Diary of a Married Call Girl
TRACY QUAN

For Paulo Henrique Longo

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

1 Roundheels and Caballeros

2 The Meaning of Wife

3 The Ballad of East and West

4 Lingerie Liberal

5 Fluff and Aft

6 “Yet” Means “Now”

7 The Schoolgirls Come and Go

8 Death and the Laytons

9 The Rise of the Fallen Woman

10 Why I Am Not a Crackhead

11 Crisis Management

12 Misconceptions

13 Hotter Than July

14 My Apprenticeships

15 Harm Reduction

16 Attics and Basements

17 Provide, Provide

Acknowledgments

About the Author

By the same Author:

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

1 Roundheels and Caballeros
MONDAY, 3/12/01

Dear Diary,

My two best friends are no longer at war: They invited me to brunch on Sunday. Do I want this unlikely alliance to succeed? Let’s just say I’m ambivalent.

Yesterday, I was late for the brunch at Quatorze—which I had to embroider into a birthday celebration when my husband started asking too many questions about my day. Sliding into a banquette, I looked around furtively. Jasmine, sitting next to me, barely noticed my arrival.

“You can’t fuck him on the first date!” she was telling Allison. “You’re becoming a public figure!”

Across the table, Allie was sipping a mimosa.

“What do you mean, ‘a public figure’? I’m just me,” she protested.

“He met you at that crazy conference!”

“That was a panel discussion. For Lucho’s course. Re-Writing the Extra-Colonial Body. He’s fostering a dialogue with sex workers! And he wants to discuss his plans for a documentary. He was too shy to introduce himself at the harm-reduction conference. So we didn’t really meet till last week. Tuesday will be our first chance to—”

“Discussion, conference. To him, you’re a public figure. This isn’t like turning a trick! This guy’s a fan. Fuck him right away, and you’ll destroy his illusions. Listen, those panties stay on if we have to glue them on.” Jasmine paused. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint a fan…would you?”

Amazing. Jasmine has gone from blanket rejection of Allison’s “sex worker activism” to micromanaging all the details now that Allie’s a budding spokesperson.

Allie blushed. “A fan? I never thought of it that way! But”—she began to looked worried—“I don’t want Lucho to have illusions. I want him to really know me.”

“For god’s sake, he knows too much about you as it is. Now look at Nancy. I’ll bet she didn’t fuck Matt on the first date.”

“Please,” I warned Jasmine. “I am so not in the mood to dissect Matt!”

“What’s wrong?” Allison was glad to change the subject from her latest crush to my new husband. “Is everything okay? With you and Matt?”

“Matt’s fine,” I said tersely. “I’d much rather hear about your professor friend. You met him at…a harm-reduction conference?”

Should I tell Allison about the birthday ruse?

Maybe not. There are things your single girlfriends just don’t understand. Especially a friend like Allie, who seems to be grooming the man she just met for an illusion-free romance. Which sounds as appealing to me as a sugar-free meringue.

“When you became a spokesman,” Jasmine told Allie. “You gave up your right to sleep with guys on the first date.”

“I—what are you talking about?”

“He knows you’re a working girl! If he doesn’t, you can sleep with him anytime you want. Because he won’t know he’s getting free sex from a hooker! But he knows. And you’re not just any working girl. You’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“A reputation. This isn’t the 1950s,” Allie objected.

“No kidding! If you sleep with him right away, he can go on Craig’s List. Or yap about it on his website! You have to find out more about his past before you fuck him. And don’t tell him anything about yours.”

The waiter appeared at our booth. Jasmine ordered a martini and I, with genuine remorse, a businesslike Evian.

“No kir royale?” he asked.

“Not today,” I said. “Medication,” I added, as both girls were giving me owlish looks. “I have to leave early,” I explained, when the waiter had drifted away. “Something at the Waldorf.”

Alcohol and work don’t mix. Or shouldn’t.

