Diary of a Married Call Girl

2 The Meaning of Wife

WEDNESDAY, 3/14/01

This morning, while Matt was dressing for work, I was pretending to sleep.

Marital possum is a newly acquired habit, more puzzling to the player than the played. Why am I doing this? Do other women pretend to be asleep for no apparent reason? What about their husbands? And why do I compare myself to other marrieds? Is it all just a normal side effect of matrimony?

As a kid, I faked sleep to trick my mother after Lights Out, but I never asked myself if the other kids were doing it. The scam was all instinct, my approach zenlike. I did not second-guess myself; I simply became the sleeping daughter. Now, as sleeping wife, I’m beset with self-doubt.

Fortunately, I have therapy later.

Late last night when Matt drowsily remembered that he had a breakfast meeting, I tiptoed out of bed. Muffling the coffee grinder with a batik teapot cosy—wedding gift from Mother—I felt like the very model of a modern wife. After filling the coffee maker with Aged Sumatra and filtered water, I placed a packet of sweetener on a saucer, then took stock of my domestic achievement. With one flick of a switch, my husband has access to caffeine when he will most need it and least expect it. How cool is that? When I returned to our bed, he was snoring. I fell asleep with the aroma of tomorrow’s coffee lingering in my nostrils.

When I woke, he was quietly selecting a shirt from his side of the closet. I quickly closed my eyes and sniffed the air for signs of coffee. And now he was leaning over my pillow, kissing my forehead tenderly to wake me from a phony but convincing slumber.

“Thanks for the java,” he murmured “You’re a genius!”

As I stroked his smooth, shaved cheek, he added, “I like that purring sound you make when you’re happy.”

How often do I touch a man’s cheek?

No matter how many clients I’ve seen, days can go by when my hands do not venture above the chest. I might blow lightly into a customer’s ear while straddling his body—or ruffle his hair while he’s going down on me. I might kiss a john’s cheek or his neck to evade his mouth. But Matt is probably the only guy whose face I touch with my fingertips. How long has he occupied this exclusive slot? It’s funny how I work to avoid some things—like kissing—with my clients, while others just don’t happen. Why is it so personal and sweet to touch a man’s face? As we kissed good-bye, I realized that my hands have been accidentally faithful for more than a year. For a brief second, I felt like a stranger to myself.

I heard the apartment door close and got up quickly. My cell phone, snug in the bottom of my tote bag, had three messages on it—one from Allison (eager to dissect her first date with Lucho) and another from Steven, the typical voice mail of a disappointed impulse buyer: “I’m in the neighborhood, try you again next week.”

If you don’t grab Steven while he’s hot, you simply have to wait for the next urge to strike, and this is the third time we’ve struck out in a month. What with Charmaine’s timeshare and my new responsibilities as a wife, I’m starting to lose my impulsive quickies. It’s hard to connect these days if a guy can’t make his appointment in advance.

Too bad: Steven’s the easiest guy in my client book and I miss his pret-a-porter erections. So reliable. Too big and fast to fail. Even when you know better than to take it personally, a dependable hard-on makes you feel more successful, more attractive. A three-quarter erection backed by regular visits might yield more profit in the long run—and I know how to keep a man from going soft because it’s my job. (I’ve been doing this since Ronald Reagan was in office!) But I like it when desire’s a bit more obvious.

Lately, I’m working harder to retain those regulars who find it easier to make appointments way ahead of time. It’s better for my marriage but not so good for my ego: a man suddenly hot to see you has a more straightforward erection than one who plans ahead. A long-winded way of saying, will Steven really call next week? His hard-ons are more reliable than his projections.

The last message in my system was the most promising. I called Trisha back pronto on her cell.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes?”

“What time?”

“One second,” she said. “The dinosaur cape? It’s upstairs. Don’t forget your juice. We have three minutes.…Next Tuesday at two, he likes boots,” she mumbled quickly. “Can you find an extra girl? What about Allison? We’re getting ready for school here. That sounds perfect!” she disconcertingly chirped. Suddenly, her voice was clear as a bell. “For sure! We have to talk. The picnic is a great idea!”

