Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  Allie turned to face me. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Are you absolutely sure?”

  Something had changed. The expression on her face—I’d never seen it before—made me realize, If I ignore this, it’s not going away.

  But what does a girl like Allie know about visas? Her determination and ignorance could get a lot of people in trouble. Including me, perhaps. The safest course is to placate her for now. Even if I have no intention of asking Jason for anything.

  “I have to think about it,” I said carefully. “He’s not the only lawyer in this town…maybe I can ask him for a referral. But you need to give me a few days. It’s a bad time to ask Jason for a favor. And I have to figure out how—without, you know, saying what it’s for.”

  Indeed, I’m not quite sure what it is for. To help a righteous bar girl? Or to save Allie from looking like a silly East Side princess in the eyes of her West Side intellectual boyfriend? Maybe Jasmine’s right, and never the twain should date. But now it’s too late.

  5

  Fluff and Aft

  WEDNESDAY, 3/28/01

  Today, while picking up the rent, I got my first glimpse of Char

  maine post-Florida.

  “It’s…rather natural,” I said. “Like you went to a spa.”

  “You see?” Looking pleased with herself, she tilted her face slightly. “More fluff and loft. Dr. Fielding is the best. Actually I did go to a spa. Just—a really good spa.”

  There’s something different about her cheeks. And what about her mouth? Is it the shape of her lips? Or the color?

  “I did some A.F.T. And I’m all recovered from the liposuction.”

  “A.F.T.?”

  “Autologous Fat Transplantation. I’m not waiting for God to give me cheekbones.”

  With a pang of guilt, I suddenly realized that I’ve always taken my cheekbones for granted. But Charmaine’s already used to the way she looks now, even if I’m not, and what she really wanted to show off was our new thigh-high state-of-the-art…shredder.

  “You’re gonna thank me for this!” she enthused. “I had it delivered this morning.”

  A sleek gray object with a black switch and a small green light stood in the corner of the living room.

  “It matches the carpet,” I said. “But why do we need such a powerful shredder? It’s not like we generate a lot of paperwork!”

  “That’s what you think.”

  Charmaine disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a small stack of cardboard. She’s been hoarding the condom boxes, storing them flat, and waiting for a chance to get rid of them. We both want to make sure the landlord doesn’t find anything incriminating in our trash.

  “How many of these things have you got?” I asked.

  “No idea. Better safe than sorry.” She held the stack of red, white, and black boxes. “The problem is…”

  Our eyes met.

  “I know. The different sizes. It’s a total tip-off,” I agreed.

  “Totally.”

  It’s not safe to take them outside to the corner where a neighbor might see you. Charmaine flipped a switch and started feeding condom boxes into the shredder.

  “It’s built for volume. Turns everything into confetti. Even a Trojan Magnum box.”

  She tipped open the receiving bin and showed me a small pile of black confetti. The answer to our nightmares.

  “Oh—and if we really need to,” she added, “you can destroy the video boxes. But some guys like to look at those. What do you think?”

  “The Bells of Saint Clemens” started chiming madly in my handbag, and I scrambled to answer.

  “What a happy occasion,” said the voice of Barry Horowitz. “I tried to call you back twice, but I didn’t leave a message.”

  “I think we should talk in person,” I told him. “Do you remember my friend Allison?”

  “How could I forget?”

  Barry’s the kind of lawyer who takes a perverse delight in solving the personal problems of hookers.

  “I promised Allie—” I glanced sideways at Charmaine, now sitting on the couch doing rehab on some chipped toenail polish. “I’ll call you later when I know more.”

  I flipped my phone shut and tried to take my time leaving the apartment. It wouldn’t be right to discuss Allison’s predicament in earshot of someone who’s been working for two years. Older girls shouldn’t hang their laundry out to dry in front of the New Girls. And Charmaine looks up to Allison, despite being more serious about her work than Allie has ever been. She has no idea what the real deal is because Allie, after all these years, still looks great and has her own clients. I would be the worst kind of traitor if I don’t let Charmaine believe that the girl who introduced us has her act together. (And a traitor to myself! Charmaine might question my credibility.)

