Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “For the vitamin A,” I said.

  “There have to be other sources. What about carrots?”

  “Where I get my vitamin A is really up to me, I think. And why are you throwing out a whole case of tuna fish? We don’t have niçoise salad THAT often. If you don’t like it, I’ll just make it for myself when you’re working late!”

  A cloud was settling around my heart, smothering my libido—and he didn’t even care!

  “Nancy…” Matt followed me to the master bathroom. “Don’t close the door! Let me explain.”

  While I showered, I applied a mint mask to my pubic region—and pondered Matt’s insensitivity. First of all, and he obviously doesn’t appreciate it, I carefully sprayed each one of those tins with Clorox and rinsed them clean—just in case he decides to open one in my absence.

  I guess that’s not insensitivity. It’s just typical male ingratitude based on a lack of information. He thinks those tins are just sitting there, doing nothing. He doesn’t understand—

  But you have to know when to retreat from domestic tension if you want to keep the romance alive. I must not argue with my husband about whether he appreciates my preemptive housekeeping strategies.

  Secondly, and he obviously doesn’t care, Salade Niçoise is a treasured souvenir—which I share with him—from my French Immersion summer. When I returned to Ottawa, after six weeks en famille with the Ducharnes, I knew way too many nouns and adjectives—and nothing about verbs. But I had learned to prepare a balanced, nutritious meal—thanks to Mme. Ducharne’s tutelage. For an eleven-year old of the latchkey genus, Salade Niçoise was an ideal intro to the domestic art of multitasking. You must learn how to cook an egg (a more delicate task than Matt realizes) while you remember not to overcook the new potatoes. And, of course, there’s the dressing that you make first, so the flavors have a chance to know each other.

  I emerged from my shower, wrapped in a huge towel, and gave Matt a wary look. It was hard to suppress my disappointment.

  “It’s the mercury,” he told me. “And I love your salad. Can’t we have it without the tuna?”

  “That’s Madame Ducharne’s recipe. And you’re the first man I ever made it for,” I added. “I’m faithful to the way she taught me, right down to the dressing. The only thing I changed is steaming the potatoes instead of boiling.”

  I also add whole peppercorns and a slice of lemon to the water, but he doesn’t have to know all that.

  “I have never heard of a vegetarian niçoise,” I lied. “I refuse to even discuss it.”

  As I picked up a bottle of lotion, Matt drew nearer. He kissed a bare shoulder and began playing with my towel.

  “Let me help,” he said.

  Then he pushed me gently toward the bed, where he made me lie on my stomach. He opened the towel slowly, gaining access to my upper back.

  I closed my eyes while he rubbed the lotion into my shoulder blades.

  “I thought you liked my cooking, but if you don’t like something, you should say so, and I won’t make it for you. Instead of depriving me—”

  “But you’re the one I’m concerned about,” he insisted. “I love the way you make that. You can make it three times a week for me!”

  His hands were massaging the small of my back.

  “The mercury levels in tuna fish are toxic for the fetus,” he said. “And the risk of you poisoning yourself with fish oils—”

  “But there’s no fetus!” I protested. “And I just bought a whole case of tuna fish!”

  “But there will be, honey.” His palms were now on my buttocks. “And you have to start being more careful.”

  He was working on my thighs now, and my skin was appreciating the treat. But my mind was buzzing with anxiety. What is up with the men of today? Allie’s boyfriend—interfering with her pubic rituals! And Matt. Planning my pregnancy right down to my vitamin intake! Does he have any idea how invasive this feels?

  “We’re talking about me becoming a mother. Not you!” I told him. “You’re my husband, not my doctor. And I’m not even pregnant.” I turned to look at him. “Yet.”

  MONDAY, 4/2/01

  A phone message from Roland, calling from the transatlantic sky: “I’m landing at JFK in about two hours. How does breakfast tomorrow sound? I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Why does living overseas make a customer ten times more attractive, no matter what he actually looks like?

