Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  I was kneeling on the kitchen floor, completely naked, sent by Milt as an end-of-summer bonus. Since I have no choice in the matter, it’s easy enough to do whatever Duncan wants. I unzipped him—magically, I did not have to deal with underwear—and began taking care of him with my mouth. I imagined him, the next day, coming to my room, sitting on the edge of my bed, while I did the same thing. I was following up with him on the sly, no longer doing Milt’s bidding, because now I couldn’t get enough.

  If Milt had any idea I was capable of such unbusinesslike thoughts—!

  When I came, I didn’t have to smother my noise, because there was very little of it. I came quietly and carefully. Milt pulled his mouth away, and kissed the intersection where my outer lips meet. A gentle, accomplished kiss, as if to say, “I’m done.”

  I got up onto my knees, not too disoriented, found the condom, and took over. Milt was back in his usual position. I needed—he does too!—a break from that surprising intimacy. So I straddled his cock with my back facing him, and struck a slutty pose. When he finally came, it was a relief to know he was taken care of for the day.

  “Hanging out like this is fun, kiddo!”

  “But we don’t have to tell Allison how much fun we’ve had without her,” I said. It’s okay to come with a customer once after—how long? Twelve years? Maybe more. But it’s not okay to let it become a habit when you see him as much as I see Milt.

  “No,” he agreed. “We don’t want her feeling left out.”

  And I WILL be glad when she arrives, because things will surely get back to normal when Milt has two girls keeping him entertained.

  Thursday night, July 11

  Duncan has returned from Marseille, with Allie and her luggage—minus one item. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she whispered, as I showed her to her room.

  How could Allie lose track of her Pyrex love baton? After getting it all the way from JFK to Barcelona? She has all these ideas and theories, yet she’s so impractical! After telling me (and airport security, no doubt) that traveling with a large, vulgar—and very expensive—sex toy is a human right enshrined in some UN document, she then manages to … misplace a double dildo.

  I’m really afraid to ask.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  France: Part of the Solution

  Friday, July 12, 2002 2:00 A.M.

  So I helped Allie unpack. “Are you sure the dildo didn’t, you know, roll into a corner of your luggage?” I asked. “How could you lose it?” Replacing Allie’s $300 sex toy will be quite a challenge—in a town where the shops seem always to be closed, and the only good restaurant is in a converted monastery.

  “I’m sorry!” she said. “The last time I saw it, I had it in my backpack. I was at the transgender rights flamenco recital! I put my backpack on a chair for a minute. When I came back, the backpack was open. It’s the only thing they took. I should have told you before I left Barcelona, but I had my hands full trying to deal with Laypoot!”

  “Laypoot? Not Laypook?”

  “Pook?” Allie looked confused. “No. Laypoot!” she said, glancing around her spacious bedroom. “This is gorgeous, Nancy!”

  “You have a view of the flower garden,” I told her. “And don’t forget to call me Suzy.”

  Allie was leaning out of the window at the other end of her bedroom, dressed only in her bra and a pair of tiny panties. She was opening all the shutters in the room, taking in the night air. “It smells so pretty. And it’s sooo nice to have a room of my own. I’ve been sharing with Roxana for a week!” She took a deep breath. “Is that lavender?”

  Allie turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror. “And the room didn’t even have a real mirror! Do you know what that’s like?” She pinched her abdomen cautiously. “All that conference food! Our hotel room had just one tiny teeny little mirror in the bathroom. When I can’t see what’s happening below my waist, I feel fat. Don’t you? Come talk to me, while I shower!”

  In bathrobe and slippers, I perched on the edge of the bidet, while Allie unpacked a large vanity bag.

  “Gorgeous tiles!” she exclaimed. “So Milt had it all done when he moved in?”

  “They’re made in Salernes. The family’s been in business since 1830. Tomorrow we have to—”

  “This is my first visit to the south of France, did you know? So, anyway, our T-shirt was a hit! ‘Sex workers are part of the solution.’ But Laypoot tried to get Roxana thrown off two panels and almost succeeded. Those bossy sex workers from Montreal kept saying the Americans were dominating all the panels, and that was like ammunition for Laypoot …” Allie held the shower by its handle and looked up at the ceiling while she sprayed her soapy breasts.

