by Tracy Quan
Wendy nodded.
“When he grabbed my hand, I got nervous. He was so much stronger. And suddenly, I remembered that guy with the gun. I thought: I’ve come this far, I have my own clients, I don’t have to work for some sleazy escort service, I’m well-connected and go to the best hotels. My clients are the movers and shakers of the universe. They run Manhattan. But my own boyfriend turns out to be a random nutcase just like that guy! I’ve allowed a maniac into my home! At least, when I was sixteen, that guy didn’t enter my life—I could leave his apartment! For a minute I wasn’t really a success after all. Women who get killed by guys they don’t understand are, by definition, failures. Right?”
There was a pause. Dr. Wendy doesn’t like to call anyone a failure. “And then what happened?”
“He pulled out this beautiful Lucida ring and he was so incredibly gentle and persuasive and passionate, and everything was okay again. I realized that I was a success. My nightmare was a delusion. I never dreamed, when I was a sixteen-year-old hooker, that a guy like Matt would propose to me—that I would even want him to! Don’t you see? I was spellbound! By my own respectability!”
“That’s a lot of material to be processing while your boyfriend’s trying to propose to you.”
“After all the stories I’ve told him, and all the lies he believed, that story about the keys—I really believed him!”
“You fell for his ruse.”
“Yes. I took it as a sign! It made me feel that we belonged together after all. He used his wits—he figured out a scheme to get back into my apartment and into my life. I was so…” My heart still skips a beat when I remember the confusion, the fear, and the sudden realization that I had been romantically snared—by this guy who didn’t know exactly who or what I was but could still get the better of me. “It made me, you know, respect him as a guy. We had…” I paused and remembered the reckless love-making that had followed. “We had very good sex that night,” I added primly.
“But when Matt came to collect his keys you were reminded of an unsatisfied sex partner from over a decade ago—a man who also wanted something more than you could give.”
This certainly appealed to my therapeutic vanity. And my latent Sinderella Complex. The commercial nymphet in danger, saved by her scheming Galahad. But I fessed up.
“I know marriage is supposed to be the alternative to strange guys waving their weapons in your face. But the truth is, that’s the only time anyone has ever threatened me with a gun. I’m not in that kind of danger. Most of my guys are regular clients. I was just so dazzled. My heart was pounding because he had captured me. He proved that he wasn’t just my mental toy—he surprised me totally.”
“And now? In the cooler light of day?”
“Maybe girls like me aren’t supposed to marry. Wasn’t that the first thing Gigi’s aunt taught her? We don’t marry. Maybe those Old World courtesans had the right idea.”
Wendy knows that Gigi is one of my favorite adult fairy tales. The book, the movie, even the corny songs. So does Matt. He, however, just thinks it’s some kind of strange retro quirk.
“Gigi comes from a family of courtesans,” Wendy began. “But the only successful courtesan in the story is her aunt, who also happens to be the head of the family. And she masterminds a marriage for Gigi, despite herself. So, Gigi is really a story about ambivalence in the demimonde.”
I savored the phrase, the emotional geography. In the demimonde: ambivalence. A golden age of hooking when girls like me could retreat into their own social country. No wonder they could say, without regret, “We don’t marry.”
“But ambivalence about marriage is not unique to your profession,” Wendy continued. “I meet hundreds of women in my practice—and a lot of men—who use their work to explain a romantic disappointment or a fractured relationship.”
I nodded in agreement but felt rather wistful. So much for my Belle Epoque fantasy of a romantic caste system!
3 Mau-Mauing the Flatbackers
What with actresses wanting to be amateurs because they think it’s ladylike, and amateurs wanting to be actresses because they think it’s immoral, the theatre is no place for an honest workman.
—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
TUESDAY. 2/15/00. The morning after the night off
In the cab on the way to Carnegie Hall last night, I felt my temperature rising as I checked the clock on my cell phone. As usual, I had not given myself enough time to find a taxi—a bad habit that I mostly indulge in with boyfriends and rarely with clients. I closed my eyes to block out the Valentine traffic jam on Second Avenue.
