by Tracy Quan
“It’s not about her!” I blurted out. “It’s me! I found out the other day that everybody thinks I’m some kind of overweight paranoid housewife who hates single women!”
“Everybody? How did you find this out?”
“My sister-in-law! She’s—she’s conspiring with my husband—”
Wendy was staring at me intently.
“—to invite Allison to a dinner party. There’s only one way to deflect Elspeth from hunting down Allison. I have to let her think I’m one of these, you know, hardcore wives who just wants to hang with other couples. I know how to keep Matt and Elspeth off the scent—but I hate myself!”
“For betraying Allison?”
“For being the victim of my own frumpy game! I guess I should feel like I’m winning. They have no idea what I’m really hiding. But my sister-in-law thinks I’m a clingy wife, shunning my single friends. And my husband is starting to compare me with his mother! I’m turning into…”
I couldn’t say it.
“What are you afraid you might become? Marriage can play havoc with a woman’s particular sense of her own identity,” said Dr. Wendy. “In your case, there are multiple identity issues—”
“I don’t have multiple personality disorder!”
“I didn’t say that.” Dr. Wendy was gentle but firm. “It’s clear that you’ve chosen your various identities. But what are you trying to say or not say about being a wife?”
“Could I have become, in less than a year of marriage, the total embodiment of everything that causes men to see hookers in the first place? That’s so not fair!”
I was getting shrill and looking around for the box of tissues.
“That’s probably not how I would describe it,” she said. “But that’s how it feels to you. Today.”
“Not just today—all weekend! But if I seem to be that and I’m not really, then I guess I’m doing a good job at being a wife?” I grabbed a few tissues. “In fact, I’d be doing a great job.”
“Because you’re still in control of your identity.”
“But if I’m really becoming what I was pretending…” I was fighting back tears of anger. “I don’t know how to do this—this married thing. And all these questions she was asking—my sister-in-law started pestering me about my French lessons. It was awful. Remember the plan I came up with, to become a translator?”
“Yes. I remember that.”
“It’s a lot more stressful than I thought it would be.”
“Career transitions are emotionally demanding,” said Wendy. “I went through one myself when I decided to be a psychotherapist—after six years of teaching phys ed.”
That explains the biceps! I’ve been to three different female shrinks, all on the West Side, and Dr. Wendy’s the only one who takes responsibility for her upper arms. I’m not saying that’s why I stuck with her, but it certainly didn’t hurt. It’s hard to take advice from a therapist who doesn’t take care of herself—like my first shrink, Dr. Anita Samson, who was very overweight and chain-smoked. During sessions! There’s nothing more discouraging than a shrink who looks physically unhappy. Dr. Wendy hasn’t got a clue about hair and she doesn’t bother with her nails, but she takes good care of her body. She has the cheerful yet earnest look you want in a shrink. Or a phys ed instructor.
“But this is a fake transition,” I said. “I’m just transitioning from one cover story—one fake job to another!”
“You aren’t the only person I’ve encountered who is juggling additional career narratives,” Wendy pointed out. “An imaginary transition is quite challenging.”
Put that way, my situation sounds almost genteel.
“From a therapeutic perspective”—Dr. Wendy adjusted her glasses and leaned forward—“the imagined career is as meaningful as a remunerative job. Perhaps even more so. Every career is an exercise of the imagination, if you think about it. Your transition is not unique,” she told me. “In the world of work, it’s common to exaggerate or invent. I knew a man who was unemployed for months. His family had no idea. He got up every day, put on his suit, and went out of the house, without ever missing a beat. The human imagination is pretty resilient.”
“Oh my god. Like that middle-aged guy in The Full Monty? Are you saying I’m in the same boat as him?”
The out-of-work factory manager with the bad lawn decorations? Who can’t tell his wife that he lost his job?? My self-image doesn’t really see itself that way.
“That’s a good example of what I’m talking about.” Wendy looked pleased, as if she might be on the verge of handing out a gold star. “The boat is very full.”
