Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “I’ll never hear the end of it if I go back on the Pill,” I sighed.

  I just want some time. To get used to the idea. To save some money. I can’t keep working if I get pregnant! I’ve heard that some johns are turned on by pregnant women but this is the stuff of myth and legend if you work on the Upper East Side. It certainly doesn’t correspond to the co-ed call girl image. When you’re thirty-five going on twenty-five, you have to look the part.

  “If you go on the Pill, he can’t impregnate you and you don’t have to argue about condoms. You’re buying time. Just don’t tell him.”

  I glanced around the room to make sure nobody was listening.

  “Can I really get away with that?”

  “Think of all the women who pretend they’re on the Pill and they’re not! You’re gonna do the same thing—backwards and in high heels. If they can get away with it, why can’t you? You’re already getting away with plenty,” she said. “You have a proven track record.”

  “But that’s what I mean. I don’t want to push my luck.”

  How much can—or should—one person get away with?

  “You won’t be struck down by a thunderbolt for delaying motherhood. It’s your evolutionary prerogative!” she said. “Like holding out till the fifth date. And you shouldn’t be confrontational with this guy. That’ll just wreck the mood. You don’t need that.”

  “ ‘This guy’? You’re talking about my husband! Sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever had a normal relationship with a man!”

  “Would you get a grip?” Jasmine said. “I’m not the one who sneaks around on your darling husband. You are. So don’t get all sacred with me about the institution of holy matrimony.” Jasmine picked up her magazine. “Forget I said anything. I was just trying to help a friend out of a jam.”

  She gave me a tight, cold smile and resumed her investigation of Anna Nicole Smith’s social makeover.

  SATURDAY MORNING, 4/7/01

  I spent yesterday evening in a sheepish snit—simmering with resentment, biting my tongue in self-reproach. Why did I say that? Why did she say that?

  In bed, Matt tried to unbutton my pajama top, but I turned away from him.

  “Honey…” He was kissing the back of my neck. “I’m sorry about last night. I’ll use a condom until we’re ready. Why are you crying? Talk to me.”

  “I—it’s not about that.” I curled up into a ball and hid my face in the pillow. I knew in my heart that I was depriving him of sex to pay him back for causing, indirectly, that exchange of caustic words in the nail salon with my best friend. “I just want you to hold me,” I said. And he did.

  7

  The Schoolgirls Come and Go

  TUESDAY, 4/10/01

  Trish is in a tense mood about our upcoming date with Tommy. This morning, when she called, I was negotiating light starch and quick turnaround on two of Matt’s favorite shirts.

  “Please,” I begged the sphinxlike assistant handling my order—but she was oblivious to my panic. “I promised my husband they’d be ready tonight.”

  I answered my phone while she went to the back of the shop for a consultation.

  “Jasmine confirmed, but she’s giving me a hard time about the cut. And Charmaine hasn’t called back. Is she reliable?” Trish asked.

  I felt a twinge of dismay. Is this Jasmine’s way of letting me know she’s still pissed off? She knows I’m the one who gave Trish her number.

  This week, Tom wants an entire schoolroom—well, a quartet of torturers-in-training, under the guidance of “Thalia” (Trish), who continues to play chief inquisitor. Though still a trainee, I’ve been promoted to “teaching assistant.” And I’m also helping Trish—IRL—with recruitment. My quota, this week, depends in part on picking up half of Trisha’s commission from two “New Girls”—Jasmine and Charmaine. New to Trisha, that is.

  “I’ll talk to her,” I promised.

  “To Charmaine? Or Jasmine?”

  “Both. And I’ll make sure it’s okay with Jasmine.”

  “Well, she wants to send me return business. She doesn’t like taking a cut. Or paying one, I guess.”

  Jasmine, ever the builder, prefers to exchange clients. That’s how a business continues to grow. Taking a commission is a good way to pick up some quick money but it’s not always the best long-term strategy.

  I looked around to make sure I was alone, then lowered my voice.

  “Jasmine has good dates. They’re easy.” In fact, her dates are a lot easier than any I’ve seen through Trish. “You won’t regret it.”

  “But I can’t split the cut with you unless I have the cash,” Trish objected.

  The assistant returned with a ticket on which the magic words same day had been stamped.

