Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  Standing in front of the bathroom door, I wondered if my normal instinct—a quiet knock—would be too submissive a gesture. What should I say? I had really been expecting to play second fiddle to Mistress Thalia. You can come out now sounds kind of lame! More like a sidekick than a sole proprietress.

  In a cold dignified voice, I advised Colin to stay on his hands and knees.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Is the door unlocked?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Do they say this just to get on your nerves?

  “Reach up and open it with your right hand. I will be waiting in the bedroom.”

  Colin crept out of the bathroom hardly daring to look up. His eyes were trained on the carpet as he crawled toward my feet. Suddenly, I had a brainstorm.

  “You will adjust my garters.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he paused, “…Sabrina. You have beautiful legs,” he added shyly.

  “I know. Come here. Start with my back garter.” I turned around slightly so he could reach it. I couldn’t let on how good it felt to hear about my legs when I’m starting to angst about my weight. “Slowly. Not like that. You have to loosen it first, then pull—very softly.” I turned again. “Now the front.” I could see a bulge in Colin’s shorts. “Good. Now the right garter. Carefully.” I leapt back. “You clumsy idiot! You ripped my stocking!”

  “I’m sorry, Mistress! I didn’t meant to!”

  “This will be taken into account,” I told him. “Mistress Thalia will not be pleased.”

  “Yes, Mistress. Will you allow me to make it up to you?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Stumped for a response, I decided to go the implacable route.

  “Go to my bag and unzip it. Slowly.”

  I ordered him to remove a few instruments. Unfortunately, Mistress Thalia wasn’t here to wield her whip, but I did have a small black leather paddle.

  “Come here,” I told him. “Not like that. Stay on your knees. Put the paddle between your teeth. Hold it between your teeth and don’t drop it. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, and I ordered him to crawl slowly toward the bed. Removing the paddle from his clenched teeth, I told him to rest his head against the bedspread and pull down his silk shorts.

  “Slowly!”

  I needed to prolong our session because, after all, I was trying to make up for Trisha’s absence. Snapping the leather cuffs around his wrists, I peeked at his erection, then walked over to the clock radio while he enjoyed a moment of suspense. I hunted

  around for WQXR.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  We both know that a genteel-sounding concerto can muffle a telltale spanking. He stays here often and needs to be careful. Was Colin’s “thank you” acknowledging my thoughtful discretion? Or was he just praying for a nice loud whack?

  I was so nervous and irate—about Charmaine hijacking my apartment, about the lobby bathroom and my ripped stocking, Trisha standing me up—that I obliged him with a very harsh smack. So harsh that my wrist felt it. I had to sit down for a moment and order him to worship my feet with his mouth. After a few minutes, I rose, giving him a gentle kick.

  “If you’re very good for the rest of the afternoon, I’ll recommend a golden shower as your reward,” I told him.

  The toe of my shoe caressed his groin.

  “I was hoping…”

  I leaned over and silenced him by inserting my crumpled thong panties in his mouth.

  “Mistress Thalia and I will discuss it. After I leave. And you will be punished or rewarded on our next visit. It all depends on Thalia’s verdict.”

  The skin on his cock was firm and very pink. When I brushed the toe of my shoe against his erection, he flinched. Colin was closer to coming than I had realized. I withdrew my toe by tracing a line down his thigh, carefully eyeing the clock to make sure he wasn’t being rushed. Trisha, the absentee dominatrix, was very specific about his time allotment. I walked over to the chair and picked up the paddle.

  His wrists were still bound together behind his back, encased in the fuzz-lined leather. I was tempted to reach down and finish him with my hand. But no, that would knock me right off the bitch-goddess pedestal. Instead, I removed the manacles.

  “You may place your hands in front.” It was a routine he’d been through before. “Two inches apart, no more and no less.”

  I refastened the manacles, then picked up the paddle and used it to caress the back of each thigh. Remembering the impact to my wrist, I tapped his skin lightly. His hands were playing near his erection, getting closer. When I began to smack his buttocks, the panties fell out of his mouth. He grabbed his cock as best he could and came on the carpet.

