Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “I don’t see any drooping,” I assured her.

  “Yet!” she laughed. Because of the Botox, Charmaine laughs enigmatically. It’s a little spooky! But side effects notwithstanding, forgoing Botox would be, for Charmaine, as reckless as jogging without a bra. Strange to think of myself—a pre-Botox call girl who never had to worry about wrinkles—as the facial equivalent of a braless hippie. Botox makes you see things differently—even if you don’t use the stuff yourself!

  Jasmine wasn’t surprised when I told her about Charmaine’s reason for going to Florida.

  “I predicted this!” she said. “Didn’t I warn her about the dangers of Botox?” What I recall, rather than a helpful warning, is the savaging of Charmaine’s entire beauty regimen—but why point that out?

  “Nobody listens to me,” she added. “Well, that’s not my problem. Actually,” she corrected the record, “Allison called this morning. She needs a sounding board.”

  “Shouldn’t that be her lawyer?”

  “Barry’s an excellent attorney,” Jasmine said. “But he doesn’t have my intuitive understanding of the female sex. It’s obvious to me that Roxana’s a very twisted jealous person,” she added, “and she’s hoping these e-mails will throw people off the scent. Taking Allison under her wing isn’t just a good deed. There’s a revenge motive.”

  “That’s crazy! What has Allie ever done to Roxana?”

  “From Roxana’s point of view? Plenty! Allison’s prettier. Younger. And thinner. She’s a success in the business. And now she’s got a boyfriend. And she’s becoming a public figure! Don’t you think Roxana hates her? She may be a feminazi but she’s still, when you get beneath all those layers of feminazism, a basic primal woman who wants her so-called sisters to fail! So she can play nursemaid.”

  After our session with Harry, Jasmine checked her voice mail. Two messages from the public figure!

  “Allison just got back from Barry’s office. I have to find out what’s going on.” While she dialed Allie’s number, she ranted some more about Roxana: “…one of those needy mentors who always has to be tutoring another chick. I’ve seen this with madams. A girl starts out as raw material and outgrows the madam. It’s the law of the jungle…and the hookers’ movement is a jungle! All those egos!”

  Some part of me secretly hopes the stalking mails will finally make Allie see the light. Or want to hide from it. But maybe Jasmine’s right: Allison—just like Roxana—is a creature of the jungle, unable to suppress her appetite for attention. As I dressed in the bathroom, I heard Jasmine debriefing Allie.

  “…I think Barry’s right about the passport. You have to cover your ass.…A brow lift? Yeah, I heard. These New Girls! They spend all their money on cosmetic surgery. It’s out of control.”

  A few minutes later, my phone rang. Allie’s landline flashed on my Caller ID.

  “Have you spoken to Jasmine today?”

  “Spoken to her? I’m with her!”

  “Oh.” An awkward silence. “Never mind.” There was a forced chirpiness. “Call me later. When you’re alone.”

  I called Allison from the cab.

  “Barry says a New Zealand citizen doesn’t have to apply for a visa,” she told me. “I guess that’s why Noi’s moved her plans ahead? She’s arriving in three days! So I don’t have to help with her paperwork.”

  “Well, that’s one less thing for you to worry about,” I told her.

  “And Charmaine’s going away for almost two weeks.”

  “So?”

  The cab was turning onto the East River Drive.

  “Well, I didn’t ask her because it’s really your apartment. I thought I’d better come to you directly. I think Charmaine would be okay with it but I wouldn’t go behind your back.”

  “Okay with what?” I was truly not getting it.

  “Maybe Noi could stay at Seventy-ninth Street for a few days. I can’t have her at my place because I just got a huge bill from Bloomingdale’s! I have to see a lot of guys this week. And maybe next week, too! Since you don’t work full-time anymore and Charmaine will be in Florida—.”

  “Are you nuts?” I felt my blood pressure rising. “And how dare you say I don’t work full-time! Did Barry suggest this?”

  “Um, no! I’m sorry!” Allie squeaked. “And please don’t say anything to Jasmine about this!”