Jasmine eyed my pale blue yoga pants with curiosity. Then my matching hoodie and my gnomish tote bag, larger than usual, chosen for its excellent zipper. The last thing you want, when carrying lots of dildos and a pair of fuzz-lined manacles (not to mention a serious change of shoes, underclothes, and a Donna Karan suit) is a clever bag with nifty magnets, Velcro flaps, or gimmicky pockets. A laptop case—my usual cover for a hotel call—is way too small for all this gear. And you don’t want the zipper to jam!

“Smart move,” Jasmine said, staring down at my new suede sneakers.

Faux sloppy is a look I’ve been cultivating since my marriage began. It’s pulled together but says “no special plans.” The goal here is to look vague, not mysterious.

Allison, who never has to think about married-girl mufti, was perturbed.

“It’s a long story,” I sighed. “Charmaine’s using the apartment, so I have to change in the hotel bathroom!”

Or maybe here? But no, this restaurant’s too intimate for that sort of thing. Why did I ever go in on this deal with Charmaine? A married hooker has to downsize—but I couldn’t bear to part with my rent-stabilized lease. That would be like discarding your oldest friend. Charmaine is mostly a boon but sometimes I feel like my small sunny 1BR on East Seventy-ninth is being slowly colonized by a stranger whose ways I barely understand.

“You’ll manage,” Jasmine said. “Nancy always manages,” she added, casting a meaningful look at Allie, who was gazing pensively into the distance.

“Nancy didn’t sleep with Matt because she didn’t know if she wanted to!” Allie began. “But Lucho and I are different. Besides, this doesn’t feel like a real first date. We exchanged at least a hundred e-mails before I spoke at his class. Not that kind of e-mail,” she added. “I had no idea who Lucho was. Someone gave him my e-mail address. Then I got something from his department, inviting me to speak on the panel. I know he didn’t ask me out until after the panel but—don’t you think this is more like a third date? Or even a fifth? We spent two hours IM-ing about the problems in his mother’s homeland. His e-mails are totally articulate! And sensitive! And he wants me to be part of this documentary. That’s the real reason for our lunch.”

Jasmine was looking more Solomonic than usual in a subdued argyle V-neck. She pulled her dark hair behind her ears, and the eighteen-carat glow of her Bulgari knockoffs seemed to compete with her highlights.

“We’ll make allowances for technology,” she said. “Taking the obsessive e-mails into account, so long as you’re not sending each other thinly disguised porn, you might be able to treat this like a second date. Hooking is like backgammon. Dating and marriage are like chess. This guy is a knight. Or, if you handle this right, a rook! Your strategy, as queen, is ‘be enigmatic.’ Don’t be making these extravagant moves. At this point in the game, you and Lucho—”

Jasmine was cut off by a bouncy version of “Hungarian Dance #5,” which caused Allison to fiddle nervously with her Prada bowling bag.

“Hello?” Allie whispered into the phone. “It’s hard to talk here!” Extricating herself from the chess tutorial, she simpered incoherently. As I watched Allison heading for the front door, a tiny red cell phone pressed against her long blond hair, I realized she was thinner than usual in a pair of striped pants I’ve never seen before.

“Is this love? Or lipo?” I asked Jasmine. “She must have lost ten pounds! In less than two weeks.”

“It’s the Internet. How can you keep your pants on for a third date if you’re falling in love before the first? Very dangerous. But great for your metabolism. I think she burns a pound of fat every time she gets an e-mail from this guy. Her hips are disappearing. That—or she’s spiking her pomegranate juice with cocaine. Don’t worry,” Jasmine added, reading my mind, “better to be a size six, happily married to a banker, than a frazzled four throwing yourself at some nutty-sounding professor!”

Is hooking really like backgammon? What if it’s all chess? And maybe our johns—so numerous yet essential—are the pawns? If, as Jasmine says, a devoted e-mailer is a knight with the ability to evolve into a castle, what is Matt? A king?

