by Tracy Quan
That’s what they used to call this part of the Upper East Side when single women filled the tenements and highrise apartments. Now I see them on the sidewalks: former girls who never left, walking their Yorkies, ignoring the baby carriages and the kids streaming out of P.S. 158. I see them in the nail salons and, occasionally, picking up their Paxil at the York Avenue Duane Reade, dressed like somebody’s fantasy of a 1970s call girl in a bad dream. The hair is brilliant and blond or jet black and huge, but never gray. Sometimes I want to ask, “What were you? A litehook? A suburban daughter with an allowance?” Or perhaps an aspiring cabaret singer with a deficient work ethic.
When will the conscience of the Metro section figure out that some rent offenders—like Charmaine—actively embrace the spirit of enterprise? Are—like yours truly—in bed with said spirit!
I sent a quick e to Charmaine—
This is material for ten headaches. Wish he’d go back to the West Side where hardcore offenders have ten rooms and a balcony! Best time for reading the *Times* is the morning. It’s good to stay informed but beauty sleep is THE priority for girls like us.
—then discovered a strange-looking e-mail, which I almost deleted.
Allie’s subject headers are beginning to sound like the worst kind of spam!
Hi Nancy! I’m working on my speech for the Open Society Institute:
The San Francisco prostitutes’ movement was conceived in a hot tub by Margo St. James. She called her group COYOTE—Call Off Your Old Tired Ethics. At first, the other prostitutes adopted animal names to show their solidarity. The Prostitutes Union of Massachusetts was called PUMA. In the 1970s, an English sex worker made history with…Prostitutes United for Social and Sexual Integration. Some sex workers have chosen to express their national pride. Like the Canadian prostitutes who came up with: Better End All Vicious Erotic Repression. (BEAVER!!) THIS IS BECAUSE.…???
I need your help filling in the blanks here! Do you have any thoughts about why Canadian sex workers are so patriotic? You’re the only Canadian I know! Roxana says I should project a global perspective, make our movement sound politically relevant in UNEXPECTED WAYS. Coz—get this!—somebody from the BBC will be TAPING THE PANEL DISCUSSION. Sooo I might be on British television if I play my cards right! NY1 is sending a reporter, well they’re thinking about it. Also NPR. And Roxana’s talking to someone at C-SPAN! Is the CBC part of the BBC? Or the other way around? What can you tell me about the role of the beaver in Canadian life? I hope you don’t mind all these questions. I have to sound knowledgeable.
Yikes. Allie on TV? As the New York alphatrollop? Why is she asking me about the CBC? If we’re lucky, this won’t air in the States but—I sent back a hasty reply.
Have you considered the implications of being on TV??? Anyone could end up seeing you, including your **parents.** How will you explain to your mom that you’re a member of this Trollops’ Association! Please think it through before you proceed. Video is forever! It could be used against you. And against your FRIENDS. Hello??? Your FRIEND, N. C.
After collecting my thoughts, I tried to say something helpful about “the beaver in Canadian life.” Well, the beaver is a monetary symbol because it’s on the tail side of the nickel. But I’m sure the members of BEAVER don’t want to be associated with a coin that’s currently worth about three American cents! I decided not to mention the Canadian nickel. Instead I wrote back:
re: castor canadensis & the BBC
Believe it or not, the Beaver is the symbol of national sovereignty. Beavers were prized for their warm pelts and megaprofits generated by the fur trade. THAT is how the beaver came to be such an important symbol, by making money for the trappers and traders who sent the pelts to European hat-designers. Beavers were so profitable they almost became extinct. When Europeans started wearing silk hats instead of fur, the existing beavers were spared. The Canadian beaver survived because it was no longer in fashion. I know that’s hard for a New Yorker to believe but it’s true. Fortunately, Canada has other ways of making a living.
BBC is NOT part of CBC and vice versa. Will explain when I have more time.
