Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “Of course not. That’s his responsibility, but she probably feels like you’re all she has right now. When Sebastian gets his act together, he can take a vacation with her. But right now, he can’t be emotionally or even physically available. So you’re It, you know?”

  “I don’t know!” I repeated, courting my husband’s impatience. “It’s kind of sudden! And she’s turning me into the babysitter again, the good child. It’s a lot to live up to—”

  “Let’s—can we talk about this later?” He was making a sincere effort not to sound curt, and I felt a twinge of remorse for putting him through this particular ordeal. “I’ll try to be home before nine. But I think you should probably tell her yes. You might regret it if you don’t.”

  Later

  I suppose Liane has a point. Allie could get ideas about Milt if she comes to France, but Liane’s out of the loop—despite having known Allie from day one, as a budding call girl. She knows nothing about the radical values (and friends!) Allie has acquired in the last three years.

  “I don’t have to stay in Barcelona for the whole conference,” Allie told me, when I called her back. “If I go to France, I might go to Barcelona early and leave on the tenth. I was talking to Roxana—”

  “Not about this, I hope! I don’t want Roxana to know my business. If you’re coming to Provence, this is just between us,” I warned her.

  “Wellll,” Allie admitted. “I didn’t say anything about YOU, but I told her I might have an opportunity to work in France. You see, Roxana and I—we’re partners in a joint venture.”

  Uh-oh. Like most activist hookers, Roxana has talents that never much helped her in the sex industry. At this point, her looks owe more to activism than to hooking, so I’m not surprised she wants Allie as a partner in her new start-up.

  “Customized Intimacy Coaching is going to change women’s lives!” Allie told me. “Wives and girlfriends who are deprived of the sex worker’s ancient intuitive understanding of men-relationships-and-sexuality will be empowered by one of our two packages.”

  What? Is she reading this off index cards?

  “The Relationship Makeover is, like, six sessions,” she explained. “It’s a feminist approach to finding—and keeping—your inner courtesan. We’re still working out the details of the other package. Roxana thinks too many women have been indoctrinated by The Rules and she wants to create some kind of detoxification plan. Anyway, I’m trying to pull together ten grand. Well, maybe just eight will do it, before the web launch in October.”

  “I see. Well, no wonder Roxana wants YOU to fund this. How would she ever raise that kind of money?”

  Roxana’s hooker cred consists of a few massage parlors where she briefly toiled in her early twenties—before she became a professional activist and workshop leader. Naturally, Roxana supplies the ideology and technique, while Allie supplies the funding—and the right look.

  “We’re splitting all the profits fifty-fifty!” Allie assured me. “And resisting a patriarchal value system that tramples all over our collective history!”

  “You’re what? How … so?”

  “Well, this is a new career for me. But I don’t have to renounce my sex work—I can build on the lessons of my past,” she explained. “Under patriarchy, our history is always being completely stigmatized!”

  I definitely think Liane is wrong about Allie trying to move in on my customer. In all our years of tricking together, Allie has never given her number to any of my guys. Doesn’t seem like she’ll be doing that now. I’m more worried about whether she can still have a normal conversation with a john.

  “Okay,” I told her, “but don’t talk about all this with Milt. He might think you’re lecturing him. Just keep it light!”

  Customized Intimacy Coaching sounds cock-eyed (not in a good way), and a total waste of Allie’s blondeness. I can’t help wondering what Jasmine says about a business plan that offers our trade secrets to non-professionals, but at least they’ll be paying.

  Maybe Allie should start thinking about a new career. Still. Is fifty-fifty a fair split when Allie’s providing all the seed money? Roxana’s inner courtesan must have a great deal of hidden potential (if anyone can find it). Allie’s the window dressing Roxana needs to attract women to her workshops. But I won’t say anything critical about their feminist business model—that might give Allie an excuse to back out.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “But you have to promise. Not a word about me to Roxana. And don’t tell her anything about Milt. She’s way too indiscreet! We have to protect his privacy.”