  When I got to the corner of Seventy-ninth and York, I tried to call Barry but found myself in voice mail.

  “You have reached the law office of Barry M. Horowitz. Press one if your message is urgent.…”

  Then I called Allie.

  “I should have some news for you soon. About your friend’s visa.”

  “Omigosh. Really?”

  “Don’t get TOO excited,” I said. “One step at a time.”

  “I got an e-mail today from Noi. I told her not to worry. She

  was warned by someone in Australia not to plan on coming to the colloquium! Can you believe it? The Australians are telling her I’m unreliable and arrogant. I have to put a stop to these rumors.”

  “Making extravagant promises won’t—”

  “It’s Molly, the webmistress. She’s been posting mean remarks on the list-serve about the girls in New York. As if Melbourne’s the center of the universe?”

  “Well, it’s closer to Bangkok than we are.”

  “And she’s trying to destroy my friendship with Noi!”

  After promising to report back very soon, I hung up.

  THURSDAY, 3/29/01

  This morning, Barry greeted me in the waiting room of his office. I was surprised to find him sitting at his assistant’s desk, bent over a pile of envelopes and magazines. He was wearing suspenders that almost matched his bow tie—an offhand yet well-planned marriage of wavy yellow stripes.

  “Leonard is attending the birth of his first child,” he announced. “I am my own receptionist.”

  He ushered me into his office. “But it’s kind of fun, working for yourself. I might adopt this as a lifestyle,” he added.

  A collection of Troll Dolls from the 1960s decorated a glassencased cabinet behind his desk. I complimented him on the renovation of his office space—finally complete—then tried to summarize Allie’s situation. He steepled his fingers and assumed one of his most enigmatic expressions.

  Finally, he said, “Allison’s in a romantic pickle with global overtones. But I prefer that to a global pickle with romantic overtones. It’s not so easy for a Thai national to obtain a visa from the United States. Especially for a Patpong bar girl.”

  “But that’s what she told her boyfriend she would do.”

  “The boyfriend…” Barry narrowed his eyes. “Did he suggest that she import this lady? How did this whole thing come about?”

  “He’s a professor,” I assured him. “It’s a conference at a university. What are you implying?”

  “Not implying. Asking. What does Allison’s new boyfriend look like? How old is he? And where did they meet?”

  “I have no idea—she says he’s really handsome.”

  “No doubt.”

  “He teaches at the New School. And he met her at a harmreduction conference. He’s a fan,” I added.

  I left Barry’s office under a nerve-wracking cloud of apprehension, having promised to give Allie his cell phone number. He followed me to the elevator, speaking in a low voice.

  “She might want to avoid discussing the matter with her paramour until we meet. Nothing should be said about this in e-mail. And you can tell her it’s a pro bono project.”<
br />
  “We’re both willing to pay for your time,” I protested. “I can give you a retainer.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m too jaded to seduce a damsel in distress, and there’s no danger of Allison seducing me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking any such thing!”

  I stepped into the empty elevator and Barry blocked the door for a moment with his arm.

  “I would hate to see the New York Council of Trollops entangled in visa fraud. Or a possible INS sting. The world is more dangerous than Allison will ever realize.” He sighed. “That’s part of her charm.”

  LATER

  Dare I tell Allison that Barry suspects her “paramour” of being a possible security threat? She might freak out and say something to Lucho. Allie gets so talkative when she falls in love. My policy is to censor 25 percent of all pillow talk. That means putting every fourth revelation, no matter how trivial, harmful, or sincere, on hold. I can always say it later if it was really a good idea. And half the time it really isn’t.

