Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  When I heard the shower curtain, I quickly ducked out of the bedroom and got busy in the kitchen. Ball-bearing hooks for the shower curtain: what a brilliant decorating ploy. I chose them for the master bathroom to go with a whimsical terry cloth curtain.

  When you move the curtain, the ball-bearings make a loud, smooth rattling sound, audible throughout the apartment. If I’m on my cell phone while he’s in the shower, or going through his pockets, I just listen—closely—for the telltale rattle of silver ballbearings caressing a naked curtain rod. Fortunately, Matt didn’t redesign that bathroom.

  I like to think of myself as a domestic genius. But right now my own money is so near and yet so far from my anxious fingers. And my own efforts to play it cool are truly unnerving. Can I trust my own judgment anymore?

  MONDAY, 5/7/01

  Must get organized for my date with “Terry.” According to Trish: “It might actually be his place, then again it might not. He always says he’s borrowing it from a friend. Don’t let that spook you.”

  LATER

  The apartment looks so naturally like an East Side lady’s nest, not the home of a guy pretending to be a lesbian. I want to believe him!

  “Terry” answered the door wearing a straight black skirt, cream-colored silk blouse, high heels, and no makeup. His face isn’t feminine but his smile drew me right in. Terry smiles like a 1960s airline stewardess in a soft porn movie. A charming, seductive expression that made me coo: “You look gorgeous,” without a second thought.

  “Let’s put that over here,” he said softly. He led me toward a sofa next to a mirrored wall, and I unpacked my tote bag.

  “Ooooh, try this on,” Terry insisted, picking up a small hat with a veil. “And this.” He chose a string of pink costume pearls. “It’s too wild for me, but you’re so young and pretty, you should wear it. But first…” He, or I want to say She, undressed me with polite, nimble fingers, as if we were two girls in a backstage fitting room. “You don’t mind if I take off your blouse?”

  Terry’s hand brushed against my bra—an amazing facsimile of how a straight girl accidentally touches another girl. There was nothing predatory about it, and the sensation it produced was intriguing.

  When he had me down to my bra and panties, Terry began to arrange my appearance.

  “I like these shoes.” Terry picked up a pair of outrageous turquoise heels. “But I think these are more ‘you.’ ” He dangled a pretty sandal with tiny straps and tall slim heels. Then suggested that I change into a lace corset with a push-up bra. When we were done, I looked like an extra in an outtake from an eighties music video—and felt like a titillated six year old at a really wild tea party, no boys allowed. “Wait wait wait.” Terry opened my cosmetic case. “Where’s your lipstick brush? You have such a beautiful mouth. I want to play with it.”

  I picked out my shiniest lip gloss and opened my lips while Terry applied the gloss in slow deliberate strokes. A shiver went through my nipples. It’s strange because, when a man I’m hot for does something masterful with my lips, I get very aroused. But Terry’s so convincing that this felt more like harmless pleasure with a girl. My signals were getting crossed, or merging madly.

  Terry stood next to me, in front of the mirror, unbuttoning his silk blouse. He’d waxed his chest for the occasion. As I ran my fingertips over his skin, he asked, “Am I smooth enough for you?”

  My fingertips lingered on his nipples.

  “You feel perfect,” I murmured. “Such pretty breasts!”

  Then he asked, “How often do you find yourself attracted to a woman?”

  Though Trish told me next to nothing about what to do with Terry, I felt hypnotized and knew exactly how to answer.

  In a confiding, thoughtful voice I said, “I really prefer a feminine girl. It’s not every day that I can get turned on by a woman.”

  “Me too!” he said. Now we were sitting at the dining table, in front of his makeup collection.

  “In fact,” he added, “I prefer a girl who’s bisexual because I don’t want her getting too possessive.”

  Terry opened a flat case containing twenty different eye powders.

  “That’s right,” I agreed. “If you sleep with a guy, some women get jealous. But a bisexual girl won’t.”

  Terry giggled.

  “But I don’t want your boyfriend to know about this!” he said. “It’s our secret. I don’t like it when a man wants to watch. They ruin everything. They’re so rough! And they try to interfere.”