PS: Your subject headers are confusing my spam filter. Please put your name in the subject line or Beaver in Latin (see my example above)
You should NOT allow TV cameras at this event. NY1 is a very bad idea. Too many people around here watch that. NPR sounds safe. It’s just radio! And radio is where you shine. If they have to concentrate on your voice, people will really LISTEN TO YOUR IDEAS.
Why does she want to be on television? Is it the novelty of having all those cameras pointing at her? I suppose she wants to keep up with Roxana. Whenever there’s a hooker scandal in the air, you can be sure that Roxana will be on Fox News or NY1 pontificating about sex workers’ rights. But Roxana can afford to do that! She’s a has-been where hooking is concerned and was never a success, so what does she have to lose? These TV shows generate interest in her Tantric sex tutorials and her sex-positive vibrator workshops—that’s how she really supports herself. And I’m sure she makes a better living running these Clitoral Consciousness groups than she ever did working two days a week in a massage parlor! You have to simultaneously throw up your hands in despair—she was a hopeless hooker—and congratulate her, for finding a way to make money from sex anyway.
But successful hookers can’t afford to imitate Roxana. Allison has a lot to lose. No reputable madam will work with Allie if she does this. A lot of the girls who send her dates will avoid her. And her clients?
When I called Jasmine, her voice mail kicked in. “We have to talk about Allison,” I told her. “She’s in danger of ruining her life. I’m convinced of it.”
FRIDAY MORNING, 4/13/01
Dr. Peele’s office just called, to see if I would come earlier due to a change in her schedule. Today’s appointment with her is totally urgent. If I plan to follow Jasmine’s advice, I must get myself looked at NOW.
I insist on a female gynecologist but not (like Allison and her activist pals) for airy-fairy feminist reasons. It’s more like a business decision. If a male doctor examines my pussy, he’s getting a free peek. Jasmine, who swears by her own guy-necologist, disagrees: “It’s all demystified. A male gyno’s just like a bank teller, handling money all day. He’s not copping a freebie when he examines your breasts. He’s working.”
When I’m naked with a man, I don’t care if it’s my husband or a john or my doctor, I don’t want to relinquish my feminine mystery. That’s even worse than giving someone a free look!
And it’s not just about my naked body or my lower parts. When I was twenty-two, I decided to try a male shrink. I thought he’d be a good alternative to the chain-smoking weirdness of Dr. Anita Samson. For our first consultation, I spent an hour figuring out what to wear, putting on my makeup just so. I wanted to leave no doubt in Dr. Botstein’s mind that any problems I had in connection with men were a consequence of being attractive. Of course, I was ridiculously late, incapable of doing therapy with Dr. Botstein. I just wanted to impress him.
FRIDAY NIGHT
In deference to the soft feet of her patients, the stirrups in Dr. Peele’s office are covered with chintz, pastel booties. Today’s booties were pink and white. As I reclined on the examining table, I noticed a large padded model of a spermatozoon hanging from the ceiling. Suspended above two microscopes, it was covered in silver fabric—a kind of sperm-shaped cushion.
“Wow,” I said. “That sperm…” Dr. Peele was gently touching my breasts with both hands. Not wanting to break her concentration, I waited for her to finish. “Normal?”
“So far so good. You had a question about sperm?”
“I was looking at, um, the new sperm sculpture.”
“New? There’s nothing new about sperm and nothing new about that one. It’s been there for about five years.” Now she was applying a condom to a wandlike device that peers at the layout of your womb. It’s amazing
what they can do these days without being truly invasive. “Breathe through your mouth. Good girl.”
“That sperm was always there?”
“Always,” she said, inserting the probe. “You just didn’t care. A dangling spermatozoa. Now you see it, then you didn’t.”
“I’d like to start my pills as soon as possible.”
“Are you no longer using condoms?”
