Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  MONDAY, 5/21/01

  As soon as Matt left for work, I called Allison, worried she might be having a relapse.

  “I told Milton you just got back from two weeks in L.A. He’s very hot to see you. Don’t forget to call me Suzy. I have an extra strap-on here.”

  “I hope I can get into the right frame of mind,” she sighed. “I’ve had two cups of coffee and I feel catatonic. But I’m rereading this great book, How to Survive the Loss of a Love.”

  One of the self-help classics. Bereavement’s Joy of Cooking.

  “I think I read that when I was twelve,” I said.

  “Me too! But it’s still relevant,” Allie said. “And there are things I didn’t understand when I first read it. ‘The Healing Process Has Its Progressions and Regressions.’”

  “I didn’t understand that when I was twelve either.”

  “‘There Is a Beauty in Sadness.’”

  “Isn’t there a chapter on pampering yourself?”

  “Yes! I need to reread that. ‘Sexual Desire May Change,’” Allie intoned. “Oh my god. I haven’t been able to have an orgasm for six days. I’m afraid to…you know, if I try to get off, I might start thinking about—about him. It’s too painful! If I think about him, I’ll—”

  “Listen, we’ve all been there. Just try to focus on getting ready. If you fall apart, you won’t be able to work. Then you’ll hate him for messing with your income. And you’ll hate yourself even more.”

  “That’s true. And I need to make some money. I just got a huge bill from Barney’s.”

  “But you need to keep having orgasms. Isn’t there some guy at the gym you can focus on? You need to keep the oxygen flowing to your skin.”

  “I know. But there isn’t.”

  “Well, just hang in there,” I said. “You can’t let Barney’s cancel your card! We’re talking about your infrastructure. You can’t let that fall apart over a relationship.”

  LATER

  When Allie arrived—dressed like a girl who had just spent two weeks hanging around Rodeo Drive—Milt uncorked the bubbly. His favorite new discovery—Strap-On Biker Chicks—was running silently on the VCR.

  Allison smiled winningly at the action and said, “Alexandra Silk’s my favorite! Is she in this?”

  Allie makes an effort to remember who’s who in porn. I guess it’s like memorizing the Major League Baseball players so you can talk sports with your clients.

  We sipped Cristal and chatted while four dildoed girls took part in a very energetic (and slightly confusing) daisy chain. Our own plans were less elaborate but there’s nothing like a simulated lesbian scene—hardware included—to take a working girl’s mind off her boyfriend problems. Allie rose to the occasion.

  “This is sooooo inspiring!” she said. “I’m dying to get Suzy naked. Aren’t you? Let’s take the champagne to bed.”

  Milt followed us to the bedroom where two strap-ons, hers and hers, were prepped and waiting on a pillow. Allie stripped down to a delicate pink thong—almost the same color as her nipples—then disappeared into the bathroom with her equipment. When she returned, she was wearing the harness over her thong, and I was wearing nothing at all. I got on my knees, placed my mouth on the dildo and pretended to play with my pussy. Milt poured some more champagne for Allie. While I licked the dildo, I could hear their glasses clinking.

  “Milt’s dick is so big and hard,” Allie crooned. “I think you should suck his cock while I fuck you.”

  “Great idea!” I said.

  A condom was waiting under the pillow, but soon it was on Milt’s cock and in my mouth. Lying on his back, he gazed at the intersection of my face and his erection. I continued to make slutty eye contact while Allison pretended to fuck me from behind.

  Our deal is that no penetration occurs with lazy customers like Milt. With some attentive guys, you can’t avoid real penetration, but Milt never seems to get off his back these days. When I felt the lubricated head of the dildo sliding against my opening, I brought my lips down to the base of Milton’s cock. I moaned intensely.

  “She loves it,” Milt gasped. “Ohgodthatfeelsgood. Keep fucking her like that.”

  “She hasn’t been fucked like this in weeks!” Allie exclaimed. “I looooove giving it to her!”

