Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

TRACY QUAN

CHAPTER ONE

France: A Session in Provence

Thursday, July 4, 2002 Villa Gambetta, Saint-Maximin-La-Sainte-Baume

Dear Diary,

This morning, Milt surprised me with a special request, as my lips were approaching the base of his manhood.

“Suzy?” Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve outgrown Suzy, but there’s not much I can do about it now. Milt’s been calling me that for years.

He placed his hand on the side of my head, ever so lightly, and stroked my hair. Although he’s a self-confessed sleaze, he knows when to be polite. So, while my mouth became more relaxed, his fingers grazed the crown of my head, then retreated. I went a little deeper—a reward for his good manners—and came up slowly for air.

“I want you to promise me something.”

OMG. Is that the Viagra talking?

Reluctant to interrupt this blow job, I forced myself to look up. With an inquisitive smile, I warned my favorite customer: “A woman will promise you anything when you’re hard.”

I filled my mouth again and put more energy into what I was doing.

“I want you to promise you’ll get me off—” he was trying not to come “—in every room of the house, before you go back to New York.”

With the head of his cock resting against the tip of my tongue, I giggled softly. I could hear the wooden shutter in the en suite bathroom swinging loudly on its hinges. A cool breeze, followed by the faint aroma of fresh lavender flirting with cypress, entered Milt’s bedroom and stiffened my nipples.

After he came, I scurried to the bathroom and looked—in vain—for a washcloth. Filling the bidet with hot water, I draped a large hand towel over the side to soak. I bundled the used condom into some tissue and checked myself out in the mirror. My bra was still on, though my thong had slipped off. More to the point, my hair’s holding up, forty-eight hours after leaving New York. (Must email Lorenzo a thank you note ASAP. A hairdresser needs to know his travel-proof blow-outs are appreciated.)

Minutes later, as I wrapped one corner of the hot towel around Milt’s cock, we resumed our negotiations: “How many bedrooms again? Eight?”

“Ten,” he said proudly. “But I didn’t say every BEDroom. What about the other rooms? We could have a quickie in the solarium tomorrow afternoon.”

“We didn’t discuss that in New York.”

I tried to look both saucy and stern.

“Come on, I work like a dog all year. And this renovation cost a fortune! Don’t I get a reward?”

“The library’s a possibility,” I offered. “But the wine cellar’s kind of impractical, don’t you think? All those hi-tech temperature controls.” Anything more than a quick hand job would surely play havoc with the artificial climate. “And the solarium’s totally exposed! What if Duncan sees us?”

Milt’s cook lives in Tanneron—a bit of a trek, so he’s been sleeping in a guest room downstairs … right next to the solarium. Duncan’s politely enigmatic, and acts like he has no idea what I’m doing here. Whether or not that’s true, why ruin a good thing by making a spectacle of myself? Even though he’s gay—so it’s not like I’d be giving him a free hard-on—I need to maintain some decorum around the staff.

“I’ll find something for Duncan to do at the post office. He’ll be gone for at least an hour. And the gardener can stay home. Only a few wild rabbits will see us!”

If I do Milt in the solarium, have I got enough SPF 90 to cover my entire body? And what if the sunscreen comes in contact with the condom?

“Well …” I don’t want to rain on Milt’s parade. “Wait till Allison gets here. I’ll see to it that you get off in almost every room. With one of us, or both of us … Allison loves going down on me.”

But Milt doesn’t know I’ve been trying to reach her ever since she landed in Barcelona. All he knows is he paid for her ticket! Allie wouldn’t stand us up—would she? I’ve put in a call to Isabel, but I doubt any of Isabel’s girls will be up for the solarium when they find out there are ten perfectly nice bedrooms—six with en suite bath and bidet.

“I like the way you’re thinking!” he said. I reached under the small of his back to retrieve my lace panties. Duncan’s SUV was pulling into the driveway. “You’re the perfect houseguest,” he added. “I think I’ll jump in the pool while Duncan unpacks the groceries.”