Allison’s approach to the business reminds me more of bingo. As for Jasmine, she’s good at backgammon and did well at chess in high school. But how much does she know about dating? Or marriage—never having lived with any man that I know of? Jasmine thinks real dating is a liability, cutting into the time she devotes to meeting her self-imposed quota of clients.

In fact, Jasmine doesn’t feel right going out on a real date unless she tells herself that she’s pretending to litehook. But here’s the thing about being a litehook: you have to enjoy being “rescued” financially by a man. Even if he’s only saving you from your Con Ed bills, you must feel victorious and grateful. This doesn’t come naturally to Jasmine. It doesn’t even come to her unnaturally. That’s why she’ll never pass for a damsel in distress. Despite what Jasmine thinks, she can’t fake being an amateur hooker.

Allison returned, just as the food was arriving. Jasmine had ordered her usual—“bacon chicory salad, hold the croutons”—followed by a dozen Fanny Bay oysters. With a righteous Atkinspowered smirk, she announced: “Looks like I’m the only chick at this table who knows how to order a real meal.”

Picking at her salad, Allie giggled nervously. “I can’t help it if I’m not hungry!”

Jasmine’s got a point. Falling in love and sneaking around are the two most effective appetite suppressants known to woman. But Allie gets a metabolic boost—meriting low-slung pants—while I merely curb my intake to avoid discomfort.

On Seventy-ninth and Second, available taxis were so plentiful that I took it as a happy omen. What have I done to deserve such good fortune? Something in a former life, I’m thinking. Sitting in the back seat of a yellow SUV, I began my transformation, tucking my hair into a ponytail and slipping it beneath the collar of my hood. As we approached the Waldorf, I donned my sunglasses.

After years of coming here on a frequent basis, I’m still thrown off balance when I try to use the public areas. I’m hardwired to head straight for the elevator, keeping the time downstairs to a bare minimum. The Waldorf’s not the worst offender when it comes to fanatical security but neither is it one of those cozy new boutique hotels where a single woman might be taken for a visiting dot-commer. At the Waldorf, you remember that once upon a time all unescorted females were inherently suspect. You can feel the ancient history when you pass through those revolving doors, and I’m always on the lookout for a snoopy security guard because, in fact, the ancient history is still with us.

My heart was beating a little too fast as I scanned the lobby for a ladies’ room. In the privacy of my self-contained cubicle, I changed into high heels and stockings. Despite the luxury of my own sink and a good mirror, I felt a little too naked.

Jasmine’s commentary—a happily married six, a frazzled size four—echoed in my head. Marriage has caused a few pounds to visit my hips, but it’s nothing I can’t reconfigure, damn it. I can get away with some fluctuation without alienating my regulars, but I might be approaching the limit.

As I hooked a smooth black garter belt around my waist, I felt like a superhero sprouting magical powers. In my high-heeled slingbacks and push-up bra, I was suddenly sleek yet curvy and my suit had not wrinkled: the finishing touch. I loosened my ponytail and played with my hair, stuffed my clothes into the tote, and hid my wedding ring in a change purse. Nobody would guess that the pastel-hued slacker in sneakers and sunglasses had just morphed into a womanly vision in crisp black-and-white houndstooth, hair falling around her shoulders, wearing just enough eye makeup. It occurred to me that lipstick would change my appearance even more. But lip color at three in the afternoon? Too…professional.

I took out my Zagat—essential camouflage when posing as an out-of-town guest—and checked the clock on my cell phone. Transformation accomplished. In less than ten minutes. I’m definitely getting better at this!

Then, spotting a run in my left stocking, I felt a pang of remorse. I forgot to bring spares! Suddenly I felt less like a superhero and more like a refugee, yearning bitterly for the lost comforts of home. Not to mention my supply of stockings. It is maddening to have all the right stuff when it’s totally out of reach.

I’ve been turning tricks since my teens. Never, until I married an investment banker in my thirties, was I reduced to changing my underwear and brushing my teeth in a public bathroom.

