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“I think I’ll be happy if I deliver a healthy baby,” I told her. “I really don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl.”
“No hooker in her right mind wants to give birth to a girl. Your sister-in-law might love you for it. But your real friends will just resent you! For spawning more competition.”
“More … what? You’re talking about my future children!”
“Oh.” I wondered if Jasmine was coming to her senses. “I almost forgot. You’re planning to send yours to Catholic school. Well, of course. Everyone knows there are no Catholic hookers!”
“I don’t appreciate—”
“Listen, I almost forgot. Harry wants to see us together. Can you be here at noon on Monday?”
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked her. Does she think we can just go back to discussing business? “You have some fucking nerve!” Then I hung up.
Charmaine emerged from the bedroom, in her exercise bra and nothing else, looking startled.
“What happened? Who was that?”
“Jasmine!” I unclenched my teeth. My cellphone was starting to chime. I turned it off and threw it into my bag. “Jasmine has crossed a line.”
“Oh.” Charmaine can’t raise her eyebrows because of the Botox, but the devilish expression in her eyes said it all. “Jasmine? In my opinion—”
“Don’t say it,” I moaned. Charmaine has kept her distance, from the moment they laid eyes on each other two years ago. But Jasmine and I have been trading dates since our twenties. She helped me when I was in trouble and needed a lawyer. “We’ve known each other forever,” I said.
“I don’t know why you put up with that girl.”
Charmaine’s bare pussy—lasered to match her smooth, Botoxed forehead—was staring me in the face. Her up-to-the-minute enhancements were spilling out of her exercise bra. It’s not just that she’s twenty-three—her entire body looks like it was invented two years ago. She really is a New Girl, in more ways than one.
“Well—” I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite, but now I wanted to change the subject “—you don’t have to put up with her, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
She’s too young to understand my friendship with Jasmine, but she has her own business, pays her rent on time, and never seeks my advice. She looked, for a moment, like she was on the verge of giving me some, and I didn’t want to hear it.
When I was sure that Charmaine was completely immersed in the white noise of the shower, I checked my messages.
“Call me when your hormones stabilize. We can’t let your period stop you from seeing Harry!”
What is Jasmine thinking? Does she really think I have no idea how to disguise my period? I have two diaphragms—one for each apartment—and a year’s supply of cosmetic sponges from Duane Reade.
Which part of “You have some fucking nerve” does she not understand?
Saturday, June 15
This morning, as soon as I knew Matt was safely en route to his squash game with Jason, I bolted the apartment door and turned my phone on. With my right hand, I checked my messages. With my left, I emptied the dishwasher. Etienne, now in Frankfurt, managed to intercept one of his own voicemails while I was shaking a few remaining drops of water from a miniature whisk.
“Bonjour, petite mignonne.” His elderly purr was reassuring, but it brought disappointing news. “I regret this trip is delayed. I’m glad you finally answered your phone,” he added. “I tried to call you from Cologne. Don’t change your number!”
“Of course not,” I said. “Why would I do that?”
“So many things are changing these days. I take nothing for granted. Tell me, how is New York? Do the girls still remember me? Is it true? Nobody wears high heels anymore?”
“What? Oh. Don’t worry. We’re all wearing heels again.”
“Not just in your bedrooms?”
“Everywhere,” I said with more confidence. “I wore my favorite pair to dinner the other night.”
“Really! Can you describe them?”
“Not right now,” I said firmly. Etienne has never been a phone freak, and I would hate to be responsible for spoiling him.
Some would say I’ve been guilty of that for at least five years! I don’t tell other girls that I come when he goes down on me. You never know what another pro might think—or say—about a working girl having real orgasms.
“Why don’t you come back to New York?” I said in a warmer voice. “We can discuss my heels in person. I might even wear them!”
“That would be my preference, cocotte. A live appearance. But—” He paused. “There is something I haven’t told you. Something which prevents me from examining those pretty feet in person. Not to mention the rest of your delicious body.”
Oh dear. There comes a point in every girl’s career when some of her best customers start dying or faltering for reasons of age—and stop visiting. I held my breath. Not his prostate, I hope.
