Читать книгу Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl - Tracy Quan - Страница 12

Friday, June 21, 2002

This morning, two messages on my cellphone from Milt, playing it cool while applying a subtle flattering pressure. “Did I tell you how good you’re looking? You can wear your bikini indoors, kiddo. I’m ordering a busload of poolside umbrellas, just in case you decide to honor me with your presence.”

Minutes later, he called back, sounding a more practical married note. “Can’t talk this weekend, though. In-laws! Get in touch Monday.”

Can I really get away with such a prolonged session chez Milt? It might, as Milt says, be good for my relationship with Matt—but only if I have a convincing alibi. (Spa vacation with one of my girlfriends? Minibreak en famille? But where? Pretend to be in the Caribbean when I’m really in the south of France? No, I don’t think so.)

This calls for a consultation with Liane. There are times when you need a madam’s friendship more than you need her business.

Later

Must break down my current dilemma. What to tell husband? How to avoid flying with customer, so he won’t find out real name? Or age? (Can’t let Milt see my passport!) But the first thing I need to sort out is the third person in our—in Milt’s—bed. I can’t do this trip to Provence alone—now that Milt’s on Viagra!

Sometimes I wish my favorite john were an easy hand job. One of those customers you can do in your sleep. You have to “dance with the guy that brought you,” and Milt, for better or worse, is that guy. Long before I met my husband, there was Milt, reliable and financially faithful. Three years ago, when I had that huge tax bill, I was afraid my problems would just scare Matt away. Milt came to my apartment with all the cash I needed, in one payment. We called it a season ticket. In return, he persuaded me to do something … unprofessional. Then we bickered about whether to call it a pound or a gram of flesh.

When I was alone with him, I allowed Milt to kiss me—a real kiss, just a few times—but I prevented this from becoming a habit. After a steady diet of acrobatic threeways, he seemed to forget we had ever kissed.

Until yesterday!

Is Milt hoping I’ll bend my rules again? Do something unprofessional when I’m off the grid? Away from Manhattan?

Even so, he’ll never try to kiss in front of another working girl. That much he understands. And his appetite’s too much for one woman to handle on a daily basis. Clearly, I can’t even consider Provence without some very appealing reinforcements.

The question is: Who?

Later still

Charmaine?

Milt’s only heard about her, and never pushes me to arrange a session, thank God. Two weeks in the company of my bionic twenty-something roommate might get him looking at my body in a whole new way.

She’s methodical, easy to work with—and much too ambitious for this gig. But Charmaine knows all the New Girls. For a finder’s fee, she can introduce me to someone brand new.

How tempting to bring in a newbie—someone who doesn’t yet have much business sense—to do the heavy lifting. Everyone has to be that girl at some point, and we’ve all paid our dues.

Is it my turn to collect?

When I was the New Girl, I met a thirty-something call girl who took a fifty percent cut. Belinda would literally walk around the bedroom in her underwear and heels, smoking a joint while I did the session. I was the energetic, naive bait, willing to get on top of a customer and wear myself out, by riding up and down while faking one orgasm after another. A more diplomatic girl makes an effort to arouse her own regulars, and takes a smaller cut—forty percent might do it—just to keep a hard-working apprentice in a good mood. It’s only ten percent less, but it can make all the difference to a young hooker’s attitude. Within two months, I got wise to Belinda, did the math, and started slipping my number to some of her best clients.

Perhaps a New Girl isn’t such a good idea after all. Better to do business with another girl who knows how hard you work to cultivate your regulars. Someone like …

Jasmine? Out of the question.

There’s Trish, of course. If any girl can micromanage a two-week escape from two different husbands and two different zip codes, it’s Trish. As with Charmaine, I trust her to keep all my secrets, but—having even more to lose—she’s even more trustworthy.

But way too kinky.

Once every ten years, a pro-domme like Trish encounters a manageable sleaze like Milt and flips his switch, turning him into one of her legendary creatures. An insatiable perv who can’t get enough pain, whether it’s his own or somebody else’s. Who knows what Trish might do to Milt’s psyche if I allow them to meet! I can’t afford to find out. Could she transform him into one of those mentally exhausting slaves? A golden shower addict?

He already takes too long to come. That I can handle, but kink takes its toll in a different way.

Later

As my insecurities climb the wall of my pragmatism, like so much virtual ivy, it’s all becoming much too clear. There’s only one person unambitious enough, pretty enough, yet old enough to bring on this trip. She’s safely in her thirties, and she won’t steal my best client or warp his mind.