  FRIDAY MORNING, 3/30/01

  Jasmine was a Barry Horowitz client when she was a ticket scalper, long before she started hooking. And later on, during her drug-dealing phase. Hooking was Jasmine’s way of settling down after a few narrow escapes, and Barry’s the reason she could enter her newest profession without a criminal record.

  I called her from the nail salon while waiting for my toes to dry.

  “Barry seems to think this professor might be up to something. And I don’t know how to break the news to Allie. She’s so, you know, smitten.”

  “Let her discuss it with Barry,” Jasmine advised. “He’s more persuasive.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “For all her stupid ranting about hooker solidarity, you know she’ll pay more attention to something her lawyer tells her. Be

  cause he charges for his advice, and you don’t.”

  “I guess you have a point there.”

  “You know I do. If anyone should listen to my advice, it’s Allison, but she never does. I ordered a baby present for Barry’s assistant. Your share’s seventy-five. I’ll get Allison to chip in. That brings it down to fifty.”

  “May I ask what ‘we’ have picked out?”

  “A Tiffany piggy bank. Every child should be learning how to save before he can talk.”

  “Leonard had a boy?”

  “That’s right! One less piece of jail bait for us to worry about—before you know it, these little girls are leaping out of their playpens, hitting the hotel bars, and they’re big enough to be stealing your dates. I swear to god, some of the New Girls look like they were born when I was in college! Our economy needs some extra men. And Leonard has been good enough to provide us with one.”

  I just hope Leonard’s co-parent never has to encounter Jasmine.

  “Why don’t you drop by and sign the card?”

  It’s a form of feminine machismo to brave Manhattan sidewalks in paper slippers while your toenails are still drying. (Exposing your feet in deepest winter takes it right up to the next level.) All the staff at Pinky’s are accustomed to the paint-and-run syndrome, so they keep a special supply of used shopping bags for customers’ shoes. With my Prada sneakers stuffed into a Duane Reade bag, I made my way—carefully—to Jasmine’s apartment.

  As I crossed Eighty-fourth Street, Matt was ringing from his office. I love it when it’s actually safe to take a call from my husband! Though it’s not considered “safe” by most people to answer the phone while barefoot in a crosswalk. Safety’s a relative concept.

  “Hi, babe.” He sounded so happy to hear my voice that my heart skipped a beat, as if we were still dating. “I got us a table for seven o’clock at Verbena.”

  “Is there any way to move it forward?” I pleaded. “Just a little? I’m way uptown and there might be traffic.”

  Matt respects the fact that I have all these preexisting Upper East Side relationships—places where I go for my nails, hair, Pilates, and skin care—making it quite natural to be hanging out uptown, even if there are five Korean nail salons I could walk to from Thirty-fourth Street.

  I dare not disclose that I’m on my way to Jasmine’s to sign a baby card for Barry’s assistant! Matt would wonder how such a well-known criminal lawyer—Barry’s exploits are too often in the news—became a fixture in my life. And I don’t want to give Matt any more ideas about babies than he already has. The other day, he walked right up to a Bugaboo stroller in our building lobby, ostensibly to examine the wheels, and waved at its occupant while making small talk with the baby’s father. This isn’t something I want to encourage.

  I stepped out of my tattered paper slippers onto Jasmine’s pristine carpet just as they were giving out. Jasmine was eager to show me a picture of the sterling piggy bank. And the baby card we’re all signing.

  “I’m having the pig monogrammed. Here’s a pen.”

  “I don’t know if this card is in good taste,” I objected.

  On the front: “Thank You” in gothic script. Inside, in Jasmine’s handwriting: “…for having a boy!”

  “I think it’s in very good taste,” Jasmine told me. “Anyway, Leonard just spent the best part of a night watching his girlfriend give birth. You think that’s in good taste? And Barry says it was not one of those ‘north end’ delivery jobs.”

  Are deliveries now defined by…where the father happens to be situated??