Friday, July 5, 2002

The light in this part of France is, indeed, special. Last night, I forgot to close the shutters in my room and woke when the sun began to rise. After checking my cellphone for a message from Allie, I tried to go back to sleep. Instead, I spent two hours hiding with the door locked, treating my eyes to an oxygen mask.

I’ve known Milt for longer than I care to admit. I knew he kept Wall Street hours, but had no idea he’d be such an early riser when I agreed to come to St-Maximin. Isn’t he on vacation? He gets up at eight-thirty, and calls that sleeping in! Still, if he finds out I’m capable of waking before he does, he’ll be disillusioned. I am, after all, a luxury.

I tiptoed around the bedroom, terrified of being overheard. Then, I spent an hour perfecting my natural look for our poolside breakfast, keeping one eye on my silenced cellphone.

I hope she gets here soon, because Milt needs a threesome—and so do I. When he doesn’t have an extra girl (or three) to distract him, he stays hard forever. If I could figure out where he keeps the Viagra, I would totally hide it! Coordinating this trip with Allie is turning into a major headache. Speaking of which, by the time I was dressed, I had been awake sans caffeine for hours and was feeling the symptoms. But headaches are another no-no. A smart call girl never feels unwell. She mysteriously disappears until she’s better. No explanations. Well, she might claim to be visiting her mother. Polite code for out of town with a man possibly richer than yourself.

Keeping all this straight comes naturally in New York: normally, I spend no more than two hours with a customer. It’s more of a challenge when Milt’s around all the time. The trick is to appear comfortable without becoming too comfortable.

From my bedroom window, overlooking a cluster of olive trees, I monitored the sunniest corner of the swimming pool. I waited until Milt was stretched out on a wooden lounger with his Herald Tribune and a croissant, then wandered downstairs, determined to look like a carefree princess. Not a sleep-deprived working girl with a head full of enlarged blood vessels.

Milt was reading the paper with his shades on. I guess it’s generational? He finds sunshine invigorating. When Duncan began opening my table umbrella, Milt leapt up from his cushioned lounger and took over.

“Uncle Miltie to the rescue!” he said. “Damsels in distress are my thing.”

The aroma of Milt’s croissant, sitting on a plate nearby, made my eyes go wide, but I forced myself to inquire about fresh fruit.

“Blackberries,” Duncan informed me. “The figs are just right, and the croissants—”

Yikes. “Not for me, thanks! I’ll come get some black coffee. Then I’ll organize my berries and figs.”

I followed Duncan back to the kitchen where a breakfast buffet had been arranged on a red-tiled counter top. As I poured my morning fix from the half-empty cafetiere, I took him into my confidence.

“Just between us? I have the tiniest headache coming on. Is there anything like Tylenol in the house? I don’t want to bother Milt while he’s reading the paper.”

“What’s in Tylenol again?” Duncan was rummaging through a drawer. “How about some Prontalgine. Twenty milligrams, codeine, works like a dream.”

“Don’t you have something, you know, over-the-counter?”

“Codeine is over the counter.” As he handed me the box, our eyes met, and I tried to place his accent. New Zealand? “Welcome to France,” he said, with a twinkle. “I have the cure for your mal de tête.”

Gosh. Could Duncan be … my surrogate hairdresser? Not for my hair, of course. But for my general well-being. He really is a treasure. And his coffee is excellent.

Later

The countryside is ten times trickier than Manhattan.

First, if you’re going to be seen at all hours of the morning by a john, fourteen days in a row, you need to do some sort of clarifying mask every day. Bare skin’s a high-maintenance look. You can’t be walking around in full make-up with a vineyard next door—lip gloss is out of the question—so you’ll need to cultivate a natural glow.

Okay, the Chemin du Moulin isn’t exactly hardcore countryside. We’re minutes from the town center, but you’d never know it. Milt’s house is set back so far we can’t hear the traffic and is protected by a wall of hundred-year-old pine trees.