  “Why do they hate us?” She sighed unhappily. “Especially Laypoot!”

  “Is she Vietnamese?”

  “Is WHO Vietnamese?”

  “Laypoot. Your trouble-maker at the shadow conference. Is she—”

  “LAYPOOT? Laypoot is the sex workers’ collective from Paris! There’s six girls and a couple of trans—”

  “You mean—” For days, I’ve been envisioning some enraged sloe-eyed Third World poster child, bearing down on Allie’s American blondeness. Instead, it’s a band of Parisian hookers accusing Roxana and Allie of dominating a conference in Barcelona? What theory will the French come up with next! “Do they really call themselves LES PUTES?” I asked. “Do you realize what les putes actually means?”

  “Um. Yes, actually. I do!”

  “It’s like calling your group The Whores.”

  “It’s not like that, it IS that. And they’re anarchists! I’m totally psyched that they decided to embrace this stigmatizing term and redefine it for our collective good!” She sighed. “Even if more people in the world speak Spanish than French. But still. Their intentions are good! I just wish they weren’t so difficult to work with. Is it MY FAULT that I’m American?”

  “Omigod. Please do not say ‘anarchist whores’ in front of Milt! I don’t want him to hear you talking like that. Milt thinks of you as a nice girl, Allie. We don’t want him to get confused.”

  Allie turned off the water. “Who is we?” She stepped onto the dark blue tiles, and wrapped a large towel around her torso. “These patriarchal categories!”

  “Milt has no idea what you were doing in Barcelona,” I warned her.

  “I thought you told him I was with a customer?”

  “Sort of—but you can’t tell him that either. Because if you WERE with another customer, you’d be discreet enough not to talk about it. So I let him think you were, but I never actually said it.” Allie was sitting on the edge of the tub covering her damp legs with a honey-scented lotion, frowning as she listened. “As far as we’re concerned, Milt’s the only paying customer in the world, no other customers exist. Nice hookers don’t talk about other customers. When we’re with a customer. That’s basic professionalism,” I reminded her.

  “Well, that’s what those girls from Paris call putophobia! Lahhh poo-toe-foe-bee. Exploiting the false consciousness of the client.”

  “He’s my client, not theirs,” I pointed out. “At least I’m taking care of him. Your activist friends are always coming up with these totally unattractive ideas. I’d like to see how happy THEIR clients are. Anyway, these are the cranks who accused you of dominating the conference. I think I’ll take their theories with a grain.”

  Allie was beginning to brood. “I wonder if one of THEM stole my love baton.”

  Friday afternoon

  My erotic fantasy life has completely dried up, now that I’m preoccupied with babysitting Allison and locating a new dildo. Having to pay attention to a friend as high maintenance as Allie can really put your own issues in perspective. And I have to make sure she doesn’t slip up, by saying the wrong thing in front of Milt—or Duncan.

  This morning, I took a discreet walk through the side streets of St-Maximin, while Duncan drove Milt to the golf course. On the Rue Colbert, I discovered a boutique stock
ed with miniature unicorns, gowned damsels in conical hats and flesh-tone elves. A sword, embedded in a plastic rock, rotating on a turntable, gave me hope. What CAN’T you sell in this neighborhood?

  Around the corner, in the Rue du Général de Gaulle, I found a cavernous dusty quincaillerie with some kitchen appliances and power tools in the window, next to a narrow shop with promising signage: “Fantaisie de Femme.” Might there be bedroom appliances? But all they have on offer are piercings (“de 10H00 à 12H30”), a small selection of animal-print lingerie, and a rack of New Age crystals.

  If they have sex toys under the counter, my French isn’t advanced enough to find out.

  What drew Milt to this odd little town? When I called Isabel from New York, to tell her where I’d be staying, she’d never heard of St-Maximin. Still, it’s not remote enough to be labeled a bucolic getaway. Nor is it chic. The house must have been a steal.

