me worried.

  “What are you doing? Didn’t you see the sign?” The camera with the line through it? Over the large wooden door? Cameras, phones, dogs, junk food—taboos all. I guiltily remembered my phone and switched it to vibrate.

  I’m waiting to find out whether Tini, the exotic star of Izzy’s stable will honor Milt with he
r presence tomorrow. Malaysian, trilingual, pre-op, she’s a bit of a triple threat. Let’s hope Isabel calls soon. It will be a nice coda, something Milt can remember me for when this vacation (his) ends.

  We were early for Mass, and people were milling around, looking at historical displays, lighting candles, visiting the gift shop. Milt’s right. There’s a buzz about this church, even if Duncan says it peaked in the fifteenth century. And now, it’s hard to sort out the worshipers from the tourists.

  “I’m here to document something,” Allie said. She slipped the camera under her guidebook and held it tight. “I can’t believe NONE of those people are taking pictures. Do you realize where we are?”

  “Don’t try to take pictures during Mass,” I warned her. “They might throw us out. What do you mean? Of course I know where we are.”

  “I’m taking these pictures for a reason! Anyway, I’m going down there.” She pointed to a gate at the top of a stone staircase. A little girl, with a long pale face and straight brown hair, was standing next to the gate wearing a linen alb. She leaned over and watched, with a serious intensity, as Allie descended. It would be just like Allie not to realize that she’s about to get busted by an eight-yearold. I followed Allie and made my way downstairs, nodding politely at the juvenile gatekeeper.

  “Madame.” I looked back. The altar girl was tapping her wrist. “Cinq minutes,” she told me.

  When I got downstairs, I found Allie standing before a stone archway. She was peering into a glass window at a copper reliquary the height of a toddler, with elongated pointy wings, and thick wavy hair surrounding the face of a human skull.

  Two pot-bellied men in travel vests were competing with each other for a closer view of the blackened skull. Allie was completely blocking them. She was oblivious, concentrating hard, fiddling with the forbidden camera beneath her guidebook.

  “Hey!” I whispered loudly. She jumped and turned around. “They’re about to close this shrine for the Mass, and that kid works for the church. She’s coming downstairs to get you.”