I’m trying to limit our shared activities: sex (different position each day), meals, the occasional excursion. Milt’s never spent this much time with me, so my inherent mystery is at risk. He’s been my favorite customer—forever, it seems. But if I become a too-familiar presence during this vacation—his, not mine—there’s a chance his frequent visits could peter out when we return to New York.

Duncan was right. My headache’s evaporated! Is codeine really available over the counter at this strength?

Instead of the solarium, I’ve promised Milt an appointment in the nursery. The guest room down the hall is equipped with two single beds, a child’s wooden rocker, a chest of drawers with large blue butterflies for knobs, and a toddler’s denim armchair. I’ve taken the liberty of moving the chairs, so Milt won’t knock them over.

My frilly white panties (open crotch) seem to work with that decor, but do I misunderstand his request? If middle-aged perversion is setting in, I should put my hair in pigtails and wear the white bra as well.

Or is Milt just being territorial about his newly acquired domaine? In which case, my white panties, and nothing else, will be more appropriate. More alluring to greet him bare-breasted, stretching out on one of those small beds with my legs apart. He can discover his late afternoon quarry in masturbatory solitude.

…. Too bad I have no bedroom toys to bring with me to the nursery!

Packing for this trip was a delicate, sometimes terrifying, operation. I was much too nervous about getting through customs (and airport security) to even think about packing my dildos. When I landed at Nice, I discovered that my fears were misplaced. They barely noticed my bags and waved me right through. If only I had known.

But, if Allie gets here soon, this won’t be a problem. Didn’t she say something about bringing her Pyrex love baton to Barcelona? In her carry-on?

Saturday, July 6

Just woke from a remarkable dream.

Duncan, beckoning from the far end of the swimming pool, was waving something in his hand. A box of codeine pills? Fully clothed, he floated toward me, as if he were a rather efficient angel, sliding across the water’s surface on a pair of invisible waterskis. On closer inspection, I realized he was holding an electric shaver. (No wonder he’s so clean-shaven, I thought.) As he drew nearer, I was disturbed by a buzzing sound.

My phone, vibrating under the pillow.

When I came to, the buzzing had stopped, the shaver was beginning to make sense, and my unknown caller had disappeared without leaving voicemail. Of course, it would have to be a private number. Isabel calling back with her international menu? But I really need to straighten things out with Allison before I start making plans with Isabel.

Allie’s silence is worrying, and I don’t want Milt to sense that I’m stressed out. I certainly don’t want him having any doubts about buying her ticket! I, after all, have been paid handsomely to monitor his girl-supply without letting the seams show. If something goes wrong with Allie, why should he trust my dealings with Isabel?

Milt’s going to Nans-les-Pins to play golf, and Duncan has promised to take me to the internet café. “Milt’s rather old school,” he explained. “He doesn’t want a computer in his hideaway.”

Later

Maison de Thé, Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, Saint-Maximin

Now I understand why Milt’s too lazy to drive his BMW to the golf course.

Behind the wheel, Duncan’s responsible yet fearless, unfazed by sudden curves and regional customs. Even the local hunters, who prowl around in the woods, drunk on Pernod, before getting into their pick-up trucks don’t worry him. He really is the ideal country concierge! As we neared the Sainte-Baume golf course, I was tempted to turn my phone on.

But there are so many callers I must avoid, starting with Matt who thinks I’m in La Croix-Valmer today. Milt has no idea Matt’s my husband—he assumes we’re still engaged—and he’d love to hear me snowing my “fiancé.” I haven’t got that much nerve, though.

And what if Allie calls with bad news?

Instead, I succumbed to a much safer temptation: checking out our driver from the back seat, while Milt, sitting next to me, checked his calls.

