by Tracy Quan
MONDAY NOON, 6/4/01
E-mail from Darren confirming our Wednesday appointment in his usual boyish code:
So look, I have those new documents. I want you to go over them twice. By yourself. I’ll bring two pencils! You know how to keep things nice-n-sharp.
And a voice mail from Jasmine, one of the first to arrive at the all-day NYCOT Summit—whether Allie really thinks it’s a good idea or not: “I’m here. And I’m getting a definite vibe about that stalker bitch. Got it narrowed down to three people. Where the hell are YOU? Allison keeps asking me if you’re coming.”
Can I get out of this? I wish I hadn’t agreed to attend but it gives Allie credibility with her activist friends if she can get some authentic “sex worker” friends to show up for a NYCOT event. Hopefully, Jasmine won’t start speechifying about her apocalyptic visions of legalization.
TUESDAY MORNING, 6/5/01
When I arrived at True and saw the commotion outside, I was tempted to run away. A slim tattoo-covered girl, very drunk, in tank top, red jeans, and denim mules was weaving at the entrance.
“You can’t treat me like this!” she yelled. “I’m a prostitute!”
She was arguing with a tall brunette who was wearing…a pair of expansive white fairy wings and a very exaggerated Jackie O. hairdo. Her Adam’s apple was almost as big as her hair.
“You’re disturbing the entire room,” said the winged NYCOT member, in a sweet dignified boom. “Nobody is questioning your sex worker credentials but you are too intoxicated to participate in this event. Please go home and lie down, Courtney. I’ll help you to a cab.”
Her hand reached out to prevent Courtney from lurching to the sidewalk.
“Get your fucking paws off me, you fucking freak! Just because you’re a facilitator doesn’t give you the right to molest me.”
“Oh for god’s sake!” the facilitator sighed. “Find your own way to a cab then! Suit yourself!”
She opened the door to the bar and withdrew from the sidewalk in a huff.
Allison came out, holding a clipboard. “Courtney!” she pleaded. “You have to go home and take a nap! It’s for your own good.” To me, she said, “We’ve been looking for you! Did you get Jasmine’s call?”
“Everybody’s talking about what’s good for me,” Courtney replied in a slurred voice. “What are you, the government?” She wandered, unevenly, down Twenty-third Street while Allison gazed after her, blinking nervously.
“I don’t know what to do,” Allie said. “I think she was mixing her substances.”
A handsome guy wearing overall shorts, no shirt, and a straw hat hurried through the door in pursuit of Courtney. When he caught up with the wayward substance-mixer, he took her arm. Amazingly, she didn’t fight him off. It was Peter Pan and Wendy on a good day. He put one muscular arm around her shoulders and she began to collapse on him, while he patted her head.
Allie seemed to find that reassuring.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Oh that’s her roommate. Danny’s the only person she listens to. He’s like her big sister—I mean, brother. He’s been in more than forty X-rated videos and he has a huge escort ad in HX. Full page! And he’s the founding editor of Rentboy.”
“And what does she do? Please don’t tell me that misfit is actually turning tricks!”
“Oh…” Allie gave me a tragic look. “She does a little bit of everything. I’m worried about her substance abuse. But she has every right to be a sex worker! NYCOT’s position on—”
“NYCOT’s defending her right to work? That’s insane! She’s a complete menace to the industry! A girl that wasted can’t be using condoms.”
“Well, she says she does. She was scheduled to do a onewoman dialogue—it’s really brilliant! We have to find someone to replace her now.”
Inside the bar, our fairy-winged facilitator was in a huddle with Gretchen, Roxana…and Jasmine.
“I was hurt when she called me a freak but I don’t take it personally,” said the facilitator. “I know it’s the alcohol talking. Or the Midol. Whatever she’s on, she shouldn’t drink on top of it!”