“Oh, I still do. I have been. But I got married, you know. Don’t worry! I wouldn’t ask you for the pill AFTER I need it. I’m not that kind of girl.” Dr. Peele doesn’t really know what kind of girl I am. She thinks I’m a freelance copy editor. Since most of her married patients don’t have to work, she doesn’t ask a lot of questions about my pseudocareer. “Listen, I’ve never been pregnant. How do I know I’m really fertile?” I asked her. “Is there a way to test for that? To be sure?”
“We can look at your FSH—” She paused, frowning at the screen next to my head.
“What? Is something wrong? It’s okay, you can tell me. What’s going on down there?”
“Nancy. You worry too much. Nothing is wrong. You’re about to ovulate. See that?”
Turning my face toward the black-and-white monitor, I saw my ovaries in real time. She twisted the probe in one direction, then the other. It’s like having a hidden camera in the stockroom of a department store. If I stayed on this table for another fortyeight hours, hooked up to the machine, would I spot the escaping egg?
“So we don’t need to test your FSH,” she explained. “You can see both ovaries. They like taking turns.” She pointed to the right ovary on the screen. “You are definitely about to ovulate. So you’re in business,” she added. “And you look healthy. Cynthia will take your blood and then we’ll talk about your pills.”
“When I—if I become pregnant, what are my chances of conceiving twins?”
“Twins? Well, it depends. We’ll discuss that in my office.”
Moments later, I was sitting in front of Dr. Peele’s desk, surrounded by autographed pictures of newborn babies and adult celebrities. The models and actresses are easy to recognize, familiar faces. But I keep wondering about that woman—sleek and tawny, sitting in profile, wearing a seriously elegant tiara. Last year, while sitting in the waiting room, buried in a newspaper, I overheard Dr. Peele’s office manager telling Dr. Peele’s nurse: “The king’s daughter is on hold.”
My private equipment shares a discerning caretaker with a handful of world-famous celebs and at least one exotic princess. Or maybe even a queen. For some reason, I find that comforting.
“You were asking about twins.”
“What I really want to know is—when I deliver, does my husband have to be present? I know everyone’s doing it but I don’t think I can handle it.”
“Have you discussed it with him?”
I’m afraid to! “Well, I have reason to believe…” How to explain this to Dr. Peele? “I think he expects to be included at every stage.”
“But you’re not pregnant and you’re talking about going on the Pill. It seems that the cart and horse are out of sequence.”
“It might seem that way but they’re not. This is my sequence! I never understood why birth control was called family planning. When I was a teenager, I thought it was just a silly euphemism for not getting pregnant. Now I get it. So I’m planning my pregnancy.”
“So you want to plan your pregnancy and you plan to start by not getting pregnant.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I can’t plan properly if my brain is fogged with the fear of conception. I want to do everything right. And I want to find out more about my husband before I try to conceive. Not his—I’m not worried about his ability to get me pregnant.” (Intuition tells me that’s a no-brainer.) “I think he wants to…watch me give birth! Can I tell you something? I have never been an exhibitionist.”
“Actually,” Dr. Peele said, “we do not encourage that here. You can comfortably tell your husband we don’t urge him to be present. When the time comes.”
The Imperial We of an ob-gyn who runs her medical boutique with an iron fist.
“Really? You don’t?”
“No. But when a couple insists, we suggest that the father…”
“Stay at the north end?”
“Correct. But your husband expresses a desire to participate?”
“I know it’s weird but there are some things I would rather not discuss with him. Yet.”
“This is not usually the father’s initiative. Most men do not insist on being in the delivery room—”
“I think that’s changing, Dr. Peele. My husband is already much too involved with my pregnancy and as you said yourself I’m not even pregnant. Sometimes I think, if things were reversed, and he could get pregnant…” Now I had her attention. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“I’m beginning to.”
I left her office with a prescription and a sample. In a lighter mood. Until my phone rang, flashing Unavailable ID.
“What’s the deal?” Jasmine said. “I just spoke to Allison.”