Duncan’s neat sandy hair, cut so close to the nape of his neck, underscores his boyish appearance. In tidy jeans and a crisp navy T-shirt, he’s impeccably casual. Not absurdly buff. Built just right.

What a waste! But—I never think this way. I’m too practical. Too concerned about my own looks to be eyeing a man who is, by definition, unavailable. Perhaps it’s a change for the better. Part of coming to terms with your thirties and being less self-centered.

Milt, of course, has no inkling of Duncan’s sexual orientation. He believes in a part-time “girlfriend” sharing Duncan’s house in Tanneron. Gaydar isn’t part of Milt’s vocabulary. If a guy’s not really obvious and swishy, he might as well be straight. Another one of those generational things.

“Your visitor from Barcelona. Do you know when she’s due to arrive?” Duncan asked.

Milt, supposedly engrossed in his voicemail, looked up discreetly and wiggled his eyebrows at me. Visions of a ménage à soixante-neuf (well, it’s a multiple of trois) were dancing through his head.

“She flies into Marseille next, um, Wednesday,” I said. “We’re just waiting for her to confirm the flight.”

If she doesn’t? I’ll have to worry about that later. There’s no point revealing my insecurity, when the prospect of our next threeway is keeping Milt erotically stoked.

And the prospect of Milt productively occupied for the rest of the afternoon is reassuring to me. Calling home when I’m staying in a customer’s house seems dicey, but I’m anxious to send some conjugal email soon.

Unfortunately, when we drove back to town, Ste. Maxiphony—the Cibercafé-Teleboutique which claims to be open from 15H00 till 22H00—was still closed at 15H30. A resigned-looking teenager was standing outside, smoking a pungent cigarette, waiting for them to re-open. I coughed and moved away from the door.

“C’est toujours comme ça,” the boy was telling Duncan. He shrugged, then he inhaled. “Ils font ce qu’ils veulent.” Smoke drifted toward me.

“Omigosh,” I muttered, as we walked back to the SUV. “They smoke in there, don’t they! I’d forgotten all about that. I’ll find an outdoor café while you do your shopping. I need to call Allison.”

Miraculously, Duncan’s actually got a list of all the smoke-free venues in the area.

“Not that there are so many,” he warned. “Sit up front, I’ll drop you near the church. There’s a salon de thé where you can relax. A New Yorker’s idea of paradise.”

He’s right. The No Smoking sign is gigantic, by French standards. In the kitchen, someone’s listening to Barry White, but the music is so faint you have to know the melody to actually hear it: You’re playing a game … it’s so plain … you want me to win.

The walls are lined with jars of linden honey and anchovy-fig pesto, bottles of Coteaux Varois rosé and artisanal vinegars. A cliché, perhaps, but an attractive smoke-free cliché.

A positive argument for Duncan’s surrogate hairdresser potential.

The tables are tiny, and the gray-haired lady to my left is lost in her Michelin guide while her husband pours black tea from a glass pot. I feel conspicuous. The only customer not part of a cozy couple. Trying to leave a businesslike voicemail for Allie without raising my voice: “Milt’s cook is coming to pick you up, but he needs advance notice—the airport’s a two-hour trip. Don’t worry, he’s a gentleman, you’ll be in safe hands. And he’s cute! But you have to leave a message because I can’t always answer. And don’t block your number! I’ll pick up if I know it’s you! I’m counting on you to be here Wednesday. And remember. Milt has no idea what you’re doing in Barcelona. Let’s keep it that way. And don’t forget to call me Suzy.”

Should I really be alerting Allie to Duncan’s looks? I feel a twinge of guilt about dangling him in front of her—without telling her the whole story—but I MUST use whatever psychological weapons I have at my disposal to get her onto that plane. Reminding her that she’s expected in Provence might not be enough. She might linger in Barcelona, rush back to New York or … who knows with Allie?

In any case, this little slice of solitude really hits the spot. Here comes my chestnut crepe. And this glass of rosé sure beats—

I can hardly believe it.