“I’ll talk to Courtney about it at the next meeting,” Roxana told her. “Name-calling is not permitted at NYCOT events. That’s grounds for ejection right there.…NAN-cy! So glad you could come!”
Allison beamed with pride. I felt like her catch of the day.
“We really need Nancy’s perspective around here,” Roxana added.
I’ve never been able to figure out what that perspective is supposed to be. For reasons beyond my control, Roxana thinks I should join NYCOT and never misses an opportunity to remind me. It has something to do with being the token Call Girl of Color. Which is almost as good as being, like Gretchen, the token Street Junkie.
“I’m Veronique.” The tall tranny with wings extended her hand to greet me. “I hope you weren’t intimidated by Courtney’s tantrum. She’s one of our younger members, and she’s still struggling with—is it cocaine or alcohol? I’ve never been able to clarify which drug she’s addicted to and which one she just likes too much.” Veronique sighed. “I’m told there’s a difference.”
“Too bad,” said Jasmine in a suspiciously neutral tone. “They tell me she’s a comic genius when she’s straight. I was looking forward to her show. Something about…”
“…Boule de Suif and Belle de Jour,” Allie burbled. “Boule de Suif gets into a…”
“…catfight over a cab! With the skinny high-class hooker!” said Veronique.
“She has a grant to develop it for Edinburgh Fringe,” Roxana explained.
“It’s got all the right ingredients,” Veronique added. “Class conflict for the Europeans; body image feminism for the Americans…”
“Sounds like something a grad-student stripper would do,” Jasmine ventured.
“How did you know?” Allie asked. “Courtney’s getting her master’s in women’s studies. And she used to be a peep show dancer!”
“Hooker’s intuition,” Jasmine said, downing the last of her martini. Gretchen cast a dubious smirk in Allie’s direction and walked away, while Jasmine turned on her stool to study Gretchen’s movements. She gave me a meaningful look and muttered in my ear: “Gretchen’s very quiet today. And she’s no fan of Allison’s.”
Suddenly, Roxana took the stage. “I’d like to welcome our next panel,” she announced. “Will ‘D.O.T.: Discourse On Trafficking’ please come to the front! As we all know, this is a difficult and troubled area. Our first speaker—” The panelists were milling around behind her, playing musical chairs. A girl in a garish red wig waved energetically at Allie, who waved back. “—Foxy Macbeth is here under deep cover. Foxy, as some of you know, published her thesis under a different name, of course, in the New Internationalist.”
Jasmine bristled and leaned toward me. “That’s another one of my suspects. She’s a teaching assistant at Cornell! Isn’t that where Allison’s…Colloquium Committee is? And she won’t tell me whether she’s ever been a hooker! Says she works in a dungeon. Does that look like dungeon material to you?”
Foxy greeted her audience. She seems too girlish and small for domination but then, so do I. If I can do the occasional domme session, maybe she’s a part-timer. But she could easily fit that body into a Barely Legal ad!
“My original title was ‘The White Slavery Narrative as Female Courtship Ritual or Marital Aspirations of Eastern European Émigrśs in the Twenty-first Century.’ ” Foxy spoke into a microphone. “I was under a lot of pressure to alter the title. In my study of happily married ex-prostitutes from three Eastern European countries, I discovered that their new husbands, under the new statute, could actually be defined as sex traffickers. More surprising was my discovery that they had met their husbands while working as escorts. These men are completely unaware of their own status as traffickers and see themselves, instead, as gallant saviors.” The room tittered and a few people at the bar began scribbling on notepads. “At four esco
rt agencies in the New York metropolitan area, the American-born escorts were in favor of deporting their Russian co-workers or, as a second best solution, marrying them off to affluent men who would prevent them from working. When I presented these findings to the Human Rights Working Group in Geneva…”
Danny strolled back into the bar, having tucked in his roommate, and sat next to me, compulsively checking his cell phone.