Monday, June 24, 2002

This morning, when Allie returned my call, I was in the computer nook, dusting my husband’s college souvenirs.

“Have you heard from Jasmine?” she asked.

I aimed the can of compressed air at Matt’s shot glass collection.

“No,” I said. “Why would I?”

“You’re not still—you have to make up with her!” Allie insisted.

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s—she asked about you yesterday.”

“Oh? What did she want to know?”

“Something to do with your hormones,” Allie said in a sheepish voice.

“And THAT’S SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME WANT HER AS A FRIEND? Cunty remarks about my hormones?”

“They weren’t c—it wasn’t like that. Stop using that word!”

“Is there a better one?” I asked.

“It’s just her way of saying she misses you! Anyway, I’m sick of running interference.”

“Then give it a rest. Nobody asked you to.”

“But …” There was a strange pause. Allie’s voice was wobbling out of control. “Sh—she did. She asked me to call you and find out—I don’t think Jasmine was held enough as a child! She has trouble expressing her feelings!”

“I’ll call her,” I lied, anxious to stem the teary tide. As usual, Allie’s feelings come first—even when she’s delivering an insult from another girl.

“Please do that!” she begged me. “I’ve seen Harry at her place, twice, and I think he misses you. I don’t think I’m really his type.”

“Well,” I reminded her. “You’re Milt’s type. Don’t you want to know why I called you?”

After outlining the situation in Provence, I offered a special incentive: “I’m only taking twenty percent. I really don’t mind.” Allie, at least, wasn’t on the verge of tears anymore.

“Omigod,” she sighed. “I really wish I could.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “You have to! I can’t go to France alone. And you’ll have so much extra cash when you come back, you’ll be able to spend an entire month doing NYCOT stuff.”

“I know, but NYCOT needs me in Barcelona!”

“Barcelona? What the—”

“It’s the international AIDS conference. Bad Girls Without Borders is hosting a shadow conference, and Roxana’s chairing a panel on medical ethics, so I have to present for NYCOT during mobility rights.”

“Can’t you work around this? There must a way.”

“My panel’s right in the middle of the AIDS conference! I can’t just—I’m sorry, Nancy! Roxana NEEDS me, I’m the only person she trusts at this point. She’s counting on me to represent NYCOT at Barcelona. Sex workers are coming from all over Europe and Asia! I gave her my word! Besides,” she said, “we don’t want to disappoint the Cambodians.”

I might have known—when I actually need Allie to come through, she’s got a date with Roxana to save the world.

“And,” she said, in a breathless voice, “it’s a historic moment for me. I’m finally part of the solution!”

“Part of—what did you just say?”

“Sex workers are part of the solution. That’s our new T-shirt! It’s all part of our HIV awareness campaign,” she explained. “We’re bringing a hundred T-shirts to Barcelona! Roxana picked out the font, and I chose the colors.”

They must be very pink.

And now they’re part of a much larger problem!

Later

This afternoon, as I scrolled through my inbox, I spotted one of Darren’s boyish BlackBerry messages:

re: as marvin gaye likes 2 say …

LET’S. so, are we ON? Thursday, 3:30?

While I typed a businesslike e-ply—

ok, I GET IT. Confirming 3:30!

—a rambling apology arrived from Allie.

Re: HIV & me!

Hey Nancy? I’m sooooo sorry about the conflict with our shadow conference! Roxana says it’s crucial for NYCOT to be on lots of panels because the Europeans don’t appreciate how international we are. It’s, you know, the most global HIV event in the world! The Russian outreach workers are coming. There’s going to be a very radical keynote address about HIV research from Miguel X. He’s a former “rent boy” from Brazil, and it’s MY JOB to introduce him! Gretchen was supposed to, but something happened, I don’t know what exactly, but now I REALLY have to be there because we want a New York sex worker to introduce Miguel. Pleeeeease tell Milt: I really wish I could be in two places at once but I have to be at the HIV shadow conference!

Does Allison think she’s the only girl in town? Of course, I’ll tell Milt nothing of the sort, about Allie OR this conference. When I DO find a girl for him, he must never suspect she’s my second choice. As for Allie’s conference, Milt must never hear about her activism.

The very thing that makes Milt feel safe—a successful call girl with a secret life, quietly snowing polite society—is also what turns him on. Allie’s attempt at a militant new look, complete with HIV slogans, would surely have the opposite effect?

A huge message from my mom with a slightly misleading subject header:

Re: Normandy Postcard

Brief—with enough JPEG attachments to fill a scrapbook.