Last month. Was I really reduced to ordering a white wine spritzer?

CHAPTER TWO

New York: A Sinner in the City

One Month Earlier

Monday, June 10, 2002 Manhattan

This afternoon, after dropping off $500 with Trish—her cut from my date with Terry—I met Jasmine for drinks at the Mark.

Dressed for a summer quickie, in a pale green wraparound skirt, uncreased linen blouse and Chanel flats, she had just finished doing a call across the street at the Carlyle. From a distance, Jasmine’s a deceptively conservative brunette. Until you get within earshot. When you might also catch a glimpse of her eighteen-carat Bulgari knock-offs.

“A spritzer!” She was indignant. “When did you start drinking THAT?”

“Today, actually. Just in case.” I tried not to look at her dry martini.

She swallowed some of her Grey Goose vodka, placed the cold glass on the table, and gave me a long, thoughtful once-over.

“I’m six days late!” I told her. “That makes me what? Three weeks pregnant? I haven’t told Matt yet. It’s too soon.”

“I thought you were on the pill again.”

Matt has no idea about my secret stash of birth control pills. Jasmine—and Dr. Peele—are the only ones who know. And the Duane Reade pharmacist, of course. But only Jasmine knows it’s a secret.

“I was. Then I wasn’t. Then I—”

“Six days? Hard to tell. At this point, you’re late. That’s all we know.”

I shook my head. “It’s never happened before. My cycle’s always been as reliable—”

“As a clock,” Jasmine said. “I remember. Maybe your body’s taking a stand. All this on-again off-again pill-popping! So where’d you get the idea you can drink spritzers? What do you think? You’re ‘a little bit pregnant’?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” I tasted some bland fizz. “That’s exactly what I am. One tablespoon of white wine can’t possible harm a developing baby.”

“No! But imagine the harm to the mother! Spritzers are so eighties.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather go cold turkey. Actually—” Another sip of martini, and she was almost mollified. “Any child exposed to spritzers in the womb HAS to be a moderate drinker. That’s a good thing!” She frowned. “So let’s say you’re more than a little bit pregnant.”

“You mean pregnant.”

“Right. Have you decided what you’ll do with your phone?”

“My business isn’t for sale, if that’s what you’re asking.”

My secret apartment is close enough to the East Side preschools—but not so close that I risk being spotted by the other mommies. I’ve got a plausible strategy for my child’s education, but I still have to figure out how to avoid answering my phone without losing all my customers. The mommy track’s starting to look like the mommy tightrope.

“You’re not going to be like Trisha!” Jasmine said.

“What exactly have you got against Trish?”

“Nothing. But she married a bum! He’s constantly getting fired—well, that’s what she says. I sometimes wonder if he’s ever had a job. Your husband’s in a different league.”

I don’t like the sound of Trisha’s husband either, yet feel an obligation to defend her. It’s tacky to trash someone who sends you business—and there’s more to it than that.

“Nobody knows what goes on in another girl’s marriage,” I said. “You can’t judge from outside. I’ve never asked Trish what the deal is with her husband.”

And she doesn’t ask what the deal is with mine. Every marriage is based on a secret code. Married hookers respect that; single girls like Jasmine just don’t get it. A call girl who’s never been married feels comfortable expounding on the most excruciating details. Things you instinctively shy away from when you’re married.

“You don’t have to hustle the way Trish does.” Jasmine reached toward the bowl of nuts. “Soon Matt will be earning enough to hire a nanny for your nanny! Let’s face it, Trish stays with that guy because he IS the nanny.”

“He’s the father of her child,” I said tersely. “What they do is none of our business.”

“Whoa. You’re pregnant for all of THREE MINUTES, and already you’re closing ranks with the other mommies! Soon you’ll be shopping for baby clothes with your sister-in-law! Have you been stroller-shopping yet?”

“I won’t be discussing my pregnancy with Elspeth. She’s very big on vaginal delivery.”