  “You have to be careful. A lot of bisexual girls will only go with another girl to please a man.”

  “I know.” Terry was enjoying the chance to commiserate with another girl about the Bisexual Woman’s Dilemma. S/he leaned toward me, and said, as if we were in a nail salon, dodging eavesdroppers, “We’re walking a tightrope. But I feel like I’ve met a kindred spirit. A girl who understands. I’m still trying to decide whether I’m a lesbian. I’m glad you’re bi.”

  I smiled flirtatiously, and began to examine the lipstick colors.

  “I don’t wear a lot of makeup,” Terry said. “Not in the daytime. Just one light layer of translucent powder. See?” I nodded with approval. “But when I go out, I turn it up just a notch. I only buy MAC and Chanel. And I like La Prairie. How about you?” he asked.

  “Chanel doesn’t work for girls like me. They have gorgeous colors,” I assured him. “But they’re not really geared for the exotic woman. And all the MAC users I know are blondes.” I didn’t bother to add that La Prairie might be considered matronly. “I use a lot of Prescriptives.”

  “You’re so right!” Terry exclaimed. “I never thought of that! Well, you’re bringing me up to date. What lovely skin you have.”

  Terry’s skin is pale to the point of pink and his hair’s hyperblonde. It’s short for a woman, but not too long by corporate male standards. I was about to ask if he had worked on the color but—just as I would with a girl—I zipped my lip. I don’t know “Terry” well enough to question the history of her blondness.

  I made up his eyes and lips, but he drew the line at mascara.

  “Too tarty looking,” he said. “I like soft makeup.…Would you like to touch my legs?”

  Terry’s left calf was extended, and he pointed his foot to show off a patent leather pump.

  I placed an admiring hand on his calf and stroked his stocking.

  “Your legs are so silky,” I told him. “And shapely.”

  “Fogal!” Terry said. “I only wear the best.”

  “Oh, but your legs deserve it.”

  Holding up a very elegant burled-wood hand mirror, Terry assessed our makeup job: “More eyebrows? I think strong eyebrows make such a big difference.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and sat up straight, leaning forward to receive some more eye makeup.

  “Shall we stay with a natural hairstyle?” I asked. I had a feeling wigs might be a no-no around here but I wasn’t sure. “I love the way these colors work with your hair and your eyes.”

  “Natural,” Terry agreed. “I don’t want to look obvious. We don’t want everyone to know, do we?” I wasn’t sure what he was getting at but I made an agreeable sound and began to brush his eyebrows. “Do you think I could go to that charity ball at the Pierre and pick up some rich guys? Do you think I have what it takes? I really want to work for you!” Terry said. “All the girls want to work for you!”

  Aha. I think I’m supposed to be a madam? And Terry’s the new talent?

  Terry picked up a patent leather evening bag and approached the apartment door, holding the bag by its handle. While I stood in the doorway, he sashayed into the hall to show off his womanly walk—and he does have a great walk. He went as far as the elevator—right past three other doors that could have opened at any moment—and returned to the apartment, laughing quietly like a naughty girl. My pulse was racing. What if someone opened their door and saw us? Me, dressed in a corset, and a black fishnet veil; Terry in his skirt and blo
use. Actually, a casual observer might take Terry for a middle-aged mom. I, however, looked bizarre.

  “You definitely have what it takes,” I said. “We could get five hundred an hour for you.” He was in heaven! “But I need to see you in something more revealing. Because you’ll have to deliver in the bedroom, too.”

  “Oh!” Terry’s face lit up. “I will?”

  This was Terry’s chance to model his lingerie collection and his heels. In keeping with his rejection of all things tarty, Terry’s lingerie is silky, loose, expensive, and pretty. In the bedroom, while he tried different outfits, I sat on a chair giving hints and directives.

  “Try pulling the top down just a little, with the strap falling off your shoulders. Can I see the back?” He tried on a shimmering blue nightgown that stopped midthigh and looked more like a slip. “That looks wonderful on you. Wear that the first time you see a client and you can’t go wrong. It shows off all your best angles, darling.”