“Did she tell you?”
“About what? Listen, if she’s about to ruin her life, she’s being very cagey about it. Or she’s in denial. She’s telling me nothing. And frankly, I don’t think she has a clue why I called her. She sounds very serene. It’s weird.”
“Well, Allie would be the last person to realize it if she does ruin her life. This is a path she can’t return from. Once she goes on television—”
“Television? Is she nuts? If her customers see her on TV, they’ll run for the hills.”
“There’s still time to talk her out of it.”
“And what about the domino effect? Lunacy by association. They might think you’re part of this political freak show. Or me. You know how these guys are. They want everything discreet!”
And what if Matt sees Allie on TV? He’ll recognize her, I’m sure. How will I explain my friendship with an out-and-proud prostitute? Pretend I didn’t know? Act really shocked? Do I also have to act horrified and appalled? Or would that be overdoing it. Perhaps normal prurient curiosity is more convincing.
When I got home, I tucked my medical booty—pills and prescription—into the pocket of a winter coat. I checked the Call History record on my cell phone and erased all the incriminating numbers. I turned on my French conversation tape—I like to have that running when Matt comes home from work, a subtle reminder of what I’m really supposed to be doing all day. Then I changed into a pair of jeans, to marinate the Cornish game hens.
MONDAY, 4/16/01
Today, a last-minute call from Milt, badly in need of a session.
“What a weekend! My stepson got arrested and my wife started blaming me for letting him use the car. I was a witness at my own crucifixion.” He sighed. “But you can make it all better. Are you free at two-thirty?”
“I have to check with Charmaine,” I warned him. “She’s, you know, entertaining today. How’s three-thirty?”
After negotiating with both, I managed to squeeze Milton into Charmaine’s afternoon while she was getting her highlights repaired. It’s not my style to rush—especially with Milt—but he was turned on when I told him: “We must be out of here before Charmaine’s hot date arrives.”
“God forbid that I should run into some other horndog with impeccable taste,” Milt told me.
After my weird afternoon in the interrogation camp training center, Milt’s straightforward appetite—his overly friendly 69-ing, followed by energetic (for me) fucking, capped off with an extended blow job—was a welcome relief. Despite the hard work.
“And why did you let him have the keys to the car?”
Milt was lying on his back, recovering from his orgasm, while I wrapped a hot cloth around his cock.
“Thanks. I had no idea he was high! And I’m not sure what he was on. Now he’s playing his mother off against me and hitting us up for money.” But Milt smiled happily. “What’s one weekend in sleepl
ess hell if the reward I get for my suffering is a blow job from you?” He looked at his watch. “Charmaine’s hot date must be getting warmer.”
After Milt was gone, I rushed around the apartment removing all traces of our session. My cell phone was ringing but I ignored it. With Allie and Jasmine waiting for me at Caffe Bianco, and Charmaine’s date expected in less than thirty, I barely had time to make the bedroom look pristine and take a shower.
When I arrived at Bianco, Allie was nursing an eggnog.
“Where’s Jasmine?” I looked around the bar. “Are you okay?”
“She’s coming right back. I really think Jasmine needs to form a truly intimate relationship. She’s just so meddlesome. I told her about NY1 and she asked me for the names of all the TV producers I’m talking to! Of course, I didn’t give them to her! There’s a huge empty space in her life and she wants to fill it by controlling my—”
“All the TV producers?” I felt a little faint. “How many are you talking to?”
“Oh, just three or four. I have a really important opportunity coming up. I know you don’t agree with my plans, but you’re open to dialogue and I value that. I can’t even talk to her! She’s trying to control my life!”
“But why do you want to be on TV? Don’t you think you can accomplish…whatever you’re trying to accomplish…by staying away from the cameras?”
“Can I tell you something?”Allison leaned toward me. “Please don’t repeat this to Jasmine because she won’t understand. I need to increase my Google presence.”