  When I got back to Thirty-fourth Street, I took two steaks out of the fridge, poured myself a small glass of wine, and threw the latch on the front door. Matt never returns before six but you can’t be too cautious when making a personal call. Jasmine picked up on the first ring.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You sound strange.”

  I unclenched my teeth and described my brief conversation with Allie.

  “Well, you really don’t work full-time,” Jasmine said. “But that’s beside the point.”

  “Beside what point? I was working full-time and supporting myself when Allison was giving blow jobs to high school boys! I have a quota! Does she have a quota? You both have a lot of nerve! You have no idea what lengths I go to, to protect my business from this marriage!”

  “Would you calm down?” Jasmine yelled back. “You sound totally premenstrual! I’m not the fucking enemy, okay?” After a pause she said, in a calmer voice, “Allison’s in over her head. She called me three times today.”

  “What did she tell you about Noi? About the passport?”

  “Barry says it might be a black market deal.”

  “A black market passport? And she asks me to harbor this girl in my bedroom? So she can pay down her Bloomingdale’s card?”

  “That’s kind of nervy!” Jasmine agreed. “She would never ask me to, but she’s counting on your codependent friendship. I, on the other hand, have always been good at maintaining my boundaries—”

  “If you can please stop blowing your own horn for five minutes, I had a codependent relationship with Allie, but I do not as of today. Can you imagine what might happen if Noi gets in trouble while she’s staying at my place? My husband’s on the partner track. He could lose everything.”

  “No kidding! You have to protect your man’s career. Like a mama lion guarding her cub. Or a pimp looking out for his best bitch! Allison’s becoming a liability.”

  “If you want to call me, leave a message and I’ll call you back. I have to keep my distance from Allie. I’m not answering my phone.”

  “Fine with me,” she said, “but what about your johns?”

  “I’ll figure something out,” I told her. “Right now I have to marinate the steaks. Matt’s coming home in half an hour.”

  “At least you’re not serving tofu kebabs. Allison’s been making all these soy-intensive dinners for that boyfriend of hers. The last thing you want to give a guy is soy estrogen. She’s putting his virility at risk!” Jasmine said. “Allison has zero talent for risk assessment.”

  WEDNESDAY, 6/13/01

  This morning, a totally unexpected request from Matt. I know a lot of married couples do it and swear by it—and apparently feel much closer as a result. Lots of women wish their husbands would suggest it. But it’s really, really not my kind of thing.

  To be discussed with Dr. Wendy.

  LATER

  When I told Dr. Wendy about Matt’s latest request, she excused herself from the running.

  “I don’t see myself as a couple therapist,” she explained. “And even if I did, I’d be the wrong one for you to see. But…” She paused to assess my rather tense demeanor. “What did you agree to do?”

  “Officially? I’m considering it. But I don’t think I can handle therapy twice a week! Of course, I can’t tell him that because he doesn’t know I’m already in therapy!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, if he knows, he’s playing a very deep game! He doesn’t seem to have any idea.”

  “Is there an issue he wants to discuss?”

  “He wants to talk about my—about Catholicism,” I admitted. It’s kind of emba
rrassing to have created, inadvertently, this new problem in my marriage. “He’s been reading Graham Greene—The Power and the Glory. He never, in all the time I’ve known him, had any desire to read a novel that was published before 1960!”

  “Well, you have to accept that your spouse may continue to grow. His taste in reading is not going to stay the same for the rest of his life,” Wendy pointed out. “I can guarantee that.”

  “I just found out this morning that he’s more than halfway through. He’s reading this behind my back?”

  “Isn’t that a novel about…” Wendy frowned for a second. Her eyes lit up. “Persecution?”

  “Yes! It’s kind of scary. He’s preoccupied with this whole question of Catholics being hunted down and silenced. And he wants us to go to a therapist because his eyes have been opened by Graham Greene and maybe he is prejudiced. But he still doesn’t want us to raise our kids as Catholics. He’s not ready to convert.” I paused. “Yet.”