TUESDAY, 3/27/01
When Allie called last night to set up something for this morning, I couldn’t say no. Matt was in the shower, and when my phone started vibrating, I answered cautiously. Despite misgivings about her lifestyle, I still trade customers with Allie. Besides, turning down business from another girl is rude when she owes you a date.
Allie has never specialized in early-morning business. Today was a lucky exception. Ten am on a weekday is the married call girl’s favorite time slot. I don’t feel guilty about returning home by six if I’m starting to make money before noon.
Ideally, I’m preparing dinner when Matt returns from the office. If I show up later than he does, I’m on the defensive, and he’s more likely to ask about my day. While it’s not always possible to keep a low profile in your own home, it’s something to aim for, and early-morning clients contribute to my effort.
Getting from Thirty-fourth Street to Eighty-fifth should be a cinch—a straight line up First—but my cabdriver was forced to take a detour near the UN. When I arrived at Allie’s building, flustered and late, the doorman waved me through without asking for my destination.
Allie was half-dressed, in a transparent polka-dot camisole with matching panties. In her bare feet, showing off pearly white toenails, she looked like somebody’s very willing dessert. A lowfat Dean & Deluca blondie, perhaps.
“Leave your skirt and blouse on,” she whispered. “I’ll undress you in there.”
I followed her to the bedroom, where a familiar-looking client was waiting, relaxed and ready, on his back. I couldn’t remember his name. Lanky, pale, with a birthmark on his thigh. Where did I meet this guy? And when? More than five years ago, I think, but I’m supposed to be a New Girl. Or so I was told when Allie called last night.
Happily, he didn’t seem to recall our brief encounter at Liane’s apartment. In those days, I was Suzy, wearing my hair in a wavy perm. Now, my hair is long and smooth, long enough to confuse any man who isn’t prepared for a condom—unrolled with expert lips onto his cock—and long enough for other reasons. Allison began to unbutton my blouse. She played with my skirt, exposing my thighs, then—gradually—more. When I was reduced to bra and panties, I became the aggressor, pushing Allison toward the bed. Her own panties slid to her knees and, with my help, to the carpet.
My face was pressed against her pussy while my hair, falling around her thighs, formed a gentle curtain. I felt Allison pulling my head closer, a signal that he might be in the mood for a “work inspection.” Neither of us wanted him peeking behind my hair, to see if I was really eating her pussy or just playing at it.
“You wait your turn,” she told him. “Nancy’s not finished.…If you do that, she’ll stop!”
Nancy’s the name I now use when I want to be taken for a New Girl. I’ve used lots of names on the job, but never my own. In this case, Nancy’s a newbie who prefers girls to men—or so I was told, last night. I unhooked my bra and began stroking Allie’s clitoris with my nipple while she made all the right sounds and movements. My panties were staying put, to discourage any masculine exploration of the contents. Something a girl-who’s-only-into-girls would surely insist upon, even if she’s getting paid.
But Allie’s customer was excited about getting those panties off. If a guy thinks he’s having sex with someone who’s not into men, I suppose there are two ways
to play it. Grit your teeth like you hate every second of it (that’s awfully dark and edgy but there’s probably a market). Or act like you’re in the throes of being converted to cock. I chose the latter. A sensible move. Allie’s client was trying not to come too fast—but the whole idea of Nancy, enthusiastic lesbian about town, losing her cool while getting fucked on her hands and knees, was too much for him.
He departed in a good mood, never hinting that he recognized me as Suzy.
While I stood in Allison’s bathtub, rinsing Astroglide from my inner thighs, she wandered in, to give me a boyfriend bulletin.
“I just got a text from Lucho!” she announced. “I’ve been accepted by the Colloquium Committee. He nominated me last week because one of the members had to resign. They all voted for me because I’m a sex worker. And a member of NYCOT.”
“That’s nice,” I said, but my mind was really on other things.
Like checking to see if the lube was really gone from my inner lips. If you don’t remove it all, it’s a magnet for germs and you can get a UTI. At the same time, I was trying not to rinse all the moisturizer off my legs! A tricky balancing act: avoiding cystitis and maintaining silky skin are both crucial to a call girl’s survival.
