Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “No,” I replied in a cold voice. “But sometimes I wish I had—a long time ago.”

  I turned around and marched off to the showers, then realized that I couldn’t enter in my sneakers. I pretended to look for a fresh towel and made my way back to the bench, where I began to untie my shoes.

  “This is not what you think. Jack and I—” She paused. “We’ve come to an understanding. But I didn’t think you would understand our…understanding. And I was right. You don’t understand.” She pouted. “I was afraid if I told you in the middle of our negotiation—well, you were being so negative. Anyway, Jack’s helping me now.”

  “Helping you?” I was now standing in front of her, in my gym bra and nothing else. “I’m afraid to ask what this entails.”

  Allie’s eyes grew filmy with tears, and she looked away. I handed her my towel—too large for the job, but we practical girls know how to make do. She dabbed a tear off her cheek with the corner of the towel, then added, in a solemn voice, “I’m at a crossroads in my life. Believe it or not, Jack has helped me see that. When we met at Starbucks for coffee, he told me one of his secret dreams, and I told him one of mine.”

  “Oh? Well, he didn’t meet you at Starbucks last Friday—so I presume his secret dream had something to do with visiting your apartment?” Some secret!

  “His secret wish is that, if things were different, we might have a life together. Well, that’s what he says. I told him very honestly that this was not something I could see myself doing. My secret dream is to get an MSW.”

  “A social work degree?”

  “Yes! And he’s committed to helping me do this. And I believe I can also be a healing force in his life. If he’s helping me to achieve my goals, I can help Jack to be a better person,” she insisted, her voice rising to a breathy plea. “And that is one of his goals, by the way—to be the best person he can be.” Now, if I were a guy, I’d be persuaded by Allie’s voice alone. But unfortunately, being a girl, I hear the actual words, not just the ear candy of her breathless babble. “My openness as a person helps him to see me as a person! To experience my humanity in three dimensions instead of two. He no longer feels the need to stigmatize me.”

  “He used those words?” I was surprised by Jack’s new vocabulary. Last time we spoke, he was talking about, well, much baser things than his personal growth.

  “Well, not those words exactly. I sort of helped him see it. I’m—you see, I’m healing Jack’s sex-negative phobias.”

  How much does it cost to heal such a deeply ingrained phobia? I wonder.

  One of the trainers entered the room, and Allie continued quietly: “So he’s going to help me get my master’s degree. He wants to make a positive contribution to my future. We have an arrangement now. And he’s being very generous! I got my first installment on Friday—all cash.” She was blushing with pride, and who could blame her? It’s not every day that a john becomes your sugar daddy. But still…Jack? Why Jack?

  “People make mistakes, but people can grow from their mistakes. A negative can become a positive! In order to heal Jack’s sex negativity,” Allie explained, “I have to forgive him. In order to forgive him…well, his offer of financial assistance was very positive. Jack and I are both growing as a result of this experience. I am growing financially, and he is being challenged emotionally. I feel so blessed!” But Allison suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “I have to pee,” she said abrupdy. She pulled her container of Ketostix out of the shoe-filled locker and disappeared.

  How many times a day do these Atkins freaks have to test their—? I don’t think I want to know.

  I changed into my antifungal flip-flops and hopped into a shower, hoping she would just leave and get on with her exercise routine. I’d heard enough. But Allie was padding around in her shower flip-flops, looking for me.

  “Nancy?” she called out. “Are you—? There you are! Ummmm. Nancy?”

  I gritted my teeth and made a consenting gurgling noise under the water as she pulled the curtain to one side.

  “Close it, would you? I’m getting a chill.”

  “I just wanted to make sure I was talking to you.”

  “Good idea,” I sighed, as the hot water ran down my back.

  “Jack finally admitted—he told me about the phone calls,” Allison said. “I’m sorry about the way I doubted you. He even tried to blame me for the fact that he was making all those crazy phone calls to Eileen!” There was an edge of down-to-earth annoyance as she marveled over Jack’s audacity. “Anyway, I’ve been telling Jack, we’re all responsible for how we channel our sexuality. I think he’s starting to see that! He’s not bothering you anymore, is he?”