  In other words, my husband is turning into the sensitive guy from hell. How could I have brought this on myself?

  “What’s more,” I told her, “he tried to talk to me about my mother! He’s concerned. He thinks I might be reacting against her issues.”

  “It would be strange if you weren’t,” Wendy said. “Most women do. React to their mothers.”

  “Exactly! And that’s what she did—why shouldn’t I also? Why does he want to reverse the normal course of history?”

  “Is that what you told him?”

  “Of course. But I may have to change my mind about religion and just let him have his way,” I told her. “I’m just not up to an additional therapy session every week. And with you, at least, I don’t have to lie. If Matt and I start doing therapy together, that’s one more person I have to lie to! For an entire hour? At such close quarters? I think that’s more than I can deal with right now.”

  Is this what happens when a working wife tries to play God?

  THURSDAY MORNING, 6/14/01. SEVENTH-NINTH STREET

  Thanks to Charmaine’s Botox-induced travel plans, I have the place to myself. With Milt showing up two hours before Ian Pritchard’s party, I’m really cutting it close. And I have to pick up Miranda at six because she thinks I’m at the French Institute this afternoon!

  My husband has been looking tormented for the last two days. I’m planning my capitulation, my embrace of secular parenting, but can’t do it right away. He needs to feel the rising tension in order to appreciate my generous compromise. Meanwhile, he’s talking about Red Shirts and the Meaning of Judas, which is driving me mad. I much prefer Travels with My Aunt—I have no desire to wallow in Graham Greene’s conversion! In fact, converts can be a nuisance and I have to figure out a tactful way to tell him that.

  Fortunately, Matt’s also working on a deal—very long hours—so accepts the idea that I’m still having serious thoughts about therapy. Very serious thoughts.

  FRIDAY, 6/15/01. THE MORNING AFTER

  When Milt arrived at Seventy-ninth Street, I was wearing my slightly hip and very uptown version of a French maid’s outfit: a small blue Fauchon apron, shiny white half-bra (to match the sheen of the apron), and pale blue satin heels. Contrast is king in this business, and this was a definite change of pace after the strap-on session with Allie. Only when I turned around did Milt realize that I was wearing no panties under my apron. Kneeling at the end of my couch, I leaned over, ostensibly to search for a video, and allowed my ass cheeks to open slightly. When I turned around, he was standing very close to me in his suit.

  “I feel overdressed!” Milt informed me.

  “You’re supposed to,” I told him. “Get that jacket and tie off. I have plans for you.”

  “I’m doing my best,” he mumbled, as I loosened his tie. I pressed my apron-covered portion against his leg and slid one thigh up the side of his pants. “This outfit is very…”

  “Chic?” I threw his tie on the sofa.

  “That’s the word.” He placed a firm hand on my right buttock. His palm felt smooth and I was surprised to feel my body reacting to a shadowy hint of a spanking that may or may not have been intended. I pulled away. We are not going there. “Can we skip the movie and just climb into the backseat of my car? I promise I won’t come in your mouth.”

  In the bedroom, Milt surprised me. Instead of lying on his back—the default setting for Milt whether he’s eating me, getting his cock sucked, or getting laid—he persuaded me to kneel on the bed, displaying the back view of my pussy and the sash of my apron, while he undressed. I opened my legs and began to fuck myself with my fingers.

  “Leave your shoes on,” he growled. “I wish I had a camera! Your pussy’s more interesting than a million videos.”

  I turned around to play with his cock. When he was ready to fuck me, I moved toward the center of the bed, but Milt tugged at my apron sash and urged me to stay right there. I grabbed a bottle of Astroglide from beneath the pillow and placed a lubecovered hand between my thighs. Milton grabbed the pillow and tucked it beneath my pussy.

  “Stay right there!” he insisted, tucking a second pillow beneath me. “Perfect. God, let me just look at that for a minute.”

  “Fuck me now,” I moaned. “My pussy needs it!” And I wanted him to get started before any, er, momentum was lost.