  I waited for Duncan outside the No Smoking café. When he picked me up, Allie was sitting in the front seat of his SUV. She lowered her window. “Well?” she asked eagerly.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I said.

  As I climbed into the back, Duncan met my eye with a searching but cautious look. “If there’s something in particular?”

  “Oh! Not really,” I told him. “I was just checking out some hair salons.” I was anxious to change the subject. “I wonder if St-Maximin’s the next big thing,” I said briskly.

  “How so?” Duncan asked, more than happy to play along.

  “Well, a town on the verge of a property boom. It’s a very unusual place to build your hideaway, isn’t it.” I don’t want to sound critical of Milt. Or nosy. Is he speculating? Privy to something nobody else knows?

  “I think the boom has come and gone,” Duncan told me “St-Max was thriving eight hundred years ago, when it was a pilgrim hang-out. It’s more like the late big thing, if you see what I mean. The basilique in the center of town—”

  “Let’s go to Sunday Mass!” Allie interrupted. “What do you think, Nnnn-um-Suzy?”

  “Not if it’s early!” OMG. She almost called me Nancy.

  “They have one at eleven,” she said. “That’s not too early is it?”

  “Not at all,” Duncan said with a bemused chuckle. “We might even get Milt up for the occasion.”

  “That’s a WONderful idea!” Allie said. “I think he’ll enjoy that a lot!”

  Milt is not getting it up for Sunday Mass! I felt like saying, but didn’t. This is a guy who avoids going to his own temple. Allie is sometimes woefully off the mark about who guys really are. Which might also explain the looks she keeps throwing at Duncan, and her fondness for sitting up front with him.

  Does she really not get it?

  Friday, later

  This afternoon, Allie and I occupied one of the guest rooms on the second floor. Milt’s sexual ambitions—“every room in the house”—and Duncan’s unavoidable proximity were pushing me toward a large sunny bedroom in a corner of the west wing, far from the kitchen and pool. Where Allie’s giggles and Milt’s groans aren’t audible.

  We waited in our matching undies for Milt to complete his afternoon swim. He’s up to forty laps a day.

  “I can’t help wondering …” Allie stretched her legs out on the huge bed and pointed her toes at the ceiling. “I know this sounds sexist, but I don’t think a girl stole my dildo. I’m pretty sure one of the boys took it.”

  “One of the boys?” I echoed.

  “There’s an international hustlers’ caucus, all boys, and they tried to pass a resolution for Bad Girls Without Borders to change its name!” Allie sighed. “Roxana took their side and said the name isn’t inclusive enough. Les Putes, which has a lot of clout, said it’s a principle of theirs to use the political feminine for all sex workers. So I said maybe we SHOULD change the name, but … Bad People Without Borders just sounds wrong! And this is a shadow conference—we don’t want the people at the official conference to find out we’re having internal disagreements! Changing the name in the middle of the conference would actually be divisive.”

  If only Allie would think this strategically about her actual job.

  “So,” she continued, “the members of Les Putes are mad at Roxana for supporting the hustler caucus because the boys are mostly Americans and Germans! And the boys were mad at me for calling them divisive! I know this sounds paranoid, but do you think someone stole my love baton to make a point? Or maybe it was someone who needs it more than I do.”

  “But why,” I had to ask, “are you walking around with a dildo in your backpack? Why didn’t you leave it in your room?”

  “I was coming from the Safe Sex Breakfast. The Cambodians insisted I bring it for the condom demo, and they asked how much a sex toy like that costs. So everyone KNEW I was carrying this beautiful expensive Pyrex dildo.”

  Was that a little ostentatious of Allie?

  “After that, I went to the transgender flamenco recital which was a fundraiser for BGWB. The boys from Berlin are very upset with the transsexuals for supporting BGWB,” she explained. “This wasn’t stolen for personal use! I think whoever took it was trying to send a political message! About MY RELATIONSHIP with the transsexuals—”

  Allie stopped suddenly and covered her mouth. The bedroom door swung open. “Don’t stop on account of me!” Milt said, cheerfully. “Pardon my lateness, ladies. And my sarong.” He was wearing nothing but a towel around his middle. “I just took a shower.”