  You have to catch him while he’s in town. And make him feel lucky that he caught you. For some reason, a game of ping-pong between his vanity and your ego makes the man himself more intriguing. And then there’s that sterling-dollar exchange rate—ping-pong of another sort. Whatever trauma New Yorkers feel when visiting London these days, Roland’s Manhattan experience is the opposite of Sticker Shock. At home, he’s just a normal customer paying the normal rate, but he’s a generous date in New York.

  Now, Roland is also one of those old world “punters” who likes to seduce a girl. He doesn’t just lie there—which, technically, I would approve of. Nor does he try to devour my tender body parts like some kind of misguided wannabe. But he does try to coax my body into wanting or doing more than it has to.

  Which would annoy me, if he weren’t a big spender. When the dollar grows weak, is the flesh more willing?

  TUESDAY, 4/3/01

  With some clients, there’s a flirtatious encounter with my bra—removal’s a challenge but they like to try. Still, I’m primarily responsible for disrobing. Roland is the exception.

  Today, he began by unbuttoning my dress—a nostalgic shirtwaist with a pretty belt that I had to stop wearing three months ago. But my Body Mass Index has returned to premarital levels and my favorite outfits are back in business.

  As he opened my dress, I turned my head away and let his kiss land on my neck. I never let a client kiss my mouth. I’m also not keen on having my neck kissed, but when Roland lingers there, I’m relaxed. Today, I even permitted a playful tongue at my earlobe and felt no dismay when my skin shivered.

  If the wrong tongue caresses the side of my neck, a nipple, an ear—it’s like chalk on a blackboard. My skin seems to crawl, to recoil. When it’s the right man, my body tingles with approval. My pussy is less discriminating: a man who’s not permitted to kiss my neck can still take liberties if he knows where to go.

  Above the waist, I’m at the mercy of my senses, unable to control my likes and dislikes. A million goose bumps into my career, I now appreciate the effect Roland has on me. Even if I hated the sensation, I would keep him as a customer—there’s no good reason not to—so I’m glad my body likes him. And to think there was once a time when I tried to resist!

  Soon I was completely naked, lightly pressing my bare pussy against his trouser-covered leg. I pulled away, and fell onto the bed, one hand instinctively moving toward the smooth skin below my navel. Roland removed his tie and began to open his shirt. He gazed at my hand and said, “Go on. Let me watch.”

  If I continue, I’ll come too quickly. And if I come now, my nerve endings will be too sensitive for him.

  I stroked myself gently, stopped, then spread the outer lips with two fingers to show him the results. Yes, it’s just business but his attentive eyes were making me rather swollen. I slid a finger inside—things I might do with any other client to keep him away from my body while keeping his engine humming. It’s a nice way to pass the time while a man’s undressing. But in Roland’s case, I have to admit a conflict of interest. My clitoris tingled discreetly as I opened my pussy. I wasn’t doing it for entirely professional reasons.

  His lips, kissing me lightly on each knee cap, approached my inner thighs. His mouth teased the intersection at the top of my pussy lips. When he began to kiss my stomach very softly—this flat, girlish stomach that I work to maintain, which my husband has designs on…never mind!—my knees felt lighter than air.

  I opened my legs wider and gave him what I’d been waiting for, as quietly as I could. When I came, I felt my
stomach contracting—because I was trying not to make the telltale sounds. Yes, he did seduce me. Successfully. But I still don’t want Roland to know what I’m “really” like. It’s a sneaky, surreptitious Climax—not a wild noisy release. Noise is reserved for those times when I’m faking it. What a strange little game, orgasmic cat-n-mouse—he wants me to come; I don’t want him to know for sure that I did, but I never leave his hotel room without getting off.

  First.

  Once inside of me, Roland did his best to hold back.

  “Damn it,” he gasped. “Lie still.”

  I complied but gripped his buttocks so he couldn’t get away.

  “And the trouble,” he muttered urgently, “is that I am fucking coming, god damn it. Much too soon.” He fucked me harder for a few seconds, unable to stop. “I’m sorry, my dear. You were just too delectable.”

  He must say that to everyone but it feels uniquely true each time I hear it. He collapsed against me, making the removal of condom and cock somewhat awkward, but I managed to slide my hand between our limbs.