  “Anyway, I need to do the cut,” Trish went on. “I can’t wait for people to send me business. There’s a crisis here. My husband…” She lowered her voice. “My husband’s having a crisis at work and I need to start covering our monthly payments.” As I left the shop, Trish said, “Don’t call this afternoon, he might be home. I’ll call you. Don’t worry, I will be there, everything’s fine. I mean, it will be when things get back to normal. I have to figure out how to get the mortgage paid without him finding out where the money came from.”

  Minutes later, Jasmine called.

  “So,” she said. “Trish doesn’t trust me to reciprocate? Why is she giving me such a hard time? I’ve had the same phone number for ten years. I’m not some fly-by-night—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” I protested. “I totally vouched for you. She knows you’re good for the date or the cut. Listen, she’s under a lot of pressure.” I didn’t want to tell Jasmine something that Trish could barely bring herself to tell me—but it sounds like her husband lost his job. “Trish has a daughter and she’s embarrassed about having to ask you for the cut. It’s not about you.”

  To my relief, Jasmine didn’t argue.

  “And what about this torture academy? That girl’s notorious. I’ve been hearing about her freaky guys for years,” Jasmine said. “I hope I’m not expected to, like, draw blood. I mean, I’ll do it if he insists but it’s not my thing, you know? How much of a freak is he?”

  People really exaggerate about Trish!

  “Strictly torture lite,” I assured her. “He’s not really a painseeker.”

  “Thank god for that!” she said. “Masochism’s so exhausting.”

  WEDNESDAY. 4/11/01

  When I arrived at the Michelangelo, Jasmine was in the bedroom of the suite with Tom and Trisha.

  Charmaine, waiting her turn in the living room, answered the door. Like me, she was dressed in a simple skirt and a pretty blouse, but hers was more unbuttoned. To show off her recent acquisitions. The supersizing of Charmaine was, technically speaking, a success, but her breasts are a little larger than they need to be. In fact, they’re too big for her frame.

  “Debbie’s here,” she said. “And Jasmine’s keeping him busy.”

  A tall, slender girl with heavy bangs, wearing small, rectangular glasses, was curled up in a chair, playing with her cell phone. She wore her hair in two thick auburn braids that reached her shoulders. When she looked up and smiled, I realized she was also wearing braces.

  “I’m next,” Debbie said, with a giggle.

  How did Trish manage to locate a twenty-something with braces for the torture academy? She’s perfect for playing the part of a schoolgirl, especially with Tommy who requires no oral sex but…it would be rude to ask how she, um, normally deals with that.

  “Debbie’s not my real name,” she volunteered. “That was Trisha’s idea. I like my real name but Trish thinks Emily sounds too plain. We’re cousins. She’s always been opinionated.”

  “I’m Sabrina,” I told her. Something about her chirpy disclosures made me want to keep my own name under wraps.

  Charmaine looked uneasy. Debbie’s about the same age as Charmaine, but only chronologically. In hooker years, they’re almost a generation a
part. Charmaine wouldn’t dream of letting some “older chick” tell her what name to work under!

  “Is this your…” The possibility was beginning to dawn on me, too. “…your first time?” Charmaine asked.

  “Not exactly,” Emily/Debbie said. She went back to fiddling with her phone, then looked up. “Do you both live in New York?”

  Jasmine, wearing just her bra, skirt, and high heels, slipped out of the bedroom, closed the door behind her, and said in a loud whisper, “Debbie to the rescue! But she wants you to wait for, like, a minute so she can talk to him.”

  Debbie/Emily was already on her feet, drawing attention to her eagerness and her long legs. She’s almost willowy, almost gangly. She was wearing a pleated miniskirt that would look wrong on most of us. On her, it was just right.

  “Don’t forget your purse,” Charmaine told her. “And your phone.”

  Debbie’s handbag sat on the carpet, half open, and she was about to leave her phone on the chair.

  “But I’m coming right back,” she said.

  Still, she bent down to retrieve her belongings, inadvertently flashing her red lace panties before she disappeared into the “torture chamber.”

  A few moments later, I joined her. Debbie’s naïvet?in the living room—an experienced girl doesn’t leave her phone lying around, much less her pocketbook—was duplicated in the bedroom. More than once, Trish had to stop Debbie from getting too close to our “prisoner.”