“I have tried to enter the country three times in the last eight months,” he told me. “It seems my name is on one of those bothersome new lists.”
Another one of Etienne’s polite fictions?
“Or perhaps,” he continued, “my name resembles the name of someone else who is really on this list. But you have no idea. When this sort of thing happens, reality is beside the point. I haven’t been to London in six months either!”
“You’re … on more than one list?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I can travel anywhere on the continent, as long as I don’t fly! Or try to cross the channel. My American lawyer calls it House Arrest Lite.”
“You have an American lawyer?”
“And a French lawyer. And a Brit. You don’t want to know. I hope your life never becomes this complicated and tedious, mignonne.”
“The city isn’t the same without you!” I was trying to sound light-hearted.
“And vice versa!” he exclaimed. “Germany is quite boring. I promise you will hear from me when I resolve this.”
As we hung up, another call was coming in. “I’ve been trying to reach you!” Allison, sounding breathless and distressed. “Did you get my emails? What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”
“Jasmine said you weren’t feeling well.”
“You can tell Jasmine I feel fine.”
“Oh.” Now Allie was puzzled. “Maybe I misunderstood. I thought she said ‘acute medical symptoms.’”
It is just like Jasmine to assume that this rift is the result of some biological malfunction, when it’s really a consequence of her own demented—and completely insensitive—worldview.
“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” I said calmly.
“Does that mean you can work?”
“Of course.”
“Ron’s coming over Monday, at five. He wants two girls.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Honestly,” she sighed. “I must be hearing things, because I’m sure Jasmine said you were turning down business and not answering your phone.”
“Only where she’s concerned.”
“What … happened?”
“She crossed a line. And that’s all I wish to say.”
“Omigod, does she KNOW you feel this way? You have to tell people how you feel.”
“I don’t have to do anything of the sort! Jasmine is totally oblivious to anybody else’s feelings, including mine. Why should I discuss them with her?” I looked at the clock and excused myself from Allie’s impromptu sermon. “I have to go,” I told her. “I’m making a cheese soufflé for dinner. I need to concentrate.”
“It’s only eleven A.M.! What time are you having dinner?”
“I’ve never made this before. I want to get it right.”
But I don’t expect Allie to understand. Her idea of cooking is opening a box of soy burger mix from the health food store and trying to turn it into a cake.
Tuesday, June 18, 2002
Yesterday, when I arrived at Allison’s apartment, her client was running late—and she was still tidying up. A pile of New York Council of Trollops T-shirts sat on her coffee table, next to some unopened bills and a stack of zines I haven’t seen before. The cover of Queer Diaspora features a group of naked girls and guys holding up a rainbow banner: “Straight for the money! And gay for pay! Get used to it honey!” Roxana Blair, NYCOT’s founder, was the only familiar face—thank God Allie hasn’t been persuaded to undress for the cover of Queer Diaspora. Roxana’s one of those out-of-the-closet zealots who believes the truth will set us free (which any sensible call girl knows to be wrong), and she’s tried, many times, to recruit me because NYCOT needs more “sex workers of color.”
Allison poured the zines and T-shirts into a huge Duane Reade shopping bag, along with some bright pink Safe Sex Ho buttons, condom-covered pamphlets and other political detritus from her last NYCOT meeting. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
The transformation was impressive. Her grandmother’s rosewood furniture lends a grown-up quality to the room … when it’s not buried beneath back issues of Whorezine, Rentgrrl, and now, Queer Diaspora.
While Allie dressed in her bedroom, I changed in the bathroom. By coincidence, we had both decided to wear balcony bras —balconies without railings, so our nipples were completely exposed to the breeze from her living room air conditioner.
“Maybe we should turn that down,” I said. “I feel like my nipples migrated to the North Pole! We’ll both catch cold.”
“You’re right.” Crossing her arms over her breasts, she scampered toward the AC in her heels and fiddled with the controls. She adjusted her shiny pink panties. “But Ron likes it cold. He’s got high blood pressure!”
Allie and I have similar bodies, but her stomach has always been flatter than mine. I’m closer to a C-cup and she’s closer to a B. Her pubic topiary is fuller than mine. She used to wear it shorter, but lately it’s edging toward naturalism. Funny how Allie’s boyfriend, who’s so open-minded about her work, is also kind of bossy about her bikini line. He wants her to stop waxing altogether. Whereas Matt’s quite happy leaving this policy decision to his wife.