  “There’s something I’d like you to do.” Terry sat on the edge of the bed, knees together, legs folded sideways, in a coy pose. “If you look in the top drawer of that dresser, there’s a special toy we can play with.”

  When I saw the double dildo, I did a double take.

  “Can we use mine? I’ll be right back.” I returned with a longer slimmer specimen and placed a condom on each end of the dildo, while Terry watched with bright anticipation. “I’m fond of this baby,” I purred. “A girl gets attached to her favorite things.”

  Lying on the king-size bed, Terry was still wearing his heels and his short slip.

  “Before we go to the Pierre, I need to get off.” He lifted the hem. “Is that okay? Or should I save it for my first customer?”

  “But you’re such a beautiful girl, it would be a waste not to see your pussy before we get down to business. Anyway,” I said, “I need to try you out first. All my girls come with my personal guarantee. That’s why I’m the best madam in the business! As a New Girl, I expect you to prove yourself.”

  I inserted one end of the dildo into my pussy. For obvious reasons, Terry had to improvise but he knew exactly what he was doing, and I was grateful not to be in charge of that particular detail.

  While squirming around on my end of the dildo, I stayed upright, so I could whisper sweet nothings: “You gorgeous little slut! I had no idea until you undressed. You are so hot.”

  He gazed up at my face just as a girl might when the right man proclaims his love at the right moment. Then, somewhat overwhelmed by the pressure on my knees and the size of even my dildo, I wriggled onto my back.

  One of Terry’s hands was between his legs, rubbing against the shiny blue slip. I imagined the sensation—charmeuse silk touching his cock—and couldn’t look away. To keep both ends of the dildo in place, I tried different angles and positions, none of which felt sustainable.

  “Sabrina! Don’t stop! I’m coming for you! I’ll do anything for you,” Terry moaned. “Now…now!”

  “You’re my favorite slut! Do it for me! Oh…yes!”

  Shortly after that, Terry tried to get my number, but I resisted.

  “Call Thalia,” I said. “She knows how to reach me.”

  Trish is possessive. If she hears about a number given to a client, she might stop working with me. And her dates are perfect because they’re afternoon outcalls, just what I need: I can’t work nights and I don’t always have a place where I can see a guy.

  “But Thalia won’t send the same girl twice,” Terry protested.

  “She won’t?”

  Come to think of it, whenever I’ve seen a client of hers more than once, Trish/Thalia’s been along for the ride. Like a chaperone. Maybe I shouldn’t be such a Goody Two-shoes about my number. But I’m scared of my own shadow now. The more you get away with, the more opportunities there are to outsmart yourself. And I’m still feeling haunted by that close call with Matt. And the money!

  TUESDAY, 5/8/01

  Last night, while drifting off to sleep, I found myself thinking about Terry’s silk nightie sliding against his cock while he made himself come. That slippery fabric…Matt was already fast asleep, snoring faintly. The room was dark and cozy, and Terry’s lesbian high jinks seemed far away from the stillness in our bed. But I remembered that shiver of pleasure when he touched my mouth with the lipstick brush and I moved a little closer to Matt, opening my thighs so I could press against his hip.

  The first time I encountered a “male lesbian,” I was eighteen, and I certainly wasn’t turned on by it. In fact, I was grossed out and a little indignant. He wore a silk bathrobe around his chubby middle-aged body. Lying next to me, he was gentle and harmless but I couldn’t get past the ick factor. He’s a fat baldheaded man! How can he expect me to treat him like a beautiful woman! I was such a sexual barbarian then that I had no sympathy for him.

  I didn’t know how to make him feel like one of the girls. All I knew at that point in my career was straight sex. I had been with a few girls and married couples but that was straight fare compared to what he wanted. I wasn’t yet enough of a woman to let him be one too. Did I resent him for wanting something I didn’t yet have?

  I tried not to show my displeasure, but you can’t just go through the motions with a male lesbian, and he flat out told me, “You don’t understand my fantasy. You’re not into this.”