  And braces turned out to be no impediment after all. Debbie has a natural tendency to use her mouth, and she wasn’t interested in tormenting Tom. She wanted to please him, instead—which is touching, I suppose. But that would cut our afternoon short and totally upset the erotic apple cart. The implicit deal is that Tom enjoys a few hours of torture/suspense/variety before coming, finally, through his own efforts. (Self-service is a recurring theme with Mistress Thalia’s clientele.) And how can Charmaine participate if Debbie finishes him off now?

  These calculations were lost on Debbie, who—typical new-bie—is selfish in all the wrong places. New Girls can be annoying, and this one got on my nerves. Creating extra work. For me, and for Trish. Every hint, every gesture, went right over Debbie’s head. But Trish was determined to make lemonade out of this lemon.

  “Now this,” she announced, in her Thalia voice, “is a good example of yesterday’s lesson. When your prisoner is aroused and vulnerable, he becomes more attractive. Come here, Sabrina. I need your help. Debbie, turn around and lift up your skirt. We have to check your panties. As you can see, Debbie is in danger of giving in to our prisoner. Yes, you can use your hand, Sabrina.”

  I slipped my hand between Debbie’s thighs and patted her panties. She wouldn’t even be here if she weren’t related to Trish!

  “Very moist,” I said, in a stern voice. This was a wild exaggeration. Though Debbie was eager, her panties weren’t sloppy. Thank god! But I could smell perfume on the back of her neck—another no-no that Trish should have warned her about. “I don’t think Debbie’s been doing her homework,” I added.

  Debbie’s hips made a wriggling motion.

  “This is a very important lesson, girls. When this happens—” Thalia addressed an imaginary assembly. “When you become aroused by the prisoner’s responses, you must allow one of your classmates to bring you off.”

  Tommy, standing at attention in his jockstrap, gasped.

  “This will have an effect on your prisoner, if you make him watch. Debbie will demonstrate this technique for the benefit of our prisoner and her classmates.” She gave Debbie’s thigh a gentle prod with her pointer. “That will teach you to make overtures to the prisoners!” she said. “It’s easier if you kneel.”

  Debbie got on her knees in front of my skirt. I lifted the hem, expecting her to flirt with my pussy through my panties. Instead, she pulled my panties down to my ankles and buried the tip of her tongue between my outer lips. Tom was staring at Debbie, who—it cannot be denied—gives an excellent impression of a schoolgirl from behind. Wearing just her bra, skirt and heels, she tossed her hair backward, and her smooth braids were now lying against her delicate shoulder blades.

  Thalia, concerned with keeping Debbie away from the customer, gave an approving nod. She stood close to the prisoner and continued talking to the imaginary schoolroom.

  “Our captive, as you can see, is massive when he’s erect.”

  I parted my thighs a little more while concentrating on Thalia’s pointer, like a fascinated scholar of all things hard and throbbing.

  Debbie’s tongue was surprisingly graceful. She was applying just enough pressure to the outside of my clitoris, stroking the side with her tongue. For one long moment, she reduced the pressure. I closed my eyes and waited for her to continue. Then I remembered that I had a job to do. When I opened my eyes, Thalia was still stroking Tom’s erection through his jockstrap with the end of her pointer.

  “Don’t make me watch!” he moaned. “Don’t make me come in my boots! You’ll ruin me!”

  Tom’s melodramatic contributions weren’t as distracting as they should have been. I placed a hand, politely, on the back of Debbie’s head. She didn’t resist. Instead, she began to lick very slowly, with a greater sense of purpose. I shuddered hard when I came, and pulled away, slightly ashamed of this orgasm. It’s one thing to come with Roland—I control my reactions, and it’s my secret. But coming like that? In front of three people? It seems really inappropriate. Thalia might assume it was faked, Tom might wonder. But Debbie—despite her amateur antics—knows it was real. As for Tom, his routine is sheer camp! Did I get off in spite of that? Or because of it? The whole thing makes me queasy.

  Well, Debbie would be a menace to the enterprise if she weren’t kept busy. I’ll just try to think of that orgasm as a professional sacrifice.