We’ve never been attracted to the same guys. It’s a problem and a blessing, that our lifestyles are so at odds. Despite our differences—her extreme blondeness, our opposite taste in men, her love affair with activism—we manage to see a lot of customers together. Clients like being around us. We fit. And she has enough sense to hide the “sex work” propaganda when they come over.
When the doorman announced Ron’s arrival, Allie turned up the chill again. It’s not my style to rush someone else’s customer, but I moved him into the bedroom, away from the AC. He didn’t object.
Kneeling on Allie’s bed, I held his cock and teased the head with an alert nipple. As she pulled my panties to one side, I felt, on the back of one thigh, a pair of soft lips. Then her mouth got much closer to my pussy and, before I knew it, Ron was coming on my neck. Perhaps he was aiming for my breasts or my face? I wasn’t sure, but I extricated myself quickly, to rinse my hair clean, while Allie took care of everything else. I had done the heavy lifting, after all.
Like most five o’clock dates, Ron had no time to linger. “I’d love to go twice,” he told us. “But there’s a family dinner …”
Allie, still dressed in her pink bra and panties, looked appropriately disappointed. “Next time!” she said, as she helped with his jacket. “You can’t be late for that!”
While she saw him to the door, I stuffed my undies and heels into Ziploc bags, and tucked them under the bed. Then I changed into married hooker camouflage—slightly faded jeans and a plaid blouse.
As I walked down Eighty-fifth Street toward York, I checked my phone messages. A call from Charmaine—“The cable bill’s in your condom drawer”—and another from Milt, sitting in his car: “If you get this before five-thirty, call me back, kiddo. I’m a prisoner of the Garden State Parkway for the next twenty minutes.”
The sun wasn’t ready to set. In my bright yellow sneakers, I felt like a small town schoolgirl playing hooky on a warm afternoon. York Avenue has that effect on you during the summer.
Damp hair brushed against my neck. Uh-oh. Will it be dry by the time I get home? This might be hard to explain! I stopped and dabbed my hair with my sleeve.
Then I heard a man’s voice—“Nancy is right here”—slightly formal, yet warm and familiar, that made me turn around. Allie’s boyfriend, Lucho, was standing near the entrance to Arturo’s talking into his cellphone. His free hand held a slightly dog-eared copy of The Nation. “Of course,” he said, beaming at me. “I will do that, my dear. See you at the bar.”
Lucho must know I just left Allie’s apartment. What do you say to a guy who’s waiting for his girlfriend to tidy up after a session that you’ve been part of? And he obviously knows it! I stared back at him and felt myself blushing as he put his phone away.
“Lucho!” My voice was unnaturally high. “What are you—” doing here sounds wrong, rather hostile. As if he doesn’t belong here. But he doesn’t! Why can’t she meet him on the West Side, where he lives?
The last thing I need is to be running into a best friend’s boyfriend on the corner of York Avenue when I’ve just turned a trick with her, and my hair is still damp from—did he see me doing that? When he cuddles up with Allie, later tonight, my bra will be right there, in its plastic bag, hiding beneath her bed.
Suddenly, I felt naked. His polite nod was almost a bow, and there wasn’t a trace of discomfort in his eyes—or flirtation, either—as he greeted me. “How are you doing, Nancy?” He gestured toward the restaurant door, as if nothing strange had just happened. “Will you join us for dinner? We can wait for Allie at the bar.”
“Oh—I—um—I can’t!” I said, taking in his knit tie and his summer suit. His dark wavy hair is well-managed, though it falls below his ears. I felt not just naked, but silly and immature in my jeans and sneakers. Allie must be getting a little dressed up to meet him for dinner. “I’ve got a loin of pork marinating in the fridge!” I exclaimed.
“Allison tells me you’re a very accomplished cook.” He flashed an affectionate smile. “Another night then. Perhaps we could all go out. We would both love to have dinner with you and Matt.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “You know, Matt—Allie—I’m not sure about Matt’s schedule.”