Picnic? These sudden non sequiturs—second nature to Trish—always precede a hang-up. Her husband must have popped back into sight. Of course, you don’t end a conversation too abruptly when you want things to sound normal.

I can’t believe Trish has the nerve to take all these calls from girls and clients when he’s around! But I’m learning not to make judgments about other people’s marriages. Every girl must decide for herself when it’s safe to answer the phone.

LATER

My shrink has moved her office from Riverside Drive to Central Park West—and wants to know how I feel about it. Of course, you can say things to a shrink that you wouldn’t say to others but there are some things I don’t get into. Not because I’m ashamed or anything—it’s just that she would regard my feelings about hair as Material for an entire session and I don’t want to go there. My hair is a little too delicate for this world and tends to lose its shape when exposed to the elements, but I can’t explain this to Dr. Kessel, who always looks like she needs a haircut even when she’s just had one.

I used to dread visiting her windy corner. Last month, to prevent my hair from being whipped out of shape, I wore a pleated Herm籠scarf—and almost lost it. My head scarf, viciously attacked by a sudden gust, went flying toward the river. When I arrived at my session, having chased the scarf for half a block, a layer of perspiration was threatening my hair. If I never have to brave Riverside Drive again, I’ll be a happier camper than most.

On Central Park West, the air was calm today. Upstairs, a small plaque identified Dr. Wendy Kessel’s new whereabouts. In the waiting room, I found myself staring at a collection of black-and-white portraits: Eleanor Roosevelt and Josephine Baker on one wall. A young Doris Lessing on another. Where has all the ethnic pottery gone?

“How do you feel about the new look?” Dr. Wendy asked.

“It’s a little in your face.”

“Somebody else made the same observation.”

She seemed to take pleasure in the disturbance her new decor was causing. A nerdlike pleasure, not malicious. But still.

“Maybe I’ll get used to it,” I said. “It’s a trade-off because your location’s more central. Not that there’s anything wrong with the pictures,” I added.

Am I a lab rat under scrutiny? Or a valued emotional stakeholder? I couldn’t quite tell.

“Change is always a challenge,” Dr. Wendy pointed out. “Even when we expect it.”

Her therapy room is more soothing than her new waiting room: plants everywhere, peachy hues, a harmless quilt on the largest wall.

“But Josephine Baker seems out of place in there.”

“Really?” As Dr. Wendy leaned forward, some light bounced off her glasses. “In what sense?”

“Not for racial reasons,” I added. Wendy looked relieved. “She’s the only one showing any flesh.”

“That’s a good place to start,” Wendy replied. “Nu?”

“Yiddish?”

“Just keeping my hand in. I’m not that invested. Or proficient.”

“Well, speaking of…proficient, I did some business on Sunday.”

Dr. Wendy’s reaction to this short-term achievement report was hard to read.

“I know it’s risky to work on Sundays—it’s safer when Matt’s at the office. But I took the call and guess what? I almost made my quota.” I told her about my visit to the Waldorf and the ensuing muddle. “Matt was so happy when I finally showed up at the Gap, he didn’t suspect a thing. But the situation almost turned against me. His sister could have called him, said something incriminating. Or he could have spotted me leaving the hotel. But I got a fairytale ending. For now.”

“For now is not an ending,” she said. “How do you feel about the outcome?”

“Well, I didn’t get caught—which is good. But I still have this nagging guilt.”

“Because you kept Matt waiting?”

“Because I fell short of my quota for the third week running! When I got married, I had this policy—never on Sunday—but it’s totally clashing with my quota. And my quota is much older than this policy. Or this marriage. It’s too important.” I felt my face growing warm. “I can’t just abandon it.”

“Many things are older than your marriage. But some women in your position would adjust their expectations. Is it realistic to set the same goals when you have a new living arrangement which might impact your energy level?”