  In the upstairs corridors of the Parker Meridien, there’s a permanent midnight effect—hip-looking blue lights made me forget it was almost noon. On the sidewalk, I noticed all the people—shoppers and office workers rushing around, macho messengers in bicycle shorts—and felt out of place. Too relaxed for a crowded sidewalk. I stopped at a deli for a caffeine fix, then floated down Fifty-seventh Street, pretending not to hear the catcalls from a group of Con Ed workers clustered around a manhole. I thought of Roland’s lips caressing and worshiping my small, hard-working waist. The combination of gentle and rowdy admiration—all in one morning—made me smile.

  As I neared Bergdorf’s, I found myself eyeball to grommet with a brilliant, textured handbag sitting in a display window, its toffee-colored surface suggesting miniature cobblestones.

  In the nick of time, I hailed a cab and got my existing handbag out of the beckoning handbag’s radius. A narrow escape. With my earnings still intact, I felt like one of those men who suddenly remembers that he has a very good “steak” waiting at home. Except that my particular steak—a tenured Kelly bag—was sitting on my lap. And that handbag was no mere hamburger.

  Anyway, the real problems in life aren’t hamburger-driven. The temptation to splurge on that extra filet has been the downfall of too many people in this steak-ridden town.

  FRIDAY, 4/6/01

  The week has been good to me. So good that I just might venture back to Fifty-seventh Street for another look at the microcobblestones…also available in brick red, off-black, and igloo-evoking white, according to Daily Candy.

  Today, a lunch-hour quickie at Jasmine’s brought me within $200 of my weekly quota. While she changed the sheets for her next date, I mused about my prospective purchase.

  “If you can hold out for nine more weeks, it’ll go on sale.”

  “How do you know?”

  Jasmine was standing in her bedroom doorway, naked, partly covered by the used sheet that was bundled up in her arms. Sunlight was streaming through the gauze curtains behind her bed, causing her to squint.

  “I’ve been studying the handbag market for years,” she said. “I have an excellent collection and not one was a retail purchase. Hey,” she added. “I think you’re losing weight!”

  Long-waisted and lean, Jasmine is that rare girlfriend who never lies about another woman’s appearance. If you have a chin that doesn’t go with your blouse or an extra five pounds you don’t need, she’ll tell you.

  “My BMI’s down to 20.9,” I boasted. “I’d like it to be 20.3.”

  “Well, mine’s deceptive. Muscle weighs more than fat,” she said, patting one of her well-formed buttocks.

  Jasmine has a porn star’s rump, ballerina legs, a tiny waist—and a Body Mass Index approaching 25. A gloomy feeling reasserted itself as I contemplated Matt’s new plan for increasing my BMI.

  “There’s a conspiracy against my waistline,” I told her. “And I have to do something about it before things get out of hand.” Jasmine glanced at the clock next to her bed. “Matt’s talking about babies! I didn’t think he’d want them so soon.”

  “But that’s good! He wants you to be the mother of his child! His dynastic partner-in-crime.” As she disappeared into the hallway to deal with her laundry, her voice grew much louder. “He wants to make you the CEO of his DNA!” Now she was back in the bedroom straightening out the pillows. “Maybe it’s a little too Me-Tarzan-You-Jane for your taste?”

  “It’s a little too soon,” I said. “We’ve been married for less than a year! And I just spent eight weeks getting rid of six pounds. The minute I start wearing my size-four dresses again, he’s talking about putting me in maternity clothes? It’s totally unreasonable!”

  “Is he actually talking about maternity dresses?” Jasmine looked stunned. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing. He’s a banker, not a clothing designer. Shouldn’t he be talking about trust funds? Or tuition fees?”

  “Oh for god’s sake. Not literally. But he goes online and reads up on Bugaboo strollers! Then he tries to throw away my cod liver oil. And he’s a registered user at Urban Baby. What is happening to this generation of bankers?”

  I can’t imagine Milt—who had kids with all his wives—getting so involved with the minutiae of pregnancy. Or any of the other bankers I see.

  Have I spent so much time around men old enough to be my father that I’ve lost touch with my own age group?