  Saturday, June 29, 2002

  Here’s something every wife should know: Cooking up a fresh explanation (and it’s got to be fresh) for why you’re going out is actually dangerous. It uses up valuable brain cells, and leads to harder stuff. It’s easier and safer to explain your absence after you return to the apartment.

  This morning, while Matt was sleeping, I tiptoed into the guest bathroom to avoid waking him and donned my exercise mufti—pale blue yoga pants, matching hoodie. I fixed my hair, brushed my teeth and flossed, anxious to be as fresh as possible for my meeting with Milt. When meeting a customer, even if it’s just for coffee, and ridiculously early, I need to know that every part of me’s groomed for intimate contact. Anything less would feel wrong.

  I hopped into a cab on First, and had passed Fifty-seventh when I discovered I had forgotten my cellphone. Was I so anxious to escape without an explanation that I left it in my closet? Thank God the ringer’s off.

  But did I remember to clean up Call History last night? Not that Matt would snoop! But a girl must never underestimate her husband. I erase the history regularly, especially on weekends, when he has more time on his hands. (You just never know how people will behave when they have nothing pressing to do!) I was horrified by my oversight.

  The logistics of this upcoming “mother-daughter vacation” haven’t made it easy to maintain an orderly double life. But when I saw Milt, waiting in front of Agata Valentina, in his dark green Mercedes, I knew all was right with the world.

  “Hop in, kiddo,” he said. “You look cute in that get-up. I’ve never seen you at this hour, have I?”

  “Well,” I said wryly, “there’s a first time for everything, but I won’t be getting up this early in France. I wish we could go upstairs,” I added. A white lie. Sex with a customer—even my favorite—is something I’m not sorry to avoid at seven-thirty A.M. “Charmaine would KILL me if I tried to throw her out of bed at this hour.”

  He handed me an envelope—the cash for our tickets, so that Allie and I can fly without telling Milt our real names. “And some expense money,” he said. “A down payment on what we discussed. I didn’t have time to get all your cash. Can you wait until I see you?”

  “I’m not worried,” I said, and meant it.

  “Do you mind if I take care of the rest in euros?”

  “Euros?” The possibility surprised me. “Do you—” have a French bank account? I almost said, but didn’t “—prefer to give us euros?”

  “It might be easier,” he said with a shrug. “But if you prefer dollars, you’ll have to tell me. Think about it and call me. You have all my numbers in France. I’ll have everything for you when you arrive.” He patted my knee, and started the engine. “This vacation,” he said, “is just what the doctor ordered!”

  It’s not a real vacation for me, but perhaps it’s what I need, too.

  While I’ve never faked an orgasm with my husband, I definitely had to fake our last vacation. Sometimes you have to, if you want your marriage to work. Instead of providing the down time—I have a track record there—I was trying to be, well, more like my husband. A straight person on vacation. I’m not so good at that. I couldn’t relax until Matt and I returned from Wyoming and got back to our respective jobs.

  But this is different. Business as usual. I am the vacation.

  Monday, July 1, Air France, Flight 6230

  Last night, while packing for
the trip, I began to lose my nerve. When Matt’s in the office, I feel safe in my own home: I can bolt the front door and have the apartment all to myself. But Matt’s been home all weekend.

  Packing for France was like walking on eggshells. How will I get out of our apartment on time? If I wake too early, I risk looking haggard when I disembark from the plane. But I need to stop at Seventy-ninth Street and pick up three boxes of condoms. Extra bottles of Astroglide. The satin apron Milt likes, my new crotchless panties, and the see-through teddy I picked out for my Provençal idyll. Not to mention four different pairs of heels to match all my bedroom outfits.

  Suddenly, I had another reason to panic. What happened to that new packet of birth control pills? Of course, I’m using condoms with Milt—so birth control is beside the point. But my husband has no idea I’ve ever taken the pill, and I don’t want him finding out now. When he thinks we’re trying to conceive!