  For a fleeting instant, I actually felt sorry for Jack. If I understand this correctly, he’s paying Allison to lecture him about her New Age beliefs. They’re obviously having sex again, but the more he pays her, the more nonsense he has to listen to! I doubt that he’s getting extra sex for those thousands. What a fitting punishment! And, though I hate to admit it, Allie might be responsible for the fact that Jack hasn’t bothered me lately. There haven’t been any hang-ups and Eileen hasn’t said anything about Jack for a few weeks. How long has this sugar-daddy arrangement been going on? A little longer than Allie cares to admit. I decided not to say anything about that—for now.

  “Are you coming to Patroon tomorrow?” she asked. “Jasmine says it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  “Really. What else does Jasmine say about me?”

  “You know what? Jasmine’s a nicer person than you give her credit for.”

  “Excuse me?” Why is she defending Jasmine to me? Jasmine is my friend, not hers, goddammit.

  “Jasmine’s donating all kinds of things to the NYCOT clothing drive. Like those shoes.”

  “The moth-eaten disco pumps?”

  “No! The new shoes, of course. She got one of her, you know”—Allison’s voice lowered to a discreet mumble—“regulars, a guy in the shoe business, to donate some discontinued styles. He’s sending a bunch more next week. And she has another guy in the Garment Center who says he’ll donate some ‘missy loungewear.’ You see? Jasmine is just a good deed waiting to happen. Like Jack, she just needs the right emotional environment—”

  “And who donated the disco pumps?”

  “Well, that’s a good question. A man called up after I did the radio show. He said his sister had died and left behind all these shoes and he can’t think of a more worthwhile cause to donate the shoes to. He was inspired by my dialogue! He left a nice card with the shoes, but there’s no name on it. It just says A NYCOT ADMIRER. I’ve never met him. But he wants to help the street girls.”

  Inspired by her dialogue? Dead sister? No name? This sounds weird.

  “You let this…admirer deliver shoes to your building?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then how did he get the shoes to you?”

  “Well, it was complicated. But I got him to leave them here, with the receptionist.”

  “Now he knows your name! And where you work out!”

  “Just my first name,” Allison assured me. “I only used my first name on the show…and lots of people work out here. Listen, Pilates starts in five minutes. So I’ll see you tomorrow night? You’re not mad at me anymore?”

  As I dried off, I was vaguely spooked by the shoe story. Something about it gives me the creeps. I keep thinking about—what was his name? That sick guy who chopped off the hands…and feet!…of his victims to cover his tracks. I remember when he was on trial and all these moms were gathering at the courthouse, telling the reporters that their dead daughters weren’t hookers.

  “Typical,” Jasmine said at the time. “A serial killer chops you up into fifty different pieces and your mom’s worrying about your sexual reputation.”

  The morbid mood stayed with me, as I contemplated that bag of sexy shoes. Then, as I headed home for my appointment with Steven, it passed.

  Yes, we finally connected, Mr. St
ockings and I! What an easy yet weird date. While telling me an elaborate and nostalgic story about a girl who made him come in his pants at the age of thirteen, he stood next to me, holding his cock against the top of my stockinged thigh. When I felt the head grazing the intersection of sheer stocking and smooth skin, I looked down. And when I started to touch him—he came!

  With a quiet smile on his face, he slipped an envelope into my hand and left.

  LATER

  Eileen is thrilled to hear that I finally got around to seeing her client “Steven Stockings.”

  “Do you want the cut or a new date?” I asked.

  “Well, I’d rather have the date,” she said. “But my nephew’s tuition payment is overdue. So let’s do the cut. My sister is a bloodsucker,” she complained. “And that useless husband of hers! Can you imagine what they’d be like if they knew what I do for a living?”

  Eileen tells her family she has a rich boyfriend footing a lot of her bills. I can’t help wondering: Aren’t her parents horrified? I know mine would be. I could never get away with telling relatives I’m being kept by a guy. That’s even weirder (to them) than doing nothing at all. But Eileen’s family is satisfied, despite the fact that they’ve never met this phantom boyfriend (which would imply that he’s married). And they’re happy to have one adult child who makes up for the financial failings of her siblings.