I opened my eyes at Park Avenue and Fifty-seventh. Two girls in smart black suits got out of a limo in front of the Four Seasons Hotel—where I would be tonight if I were working. Maybe I could somehow escape from this Sinderella Spiral and become, like Jasmine, a sexually active spinster—a woman with a past, a future, and no serious boyfriend. A woman without nosy future in-laws who ask awkward questions. A woman with less to lose! All the pieces of my life can’t possibly fit together for much longer. Something’s got to give—but what?
When I got to my destination, Matt was waiting in the lobby, looking a little shy—and rather adorable in the tie I gave him for Christmas, the one with small yellow giraffes on a bright red background. He’s mine! I thought, with a sudden surge of confidence. His face lit up when I approached.
“Each time I see you,” he murmured affectionately, “it’s a kind of revelation to me.”
I melted against the arm of his jacket and my regrets faded. The pieces do fit, I thought. With Matt, I have a future. My body, still tingling with anxiety about its checkered past, now felt safe, desirable, mysteriously protected.
My doubts drifted out of me during the recital. Later, in his bed, I closed my eyes while he—quite happily—did all the work. I reveled in my laziness and encouraged him to take his time.
WEDNESDAY. 2/16/00
A phone call this morning from Jack! “Suzy? Are you available today?”
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “I, um, have an exercise class in five minutes—can’t talk.” You should never tell a John you’ve blacklisted him. He’ll want to have a long conversation with you, attempting to explain himself, pledging to reform—or trying to convince you that he’s innocent. Or he’ll try to find out who spread the word of his misdeeds, if he’s vengeful. So I’m accidentally unavailable when Jack calls. Unlike Eileen, who feels the need to confront her foes, I’m very clear about not wanting to have enemies in this business. “Can I call you back?” I suggested, as a stall.
“No, don’t call me at work,” he said nervously. “My son’s in the office. Okay, fine, call, but if he answers, just act like you have a wrong number. Call me before five—I want to see you,” he added abruptly. “I’ll come right over.”
My other phone started ringing, and I quickly hung up.
“It’s me!” Allie announced. “I just saw Jack!”
“But he just—When? Where? What’s going on? Where are you?”
“I just got home. We had lunch at La Côte Basque.” She giggled and added, “He gave me an envelope. You’ll be proud of me. I stood my ground! I told him we couldn’t have sex. He said I should keep the envelope anyway. There’s enough in here for…oh, wow. I think I made the right decision.”
“Well, he just called me.”
“He called you?” Allie sounded incredulous. “When?”
“Just now!”
There was silence. So Allie met with him, took his money, and left him with an unrequited hard-on.
“And what did he want?” she asked. “Did he talk about me?”
“What do you think he wanted? Look, if you insist on playing head games with Jack, he’s going to look for satisfaction elsewhere. And no, he didn’t say anything about you. The man is not a eunuch. Even if he agrees to act like one when he’s having lunch with you.”
“Well, I’m not possessive! I don’t care who he sees.” There was a pause
in which I said nothing. Doesn’t care who he sees? Nobody asked her! But I didn’t want to be the one to point this out. “And don’t forget the NYCOT meeting,” she reminded me. “You promised to come! See you tomorrow?”
That meeting. Ever since Allison got involved with “the sex workers’ community,” I’ve noticed a definite loosening of standards. I think I preferred it when she was a Recovering Hooker, trying to kick the habit.
“Allie, you’re playing a dangerous game,” I started to warn her. “You’re not being professional about this—” But she had already hung up.
LATER
Amazing news from Karen about Franklin Street. The owners are staying put. Apparently, the wife suddenly panicked at the prospect of moving to the Upper East Side. She broke out in hives! Canceled the deal on their new condo. Had to forfeit a mortgage broker’s fee. Turns out this is the second time hubby has tried to pry his wife away from her cultural roots. And lost a mortgage broker’s fee.
“They’ve got all this money,” Karen sighed. “And the husband’s a partner at___________.” She named some white-shoe-sounding law firm. “But she gets a hysterical illness whenever she has to go above Fourteenth Street! And now that she has this child, well, she’s never going to let him tell her where to live.”