  Milt fucked me harder and with more determination than I’ve come to expect. I was shocked and slightly uncomfortable when he came. I’m used to being on top, controlling the depth and force of his thrusting. Shocked because he’s never been able to come this way—standing up? Not bad for a fifty-something!

  Despite my businesslike feelings, I’m impressed.

  Was that Milt on Viagra? If he’s taking and not telling, he’s got style. There’s nothing more clinical and married-couplish than telling a hooker you popped some Viagra before your appointment. I prefer to think my clever little apron and Pilates-trained ass did the trick. And I think Milt understands that.

  I showered and changed as quickly as I could, then grabbed my Bottega satchel: I only carry it when I have to transport textbooks and other French class paraphernalia. When I was safely installed in a big yellow SUV and nearing Fifty-fourth Street, I called Miranda’s cell phone.

  “Well, it’s a good thing the weather’s so nice! I’ve been waiting on this damn corner for—where are you?”

  She had no idea I’d been negotiating crosstown traffic. “I’m a block away. And don’t ask about my day,” I added.

  “Okay! I’m on the southeast corner!”

  I spotted Miranda squinting at the wrong cab, hit Redial, and stuck my head out the window. She looked up just as her phone began ringing.

  “Never mind,” I yelled. “That was me. Get in!”

  She was chattering happily as she fiddled with her seat belt. “I e-mailed Ian to tell him we’re coming. He wrote back! I told him we’re arriving before the big mob scene.”

  “What are you thinking?” I protested. “And why are you throwing yourself at him?”

  “He’s in town for two days! What do you expect me to do? Wait for him to call?” Miranda opened her messenger bag and pulled out a small compact.

  “Give the guy a chance to pursue you,” I said. “And let him wonder if you’re coming to the party at all. It’s a good thing I got delayed. Now you can be appropriately late.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. “You and your neocon dating strategies!”

  If Miranda knew what my relationship strategies really entail, she’d be…surprised? Perhaps disapproving?

  “So what ever happened to Chris?” I asked. “Wasn’t there a second date in the works?”

  “We had a huge argument. About drug sentencing.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “He’s an assistant prosecutor! Do you realize, if Sebastian were here instead of Toronto, he could be sitting in a jail cell? Locked up for twenty or thirty years? And his girlfriend’s vehicle would have been confiscated by now! Their lives would be in tatters.”
>
  “Why do you think I never encourage Sebastian to visit me? Please tell me you didn’t get into all this with Chris!”

  “Well, I didn’t say it was your brother,” she reassured me, “but I take these draconian laws personally because they could affect my own family, and I told him so. Too bad he’s so right wing! We’re compatible in bed and I’d like to…one more time, but he’s an agent of the state.” Thank god Miranda doesn’t know anything about my business! “He wants to stay friends,” she added, with a cynical smirk.

  When we arrived at Borgia Antico, the crowd she was hoping to preempt had already gathered. Now that Ian was lost in the social muddle and impossible to find, Miranda was annoyed with me for making us late.

  “Hard to get,” I told her, “can be just as effective in reverse. Or in tandem. Right now, you feel like he’s hard to get but the end result is, you are. Anything that delays meeting up with him makes you less available. You can enjoy the outcome of playing hard to get without even trying.”

  “Your logic really escapes me,” Miranda said, “but—drinks first!” She wandered toward a tray of pale pink cocktails and obtained one for me as well. “I wonder what this is?”

  “A Ruthless Cosmopolitan,” said a man’s voice.

  Miranda turned around and almost spilled her drink on Ian’s blazer. I tried not to spill my own, but the satchel was threatening to slide off my shoulder. My alibi-friendly props felt heavier than usual. Miranda gazed up at Ian with a combination of relish and expectation. This time, he caught the hint and leaned toward her. When his lips met her cheek, she seemed to glow.

  “I just found out!” Miranda told him. “Someone I work with is coming tonight. Jane Berry. She remembers you from school. But there’s something I, er, want to ask.” Ian had one eye on the room. “I really really prefer it if you don’t tell Jane that you’ve written about my family. Our family,” she added, moving next to me.