  By the time Milt finally came, we had exhausted all the permissible options and he was late for his next appointment.

  “What a combination!” he said happily. Allison, straddling his pelvis, reached between her thighs to grab the condom and rolled away from him. “What time is it? But I’m late for a good reason. That was an experience to be savored.”

  After Milt was gone, the commercially induced gleam faded from Allison’s eyes, and she confided: “I almost didn’t show up! I put all the souvenirs and presents in a bag and tried to throw it away. Then I started crying.” She pulled her new bible out of her Burberry tote and opened it. “But the chapter on getting out of limbo got me out of my apartment.”

  Key phrases were underlined in red: “…slow erosion from below.…your better instincts tell you there’s little hope…get on with the business of surviving, healing…”

  Business, underlined three times, made me hopeful about Allie’s survival.

  “I’ll see what I can drum up for next week,” I promised.

  TUESDAY, 5/22/01

  This morning while nursing a cup of coffee, I turned on my phone. Three text messages from Allie—“CALL ME” “GOOD NEWS” “SO CALL ME”—left at various hours the night before. I delved into my voice mail and retrieved her message:

  “I can’t believe it. Ten e-mails from Lucho just arrived! Tonight.”

  I called her back.

  “Ten different e-mails? What does he say?”

  “He went to an Internet café last night to look for my e-mail. I had no idea.”

  “How could that happen?” I asked suspiciously. “What are the dates?”

  “From last week! I’ll show you.”

  When I logged on, three FWDs from Allie were sitting in my in box. The first e-mail, explaining his initial lapse, was convincing:

  Connectivity does not come easily, darling Alli. It seems the phone system here is really sweating as more and more of the population gets online. It may take years to stabilize. I am in the Internet café reading your charming letters, because it’s the only way to get a decent connection and my first chance to write. I was at a semi-rural and completely unwired farmhouse just outside Bogotá with in-laws, nephews. etc. Now back in town dealing with my mother’s imperfect phone lines. I will write again tomorrow. Last night I couldn’t stop thinking about your sweet lips, both pairs!! Nostalgic for the company of your tender body…L.

  The second is in the same vein:

  Dear Allison,

  Today I was reading some Neruda. “A single star with a far-off scent and a purple center” is the best I can do, for translation. “Better than any word is the pulse of your scent.” How can I not think of you when I read such things?

  The third was sent to her new Hotmail address last Thursday!

  Re: UH OH WHAT SHOULD I TELL HIM? FWD: thinking of you, my love

  Good morning, dearest Alli. I am so sorry to be missing the OSI panel today but I have the date circled in my agenda and will be thinking about you at the appointed time! Darling Alli, I admire you enormously for your “chutzpah” to borrow a New York expression. It takes courage to challenge the preconceptions of those stuffy do-gooders who will be sitting in the audience, but you are the perfect candidate for the job. And it doesn’t hurt for them to see a gorgeous, luminescent woman speaking on behalf of New York sex workers! Congratulations on your televison debut. Don’t forget to ask for a tape!

  And please, tell me about the disturbing e-mails. Are they coming from a university address? A free account? I don’t like to intrude on your privacy, but I should see them before I comment. They are, in the end, only e-mails.

  A worried follow-up from Allison:

  Re: Sooooo,
Ummm.…

  How embarrassing! He was getting my messages but I wasn’t getting his! After Thursday, he got so antsy because I wasn’t writing. His last e-mail is REALLY concerned. I wanted to answer RIGHT AWAY but I’ve been trying to figure out what to say. He will be so disappointed if I tell him the truth! Won’t he? What a terrible mix-up! I felt so much better when I got his mail last night, but I couldn’t sleep a wink. Thank GOD I didn’t throw away the souvenirs!

  LATER

  Just spoke to Allie, who still hasn’t written to Lucho: “His last e-mail was frantic! But I don’t know what to say to him!”

  Because she’s too embarrassed to admit the truth, Lucho’s paying for a crime he didn’t actually commit.