“So! I’m helping to plan the Colloquium on Informal Economies and Human Rights! It’s going to be at Cornell,” Allie was saying. “And my job is to represent NYCOT on the Colloquium Committee. I spoke to Roxana about it. We’re going to need your help.”
I turned off the water.
“My help? Roxana knows I don’t want to be involved with NYCOT,” I told Allie. “Much less this new committee you’re joining.”
Roxana Blair is the founder of the New York Council of Trollops which is—in theory—leaderless. But she’s also chief spokeswoman, keeper of the e-mail list, and, for almost ten years, the engine that runs NYCOT. All their meetings are held at her apartment in the East Village. I wish Roxana weren’t so keen on grooming my best friend for a leadership role but there’s nothing I can do to stop her. Why, oh why, doesn’t she want to sit on that Colloquium Committee? Roxana must be getting burned out.
“I understand that you do worthwhile things,” I said, “but this—all this activism isn’t for me. This is a job, not a cause.”
“It’s a job and a cause. We have to get people to recognize it as a job. That’s a cause.”
“Each to her own,” I said as Allie handed me a towel. “As long as I know it’s a job, I don’t care what people think.”
And the less people are thinking about my job, the better!
“Tell Roxana to forget she ever met me and to stop talking about me. Did she bring this up at one of your meetings? I don’t want all those NYCOT members to have me on their radar,” I added.
“Don’t worry!” Allie said in a tense voice. “Roxana doesn’t have your number. Or your e-mail.”
“She’d better not.”
In the living room, a pot of ginger tea was brewing and Allison had organized a plate of odd-looking munchies.
“No cookies,” I insisted. “I’m trying to lose six pounds.”
Allison was wearing just her camisole and panties again—with a pair of huge white terry cloth slippers that no client has ever seen.
“Try these! They’re made with soya protein and sugar alcohols. I made them myself! From a recipe on the low-carb vegan site.”
They were like dried sweetened glue.
“Very nice,” I said, midnibble. I washed the cookie down with some ginger tea. “And they’re so filling,” I said strategically.
“Now,” she said, counting our money out. “I have to explain. We aren’t asking you to come to any NYCOT meetings. Roxana knows you can’t come to meetings.”
“Good. But I don’t want her to know why. I want you to promise you won’t discuss my marriage with her.”
Allie looked hurt. “I already promised. Why don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you!” I lied. “I’m just reminding you.”
Bits of soya cookie were lodged in my molars. It was maddening.
“We want you to help us find a lawyer,” she told me. “Roxana—”
“After all these years of running a hookers’ union, Roxana doesn’t have her own lawyer?”
“Her contacts are with Legal Aid. And there’s Reverend Moody at Judson Church—he knows a few people at the Urban Justice Center. But this is different. And it might cost money.”
“I can donate. Anonymously.”
“That’s not it. I have to find a lawyer who can help me get a visa.”
Uh-oh. What is Allie getting into now? She was standing near the window, bent over the computer station. Her camisole slid north and a patch of smooth, fat-free midriff peeked out above her panties.
“Noi is going to be the keynote speaker at the Colloquium on Informal Economies. She’s the Bangkok coordinator of Bad Girls Without Borders.” Allie fiddled with her trackball on a mouse pad that proclaimed safe sex slut in white block letters. “We need a visa so she can attend the conference and we need to find a place for her to stay. If she really has to, she can stay here. But she needs a lawyer. The Legal Aid people can’t help because she’s in Bangkok. They don’t do visas…and this is the BGWB website!”
Against a pistachio-colored background, a series of magenta greetings—Hola…Bonjour…$awadee Kha—wiggled slowly across the screen. When Allie clicked on the dollar sign, hot pink condoms tumbled forth, followed by a montage of dancing girls with long black hair and light brown skin in bikinis and heels. In another picture, a banner was held high on a crowded street: entertainment workers sans frontieres. I could see two slim black-haired girls in sunglasses, T-shirts, and jeans carrying the banner.