  SATURDAY. 3/25/00

  Last night, I waited until the last possible minute, then called Jasmine’s cell phone from a cab.

  “Hey!” she answered. “Are you coming? Allison just got here.” I could hear the buzz of a bar crowd in the background.

  “I just had a cancellation,” I lied, not wanting to seem eager. “Maybe I’ll drop by for a drink. After I finish up at Bloomie’s.” Okay, so I was having a Junior Moment, playing hard to get with my girlfriends; but my decision to hit Bloomingdale’s on the way downtown was eminently mature.

  “What are you thinking? They won’t seat us unless we’re all here.”

  “I have to return some bras—it won’t take long. I want the credit to show up on my statement before my payment date.”

  “Well, you’d better return them fast! If you’re not here soon, they’ll give our table away and we’ll be eating in Siberia. Or maybe Buffalo!”

  “Oh, nooo!” I moaned.

  “Are you still there? What’s going on?”

  The sky had disappeared. Raindrops were beating against the window of my cab, and I had no umbrella. “It just started pouring. My god.”

  “You’ll never get a cab at Bloomingdale’s in the rain. You’d better get over here!”

  “Okay,” I conceded. “I’ll return the bras tomorrow.” I now had a perfectly good excuse to meet the girls for a huge steak dinner. (Without any guy-related worries about after-dinner bloating.) The driver was deeply engrossed in his own cell phone conversation, which he was reluctant to end. “Excuse me!” I shouted for the third time. “I have to change my destination!”

  Grudgingly, he turned around, still wearing his headset.

  “Where it is you wish to go, miss?”

  As we pulled up, I calculated a dry dash to the restaurant door using my tote bag as a shield for my hair. But the bag was too heavy due to its cargo of liquid underwear, and I had to dry off in the ladies’ room.

  When I returned to our table, Jasmine was ordering a Grey Goose martini.

  “A martini is on Atkins. A Kir is not,” Jasmine said.

  “I’m not on Atkins,” I protested.

  “But we are. And Allison shouldn’t be having white wine.”

  Allison sheepishly consented to Jasmine’s choice.

  “So! How was the trollops’ teach-in?” Jasmine inquired, in a voice that betrayed an earlier martini. Our fault: She had been waiting at the bar for us both.

  “Very uplifting!” Allie replied. “But the project manager wouldn’t let Gretchen use a dildo for the oral-sex demo. She said it was exploitive and possibly controversial. Or did she say controversial and possibly exploitive…” Allison frowned. “Gretchen says they’re afraid of a dildo scandal because they get funding from the Health Department. The project manager made her use a banana!” Allison looked thoughtful. “You know, I’ve never seen such a large banana.”

  “Are you sure it was a banana? Maybe it was a vegetable,” I suggested. “Or a plantain.”

  “Plantains are off the diet,” Jasmine remarked. “How big was it?”

  “Huge.” Allie tried to estimate the size with her palms. “We used a large Trojan.”

  I glanced around in the vain hope that nobody was listening, but two young guys in suits were sitting right behind Allison—openly staring.

  “Nancy’s right,” Jasmine said. “A large plantain! That’s, like, eighty-two grams of carbohydrate! Gag me.”

  “There was never any danger of anyone consuming carbohydrates at the workshop—” Allison began.

  “I guess condoms protect you from carbs, huh?” Jasmine snickered softly, then turned to my tote bag and peeked inside. “Let’s have a look at those bras.”

  “Not here,” I pleaded, but she was already poking around.

  Allison craned her neck to look. “Brand-new bras?” she said brightly. “We’re taking a van over to Tenth Avenue tomorrow night. With two boxes of free condoms. Maybe we could give the bras to the girls who need them most.”

  In a low voice, I explained, “They’re water bras. Not very good for work.”

  Jasmine held one of the black bras in her lap. “You’re right,” she concluded. “You can’t wear this with a guy. Let’s face it. Tits don’t weigh this much, and guys aren’t stupid!”

