by Tracy Quan
“Maybe I’ll get used to it,” I said. “It’s a trade-off because your location’s more central. Not that there’s anything wrong with the pictures,” I added.
Am I a lab rat under scrutiny? Or a valued emotional stakeholder? I couldn’t quite tell.
“Change is always a challenge,” Dr. Wendy pointed out. “Even when we expect it.”
Her therapy room is more soothing than her new waiting room: plants everywhere, peachy hues, a harmless quilt on the largest wall.
“But Josephine Baker seems out of place in there.”
“Really?” As Dr. Wendy leaned forward, some light bounced off her glasses. “In what sense?”
“Not for racial reasons,” I added. Wendy looked relieved. “She’s the only one showing any flesh.”
“That’s a good place to start,” Wendy replied. “Nu?”
“Yiddish?”
“Just keeping my hand in. I’m not that invested. Or proficient.”
“Well, speaking of…proficient, I did some business on Sunday.”
Dr. Wendy’s reaction to this short-term achievement report was hard to read.
“I know it’s risky to work on Sundays—it’s safer when Matt’s at the office. But I took the call and guess what? I almost made my quota.” I told her about my visit to the Waldorf and the ensuing muddle. “Matt was so happy when I finally showed up at the Gap, he didn’t suspect a thing. But the situation almost turned against me. His sister could have called him, said something incriminating. Or he could have spotted me leaving the hotel. But I got a fairytale ending. For now.”
“For now is not an ending,” she said. “How do you feel about the outcome?”
“Well, I didn’t get caught—which is good. But I still have this nagging guilt.”
“Because you kept Matt waiting?”
“Because I fell short of my quota for the third week running! When I got married, I had this policy—never on Sunday—but it’s totally clashing with my quota. And my quota is much older than this policy. Or this marriage. It’s too important.” I felt my face growing warm. “I can’t just abandon it.”
“Many things are older than your marriage. But some women in your position would adjust their expectations. Is it realistic to set the same goals when you have a new living arrangement which might impact your energy level?”
I blinked at Dr. Wendy. So I’m like a working mom who should be on halftime? But I have no kids, and Trisha (who does) is just as driven as any unmarried hooker. Okay, she no longer has a place where she can see guys, so her expectations may have changed—but now she has a stable of outcalls, really good ones, who stay at hotels.
What’s my excuse?
“Are you telling me I should reduce my quota?”
“No,” Dr. Wendy said firmly. “That”—her tone grew softer—“is not my role. I’m asking how you feel about that idea.”
“When we were engaged it was easier to hide my business. Now I have to sneak out, find some place to get ready for a date, do the date, get unready, hide the money. It’s like working two jobs and getting paid for one! And I’m sharing my old apartment with a New Girl—she’s only been working for a year or two. Matt doesn’t know about that, of course. He thinks I gave up my apartment because I moved all my best furniture into the new place.”
When I moved my art moderne bedroom set into our newlywed nest on East Thirty-fourth Street, Matt never asked what I was doing with my queen-size bed. Or my 310-count sheets. The upheaval, the unpacking, a different neighborhood—if you can call this cluster of generic dwellings a neighborhood—made it easy to forget things. Besides, when leaving his bachelor apartment, he thought nothing of leaving his own bed for the landlord to dispose of. We never questioned the purchase of a completely inexperienced mattress and box spring for our new life together.
“It’s a lot to keep track of,” Wendy said. “But you’re not alone. Some women call it ‘the second shift.’ Taking care of a household and a personal relationship while maintaining your professional foothold.”
“In secret?” Well, I suppose keeping secrets might qualify as relationship upkeep.
“Most people have secrets. But if the secrets are too numerous, keeping them becomes a full-time job. In today’s world, it’s common to have more than one part-time job. But most people would find it impossible to hold down two or three full-time jobs.” Dr. Wendy paused. “I want to call the management of your secrets ‘the third shift.’ Is this a useful concept?”