  Allie reached out to remove the towel, while I slithered down to the foot of the bed, so I could give Milt some much needed girl-on-girl action. Allie focused exclusively on Milt’s cock, while I made a point of seeming to ravish my long-lost girlfriend. She stayed on her knees and opened her legs. I kneeled behind and buried my face between her thighs.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “I’ve been thinking about Suzy all week! Her tongue feels like velvet!”

  I rolled onto my back, and slid beneath her, holding her hips lightly, pulling her down so my mouth could meet her pussy. She hovered there, politely, and I wondered if she was close enough to my mouth. But Milt, standing at the edge of the bed, wasn’t close enough to check. I moaned loudly, rubbed my nose against her blonde fuzz, and hoped for the best. Velvet, indeed.

  The session went better and faster than I expected. Allie disappeared into her bedroom to shower for dinner, leaving me to tidy him up. Without having to be asked, Allie keeps a polite distance from Milt now that we’re in his house, emphasizing her connection to “Suzy.” A turn-on for Milt—even if we mostly fake it—and a reassuring business practice for me. She does this by instinct because, I think, she can tell I’m rather attached to Milt. Liane might disagree, but I think I made the right decision. And, with Allie in the house, even when I have to monitor her every move, I feel more … at home.

  As I wrapped a hot washcloth around Milt, he confessed, “It’s never been in my nature to listen at keyholes.” Uh-oh! “But I couldn’t help overhearing. So—” He wriggled his eyebrows. “—Allison’s got a transsexual friend? In Barcelona? Is she pre-op?”

  “A trans—” I backtracked for a second. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered.” He smiled and patted my hip. “It’s food for thought, kiddo. We haven’t done that in awhile.” He’s alluding to his annual birthday treat, which isn’t always easy to arrange, because his favorite pre-op tranny keeps changing her number.

  “I don’t know how much you heard—”

  “Not much,” Milt said. “But you know I’ve always had a weakness for a chick with a dick. Sounds like Allison does too.” No wonder he came so fast!

  “Well,” I told him. “Great minds think alike. But right now, Allison and I have a mini-crisis. Allie has—she had this beautiful state-of-the-art double dildo, designed by that famous porn star, Tiffany Millions. While she was in Barcelona, it got stolen from her bag! Maybe you could drive us to Nice? Or someplace where there’s a sex shop? With a good selection? Tomorrow
?”

  “Kiddo, I’m all for helping you out here, but tomorrow’s out of the question. I have an important golf date. It’s business, and I’ll be in Aix all day. In fact, I won’t be back until very late. Otherwise, I’d be happy to drive you girls to Nice! It would be my distinct privilege. But I wouldn’t even know where to begin—I’m kind of new around here.”

  “Why don’t you ask Duncan? He MUST know where the sex shops are. I can’t ask him.”

  Catching the worried look on my face as I contemplated all the closed shops on Sundays and Mondays, he said, “Tell you what, I’ll give you girls a thousand euros. I’ll find out from Duncan where you should go. You can have the keys to the BMW. Duncan will take me to Aix. That way you’ll be able to shop in comfort and privacy, no questions asked. Have a nice lunch, get your nails done. And we’ll try out your new toys on Sunday!”

  Milt beamed at me like a beatified manager, but I returned a look of dismay.

  “There’s only one thing wrong with your game plan,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Neither of us can drive.”

  Milt was stunned. “Are you sure? For some reason, I’m not surprised about Allison but—you really can’t drive, Suzy?”

  It’s the other way around, of course—Allie should be able to, because she grew up in Connecticut. “I never had to.” I shrugged. “I live in Manhattan, remember?”

  “You never took driving lessons?”

  “Uh—no, actually.”

  “Would you like to?” I could see wheels of benevolence churning in Milt’s head. Allie took two driving lessons when she was sixteen, but found it so terrifying that she preferred to rely on her high school boyfriends. For me, the mere idea of driving lessons is terrifying. What if Milt offers to pay for lessons when I get back to New York?