  Allison giggled inanely, causing the twenty-something boys at the next table to smirk.

  “Can you two calm down?” I said sourly. “You’re making a spectacle of yourselves. People can hear what you’re saying.” The Atkins acolytes were staying away from the bread basket but not the cocktails, and I was the only one nibbling on a roll. Hence my relative sobriety. “Have a roll, Allie. Before you get alcohol poisoning.”

  Allison was about to take me up on this when Jasmine reached over, efficiently snatching the basket out of Allison’s reach.

  “I had two pieces of focaccia last night and my strips were medium purple!” Allison protested.

  “But we want to keep them purple,” Jasmine said. “A piece of focaccia here, a roll there, and next thing you know…pale pink! Or beige. My strips are consistently dark purple.”

  “Must we discuss all this at the table?” I inquired in a testy voice. “I’d like to be able to enjoy my meal without having to hear about your personal habits.”

  Allison looked subdued for a while. Later, having demolished her grilled salmon, she began once more to zoom in on the bread basket. The diet of the loaves and fish?

  “If you’re not careful you’ll stop producing ketones, and then you’ll be right back where you started,” Jasmine warned her. “Have some creamed spinach instead.”

  “I’m not sure about this diet,” Allison sighed. “Even though I’m producing ketones. I inhaled that salmon and I’m still in the mood for a sourdough roll.”

  “That’s because you have this stupid New Age hang-up about red meat! Woman does not live by brook trout alone. Or boneless chicken breast. You need to start eating more beef, pork, and fatty birds. A nice duck. A juicy lamb chop.” Jasmine sliced into her porterhouse steak. “Look at me! I eat this stuff all the time, no problem. And I never crave starch.”

  Allie gave Jasmine’s sleek seated figure a sideways look.

  “Aren’t you worried about cholesterol?”

  “No. My cholesterol count is amaaaazing. And my doctor is, like, ‘Whole grains, low fat, you know the drill,’ so I just play dumb. He has no idea I’m eating no grains and lots of fat. And he’s thrilled with my cholesterol results.”

  “Why,” I asked, cutting into my own juicy steak, “are you lying to your doctor about what you eat? That’s like ly
ing to your lawyer about what you do for a living! It’s crazy.”

  “Doctors will just lecture you to death. They’re in league with the powerful cereal companies. Did you tell yours?” she asked Allie.

  “Not yet.”

  “Being on Atkins is sort of like joining the Resistance,” Jasmine explained. “When you go to the doctor you’re, like, underground. You have to think like a fugitive. The medical establishment’s totally against what we’re doing. These people are the food police.”

  Food police? Could Jasmine be projecting just a wee bit?

  After ordering dessert—a cheese plate, of course—and making sure Allison didn’t get anything sweet, Jasmine stood up. “My phone keeps vibrating! I’ll be right back.” As she sailed off, phone glued to her ear, the twenty-somethings were checking her out. She did look intriguing, in her hand-tailored black velvet jeans and her steel-tipped cowboy boots. True to form, Jasmine pretended not to notice—though her walk hinted vaguely at a swagger when she passed their table.

  Allie turned to me with a worried look on her face. “I saw Jack this morning—he had to come over at six-thirty!” she said quietly.

  “In the morning?” I gasped. “I hope he’s not going to make a habit of that.”

  “Well, sometimes it’s the only time he can fit me in. He comes over before he goes to the office. His wife thinks he’s going to the gym.”

  “Strange. He used to see you in the afternoons, when he was a normal customer! What time do you have to get up?”

  “Very early,” she said unhappily. “The thing is…he said something today that I didn’t like. My next installment is due any day now, and he’s—he’s giving me a hard time about my major. He wants me to change it.”

  “Hang on. He agreed to what, exactly? To send you back to school?”

  “To pay for my MSW. And help with the rent for the next two years.”

  “And what’s the problem?”

  “He wants me to withdraw from NYU and go to interior decorating school.” She looked deeply hurt. “And I don’t want to! I really want to study social work.”