I blinked at Dr. Wendy. So I’m like a working mom who should be on halftime? But I have no kids, and Trisha (who does) is just as driven as any unmarried hooker. Okay, she no longer has a place where she can see guys, so her expectations may have changed—but now she has a stable of outcalls, really good ones, who stay at hotels.

What’s my excuse?

“Are you telling me I should reduce my quota?”

“No,” Dr. Wendy said firmly. “That”—her tone grew softer—“is not my role. I’m asking how you feel about that idea.”

“When we were engaged it was easier to hide my business. Now I have to sneak out, find some place to get ready for a date, do the date, get unready, hide the money. It’s like working two jobs and getting paid for one! And I’m sharing my old apartment with a New Girl—she’s only been working for a year or two. Matt doesn’t know about that, of course. He thinks I gave up my apartment because I moved all my best furniture into the new place.”

When I moved my art moderne bedroom set into our newlywed nest on East Thirty-fourth Street, Matt never asked what I was doing with my queen-size bed. Or my 310-count sheets. The upheaval, the unpacking, a different neighborhood—if you can call this cluster of generic dwellings a neighborhood—made it easy to forget things. Besides, when leaving his bachelor apartment, he thought nothing of leaving his own bed for the landlord to dispose of. We never questioned the purchase of a completely inexperienced mattress and box spring for our new life together.

“It’s a lot to keep track of,” Wendy said. “But you’re not alone. Some women call it ‘the second shift.’ Taking care of a household and a personal relationship while maintaining your professional foothold.”

“In secret?” Well, I suppose keeping secrets might qualify as relationship upkeep.

“Most people have secrets. But if the secrets are too numerous, keeping them becomes a full-time job. In today’s world, it’s common to have more than one part-time job. But most people would find it impossible to hold down two or three full-time jobs.” Dr. Wendy paused. “I want to call the management of your secrets ‘the third shift.’ Is this a useful concept?”

“So the first shift is what you do for money. The second shift is what you do for love. And the third shift?”

“Maybe it’s what brings you here.”

I told Dr. Wendy about my discovery, how this morning it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve been almost faithful in a roundabout way for more than a year.

“In my own fashion,” I added ruefully. “I don’t think my husband would understand, though.”

“The arithmetic of emotional fidelity is extremely private,” Wendy assured me.

“Are you sure it’s arithmetic? And not geometry?”

Dr. Wendy wasn’t sure.

“But you do have a system for making sense of your actions. I’m pretty sure of that.” She paused and gave me a quizzical smile. “Were you good at geometry?”

FRIDAY, 3/16/01. EAST SEVENTY-NINTH STREET

The last few days have been profitable and peaceful. Charmaine, true to her word, has gone to Florida, leaving our shared onebedroom spotless and orderly. Dust-free. Charmaine’s even more of a clean freak than I am: buys her lubricant in those disposable one-use packets, has an air purifier in the living room, and keeps a box of surgical gloves next to the kitchen sink. On the twentyfifth day of each month, she hands me a neatly arranged pile of hundreds and fifties, her share of the rent and utilities. I couldn’t ask for a more desirable roommate.

All her things are stashed in the hall closet as agreed, and I have the run of this place until she returns. It’s like being single again—when I’m here, that is—and my phone has decided to cooperate. It rings often, making me realize that I still have what it takes: an active client list and a safe place to work from.

This apartment’s safe because the neighborhood’s safe. I’ve taken steps to ensure that Matt has no excuse to be strolling past my apartment when I’m here, and no reason to be uptown on a casual basis. That’s why we moved to Thirty-fourth Street, to a neighborhood I don’t even like. I nixed every place we looked at that wasn’t safely south of Seventy-ninth, even when I found my dream condo with the perfect balcony on East Eighty-fourth. It was too close to my stomping grounds, so I made a huge sacrifice and chose, instead, the impersonal two-bedroom with the twenty-ninth-floor view, in a part of town that feels like a giant parking lot. When people ask how Matt and I can live so close to the heliport, so far from all the great food shops, I cite the FDR and limitless views. I sometimes think about the apartment on Eighty-fourth Street that I fell in love with and walked away from, but never with regret.