After Foxy and her friends had spoken, four girls in tiny shorts and black bras took over. The Triple-X Cheerleaders waved their pom-poms, leapt in the air, and yelled about their plight—wiggling energetically at strategic moments. Protest poetry by hot-looking twenty-year-old control freaks. Who resent being subjected to catcalls when they’re not on call.
“Har-aaaaassss-MENT!” they chanted, jutting out their barely covered rears. “When I’m not working, don’t be jerking! It’s my day OFF, bro! Not a free PEEP show!”
Danny leaned over and asked, “Do girls really hate getting cruised? For me, it’s an affirmation of my earning potential. Even when the gawkers aren’t buying. But I’m beginning to get that there’s a gender gap.”
This must be the opportunity for serious debate that Allie was talking about?
“Gender shmender,” Jasmine told him. “It’s a generation gap. No sensible chick over twenty-five objects to being seen as a viable piece of ass. Those junior feminazis will be singing a different tune when the guys on the street stop whistling at them. That, or they’re in the wrong business.”
“And what about you?” Danny asked. “You must be Nancy. I’ve heard so much about you!”
“You, um, you have? From who?”
“Roxana.” He glanced at the rings on my left hand. “We’re starting a discussion group for married hookers. Roxana sees you as the catalyst. We’re thinking: weekly support group with a monthly newsletter.”
A monthly newsletter? I should have known it was crazy to attend this thing!
A pretty girl walked by wearing a T-shirt that read: “Nobody Knows I’m A Stripper.” Her jeans were so low in the back that I could see a pair of white cotton panties sticking out of her waistband. I had the urge to run over and tuck them in. “That’s the last straw!” I moaned. “Butt cleavage! Half these girls were born after I started hooking!”
I excused myself while Danny and Jasmine chatted about their looks, the fading youth of others—and the social value of wolf whistles. Allie was standing near the door, monitoring the new arrivals.
“How dare you tell Roxana about my husband?” I hissed at her.
“I’ve never discussed Matt with anyone!”Allie protested.
“Then why is Courtney’s roommate pestering me about a support group for married hookers?”
“Well, you certainly need one!” Allie said. “Why are you leaving so early?”
“I’m making poached poussins for dinner. It’s very timeconsuming. And I don’t need a support group,” I told her. “I need to pick up the Pinot Grigio vinegar for the dipping sauce.” This morning, I persuaded Charmaine to let me have the apartment for two hours while Darren dropped by for his extralong session. Sometimes, Darren is the quickest of quickies. Occasionally, when he lands a big commission, he likes to celebrate by going twice. If I ruled the world, he would just come over on two separate days in the same week. But Darren likes to overload his senses.
After giving him an extravagantly slutty blow job, I sprinkled talc on his body and tickled him all over, very lightly, with a large pink feather, paying special attention to the crook of each elbow, his groin area, and his feet. In the other room, my compilation tape—designed especially for two-hour calls—played at a low but audible volume. (When it reaches the end of “Fantasy for a Gentleman” and segues into Oscar Peterson’s “Nice Work,” I know it’s been exactly one hour and ten minutes.) I turned him over and slowly tickled his back with the feather, feeling very much like a smart chef who knows exactly how many times her bird needs to rotate before he’s done. After drifting off slightly, Darren was ready for seconds.
During our second act, I spent more time on my back, legs apart. I encouraged him to eat me, then to fuck me in his favorite awkward position. At the right moment, I let out a stream of dirty expletives in a sweet childish voice. He groaned long and loud as he came—just when Sinatra was launching into some forbidden Kipling: “And there ain’t no Ten Commandments, And a cat can raise a thirst!”
A totally productive morning. I felt smug when I arrived for therapy ten minutes early with the morning’s take jammed into the pocket of my jeans. Ready to report success on so many fronts.
Dr. Wendy was impressed to hear that Matt and I are back to using condoms.
“We started three days ago,” I told her. “And I feel like we’re dating again! I’ve been noticing something about married sex. When you’re having sex to make babies—it’s not a hobby anymore, it’s a business transaction.”