  “Well, it just goes to show you.” Jasmine was rummaging through her dildo drawer. “The smaller your waistline gets, the more he’s inspired to plant his seed there. It’s one of nature’s sweet ironies.” She tossed a black leather device and a matching rubber penis onto her half-made bed. “Well, I have to throw you out in five minutes. This guy’s so horny he’s liable to show up early.” She followed me to the living room where I retrieved my skirt, shoes, and raincoat. Jasmine was fastening the dildo harness around her pelvis. “What are you gonna do? Tell him you need time. You’re a young married couple, for god’s sake. If you’re still having good sex, he shouldn’t mess with that.”

  “Last night, he tried to fuck me without a condom! He’s never done that before.”

  “Never?”

  Jasmine slipped into a pair of black marabou slippers. There was something incongruous about the fluff around her toes and the fake veins on her bulging strap-on.

  “I told him, ‘We can’t do that until I’ve seen my doctor.’ He put it on but…”

  “Did he stay hard?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then your disagreement’s only superficial. He’ll forget all about it. Hot sex gives you a rhetorical advantage.”

  “Hot sex just makes him want to look at baby furniture! This morning, he got to the office at eight-fifteen and he sent me a link to this Norwegian high chair. It’s a baby chair that ‘grows’ with your baby! You can use it until your kid’s in high school! I don’t think he’s forgetting a thing.” I stared at Jasmine’s outfit. “Aren’t you going to wear a bra with that?”

  “It’s in the other room—.” We both heard the intercom. “Damn it. There he is.”

  I left quickly, to avoid bumping into her two o’clock, and took the stairs to the next floor while he was in the elevator.

  Less than two hours later, my phone chimed. “Where are you?” Jasmine asked.

  “The bagel section.”

  I was standing in front of Vinegar Factory’s plentiful selection of rolls, savoring the aroma.

  “Get your ass out of there and meet me at Pinky’s. Carbohydrates are not your friend.”

  “They’re for Matt, not for me,” I tried to explain, but she hung up quickly.

  When I got to the nail salon, Jasmine was absorbed in a current issue of W magazine.

  A shy, chubby girl with a jet black ponytail applied Quick-Dry to Jasmine’s red toenails. She gave me a polite nod, picked up her plastic tool basket, then wandered off to her next
customer. I peeked over Jasmine’s shoulder.

  “Look at this!” she exclaimed. “Anna Nicole Smith! She’s a total grillionairess now. Four hundred and fifty. Million. She met him in a topless club.”

  Four pages of snide but cheerful advice—“plus-size financial planning for the Merry Widow”—from the likes of Blaine Trump, Frederic Fekkai, and Bill Blass: “Don’t try so hard. How about a breast reduction? Now that you’re a lady, lunch.”

  When lunch becomes an imperative verb, you’ve crossed over, I guess. Had I taken Anna Nicole’s route and married a ninetysomething billionaire with middle-aged kids—and made a living displaying my breasts, rather than taking off my panties—I probably wouldn’t be fielding e-mails about Scandinavian high chairs.

  But that’s the difference between the topless and bottomless sectors. Dancers and call girls have completely different priorities. For one thing, we’re more concerned about appearances. See an elderly billionaire in private? By the hour? No problem. Becoming his thirty-something child bride—now that I would have to explain to my family. What people can see is what’s really at stake. As a hooker, you can have sex with multitudes and still be respectable, as long as people don’t know. Topless dancers have no privacy. The topless definitions of success, respectability, what’s okay, what’s not—it’s a language I’ll never understand.

  But who am I kidding? My C-cup breasts are natural and firm, but they have more in common with a girlish B-cup than a voluptuous D. These days, you’d have to be a Double-D like Anna Nicole to be taken seriously on the topless circuit. What I have, in fact, are call girl breasts, not dancer breasts. Anna Nicole’s destiny was never mine to reject in the first place.

  “So look,” Jasmine said, in a low voice. “This is what I think you have to do.” She closed the magazine and leaned closer. “Make an appointment with your gyno. Get her to put you on the Pill.”

  I thought I had outgrown the Pill. Condoms have been in vogue for so long that using one is second nature.…But the Pill was the answer to my prayers at thirteen when it cleared up my acne. And now?