“So the first shift is what you do for money. The second shift is what you do for love. And the third shift?”
“Maybe it’s what brings you here.”
I told Dr. Wendy about my discovery, how this morning it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve been almost faithful in a roundabout way for more than a year.
“In my own fashion,” I added ruefully. “I don’t think my husband would understand, though.”
“The arithmetic of emotional fidelity is extremely private,” Wendy assured me.
“Are you sure it’s arithmetic? And not geometry?”
Dr. Wendy wasn’t sure.
“But you do have a system for making sense of your actions. I’m pretty sure of that.” She paused and gave me a quizzical smile. “Were you good at geometry?”
FRIDAY, 3/16/01. EAST SEVENTY-NINTH STREET
The last few days have been profitable and peaceful. Charmaine, true to her word, has gone to Florida, leaving our shared onebedroom spotless and orderly. Dust-free. Charmaine’s even more of a clean freak than I am: buys her lubricant in those disposable one-use packets, has an air purifier in the living room, and keeps a box of surgical gloves next to the kitchen sink. On the twentyfifth day of each month, she hands me a neatly arranged pile of hundreds and fifties, her share of the rent and utilities. I couldn’t ask for a more desirable roommate.
All her things are stashed in the hall closet as agreed, and I have the run of this place until she returns. It’s like being single again—when I’m here, that is—and my phone has decided to cooperate. It rings often, making me realize that I still have what it takes: an active client list and a safe place to work from.
This apartment’s safe because the neighborhood’s safe. I’ve taken steps to ensure that Matt has no excuse to be strolling past my apartment when I’m here, and no reason to be uptown on a casual basis. That’s why we moved to Thirty-fourth Street, to a neighborhood I don’t even like. I nixed every place we looked at that wasn’t safely south of Seventy-ninth, even when I found my dream condo with the perfect balcony on East Eighty-fourth. It was too close to my stomping grounds, so I made a huge sacrifice and chose, instead, the impersonal two-bedroom with the twenty-ninth-floor view, in a part of town that feels like a giant parking lot. When people ask how Matt and I can live so close to the heliport, so far from all the great food shops, I cite the FDR and limitless views. I sometimes think about the apartment on Eighty-fourth Street that I fell in love with and walked away from, but never with regret.
Today, I saw Howard at noon, followed by a surprise visit from Steven. After Steven left, I examined my naked body in the mirror and liked what I saw.
My breasts look perky and my stomach somewhat flatter. (I don’t eat as much when I have all these consecutive dates.) My face looks smoother because I’m more relaxed when I see my customers here: less chance of being spotted by my husband—or someone who knows him. Better working conditions make a girl instantly better looking.
Woman with a past has a warped new meaning this week because I feel like I’m playing a trick on time itself. When Charmaine returns, things revert to the married present. For now, my afternoons are spent in a place that belongs to my single years. But my next customer’s due in twenty minutes and the sheets need changing! So much for outwitting the notorious arrow of time.
LATER
Just before Milt arrived, Charmaine called with surprising news.
“I’m changing my flight,” she said. “I need five more da
ys. But I’m seeing someone the morning after I get back,” she reminded me. “I’m booked solid that week.”
“Of course. I’ll stay out of your way. But don’t get too much sun!” I warned her.
“Oh, I’m not—it just looks like a vacation.” She giggled. “I’m as careful about the sun as you are. It’s really a doctor’s visit. Didn’t I tell you?”
Charmaine’s having…surgery?
“But you’re only twenty-two!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t you kind of young for that?”
“It’s never too early,” she told me. “This is like using birth control so you won’t have to have an abortion—or end up looking like one! Anyway, I’ve been using Botox on my forehead for two years. And I’ve already had my nose done. I’m not exactly a virgin.”
“But you have to know when to stop. If you keep modifying…You’ve done Botox? I had no idea!”
“Because it’s very natural. And this will be too.”
“ ‘This’? Do you mind if I ask what you’re having done? There’s nothing wrong with you!”