  “I’ll clean that up,” he said meekly. “If you take these off.”

  I brought my phone into the bathroom. Charmaine wasn’t answering the landline or cell. But the deal we struck at noon was very clear: at five pm, I return to the apartment, stash my work toys and clothes, change back into what I was wearing when I last saw my husband, and fly so she can prepare for her sixthirty. We’ve had a few close shaves, but Charmaine has always been prompt about answering the phone.

  And this time, I really needed to get back into my apartment. The laddered stocking was a serious liability. Changing in the lobby bathroom again would be pushing my luck. If noticed, I’d be earmarked for future visits and singled out by security. But putting on your sneakers in the hotel room is just out of the question.

  Fortunately, dommes are supposed to be aloof, not warm and friendly like normal hookers, so I didn’t have to overcompensate—much—for my disturbed attitude.

  In the elevator, I was having mixed feelings about the session. It’s exciting to rise to the challenge of being something you’re not, but domination is a chore. I never feel convincing and it’s not really what I do. I hate having to worry about whether a slave is happy while pretending not to give a damn.

  Avoiding the Park Avenue entrance—where the out-of-towners vie for taxis—I waved anxiously at a cab on Fiftieth and hopped in, still clutching my cell phone optimistically. But when it rang, it was not Charmaine.

  Why, when somebody owes you a phone call, do you get called by the one person in your life whose call must be dodged? I watched my husband’s cell phone number flashing on my display screen and waited for him to go into voice mail.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I told the cab driver. “Can you take me to Starbucks on Seventy-fifth and First?”

  Nursing a small decaf and a large bottle of water, I dialed Charmaine obsessively. What was she doing? Trying to squeeze in a quickie before her six-thirty? In voice mail, I could hear Matt urging me to meet him at the Gap. “Hey, babe. If you get this by six, come on over, you can help me pick out some underwear.” God, what part of the city is he in? Matt has a tendency to treat his own whereabouts as an afterthought. “I’m almost there. Oh…hey, it’s the one at Citicorp.”

  I should be the kind of wife who can turn a trick at three pm and help her man decide between boxers and briefs a few hours later without raising a hint of suspicion. So why is Charmaine screwing this up for me? It’s almost five-thirty and I want to be there for him!

  I left a tense message for Jasmine, another for Allie. Among the blue-jeaned, stroller-pushing couples, I felt ridiculously overdressed. I was in the right place in the wrong outfit, dying to look like a pseudo-slacker again.

  Suddenly my cell phone was chiming, flashing “Private.” That’s either Jasmine calling from anywhere—she’s a fanatic about that—or Charmaine, calling from the landline. I’ve got

  everybody’s relationship to Caller ID completely mapped.

  Or so I thought.

  “Nancy!” said a female voice. “How and where are you?”

  “Where—?” I couldn’t believe it. My sister-in-law never calls from a blocked number—and she had twins two weeks ago! Isn’t she better off at home? Recovering?

  “Gotcha!” said Elspeth. “How’s it g
oing?”

  “Where are you?” I asked back.

  “Oh, I’m leaving Karen’s baby shower.”

  I froze. Her friend, Karen, lives eight blocks from here.

  “I have an appointment with this amazing cake designer. Her birthday cakes are gorgeous! And so original! She designed one for the mayor’s son—listen, is it true you’re allergic to chocolate? Did Matt tell you I’m planning a surprise dinner party for Jason?”

  Who knew that there was such a thing as postpartum mania. Elspeth, talking at breakneck speed, was hard to keep up with.

  “Ummm. Not yet,” I mumbled nervously. “How many guests?”

  How can she be planning a dinner bash for her husband when she just started nursing twins?

  “Twenty max. My brother says you never eat chocolate. Well, it’s Jason’s birthday, not yours, but still! I wanted to ask. Should we go for the praline? Or the genoise? Or maybe—do you want to come with me? Meet me at her loft. I need some female input. And you need to check out these cakes!”

  “I can’t! I’m in a cab—I’ll call you right back!”