Allie’s been trying to engineer a double date with Matt and Lucho for the last six months!
Last year, when we ran into Lucho and Allie at a party, Lucho was unfailingly discreet. And Matt’s always hinting that he’d like to hang out with them because, well, you don’t meet a lot of trendy Latin American professors on Wall Street.
But the whole idea of Matt dining out with three people who know something he doesn’t? I can’t. No matter how discreet Lucho is, I can’t put my husband at a table with people who know he’s being deceived.
There are times when a wife must quietly become her husband’s loyal opposition.
Allie doesn’t get it. There’s no room on her romantic hard drive for these tricky nuances of infidelity. Because the New York Council of Trollops has taken over her personal life! Sometimes she forgets how normal people actually live.
On days when Allie’s not working, she’s chairing NYCOT meetings, planning the next conference, or distributing condoms in Hunts Point. I used to think activism was a phase she would outgrow—until Allie met Lucho at a harm reduction conference. Any “phase” that yields a devoted boyfriend isn’t something Allie can be expected to take leave of lightly. Bohemian courtship has its own rules—I’m afraid to find out what they are—but it’s still courtship. It still, somehow, works, when the right people are in the right place at the right time.
A double date with my best friend and her boyfriend? It’s just another one of those things everyone else does—but not me.
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
“Honey?”
This morning, Matt was surprised to find me in the kitchen wearing cotton panties and a work-out bra. He gave me an appreciative but quizzical look. I’m almost never up first.
I was in a cautious mood, because the last time I had an appointment with my ob-gyn, Matt wanted to be there too. I will never get used to seeing other women’s husbands in a gynecologist’s waiting room—is nothing sacred anymore? And I refuse to contribute to this trend.
“I forgot to organize the coffee last night!” I lied. Matt’s coffee is a built-in excuse whenever I need to rise early. As I filled the coffee maker, he came closer. I felt his bare skin against my back, boxer shorts against my prim white briefs. “There’s a new class I want to try.”
His hard-on was distracting, and so was his right hand on my panties. I was tempted to turn around, but a quick glance at the clock made me stop. Dr. Peele’s office agreed to squeeze me in early.
Matt kissed my neck while the coffee brewed, and teased the cotton-covered parts of me with his finger. I was beginning to swell and relax. If I’m late for Dr. Peele, she’ll make me wait two hours. I’ll have to cancel my quickie with Ted. And Dr. Peele’s receptionist will be furious.
“Your exercise class can wait,” he whispered. “There’s another one tomorrow. And you want this.”
“I—I do, but we can’t,” I told him. “My period …” Though it just ended, I insinuated that it was just beginning. As I turned around, I felt his hands in my hair. “Can I do this instead?” I tried to lower myself to the floor and felt my panties tugging against my pussy. My mouth was already half-open. I felt like that playful Mafia wife in Goodfellas who takes care of her husband in her kitchen.
“No.” He was holding my upper arms, firmly enough to stop me from moving. I was breathing harder. “It’s better when you have to wait.”
“But—”
I was beginning to regret that my period “just started.” I like to think I can do anything I want with my period—hide it, fake it, or have it. Now I’ve outsmarted myself, and waiting three days seems more like an ordeal than a successful parry.
Though I was on time for my appointment, I was battling the sensations of unsatisfied arousal as I changed into my paper gown. The stirrups on Dr. Peele’s examining table are never left uncovered. Today, they were dressed in soft, inviting cashmere booties which I was eager to feel against my bare feet. When she entered, I was already on the table, day-dreaming about what might have been if Matt hadn’t stopped me from getting on my knees. Though I felt pampered by the booties and tantalized by our skirmish, it’s just not possible to stay turned on during a transvaginal sonogram.
“Is there any such thing as a mini-miscarriage?” I asked. “My last period was ten days late. Was I twenty-four days pregnant?”
“That’s hard to say.” She was looking at the screen. “We may never know. Long cycles are more common than miscarriages.” I felt the probe moving to the left. “Which are also common,” she added.
“So, if I have a c-section …”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about the scar. How low can you make the incision?”
“Most women find that a bikini covers the scar.”
“Is it true it can double as a kind of tummy tuck?”