“You’ll see. Nothing dramatic. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. It’s my face and my future. And the biggest mistake is waiting too long to get the work done. I’m not going to let that happen to me!”
So. Charmaine thinks cosmetic surgery is wasted on the elderly.
I decided not to argue with her, but, while I was giving my four o’clock a long slow blow job, I found myself thinking about my roommate—wrinkle-proofing her brow at twenty-two! I didn’t start worrying about such things until twenty-six.
My lips were sliding toward the base of Milt’s erection but my mind was elsewhere: Is Charmaine tempting fate by starting too early with her face? What if something goes wrong in the operating room? For me, surgery’s a last resort rather than a lifestyle. So it’s her money, her body, and her future. I should mind my own business, but other people’s body parts are my business. And therein lies the problem. I’m so accustomed to making decisions about other people’s bodies that I’m ready to tell Charmaine what not to do with hers. Meanwhile, I’m the one who has gained six pounds—and when you’re 5'1" it shows. Shouldn’t I focus on that instead? As I removed my mouth from Milt’s cock, I was turning over a new leaf.
I reached for a glass of water on my bedside table to cleanse the taste of latex from my palate. There is nothing more icky than condom-breath—a hazard of the profession because you get so used to having rubber in your mouth that you might not notice.
My favorite customer was lying on his back, eyes blissfully shut, stroking my thigh. As I poured some Astroglide onto my palm, he became more alert.
“Before you do that,” he suggested, “why don’t you bring that luscious pussy over here and let me return the favor?”
“You lazy beast. All right. Don’t move.”
I turned around and sat over his face with my buttocks in the air. My hands now had access to his cock, which was threatening to grow soft. But he was getting hard again, thanks to the nearness of my pussy. I decided to let him lick me until he was properly erect. I never come with Milton but I allow him to do more with my body than, perhaps, I should because he’s the client I like best. When I wriggled away, my ass was still facing him and he sighed happily.
“What a gorgeous view!”
I mounted his cock with that in mind, bending forward as much as possible to enhance his view. His climax was louder than usual and I made a mental note not to fuck him in this position for the next two sessions. Despite his cuddly personality, Milt gets jaded rather easily. It might soon be time to suggest a threeway with Allison. Or Jasmine. I never call a client to promote myself but it’s okay to call a guy if you’re making a sales pitch involving another girl.
While dressing, he gave me an affectionate pat.
“You’ve lost weight, kiddo.”
“You’re every woman’s dream,” I laughed.
He slid an envelope under the tissue box on my bedside table.
“Don’t exaggerate. Now…where did I put my briefcase?”
Five minutes later my cell phone was chiming at me. Liane, trying to locate Charmaine. Or someone like her. Or, in the absence of someone like her, someone who’s available. After five decades in this business, first a call girl but mostly a madam, she knows that you can’t always get what they want.
“I need somebody fresh and wholesome. A Charmaine type. For Bernie. Remember Bernie? I told him about Charmaine but she hasn’t called me back!”
Bernie wants to meet a college girl (or someone who looks like one) who is supposedly getting paid for the first time. After “corrupting” the alleged newbie, he likes to cultivate her. As a result, I’ve seen him at Liane’s apartment five or six times.
Liane provides as many professional innocents as she can for the harem in Bernie’s mind.
“Charmaine would be perfect,” I agreed, “if she weren’t…still in Florida.”
Though somewhat tempted to share the truth with Liane, I held back. A trustworthy timeshare is hard to find and I don’t want to alienate Charmaine by gossiping about her new implants—or whatever the mystery process of the week happens to be.
“I wonder if Bernie would like to see a naughty little married girl,” Liane said. “I could tell him that you graduated and met—”
“I don’t want Bernie to know I’m married! Nobody’s supposed to know!”