Is this what “going straight” is really about?

In the lobby, a tall man with a walkie-talkie was dangerously close to the elevators. Adopting a matronly scowl, I walked right by, hoping the ladder in my stocking was not reaching my knee. On the twenty-fifth floor, I glanced around quickly to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Not until I was in the room, with the door securely bolted, did I feel truly safe.

Trisha’s weekend regular was put out by my solo arrival but did his best to couch things in submissive terms.

“Thank you for coming, Mistress.” He paused and looked around. “Mistress Thalia was planning to arrive at two-thirty. Would you like me to wait for her?”

Colin was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, silk boxer shorts, and nothing else. Despite a round, childlike face, he looked rather virile. It was that salt-and-pepper chest hair, much thicker than the hair on his head. I could feel steam from the shower seeping out of the bathroom.

“Of course,” I said sharply. “Thalia is definitely on her way.”

“May I offer you a drink, Mistress…?”

“Sabrina,” I reminded him. “You may.”

I nodded at a row of bottles on the dresser. Five bottles of mineral water! This guy is more than prepared.

“Some coffee or soda perhaps?”

“Just the water,” I replied.

I could hear my cell phone chiming in my pocket. “Mistress Thalia” stuck in traffic, no doubt.

“It’s me! I’ve been trying to get some privacy so I can call. What a disaster! You’re gonna kill me! Let me talk to him, then I’ll talk to you.”

What? Why didn’t she talk to me first? I was doing my best to look imperious while feeling somewhat unnerved when I summoned Colin to the phone.

“Yes. Yes, I will,” I heard him saying in that flat monotone that slaves like to use. “Yes, Mistress. Of course, Mistress. No, I promise. One moment, Mistress. Right away.”

Slinking off to the bathroom, he looked both dejected and turned on.

Trisha was apologetic and panicky. “I told him to wait in the bathroom. My daughter’s playdate was canceled! At the very last minute! Do you have a ball gag?”

“Um, No.”

“You’ll have to improvise. Put some of your underwear in his mouth. Okay? Later on. Don’t do it right away.”

“What time can you get here? He’s in the bathroom.”

“I CAN’T. I have simply got to stay and deal. I told him this was my secret plan to test his loyalty. He doesn’t come out until you tell him.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Trisha was recovering some of her composure. “If he can please you, he’s allowed to see us together next time. But he has to follow all my instructions—and yours—in my absence. You report back to me and give him, like, a grade. Then I decide if he deserves—”

“I get the idea.” But I was also getting irritated. I’ve never been good at domination—and what about the ball gag? Colin’s used to all this fancy equipment, and I brought only a few props to supplement Trisha’s arsenal. “Do you think it’s safe to stuff my underpants in his mouth?”

“Oh, please. It’s fine. Just use your common sense. If he starts choking, you pull them out. But he won’t.”

“Are you sure you can’t just come later? Take over when I leave?”

“No! You don’t understand! I can’t find a babysitter.”

“But I can’t do it all myself! You promised.”

“What do you mean?” She paused. “Oh. Just drink a lot of water! What’s the big deal?”

This was hardly the moment to be discussing why a golden shower’s a big deal to me and not to her. How do you explain your spic-and-span prohibitions without making it sound like you’re judging the other girl as unsavory? It’s a conversation no sensible hooker gets into. I took a deep breath and gazed at the bottled water on the dresser. People with kids seem to be a lot less squeamish about some things.

“Look, I told you upfront!” I said, moving toward the window.

I didn’t want Colin to overhear. Our lack of cohesion must be finessed. Like two parents dealing with a wayward child, Mistresses Thalia and Sabrina must present a united front.

“I’m sorry! My day’s been a disaster! I’ll work something out on the cut if you want. I have to go but—call if you have to. I’m alone this weekend.”