Today, I saw Howard at noon, followed by a surprise visit from Steven. After Steven left, I examined my naked body in the mirror and liked what I saw.

My breasts look perky and my stomach somewhat flatter. (I don’t eat as much when I have all these consecutive dates.) My face looks smoother because I’m more relaxed when I see my customers here: less chance of being spotted by my husband—or someone who knows him. Better working conditions make a girl instantly better looking.

Woman with a past has a warped new meaning this week because I feel like I’m playing a trick on time itself. When Charmaine returns, things revert to the married present. For now, my afternoons are spent in a place that belongs to my single years. But my next customer’s due in twenty minutes and the sheets need changing! So much for outwitting the notorious arrow of time.

LATER

Just before Milt arrived, Charmaine called with surprising news.

“I’m changing my flight,” she said. “I need five more days. But I’m seeing someone the morning after I get back,” she reminded me. “I’m booked solid that week.”

“Of course. I’ll stay out of your way. But don’t get too much sun!” I warned her.

“Oh, I’m not—it just looks like a vacation.” She giggled. “I’m as careful about the sun as you are. It’s really a doctor’s visit. Didn’t I tell you?”

Charmaine’s having…surgery?

“But you’re only twenty-two!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t you kind of young for that?”

“It’s never too early,” she told me. “This is like using birth control so you won’t have to have an abortion—or end up looking like one! Anyway, I’ve been using Botox on my forehead for two years. And I’ve already had my nose done. I’m not exactly a virgin.”

“But you have to know when to stop. If you keep modifying…You’ve done Botox? I had no idea!”

“Because it’s very natural. And this will be too.”

“ ‘This’? Do you mind if I ask what you’re having done? There’s nothing wrong with you!”

“You’ll see. Nothing dramatic. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. It’s my face and my future. And the biggest mistake is waiting too long to get the work done. I’m not going to let that happen to me!”

So. Charmaine thinks cosmetic surgery is wasted on the elderly.

I decided not to argue with her, but, while I was giving my four o’clock a long slow blow job, I found myself thinking about my roommate—wrinkle-proofing her brow at twenty-two! I didn’t start worrying about such things until twenty-six.

My lips were sliding toward the base of Milt’s erection but my mind was elsewhere: Is Charmaine tempting fate by starting too early with her face? What if something goes wrong in the operating room? For me, surgery’s a last resort rather than a lifestyle. So it’s her money, her body, and her future. I should mind my own business, but other people’s body parts are my business. And therein lies the problem. I’m so accustomed to making decisions about other people’s bodies that I’m ready to tell Charmaine what not to do with hers. Meanwhile, I’m the one who has gained six pounds—and when you’re 5'1" it shows. Shouldn’t I focus on that instead? As I removed my mouth from Milt’s cock, I was turning over a new leaf.

I reached for a glass of water on my bedside table to cleanse the taste of latex from my palate. There is nothing more icky than condom-breath—a hazard of the profession because you get so used to having rubber in your mouth that you might not notice.

My favorite customer was lying on his back, eyes blissfully shut, stroking my thigh. As I poured some Astroglide onto my palm, he became more alert.

“Before you do that,” he suggested, “why don’t you bring that luscious pussy over here and let me return the favor?”

“You lazy beast. All right. Don’t move.”

I turned around and sat over his face with my buttocks in the air. My hands now had access to his cock, which was threatening to grow soft. But he was getting hard again, thanks to the nearness of my pussy. I decided to let him lick me until he was properly erect. I never come with Milton but I allow him to do more with my body than, perhaps, I should because he’s the client I like best. When I wriggled away, my ass was still facing him and he sighed happily.