“Well, not if you feel so strongly about it, dear. But it might pique his interest. A restless wife can be titillating. And it makes you respectable. You know how important that is. And it gives me an entree. I can’t just say, ‘How about Nancy instead of the New Girl?’ I’ve got to have a nice story to tell! A way to make you sound new.”
“Maybe another time,” I said. “I have to hit the cheese counter at Agata Valentina before they close. I’m making something special tonight.”
“Of course, dear. What are you preparing for dinner?”
“Baked pecorino cheese with toasted pine nuts and truffle honey. Followed by a whole trout. Steamed with bay leaves. And an arugula salad. With a very light pinot noir.”
“I think it’s wonderful that you’re taking this marriage so seriously! I’ve always said that women like us make the best wives.”
But I still prefer to keep my marital status under deep cover. Even Milt isn’t sure I’ve actually tied the knot—he thinks I’m still engaged. If the customers find out I’m actually married, it might spook them. They might fear a spying, curious husband or an enraged, jealous one. Worse yet, they might think he knows what I’m up to, that he lets me hook. Not the sort of image I want to be promoting at all.
What if they think I married a guy who can’t support me or mistreats me, that I turn tricks in order to make ends meet? Maybe they’ll think I have to support him? I don’t want my customers to think I’m that kind of hooker—that I married purely for love. Rich girls can sometimes marry for love, but girls like me, we’re supposed to marry smart. Not get taken advantage of. You can be in love, sure. But use your head. If you seem to be the kind of call girl who marries a ne’er-do-well or behaves foolishly with men, the clients lose respect.
It’s sexy to let on that you’re a lady when you’re not working, a hooker who feels equally at home on a pedestal. But it’s not just my vanity kicking in—I also want to protect Matt’s image. What if I run into one of these clients when I’m at the theater with my husband?
Do I want them looking at Matt and thinking he’s a bum? Not!
And yet, if they know I’m married to a banker, they’ll think I don’t really need the money. When it’s time to raise my prices, I invoke the high cost of living in Manhattan. There are times when I must appeal to a client’s desire to help a brave, defenseless single girl. If a john finds out that I’m married to a guy with a good income, he’s got a ready-made excuse to keep the price “stable.” You’re just doing this for extras, pin money, or cheap thrills.
I made that mistake only once, with Etienne,
who now lives in Paris. When I tried to hit him up for something extra on his last visit to New York, my marital status worked against me. Never again!
Trish doesn’t tell her clients she’s married—or that she has a kid. It’s understood that we can trust each other not to blab. Jasmine and Allie are both under strict orders to keep mum. Charmaine I have to trust—in the hope that she values the great deal she has here, enough to keep her promise of silence.
Liane might be right—married women can be alluring—but I don’t want to go there with her clients.
SUNDAY MORNING, 3/18/01. EAST THIRTY-FOURTH STREET
This morning, while cleaning out my in box, I almost deleted two e-mails from Allie. Thrown off by her new address, I took [email protected] for just another spammer.
Subject: Come to the NYCOT Cabaret!
A benefit for the New York Council of Trollops at The Pussycat Lounge…featuring punk soprano Wiltrud Mars…Miss Chelsea Jane at the piano…the Triple-X Cheerleaders…stand-up comedy’s Domina Blue. Doors open 7:30 pm.
Members of the Media: Please contact our fabulous EmCee, ALLISON [email protected] for ticketing, interview requests and more.
The Pussycat Lounge? Is Allie planning to appear on stage? And what’s all this about the media?
This was followed by another e-mail with a more personal subject header:
Re: urgent lunch need yr advice
Hey! Lucho is taking me to a special party next weekend. Lots of people from his faculty! Do you think it’s too soon to meet his friends? What should I wear? It’s all the way uptown near Columbia. Can you meet for lunch? It has to be soon because I need your advice!
PS: He used the L word last night! Twice! But he’s making some really strange demands and I’m not sure what to do. Don’t tell Jasmine but…I couldn’t hold out til third date. And now there’s this THING that he wants me to do. I’m crazy about him too but—not ready for this!