“Oh, dear,” I sighed back, trying not to sound too relieved.
Saved by a bourgeois bohemian’s worst hang-ups! I ♥ Manhattan and its many varied neuroses. The neighborhood caste system is alive, and all’s right with the world. Or at least with the borough.
THURSDAY. 2/17/00. Pumpkin time—home at last
Tonight, as I was leaving for the NYCOT meeting, I suddenly realized I had no idea where I was going. With my keys dangling in the door, I dashed back inside and had to boot up my laptop just to retrieve the address; I’ve been careful not to print out any of Allison’s recent e-mail. I cringed as I reread her message:
The New York Council of Trollops (NYCOT) wants YOU. As sex workers, we have been penalized for daring to transcend patriarchal concepts of sexual virtue that have kept all human beings in a state of sex-negative paralysis for millennia. Be we prostitutes, be we strippers, pro-dommes, or phone-sex workers, we are all sexual and social healers. As we enter a new millennium, we honor the history of all whores, take responsibility for healing the sex-negativity in our lives and in the penal code, celebrate the contributions of sex workers everywhere…
When I saw the location, I groaned; my outfit was all wrong. Wear a casual fur on Avenue C and you’ll be totally misinterpreted, maybe even assaulted—what was I thinking? Suddenly, my lunaraine mink sweater looked less jaunty, less casual, and more controversial.
As the cab pulled up in front of a run-down redbrick walk-up, I was glad I had changed into my quilted black jacket, the perfect transitional outfit for traveling below Fourteenth and back. A coat for all zip codes. You can’t tell what it costs unless you look carefully—at the inside.
On the second floor, I was overwhelmed by an aroma of burning sage, and by Allison’s latest role model. Roxana Blair is New York’s most politically correct ex-hooker. When she isn’t organizing NYCOT meetings, she facilitates Vaginal Empowerment Workshops, coyly referred to as Group VIEWs. Roxana also believes that intimate relationships interfere with our sexual empowerment by discouraging women from perfecting their masturbation skills. Whatever!
So far, I’ve resisted her efforts to recruit my, er, body for a weekend VIEWing. Roxana and I have reached what I would call a vaginal detente: you don’t show me yours, and I won’t show you mine. But I did agree to attend the NYCOT meeting for Allison’s sake, on the strict understanding that this was not, repeat not, one of Roxy’s vaginal encounter groups.
“Nancy’s here!” Roxana mooed to the room. “Welcome!” She was dressed in an oversize tie-dyed T-shirt, which rode up when she hugged me. At the sight of Roxana’s unkempt pubic hair, I froze. Have I been tricked into joining one of her G-spot search parties? And why doesn’t she wax?
“I haven’t seen you in months,” Roxana continued, completely ignoring my alarmed expression. “Not since our lunch at Zen Palate.” (That’s when Roxana tried to befriend me by ordering twenty different kinds of wheat gluten followed by tofu for dessert. She was under the mistaken impression that because I look Chinese, I must be a vegan Buddhist. I haven’t had the heart to tell her that, where I come from, Chinese people are Catholic or Anglican—and carnivorous.)
I glanced around the room and saw a skinny girl in her twenties with short spiky hair and a U-shaped nose ring. Her black bra was peeking out of a half-open leather vest, but she, unlike Roxana, was wearing pants. Her jeans had holes in the knees, but, mercifully, not at the crotch. An overweight woman with chin-length gray hair, wearing a long flowered dress and black sneakers, handed me a sign-in sheet.
“For the NYCOT mailing list,” she explained cheerfully.
“I don’t want to be on any mailing list!” I said, unable to control my shrillness. “Where’s Allison?” And where were all the other members?
Nobody else seemed to care—much less notice—that Roxana was chairing this meeting without her panties. Allison appeared, carrying some paper cups and a large pitcher of red liquid.
“Oh, Nancy’s here—good. Everybody help yourselves to cranberry juice!”
“This needs sugar,” the skinny girl with the nose ring complained.