“That’s Noi at the International Women’s Day march. And her friend Ying. The bar girls had their own banner!” she explained. “They have a branch in Phuket. And a sister group in Cambodia. But anyway, Noi lives in Bangkok. And I need to find a lawyer who can help her apply for a visa.”
“Can’t Lucho help?”
Allie blushed.
“I can’t ask Lucho.”
“But he must know somebody. These exotic college professors deal with visas and forms all the time.”
“Maybe, but”—Allie’s voice was getting a little squeaky, she looked away from me—“he nominated me for the Colloquium Committee because he thinks I can locate a lawyer. He thinks NYCOT has more resources than we really do and he…he sort of thinks I’ve done this before. When the girls from Ecuador came to that conference in Berkeley.”
“You lied to him? About your activist credentials?”
“No.” Allie looked down at her Safe Sex mouse pad. She tugged nervously on a strand of her long blond hair. “I just—when I realized what he was thinking, I didn’t, you know, say anything different.”
“Allie, it’s good to let a guy think what he needs to think but you’re taking it to extremes. Why don’t you let him help you? Instead of acting so accomplished, let him be the rescuer! Guys love that!”
“It’s too late! And if I did that, I wouldn’t be on all these committees and panels! I’d just be—I want to be on the Colloquium Committee. I don’t want him to save me or have to do things for me. Or feel sorry for me! I’m an activist now and I think Lucho and I could be a power couple. But I have to get more, you know, successful at my activism.”
“A power couple?”
“I told him I would raise the money for Noi’s legal fees and he thinks I’m already interviewing lawyers.”
“How much do you need? I can afford—”
“I want you to help me find a lawyer. What about Jason? Your brother-in-law? He’s a lawyer.”
Allison’s passive-aggressive idealism tries my patience. Is she out of her mind?
“We cannot go there,” I said. “And you know it.”
As I glared at her, she bit her lip, averting her eyes.
“You could say you have a friend from Thailand who—”
> “There’s no way! I don’t want my in-laws to start wondering how I know someone who’s in this business.”
“But this isn’t business. It’s about social justice. And it’s my chance to make a difference. For a Bangkok bar girl to be a keynote speaker at an Ivy League school? Do you realize how huge this is?”
Allie was staring at a close-up of Noi. Then she clicked on something and brought up a street scene: working girls in long colorful saris, carrying yellow placards. Three dark brown girls in their twenties appeared to be dancing in the street, in front of a purple banner. The letters, in gold, were in a language I don’t recognize.
“These are the girls in Bangladesh. Last year, a judge ruled they couldn’t be evicted from the red-light district and they had a huge celebration.”
Allie looked radiant. As if she herself had been threatened with eviction. From a red-light district in South Asia rather than a doorman building on the Upper East Side.
She moved on to a chubby pink-skinned redhead in a leopardprint bustier holding up a sign: u.s. out of our underwear…free the nevada three! A group of protestors in leopard T-shirts, nighties, shorts, and much less were gathered around the redhead.
“This is Leopard-Look Solidarity in Vegas! When the Nevada Three got arrested they were at a bachelor party wearing leopardprint thongs.…Everyone went to the courthouse to protest the sentencing. In leopard print. To show solidarity. Oops. Except for David—he’s wearing a zebra hat. He might be coming to the Cornell colloquium.”
So these are Allie’s new friends! A global in-crowd of signwaving, sari-clad, zebra-hatted card-carrying “sex workers.”
“Well, I don’t think Jason can help you with this. And I certainly can’t ask him,” I said.
As she clicked and surfed, Allie didn’t seem to be listening. She returned to some snapshots of Noi. Lithe and gutsy, in a pair of capri-style jeans, platforms, and a tank top, holding a bullhorn on a busy street corner. “From Soi Cowboy with love and condoms, Noi.” Standing at a podium in front of yet another banner in yet another language. I noticed a poster decorating the podium: a sewing machine in a big red circle with a diagonal line crossing out the machine.