  With an early morning departure and five-hour airport lines looming, I began to wonder. What if I end up flying to Nice and leaving Matt in the apartment with my pills?

  The last time I went away—for Grandmummy’s funeral—things went so horribly wrong that my house of cards almost fell to pieces. Have I been too eager to take this trip? Do I seem too much like a busy girl who can’t wait to get out of town? Perhaps I’ve overplayed my hand here.

  A feeling of dread began to take over. To make matters worse, Matt wandered into the bedroom, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt, carrying the latest Wired. He fell onto our bed, where he began to read in an absent-minded way while I tried to search discreetly for my new pills.

  I gave up the search and bit the domestic bullet. “I—I don’t know if I should really be doing this,” I told him.

  He looked up from his magazine. “France with your momz?” he said playfully. “Come on, you’re doing the right thing, honey.”

  “Why is it so important to you that I go?”

  He looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why did you want me to do this? I feel like it’s a mistake to leave you alone here for two and a half weeks!”

  “I’m going to miss you, but I can take care of myself—”

  “I’ll BET you can.”

  “Honey.” He still didn’t know what was coming. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about—” I steeled myself for a topic I haven’t raised since last summer “—your other apartment. You hid that from me for a year! You let Gary fool around in your apartment!”

  “Gary isn’t me! We’re two separate people,” Matt protested. “What he did in that apartment has nothing to do with me! And what does it have to do with your trip to France?”

  “How can you say that? He was having an affair! How can I ever trust you after that? You were his enabler!”

  “Well, maybe I was but—” My husband put his magazine down. “I can’t undo my past, honey.” Now he picked up his magazine and began reading. Or trying to.

  “You never want to talk about our relationship.”

  “That’s not true!” He sat up and threw the magazine onto the floor. “For Christ’s sake, I gave up my other apartment, okay? I’m sorry I kept it from you, but it’s wrong to keep throwing the past in my face! Gary’s back together with his wife, and if she can forgive him for HAVING the affair, why can’t you forgive me for knowing about it?” A good point, but I wasn’t going to concede. “Besides,” he added. “I’ve never had an affair.”

  “You have so! And she’s working at your firm. I saw her at the barbeque. Your boss introduced us!”

  He blinked and looked away. As soon as I had pulled Larissa out of my hat, I felt queasy. For bringing up something he did when we weren’t even engaged—much less married. Still, I felt entitled to use it, because I haven’t mentioned it since 1999. The material’s fresh, and he can’t say I’m nagging him.

  “But that was a long time ago,” he said. “And I don’t even work with her. She’s in a completely different part of the office. I promise you, we’ve both moved on. She doesn’t even remember our—our—”

  “Your summer affair? How do you know what a woman remembers or doesn’t remember? Did she know we were dating when she slept with you?”

  “Nancy, for God’s sake, stop this. I have a past, okay. I haven’t always been a fucking saint. But that was three years ago!”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and said: “I need to pack! I have to be at the airport by six A.M.! You know what the lines are like.”

  While he held me, I felt my body wanting to relax, but I stayed tense. “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry about what I did, okay? I’ve grown a lot since that summer, and I’ll never do anything like that again. I don’t flirt with her. We don’t hang out. We have a professional relationship, and she’s happily engaged to a great guy. We’re over each other, and I want you to get over it, too.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” I said. “Ever since you told me I should go to France, I’ve been wondering.” I looked away from him. “Maybe it’s a bad idea to leave you alone like this. But my mother would never understand if I canceled on her. I mean, now that Sebastian’s doing drugs again, I’m all she has!”

  “Honey.” He was anxious to break free from our wrangling. “You’ll feel better after you hook up with your mom. And so will she. I need to check my email. I’m gonna let you pack.”

  I locked the bedroom door and breathed a sigh of relief! As a general rule, it’s best to hide jealousy when you’re feeling it and pretend to be jealous when you’re not. I thought I was playing by those rules, but when I found myself alone, with my open suitcase, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  I located my birth control pills, and placed them in the pocket of some new jeans, which I placed at the bottom of the suitcase, underneath my polo shirts and my brand new $500 pony-skin flip-flops. It would take an act of the most willful unthinkable perversity for Matt to go there.