  “Class is dismissed,” Trish announced. “Sabrina, you may leave, but Debbie stays behind. I have some questions about your performance this afternoon.”

  I picked up my panties and stuffed them into my pocket. Tom was gazing at the carpet like a trapped man, but he gave me a furtive look that Thalia didn’t fail to notice.

  “Do not attempt communication with the students,” she scolded. “When Debbie’s detention is over,” she told me, “I’ll have a word with Charmaine.”

  Debbie was half-kneeling, half-sitting, on the floor, looking pleased with her situation. They wanted me out of there, but I was dying to stay and watch. What’s going on with those two? Was Debbie about to get a spanking? It seems like a game they’ve played before.

  In the living room, Jasmine was still half-dressed in her push-up bra, pacing the room while she talked on her cell phone.

  “Friday the twentieth,” she was saying. “Well, how about Thursday? Eyebrow wax and Brazilian. And a full arm. There has to be a way! She can’t just leave me like that!” She frowned. “Well, if she only has time for the eyebrows and bikini, I’ll take it. Thanks. I’ll be waiting.” She flipped her phone shut. “Well,” she said, brightly. “My eyebrows and pussy are handled. I just found out my beautician is going on her honeymoon. For three fucking weeks. I’m wait-listed for an arm wax! I can’t believe this! But my pussy, at least, will be flawless. There’s nobody else I can go to at this point.”

  I know how that feels. My pussy, never faithful to one man, has been unfailingly loyal to the same beautician, and I’ve never been tempted to stray in the twelve years that I’ve been going to her.

  “I don’t know why you bother with waxing,” Charmaine said. “I got mine lasered at the place where they did my eyebrows. I never worry about penciling my brows or waxing my pussy. Why don’t you just have everything lasered? And get some permanent eyebrow color?”

  “No way,” Jasmine said, “would I go for permanent markings up there or permanent removals downstairs.”

  Charmaine rolled her eyes and flashed a polite smile. “Each to her own,” she said. “I had all my pubic hair removed. Maybe it’s, you know, generational. Are you
afraid of the technology?”

  Jasmine was sitting on the couch, arms folded across her chest. She glared at Charmaine.

  “I am not afraid of the technology,” she said. “I have been around long enough to see a few style cycles. Aren’t you worried that your pussy will have 2001 written all over it in 2010? I hate to say this but certain things can really date a bitch. Permanent cosmetics are just ladylike tattoos. In a few years you might be walking around with eyebrows that are over. And when the Botox starts to get old, those permanent eyebrows will be swimming all over your chin.”

  Charmaine sat up straight. She tossed her hair, and her nostrils flared. But it was hard to judge her mood because her forehead was as smooth as marble.

  “Cosmetic surgery is evolving,” Charmaine said, “unlike some people I could name.” Hard to believe she used to be intimidated by Jasmine! “I’m a very experienced Botox user. If I start having problems, I’ll consult my doctor. And I think a hairless pussy is classic. If I had a permanent landing strip, that would date me. Or a Hitler mustache. But I don’t.”

  I was trying to look bored but found this oddly thrilling. Charmaine, standing up to my best friend! And Jasmine—ready to defend the honor of her pubic mustache.

  The bedroom door opened. Holding her shoes in one hand, her skirt in the other, Debbie—in just her bra, panties, and glasses—looked radiant. The quibbling ended abruptly.

  THURSDAY, 4/12/01. THE VIEW FROM MY IN BOX

  Another Times article from Charmaine, sent at 3:07 am with a discreet note:

  Thanx 4 that biiiig day @ the races. Can’t sleep. Made mistake of reading NYT after drinking green tea! CK

  This week, the Metro section crusader pursues a rent-stabilized spinster who spends no more than three days per month in her East Seventy-eighth Street 1BR. She says she’s on the road pursuing her “true calling” as a cabaret singer. But here’s the catch. Each time she’s about to audition, she has a minibreakdown. She’s working on her “chronic fear of success.” The reporter maintains that rent stabilization is enabling her dysfunctional noncareer because her rent is so low—$536!—that she’ll never have to succeed at anything. Her little scam is giving rent stabilization a bad name. And she’s one of my neighbors. A remnant of the Girl Ghetto.