  “For god’s sake, tell him what you told Roxana.”

  “Really?”

  “And don’t embellish,” I advised her. “Just tell him you had to miss the event because you weren’t feeling well. And now you’re finally better. The less you say about not feeling well, the more convincing you’ll be. Let his imagination fester. Do you want me to write it for you?”

  “I can handle my own e-mail!” she said. “But shouldn’t I tell him his mail got delayed? For a week?”

  “No! That kind of talk opens up your emotional floodgates. You’ll end up telling too much. Just keep it short, mysterious, and sweet. But if you don’t write soon, he’ll start thinking you got run over by a bus.”

  “Do you really think so?” Allie was intrigued by my theory. “I wonder how that would make him feel.”

  “Let’s not put him to the Bus Test just yet. I guarantee that once you’ve written to him, you’ll be able to sleep properly.”

  WEDNESDAY, 5/23/01. THE MORNING AFTER

  What I was thinking last night while Matt was going down on me:

  Time to cross the latex threshold. A diplomatic necessity. Further delay could backfire badly and weaken your marriage.

  Besides, you’re already halfway there.… I belong to the subset that uses condoms for commercial blow jobs. But oral sex with a boyfriend or husband is another matter entirely. Nobody even pretends to be rational, much less consistent, about blow jobs and boyfriends. Condoms for unpaid oral sex? Life is too short. Safe sex is a flawed concept if you actually like anything about sex. You have to make exceptions. Who can be bothered with those vanilla-flavored dental dams we’ve heard so much about—and rarely seen?

  You’re not exactly violating a sacred temple. My body’s more like a boutique with flexible hours. The policies of such a boutique may be subject to change.

  It’s hard to have an orgasm when shop and temple are competing for mindshare but I forced myself to come, by concentrating on something I’d rather not discuss. Even with myself. So I could be nicely wet the first time he ventures there uncovered.

  When Matt reached for the condom drawer, I grabbed his wrist to stop him. He gazed into my eyes for a long moment, as I opened my thighs under his hips.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  I pulled him closer with my legs, closed my eyes, and whispered, “Yes. I’m totally sure.”

  THURSDAY, 5/24/01

  This afternoon, a quickie with Jasmine at the Excelsior. An eccentric-looking redhead with a tiny Maltese dog followed us into the elevator. Too late, we realized she was going to the same floor. Yikes. What if she lives, like, next door to this guy? We waited for her to exit. Jasmine looked relieved when the Maltese owner continued walking—away from the client’s apartment.

  Thirty minutes later, we were back on the sidewalk.

  “I’ve gotta pick up some custom powder,” Jasmine said. “I’m going to Bloomingdale’s.”

  “I could use some cleansing milk.”

  After equipping ourselves with various staple items—while dodging the perfume touts and skincare hawkers—we stopped upstairs for a snack.

  “Well,” I told her, “I finally took your advice. I went on the Pill.”

  “Thank god for that,” Jasmine said. “And you didn’t tell him?”

  “No way! I keep them—here, I’ll show you.” I produced my homeopathic pill bottle. “I keep them in here.”

  Jasmine nodded with approval.

  “Don’t you feel better about yourself now? The future belongs to chicks like us,” she said. “We can see a conflict coming and squash it like a bug. Technology is your friend! There’s no reason in this day and age for any woman to be arguing with any man about her breeding schedule. It’s your pussy and your everything-else-that’s-in-there. What’s wrong?”

  “I just feel weird.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re having some kind of moral crisis about lying to Matt at this stage of the game.”

  “Not exactly, but”—I lowered my voice—“we finally had sex without a condom!”

  “And?” Jasmine asked. “How was it? Are you glad you saved something for marriage?”

  “Well…a hot time was had but not by all concerned. I mean, it wasn’t a bad time. But, without the condom? I’m not relaxed. I feel like I’m betraying myself. Back in the day before we all used condoms, I enjoyed it just fine. What happened?”