Having lovely time looking at farmhouses. Let me know what you think. Currently rather enthused third from top. Take note goats and half-timber. Sebastian’s at Renascent House again. Thought you wd like to know. Best decision he’s made this year, I think. Dodie sends her best. Love to Matt.

Mother does what she can to put a positive spin on my little brother’s crack problem without getting pulled in. Last month, when he tried to move into her B&B in the Welsh countryside, she closed the house and took off on a road trip to Mortagne-au-Perche with her best friend Dodie. Ever since Grandmummy died, Mother’s siblings have been renovating or selling up. Not one of these rustic Norman properties is less than twice the size of her farmhouse in Wales. All those rumors about the will, which Mother won’t discuss, may actually be true. And her timing couldn’t be better, given Sebastian’s rehab needs.

An email from Liane—at seventy-something, still newly excited about the internet—startled me:

Bernie’s in town! He’s on fire to see you, dear. I know JUST how to spice up your visit to Provence. Will you be near St-Tropez? I have a number for you. Let me know when you get this message. I’m trying to add a return receipt but the silly thing won’t cooperate!

Liane, who began turning tricks when call girls had rotary phones, has had email for less than a year. It makes me nervous to see her talking so freely about business while she’s still learning how to send messages. Yesterday, when I called to ask for her advice about Milt, I never imagined she would be careless enough to talk about my plans in email. How can I tell her this isn’t what you’d expect from a reputable madam? Lectures about discretion and etiquette have always been HER métier. Besides, she’s older than my mother!

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

Today’s session with Bernie was only one part of Liane’s solution. As Bernie “introduced me” to the rigors of sex on my hands and knees, Liane was taking a call in the other room from her contact in St-Tropez.

For a few years, Bernie’s been under the impression that he’s my first—or only—customer. That said, he’s not entirely deluded, since he’s one of the few who knows about my marriage. Liane raised our fee on the grounds that it was the only way he could coax me out of newlywed bliss for an hour.

When we met, I was supposed to be a college student—now I’m a twenty-something bride married to her college boyfriend. His ideas about college girls and young couples must have been formed thirty years ago watching porno movies about wet co-eds. As I steadied myself on the edge of Liane’s bed, I slid my hand across the sheet, so Bernie could see my wedding band.

“You need to get fucked,” he told me. “I can tell. Does your husband ever take you from behind?”

“Oh! Not yet,” I said in a demure voice. “We haven’t tried that. I think he’s afraid to hurt me.”

“He doesn’t know what a hot little cunt you’ve got,” Bernie muttered. He was thrusting quickly, and I reached underneath to discreetly check on his condom. At this point, I was glad the engagement ring was tucked into my make-up bag. “That’s right, play with your clit, baby. I’ll bet he has a big cock, though. Does he know how much you like to suck cock?”

His hand was resting on my right buttock, and I felt a light pat that seemed to flirt with the idea of a spanking.

“Y … yesssss,” I moaned. “He does! I love sucking his cock …” When Bernie collapsed against me with a loud gasp, I held onto the condom and wriggled away from him, hoping my precautionary measures wouldn’t seem too professional.

After seeing Bernie to the door, Liane burst into the bedroom, looking unusually animated. I was still dressing.

“Isabel is your answer,” she said. “She’s got a new apartment in St-Tropez and a group of lovely new girls! You must call her before you fly. This is a much better choice. Allison would have been a mistake, dear.”

“A mistake?” I adjusted the zipper on the side of my dress, and followed her into the living room, where a pot of mint tea was brewing. “Allie would have been ideal!” I protested, though I didn’t tell her why Allie’s unavailable. “She’s someone I know and trust.”

Liane’s enthusiasm is making me nervous. What’s happened to her innate insularity?

“How do we—” sounds nicer than you “—know Isabel’s discreet enough?” The chatty emails. Her new contacts in St-Tropez. Do I detect a loosening of standards? It’s worrying to think that Liane, of all people, would let an economic slump affect her old-school values. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but it can’t be safe for me to do business with someone you’ve never met.”

“Dear, I don’t mind at all.” Liane, in her favorite armchair, leaned forward, extending a delicate, tapered hand toward the teapot. “Some girls are much too greedy to stop and ask the right questions.” As she poured, a diamond bangle sparkled discreetly against the sleeve of her blouse.