“There are easier ways to obtain a tummy tuck. Not that you need one.”
“Thanks, but—” When I turned my head, I was staring at a portrait of blond identical triplets playing in a garden. “—can you actually get rid of the scar?”
The probe moved to the right.
“Nancy.” Dr. Peele withdrew the probe. “Childbirth is not cosmetic surgery.” I suppose she’s right. “We can discuss vaginal deliv—”
“I don’t think so!” I tried to sit up.
“Don’t panic.” Dr. Peele was holding up a speculum. “One more thing to do here.” I tried to relax. “Breathe through your mouth. Good. Many women are having voluntary c-sections. It’s safer when you can prepare for a c-section. But you have to realize, it’s major surgery. And some of your questions should be answered by a dermatologist.”
I glanced at the triplets, then averted my eyes. “Maybe I need to postpone this project.”
“You mean pregnancy?”
“Yes.” When she removed the speculum, I took my feet out of the stirrups and sat up slowly. “When I thought I was pregnant, I was excited. But when my period started? I was disappointed at first, and then I was so relieved!” Dr. Peele was perched on a stool, looking at my medical records. “The other day, I was visiting a girlfriend.” I bit my lip.
“Go on,” she said. “How many children does your friend have?”
“None. And she’s single.”
“Ah.” She placed the paperwork to one side. “I think I see.”
“I was walking down the street,” I told her. “It was so nice out! I felt sort of naughty.” Dr. Peele doesn’t know anything about my job, but I told her what I could of the truth. “And I felt free. I was wearing my size four jeans. It took me six months to get back into those!”
“And?”
“I don’t think I want to be pregnant. I want to wear my size four jeans!”
“Then you should not be. Pregnancy is more dangerous for your health than being a size four.”
Dr. Peele—closer to a fourteen than a four; founder of an A-list fertility boutique—said that?? I feel so vindicated.
On my way to Seventy-ninth Street, I stopped at Duane Reade to drop off my new prescription. I had just enough time to change into a miniskirt and get ready for Ted’s mid-morning blow job.
Thursday, June 20, 2002
A call from Milt. For the first time in weeks, he insists on seeing me solo when I want him to spring for a threeway! I was hoping to pay Allie back for Monday. Normally, he’s more than willing to be my currency du jour. But not today. “We have some important business to discuss.” More important than MY business? But I didn’t protest. Sexual book-keeping should always be invisible.
Later
I was wrapping a hot post-coital washcloth around Milt’s cock when he announced, “My house in France is almost done. You should come over with me.”
“With you?” I adopted a dreamy tone and pressed the damp cloth against his lube-drenched groin. Some girls long to visit the Riviera with a rich guy in exchange for massive amounts of shopping money. I fear being away from New York, beholden to some guy who has paid for an oversized chunk of my time, unable to retreat from a diplomatic nightmare. “I should?”
“Yes!” His hand stroked my rump. “It would be nice to have this in my bed,” he mused. “Your skin’s so smooth. And you can practice your French.” As he felt my body pulling away, he said, “Don’t worry. I promise not to abuse my privileges!”
“What exactly are you planning on my behalf?” I asked with a skeptical smile.
“I’m going to spend a few weeks in the new house,” he explained. “Make sure everything’s in working order. Get out of my wife’s hair for awhile. They’re working on the pool as we speak. You’ll have a great time breaking it in with me.”
“It’s in the Luberon?”
“An hour and a half from Nice. Right next to a vineyard … off the beaten track … we had the pool rebuilt.”
“But I don’t swim! I’m not much of a poolside girl, you know, and I’m allergic to sunshine. Are you sure I’m the … houseguest you have in mind?”
“Of course I’m sure! Stay in the shade, then. It’s a fully equipped house. I just installed a new exercise room. I converted one of the dairy sheds into a media hut. There’s a nice library with a fireplace … What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You might wear me out! I need my beauty sleep, eight hours minimum, and I don’t think I can sleep in the same bed as—”
“You’ll have your own bedroom,” he promised. “I may be a dog, but I’m a well-trained dog. If you want, you can sleep in a separate wing with the door locked. This place has more bedrooms than we need. You’ll have first choice.”