  A man at the next table looked up from his laptop and gave me a long thoughtful stare. I pretended not to notice and called Charmaine again. As her voice mail began to chatter, another call was coming in—Matt, causing a twinge of guilt as I imagined him pacing the floor of the Gap, confounded by too many choices. I was praying that Elspeth wouldn’t call him in the next few.

  I took another swig of bottled water and fumed. Okay, Plan B: shall I duck into the bathroom here and change? What thehell. Take a cab to Allison’s and leave my tote bag with her doorman. Then meet my husband at Citicorp in my vague, woman-without-a-plan costume.

  As I got up, drawing more stares from the laptop user, my phone chimed. When I saw Charmaine’s long-awaited phone number, I wanted to scream with gratitude.

  “I thought he would never come,” she whispered. “Can you get here soon? He’s dressing.”

  The apartment was dim when I let myself in, the door to the bathroom wide open. Charmaine was standing in front of the sink in a pair of lace bicycle-shorts. Her wavy hair was piled high, held in place with a plastic clip. I know the look well: she was wiping her shoulder carefully with a damp cloth, dabbing her neck and cleavage.

  “He came on my chest but he took for freaking ever. And he kept losing his hard-on.” She frowned at herself in the mirror, grabbed another washcloth, and patted her hair. “I guess I should be grateful! He could be one of those young guys who fucks for an hour and stays hard the whole time.…I know things have been crazy but I had to see some extra people before my trip to Florida.” She paused, knowing full well that I won’t mind having the place to myself while she’s gone. “I picked up two boxes of Trojan Extra Large. They’re in my closet.”

  As the cab sped down York Avenue, I closed my eyes and waited for Matt to answer his cell phone.

  “So I have it narrowed down,” he said. “Message in a bottle? Dalmatians? Or sliced fruit?”

  Matt was still at the Gap. “What…kind of fruit?” I inquired, trying not to express too much emotion.

  “Huh. They look like oranges but they’re bright turquoise.”

  “Are you sure they’re not supposed to be limes? Don’t do anything until I get there!”

  “I knew I could count on you,” he said cheerfully.

  2

  The Meaning of Wife

  WEDNESDAY, 3/14/01

  This morning, while Matt was dressing for work, I was pretending to sleep.

  Marital possum is a newly acquired habit, more puzzling to the player than the played. Why am I doing this? Do other women pretend to be asleep for no apparent reason? What about their husbands? And why do I compare myself to other marrieds? Is it all just a normal side effect of matrimony?

  As a kid, I faked sleep to trick my mother after Lights Out, but I never asked myself if the other kids were doing it. The scam was all instinct, my approach zenlike. I did not second-guess myself; I simply became the sleeping daughter. Now, as sleeping wife, I’m beset with self-doubt.

  Fortunately, I have therapy later.

  Late last night when Matt drowsily remembered that he had a breakfast meeting, I tiptoed out of bed. Muffling the coffee grinder with a batik teapot cosy—wedding gift from Mother—I felt like the very model of a modern wife. After filling the coffee maker with Aged Sumatra and filtered water, I placed a packet of sweetener on a saucer, then took stock of my domestic achievement. With one flick of a switch, my husband has access to caffeine when he will most need it and least expect it. How cool is that? When I returned to our bed, he was snoring. I fell asleep with the aroma of tomorrow’s coffee lingering in my nostrils.

  When I woke, he was quietly selecting a shirt from his side of the closet. I quickly closed my eyes and sniffed the air for signs of coffee. And now he was leaning over my pillow, kissing my forehead tenderly to wake me from a phony but convincing slumber.

  “Thanks for the java,” he murmured “You’re a genius!”

  As I stroked his smooth, shaved cheek, he added, “I like that purring sound you make when you’re happy.”

  How often do I touch a man’s cheek?