“It’s made with Hain’s unsweetened concentrate, and it’s very good for the bladder,” Roxana told her. “This is a sugar-free dwelling, Gretchen.”
“Well, we’re going to discuss inclusiveness,” the girl replied. “If we want to do outreach to the entire sex industry, we have to acknowledge different kinds of cultural norms.”
Allison scribbled dutifully in her Kate Spade organizer and looked up. “What else is on the agenda?” she asked brightly.
“We have two new members,” Roxana announced. “Gretchen and Nancy.”
Members? When did I say I was becoming a member? I guess there are no free vegan lunches. Gretchen and I regarded each other from across the room with wary expression-free eyes.
“So, why don’t we all introduce ourselves,” Roxana continued. “Please tell the room who you are, what kind of sex work you do, and why you’re here.” As members began to introduce themselves, Roxana jotted notes on a huge yellow pad, nodding emphatically.
“I’m Belinda,” said the gray-haired woman. “I’ve been a dominatrix for twenty years. All my friends know I’m a pro-domme, I have an ad in Corporal, and I’m a proud bisexual volunteer at the Gay and Lesbian Anti-Violence Project, a member of the Lambda Independent Democrats, and a founder of the Lower East Side Coalition. And I’ll be speaking at this year’s Leather Leadership Conference in D.C. I joined NYCOT because I want to make the world a better place for the next generation of sex workers.”
How does she find time to work?
“Also,” Belinda continued, “I’m having a dispute with the billing department of Screw about an ad I was running. The patriarchal males who control the adult publications are threatened by pro-dommes because we’re strong independent women who don’t give blow jobs. Now I noticed that Nancy, here, says she doesn’t want to be on the mailing list. I’d like to know why—”
“That’s wonderful!” Roxana interrupted. “Can we limit the introductions to introducing ourselves and wait until Nancy has her turn before we start the actual discussion?”
I was not exactly looking forward to explaining myself to the downtown dominatrix who doesn’t give blow jobs. (Or take care of her hair.) Fortunately, Allison gave me some breathing time.
“I’ve been a sex worker for eight challenging and fulfilling years,” she began. It was bizarre to hear her lapsing into NYCOT-speak—“sex worker”? She beamed at Belinda, who beamed back. “I just want to say that lately I have been aware of the goddess within every sex worker. For example, my friend Nancy, whether she wants to be on the mailing list or not, has been—”
&nbs
p; “I think we should limit ourselves to ourselves,” Roxana interrupted again. “Wait until Nancy has spoken.” Her gentle New Age manners were beginning to wear off.
The girl with the nose ring took the floor. “I’m Gretchen. Today I run a needle exchange program in Hunts Point and I have a master’s in public health, but I worked on the street for eight years.” When everyone sat up, she began to vent. “The hookers’ movement is always talking about changing the laws, but what are you doing for IV-using street workers?” she asked. “Nothing! You’re all just talking to yourselves! You can’t go to Hunts Point and expect to reach women on the street by telling them how fulfilling your life is,” she told Allie. “You’re out of touch with reality. I was out there at the age of fifteen—whoring! And what were you? A fucking cheerleader?”
Allie went rigid—and looked rather startled. Like the proverbial creature caught in the headlights.
“If there’s a goddess, why would she allow cops to lean on teenage girls for blow jobs? Without condoms!” Gretchen added.
Roxana cleared her throat but didn’t scold Gretchen for veering off-topic. Or for impugning Allison’s high school career. So much for limiting our introductions to ourselves! Do I detect a double standard? Unbridled, Gretchen began to berate Roxana’s elitist attachment to sugar-free beverages.
“You can’t have a policy like that at group meetings,” Gretchen told her. “You’re excluding people like me. You can’t do outreach in Hunts Point with sugar-free beverages!”
Roxana and Belinda seemed to enjoy Gretchen’s tongue-lashing.
“I want you to know that I feel privileged to be having this dialogue with you,” Roxana mooed. “I wasn’t aware of the classist assumptions I was making.”
Belinda, the dominatrix, chimed in. “Heroin should be legalized,” she said, in a rather submissive tone.