“How so?”
“Well, if the sex isn’t great, if it doesn’t last long enough, whatever happens, you can just measure the encounter in terms of conception. So, if he comes too soon, that’s okay! Because your chances of conception are good so that’s, like, the pay-off.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“As soon as you stop using birth control, there’s a shift. If the sex is relevant to creating your potential baby, it’s valid. When you’re dating and using birth control, the sex has to be hot to be valid. This…child-centered sex…I don’t think it’s for me.”
“Did you share this discovery with Matt?”
“Not exactly. Now that we’re arguing about religion and he’s having some kind of deep crisis about whether he’s a bigot, we’re having hot sex again. When he thought he was producing the next generation, I felt like our sex life was on our To Do list. This is much better.”
“Arguing about religion.” Wendy adjusted her glasses. “Is that something you’d like to discuss today?”
I walked her through the underlying logic of my having played the Catholic card on my agnostically Protestant spouse. Who now feels compelled to use condoms.
“Well,” she said with a dry smile. “Even I didn’t realize the extent of your self-identification as a Catholic. So his surprise is not surprising.”
“I intended to get that reaction,” I confessed. “But I was surprised when I succeeded. I thought maybe he’d go along with it and be too agreeable. And my plan would backfire.”
Fortunately, it didn’t.
“He’s taking this matter seriously?”
“Very. And being quite stubborn. But he’s lasting longer. I find the combination more than attractive.”
“Are you still taking the Pill?” Wendy asked. “Have you considered telling him?”
“If Matt thinks I’m reluctant to have babies, that’ll just confuse him! A husband should be in charge of the major decisions,” I told her. “I know that’s really old school and kind of not what my mom and all her granola friends think, but look at them! They’re all divorced. Their marriages didn’t last! They were always demanding equal time, complaining about having to take some man’s name. I’m for letting my husband have his way, and he’s happier for it.” I paused. “Even if he’s a little tormented about my Catholicism.”
My mother says adopting a husband’s name “renders a woman invisible” and I hope she’s right! When your name’s on two leases—and one is rent-stabilized—invisibility’s a goal. Not to mention all my other reasons for becoming Nancy M__ without the cumbersome hyphen. And since I’m always changing my first name, why not my last name, just this once?
FRIDAY, 6/8/01
Today, as I was leaving Pilates, my phone rang.
“I need your advice,” Allie said in a breathless voice. “I just got the strangest e-mail from Noi in Bangkok.”
“What’s it say?”
“It’s about her passport! And I can’t find Barry Horowitz! I’ve been calling him for the last hour!”
“Ma
ybe we’d better talk about this in person,” I said warily.
“I’m putting on my sneakers! Where are you?”
She met me at the corner of Seventy-ninth and First and we headed for Agata&Valentina’s coffee bar. Allie was carrying a bundle of printouts in a Burberry tote bag.
“Just when I thought it was safe to concentrate on business again,” she sighed. “I get hit with all these curve balls and political challenges.” She showed me some e-mail from Renee, writing from a friend’s place in Nevada:
Sleeping on a couch is not what I’m used to but it beats being in jail. I hope to be up and running and wanna be on my own before the end of ’01. Also, we need your help with this press conference we’re having. Believe it or not, your support for our fight gives me a reason to get up in the A.M. And Barbie is on board…Please thank the NYCOT posse for those donations to my wardrobe. I wear a different one each day. AND MUCHAS MUCHAS GRACIAS! For replacing my long lost Magic Wand! You’re a thoughtful compassionate lady. Power to the Sisters! XXOO
“Magic Wand?” I asked. “People still use those?”
“When they confiscated her belongings they took away her primary erotic resource. Can you believe it? Talk about cruel and unusual! Oh. Here’s the mail Lucho sent to the Colloquium Committee. He’s very upset with them for excluding me from their last meeting.”