  When I unlocked our bedroom door, I was packed—and finally ready to make up with him.

  In bed with my husband, I felt less like a brilliant manipulator and more like the nervous girlfriend I was three summers ago. I was no longer in danger of becoming a smug passionless cheater. As I gave in to Matt’s movements, I was hurtling back to that anguished moment when I discovered him playing around with a summer associate. Matt was more proprietary and in control than ever. He’ll never admit this, but did he like being reminded of my jealousy? Was he thinking about that affair, and how it still enrages me, while we were coming? Or was he feeling hungrier because of my departure?

  It was satisfying, but it was also hard to sleep. Was I turned on by my (real, after all) jealousy? Or by my own lies?

  Later

  It’s a shame to be sitting in business class yet forced to ignore that friendly man across the aisle. He’s exactly the right age, weight, type for a working girl in her thirties! Though I’m surrounded by prospective customers, my face is covered with a thick mask—a ghostly looking cellular treatment that makes my skin tingle. How else can I emerge from this flight looking fresh? I’ve had almost no sleep, and when I close my eyes, my mind refuses to switch off.

  After all the near-misses, the humiliations and rifts of the last four weeks—five grueling hours of enhanced security at JFK, and endless runway delays—I am finally in the air. En route to Nice Côte d’Azur, with condoms, lube and heels safely packed.

  Will Provence be the antidote to my season in hell??

  CHAPTER SIX

  France: State of the Tart

  Monday, July 8, 2002 Villa Gambetta, Saint-Maximin-La-Sainte-Baume

  Being away from my usual bed in Manhattan presents a few challenges. Today, Milt proposed a rendezvous downstairs, in the library. Duncan was on his way to the garden center in Draguignan—a trip guaranteed to take at least two hours.

  “The carpet’s brand new,” Milt said. “Spotless. We could practically have a picnic on it.”

  Sex on the floor.r />
  It’s never as good as it sounds, but I didn’t want to be a kill-joy, having already said no to the solarium. You have to pick your battles and, since it’s his house, not mine, I needn’t worry about getting Astroglide on the rug.

  “Okay, but …” I placed a large fluffy towel on one of the brocade armchairs, carefully slipping a condom into the corner. “Let’s start here.”

  Leaning back on the towel, I opened my legs for him and pulled my panties to one side. Perhaps I’ll turn this into two library visits? Finish him with a blow job, then come back tomorrow to execute the final deed.

  Of course, that means concocting another errand for Duncan. As I slid one finger into my opening, I closed my eyes. Milt was playing with my panties, pulling them toward my right thigh. But when I opened my eyes, he wasn’t looking at my pussy or my fingers. He was staring at my face. That made me uncomfortable. He’s usually so focused on some part of my body. Or his.

  My pussy was naturally wet, and my mind kept traveling toward Duncan, sitting behind the wheel of his SUV. Does he know what we’re doing? Does he wonder if we’re fucking when he leaves the house? But he’s not into girls, I remind myself. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if, in some alternate reality—one in which Duncan IS (into girls)—he’d get hard thinking about me, half-naked in the library, masturbating in front of my customer … and masturbating for real, despite myself.

  I never have orgasms with Milt. Sometimes with other clients, but never with Milt. I was getting too close. I had to stop. And Milt was playing with my bra, sliding his finger underneath the fabric of one soft cup, brushing against the nipple, a gesture that normally leaves me in neutral. When it’s Milt.

  I made a small sound, looked up, and said: “Stop.” I pulled my legs together, and smiled. “I don’t want to come yet. I’m saving it for your cock.”

  Then, I slid off the chair. Milt had to back away slightly while I got onto my knees. I threw him a slutty porn-star look, different from the way I look at a man I’m really into—more of a wanton gaze that says “I’ll do this for anyone, anytime.”