  “Paradigm shift! Sex without condoms-and-lube just seems so fucking inefficient and last century. Or maybe it’s a case of ‘you can’t go home again.’ How do you keep ’em down on the farm, after they’ve—”

  “Could you say something a little more encouraging? I really miss coming with my husband.”

  “But you totally made the right decision,” Jasmine insisted. “It’s just gonna take some getting used to.”

  FRIDAY, 5/25/01

  Jasmine’s got a point. It’s the paradigm shift. You spend years feeling that you’re Not Supposed To Do X. If you do X, it’s worse than breaking the rules, you are sleazy and disreputable. Overnight, due to a change in your status, X becomes as normal as washing the dishes. No, X becomes socially obligatory, a sign of true commitment. Your husband expects it of you. So do your in-laws, come to think of it.

  X being rubber-free intercourse. Without X, you may obtain a trophy—marry a banker. I used condoms throughout our courtship with no problem. But you have to engage in X if you want the next trophy: a banker’s baby. Your husband and his in-laws can’t imagine why you’d be reluctant to claim that trophy. It’s just…inconceivable.

  The journey from hooker to wife doesn’t require a passport or visa—not if you stay in Manhattan. There are no checkpoints or embassies. It’s supposed to be like moving from Ontario to Quebec. Or California to New York. But it’s more like living well in a banana republic—then moving to a NATO country. The paradigm shift.

  SUNDAY, 5/27/01

  This morning, as I lay beneath my husband, hands firmly grasping his buttocks, limbs wrapped tight around his body, I felt an orgasm starting—ours—and was quickly distracted by the end of his. Sex in the raw is so much fun for Matt that he simply has no self-control! And when that happens, he thinks I’ll be content as long as I have some kind of orgasm. Which he’s willing to provide, as many times as I want.…But so are my customers!

  I fell in love with Matt after a full day of work. In fact, I had already come that day.

  Having my pussy attended to orally is a perk of my job and sometimes an obligation. Oral sex for me will never be like…what Allie says she’s been getting from Lucho. It’s a surface pleasure, something I can have with a john, and my body never gives itself away when I come during oral sex. I give myself to Matt while fucking, which I can’t do with customers, and I fear I won’t have another orgasm that way unless he starts wearing condoms again.

  There is only one way to reintroduce condoms into our bed. It has to be Matt’s idea, not mine.

  13

  Hotter Than July

  TUESDAY, 5/29/01

  Last night, after Matt came inside of me, I seized the postcoital moment.

  When you have an important announcement to make, timing and location are key. Matt, playing gently with the nape of my neck, was relaxed but not sleepy. My bod
y was responding happily to the attention of his fingertips, but my mind was on a mission.

  “I’ve been thinking.…” I paused to whet his curiosity andorganize my thoughts.

  “Honey?” His hand reached down to cup my right buttock and I felt a light pinch. “Thinking about what?”

  Snuggling much closer, I was now resting my head on his chest, pressing my nose against dark curly hair. He has just the right amount of chest hair—and I’ve seen every variety out there. I know what I like.

  In a cozy manner, as if I were talking about getting up and making a cup of Ovaltine, I told him: “I think we should raise our children in the Catholic faith.”

  “In the what?”

  He was still holding me but his arms grew stiff. I disentangled myself and sat up.

  “As Catholics. What’s wrong?” I pulled the sheet up so that my nipples were still visible.

  “Your mother’s an atheist,” he protested. “If you weren’t raised Catholic, why would you raise your own children that way?”

  “My mother was raised Catholic and she raised us as atheists. She followed her conscience. Why can’t I follow mine?” I replied. “I want my children to have an identity.”

  “You want to label them with a religion before they’re old enough to talk?”

  “Isn’t that what happened to you? You’re an Anglican.”

  “Episcopalian. But I never went to church. Nobody in my family does. Just for special events. Funerals and weddings.”

  “Well, I’m not suggesting you convert. This is about our children.”