“I’m glad you care,” she said. “That’s why we’re talking. After my girlfriend Hilary—” Liane looked away for a moment. “She was a little older than I was, and lived most of the year in Cannes. We sent each other a lot of business back then … You’ve met some of Hilary’s people, you know. Isabel bought her business. Hilary moved back to Edinburgh to take care of her aunt.” I wonder if there was more to Hilary’s departure than her ailing relative. Is she still alive? “Anyway.” Liane smiled gently at her teacup, then looked up. “We can trust Isabel. She moved to France a few years ago, and sends me new business sometimes. Hilary always liked her. They met in London.”

“Isabel doesn’t have a website, does she?”

“I can’t imagine why she would!” Liane said. “Dear, why are you always talking about these websites? It seems to be an obsession with you.”

“Because! That’s what so many people do these days. You never know if they’re advertising behind your back, and not telling you. Imagine the risk!”

“People do what they have to do, and we mustn’t judge. But,” Liane insisted, “we don’t know anybody who would have to do that!”

Oh yes we do, but Liane would freak if she knew about Charmaine’s site.

“Well,” I explained. “Some girls have a very nice website, and they’re careful about meeting new clients. But you never know how careful. Do you?”

“No,” Liane agreed. “But there would be no reason for Izzy to do that. She inherited Hilary’s customers. And this is much better for you! If this gentleman’s an important client, you should keep him entertained with girls who won’t be calling when he returns to New York. Staying in that house with him might give Allison ideas.”

She paused to refill my cup.

“Men will be men,” she said. “Don’t take your best people for granted, and don’t underestimate your best friends. Allison might grow jealous of your good fortune. What if she tattles to your husband? Or your client? Did you say he’s in the dark about your marriage? Isabel doesn’t know you’re married, and her girls won’t know a thing about you. It’s dangerous to rely on a girl who’s close to you.”

Madams are sometimes hard to read. Is Liane promoting Isabel because she owes her some business? Or because she wants to remold me into the best mini-madam I can be?

“There’s a lot at stake,” she pointed out. “Izzy will provide the gentleman with variety. That’s what keeps your relationship with him stable and secure.” She reached into the pocket of her long slim skirt, and handed me a small white card. On one side, in her graceful handwriting, a phone number. No name.

“This makes me quite nostalgic!” she said. “Hilary was a beautiful girl in her prime. When we strolled up and down the Croisette in our summer dresses, everybody used to stare at us. She had a friend from Monaco who stayed at the Hôtel du Cap at Antibes. He sent a car, and I went for a week. It’s wonderful to be in your thirties, still passing for twenty-five!” Liane sighed happily. “Make the most of it, dear. Of course, it’s up to you, but Isabel’s expecting your call.”

Exiting Liane’s building, I felt my hair wilting in the damp air. As I walked toward Madison, I checked my phone and discovered two impatient voicemails from Trish: “That guy from Philly? He just called from the St. Regis. Call, okay? He wants to see you!”

It’s unprofessional to keep hoping he’ll cancel again, but I don’t trust new customers under forty. Trish has only seen him once or twice. How does she know he lives in Philadelphia? What if he’s some married Wall Streeter? Maybe I’ve met his wife at one of Matt’s corporate barbeques. So many of these guys fudge their whereabouts, to protect their own house of cards, never realizing they might be endangering ours!

“Can you make it tomorrow at noon? I don’t have anyone else who’s your type, and he’s totally fixated on Asian!”

Yikes. If a customer’s counting on a girl to supply my type, it seems inconsiderate—downright rude—to ignore her pleas. Especially when I’m her only Exotic.

Wednesday morning, June 26, 2002

At six A.M., Matt got out of bed to meet one of his clients. My head started buzzing with the logistics of a kinky nooner in midtown involving three changes of costume. I couldn’t even pretend to sleep, so while he showered, I started the coffee.

I was standing in the kitchen, in PJs and bare feet, chopping an apple, when my husband appeared in the doorway wearing a towel around his waist. “Honey,” he protested. “I’m having breakfast with this guy at his hotel.”

He looks disarmingly heroic like that, but I forced myself to overlook his dewy biceps—and his slightly damp chest hair.

“When you’re meeting a client at this hour, you want to keep an eye on your glycemic index.” I handed him a vitamin pill and a small glass of pear juice. “Where’s he staying?”

“Peninsula.” He swallowed his juice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The Peninsula’s practically next door to the St. Regis. Should I be doing hotel calls at this point in my marriage? Trish has her own worries, but running into her husband at a Manhattan hotel isn’t one of them. Thank God it’s a breakfast meeting! I spooned some sheep’s milk yogurt into a bowl. “This’ll prevent your blood sugar from crashing.”