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  A strange but rewarding session with Trish, this afternoon, at the Stanhope. I arrived at three-thirty sharp to find Trish strutting around the hotel room in extravagantly high boots, a skimpy black push-up bra that shows off her nipples, and a tight black leather skirt. Our customer stood quietly in a corner, hands behind his back. He was wearing a jockstrap and, on his face, a rather apprehensive expression. He stared at his feet, and barely looked up when I entered, but his posture was excellent, showing off his elderly but toned muscles.

  “And now,” Trish was telling him, “the apprentice has arrived.”

  As a “junior interrogator,” I don’t have to dress in such a pointed or obvious fashion—just a girlish sweater, skirt, and normal heels. I’m supposed to be the teacher’s pet at a pornysounding institution, a cross between Private School for Girls and a prison camp.

  “Now, Sabrina, listen carefully.” Trish adopted a low sinister voice. “When a male prisoner has ejaculated a hundred times, his greatest fear is that he’ll be forced to come for the hundred and first time. Tommy’s been having nightmares about you.”

  “He has?”

  I stood closer and made an effort to touch Trisha’s nipples.

  “Not now,” she said, pulling back. “Do you know why Tommy has these nightmares?”

  “No,” I quivered.

  “His greatest fear is a young, tempting interrogator. She makes him come on his own boots, while he’s standing up.”

  She picked up a long thin stick, which she pointed at his groin. “This is the most vulnerable part of your prisoner,” she continued.

  Tom emitted a dramatic gasp that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the pressure from the stick.

  “Not there! Please,” he said in a hoarse voice. “You’ll ruin me. No! Not in my boots! Standing up…no!”

  I’ve never seen anything quite like it. He was pretending to be in pain. For me, that’s a new spin on the concept of customer satisfaction. Masochists usually try to provoke pain—real pain. Is he more interested in the drama? Or just too jaded to go through with it? At his age, it’s anyone’s guess.

  Trish waved her pointer in the general direction of my pussy.

  “Now this,” she explained to me, “is the interrogator’s liability. As a female you must be in total control of your weakest body parts at all times. Does the sight of a man, erect in his jockstrap, make you damp?”

  I nodded shyly and looked away, like a blushing schoolgirl.

  “I’m going to show you how to int
errogate, humiliate, and arouse a man without losing control of your own desires. No matter how damp your panties get.”

  Tom was staring at the floor again. His erection was protruding and I reached out to touch the head of his cock with my fingertip. Trish held my wrist while I teased him.

  “When his jockstrap grows full, it’s a sign of your power as a female but you must not let him turn the tables on you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, feigning nervous excitement. “I think I do.”

  I continued to stroke him lightly, while taunting him with my lips, parted and only hinting at what he wanted.

  “Now go back to your seat, Sabrina, and don’t return until I decide it’s safe for you to interrogate our prisoner. And stop looking at his jockstrap.”

  After the session had ended, I sat waiting for Trish to change out of her spy-from-hell costume into her day-in-town pantsuit. Tom was pottering around the room, still in his jockstrap and nothing else. He poured a glass of spring water for each of us, and settled into an armchair. He’s clearly proud of his taut physique—with good reason.

  “Thalia tells me you’re a student at NYU,” he said. “What are you majoring in?”

  “Well, just part-time,” I allowed, not wanting to get in too deep. “I dropped out for a few years and then I decided to go back part-time.”

  “It’s the best way,” he told me. “See a bit of life while you’re getting your degree.”

  “Do you row?” I asked. “Or do you swim a lot?”

  “How did you know?” he replied with a cocky grin. “Used to be on a rowing team. But that was years ago. Swimming! There’s nothing like it.”

  Trish came out of the bathroom carrying a tote bag very similar to the one I sometimes use. In a black pantsuit and ankle boots, she now looked like a benign bank manager. On the way to her favorite garage, where she stashes her SUV, Trish decided to follow me into Agata & Valentina.