  But that was then. Over time, I learned how to play other people’s games. I never thought the day would come, though, when a john’s perversity would prove so bewitching.

  Guys like Terry have this Inner Woman they want to be in touch with. Have I discovered my Inner John, yearning to be embraced by the woman I’ve become?? Well, I guess I’ve come a long way. But I may have come too far. Is marriage turning me into a freak?

  WEDNESDAY, 5/9/01

  Finally! Matt wants to meet at the bank during lunch hour. I thought he would never ask. I’ll have to force myself not to empty the box the minute he leaves. Moderation in all things. I must not appear anxious.

  And, this morning at the health food store, I found a husbandproof container for my Pill supply: a small bottle of homeopathic salts prominently labeled Menses Regulator.

  I’m a domestic goddess after all.

  WEDNESDAY EVENING

  After Matt kissed me good-bye, I withdrew some hundreds from the box and grabbed a taxi heading north, just in time for my session with Dr. Wendy. I was five minutes late but lateness doesn’t qualify as Material unless you’re (a) lagging by more than five minutes or (b) one of those habitual therapeutic stragglers.

  “When I saw my apartment key sitting right there,” I told her. “I wanted…”

  “You wanted?”

  “—to laugh, cry and do a jig. All at once. Except that I don’t really know how to do a jig.”

  “Exuberance is a variation on the theme of courage.” Wendy smiled. “You have an impulse to do something unfamiliar. This is very fresh material,” she added. “You just came from the bank? Does Matt know you’re here?”

  “God no! I don’t want Matt to know I’m in therapy. Listen, I pay for all my beauty needs and my therapy. He’s supporting me, but he doesn’t pay for therapy. And I don’t want him to.”

  “Do you have any reason to think he would oppose it?”

  “I don’t want to find out. Look, that’s why I’m still hooking. It may seem strange to you, but I don’t think this is any of his business, especially if it’s on my dime.”

  “Just for the record,” Dr. Wendy said, “nothing you tell me seems ‘strange.’ ”

  “Nothing?”

  “Can you tell me what you meant just now? Would our sessions feel less private if you were dipping into your household income to pay for them?”

  “I don’t want to talk about money anymore.”

  There was an abrupt silence. I waited for Wendy to change the subject. Finally she adjusted her glasses, sat back with her hands in her lap, and announced, with a wry smile: “Sex is easy, money is hard.”

>   “Matt makes a lot of money. He never questions my spending. And we have all these joint accounts.”

  “That’s what I’m curious about. You’re not struggling to make ends meet. Are you really seeing clients in order to keep your therapy a secret? Or do you keep this a secret so you’ll have a reason—”

  “To keep turning tricks?” I felt my temperature rising. “What difference does it make? You wouldn’t ask me that if I had a straight job. Would you?”

  Wendy looked thoughtful, and I felt guilty for introducing such an obvious red herring.

  On my way to Zabar’s, where Trish was waiting to pick up her cut, I felt calm for the first time in days. I’ve been on pins and needles ever since I got home from Trinidad, but it’s vaguely disappointing to feel safe again.

  When I was three, my parents left their apartment in Sandy Hill and moved to a rambling yellow house in Aylmer with a well in the backyard and a huge porch. The well didn’t work anymore but I remember being fascinated with its construction. Lots of turning points occurred in our first house.

  Mother became an atheist. She stopped taking us to Dr. Coupal, who was Catholic, and found a cheerful no-nonsense G.P. whose religion was unknown.

  Sebastian learned to walk.

  My father finished grad school and got a job with the Department of Forestry as a computer programmer. He would come home with stacks of colored punch cards that were vibrant and pretty—pink, light green—and also glamorous, because they came from somebody’s office. One night I had a dream in which my father took on the mammoth project of counting to a hundred. In my dream, I sat up all night while he counted.

  I had my first serious accident in that house while fooling around on some furniture and was taken to an emergency room for stitches. I thought I was lying on a large ironing board, but it must have been an operating table. I don’t remember feeling afraid, just disoriented.