  No matter how many clients I’ve seen, days can go by when my hands do not venture above the chest. I might blow lightly into a customer’s ear while straddling his body—or ruffle his hair while he’s going down on me. I might kiss a john’s cheek or his neck to evade his mouth. But Matt is probably the only guy whose face I touch with my fingertips. How long has he occupied this exclusive slot? It’s funny how I work to avoid some things—like kissing—with my clients, while others just don’t happen. Why is it so personal and sweet to touch a man’s face? As we kissed good-bye, I realized that my hands have been accidentally faithful for more than a year. For a brief second, I felt like a stranger to myself.

  I heard the apartment door close and got up quickly. My cell phone, snug in the bottom of my tote bag, had three messages on it—one from Allison (eager to dissect her first date with Lucho) and another from Steven, the typical voice mail of a disappointed impulse buyer: “I’m in the neighborhood, try you again next week.”

  If you don’t grab Steven while he’s hot, you simply have to wait for the next urge to strike, and this is the third time we’ve struck out in a month. What with Charmaine’s timeshare and my new responsibilities as a wife, I’m starting to lose my impulsive quickies. It’s hard to connect these days if a guy can’t make his appointment in advance.

  Too bad: Steven’s the easiest guy in my client book and I miss his pret-a-porter erections. So reliable. Too big and fast to fail. Even when you know better than to take it personally, a dependable hard-on makes you feel more successful, more attractive. A three-quarter erection backed by regular visits might yield more profit in the long run—and I know how to keep a man from going soft because it’s my job. (I’ve been doing this since Ronald Reagan was in office!) But I like it when desire’s a bit more obvious.

  Lately, I’m working harder to retain those regulars who find it easier to make appointments way ahead of time. It’s better for my marriage but not so good for my ego: a man suddenly hot to see you has a more straightforward erection than one who plans ahead. A long-winded way of saying, will Steven really call next week? His hard-ons are more reliable than his projections.

  The last message in my system was the most promising. I called Trisha back pronto on her cell.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “What time?”

  “One second,” she said. “The dinosaur cape? It’s upstairs. Don’t forget your juice. We have three minutes.…Next Tuesday at two, he likes boots,” she mumbled quickly. “Can you find an extra girl? What about Allison? We’re getting ready for school here. That sounds perfect!” she disconcertingly chirped. Suddenly, her voice was clear as a bell. “For sure! We have to talk. The picnic is a great idea!”

  Picnic? These sudden non sequiturs—second nature
to Trish—always precede a hang-up. Her husband must have popped back into sight. Of course, you don’t end a conversation too abruptly when you want things to sound normal.

  I can’t believe Trish has the nerve to take all these calls from girls and clients when he’s around! But I’m learning not to make judgments about other people’s marriages. Every girl must decide for herself when it’s safe to answer the phone.

  LATER

  My shrink has moved her office from Riverside Drive to Central Park West—and wants to know how I feel about it. Of course, you can say things to a shrink that you wouldn’t say to others but there are some things I don’t get into. Not because I’m ashamed or anything—it’s just that she would regard my feelings about hair as Material for an entire session and I don’t want to go there. My hair is a little too delicate for this world and tends to lose its shape when exposed to the elements, but I can’t explain this to Dr. Kessel, who always looks like she needs a haircut even when she’s just had one.

  I used to dread visiting her windy corner. Last month, to prevent my hair from being whipped out of shape, I wore a pleated Herm籠scarf—and almost lost it. My head scarf, viciously attacked by a sudden gust, went flying toward the river. When I arrived at my session, having chased the scarf for half a block, a layer of perspiration was threatening my hair. If I never have to brave Riverside Drive again, I’ll be a happier camper than most.

  On Central Park West, the air was calm today. Upstairs, a small plaque identified Dr. Wendy Kessel’s new whereabouts. In the waiting room, I found myself staring at a collection of black-and-white portraits: Eleanor Roosevelt and Josephine Baker on one wall. A young Doris Lessing on another. Where has all the ethnic pottery gone?

  “How do you feel about the new look?” Dr. Wendy asked.

  “It’s a little in your face.”

  “Somebody else made the same observation.”

  She seemed to take pleasure in the disturbance her new decor was causing. A nerdlike pleasure, not malicious. But still.