How can the mother of a five-year-old sans babysitter say she’s “alone”? I guess she means her husband’s out of town so the coast is clear for phone calls. I’ve never asked Trisha what he does but he travels a lot more than Matt—and she, in turn, is never inquisitive about my husband.

Standing in front of the bathroom door, I wondered if my normal instinct—a quiet knock—would be too submissive a gesture. What should I say? I had really been expecting to play second fiddle to Mistress Thalia. You can come out now sounds kind of lame! More like a sidekick than a sole proprietress.

In a cold dignified voice, I advised Colin to stay on his hands and knees.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Is the door unlocked?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Do they say this just to get on your nerves?

“Reach up and open it with your right hand. I will be waiting in the bedroom.”

Colin crept out of the bathroom hardly daring to look up. His eyes were trained on the carpet as he crawled toward my feet. Suddenly, I had a brainstorm.

“You will adjust my garters.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he paused, “…Sabrina. You have beautiful legs,” he added shyly.

“I know. Come here. Start with my back garter.” I turned around slightly so he could reach it. I couldn’t let on how good it felt to hear about my legs when I’m starting to angst about my weight. “Slowly. Not like that. You have to loosen it first, then pull—very softly.” I turned again. “Now the front.” I could see a bulge in Colin’s shorts. “Good. Now the right garter. Carefully.” I leapt back. “You clumsy idiot! You ripped my stocking!”

“I’m sorry, Mistress! I didn’t meant to!”

“This will be taken into account,” I told him. “Mistress Thalia will not be pleased.”

“Yes, Mistress. Will you allow me to make it up to you?”

“We’ll see.”

Stumped for a response, I decided to go the implacable route.

“Go to my bag and unzip it. Slowly.”

I ordered him to remove a few instruments. Unfortunately, Mistress Thalia wasn’t here to wield her whip, but I did have a small black leather paddle.

“Come here,” I told him. “Not like that. Stay on your knees. Put the paddle between your teeth. Hold it between your teeth and don’t drop it. Do you understand?”

He nodded, and I ordered him to crawl slowly toward the bed. Removing the paddle from his clenched teeth, I told him to rest his head against the bedspread and pull down his silk shorts.

“Slowly!”

I needed to prolong our session because, after all, I was trying to make up for Trisha’s absence. Snapping the leather cuffs around his wrists, I peeked at his erection, then walked over to the clock radio while he enjoyed a moment of suspense. I hunted

around for WQXR.

“Thank you,” he said.

We both know that a genteel-sounding concerto can muffle a telltale spanking. He stays here often and needs to be careful. Was Colin’s “thank you” acknowledging my thoughtful discretion? Or was he just praying for a nice loud whack?

I was so nervous and irate—about Charmaine hijacking my apartment, about the lobby bathroom and my ripped stocking, Trisha standing me up—that I obliged him with a very harsh smack. So harsh that my wrist felt it. I had to sit down for a moment and order him to worship my feet with his mouth. After a few minutes, I rose, giving him a gentle kick.

“If you’re very good for the rest of the afternoon, I’ll recommend a golden shower as your reward,” I told him.

The toe of my shoe caressed his groin.

“I was hoping…”

I leaned over and silenced him by inserting my crumpled thong panties in his mouth.

“Mistress Thalia and I will discuss it. After I leave. And you will be punished or rewarded on our next visit. It all depends on Thalia’s verdict.”

The skin on his cock was firm and very pink. When I brushed the toe of my shoe against his erection, he flinched. Colin was closer to coming than I had realized. I withdrew my toe by tracing a line down his thigh, carefully eyeing the clock to make sure he wasn’t being rushed. Trisha, the absentee dominatrix, was very specific about his time allotment. I walked over to the chair and picked up the paddle.

His wrists were still bound together behind his back, encased in the fuzz-lined leather. I was tempted to reach down and finish him with my hand. But no, that would knock me right off the bitch-goddess pedestal. Instead, I removed the manacles.

“You may place your hands in front.” It was a routine he’d been through before. “Two inches apart, no more and no less.”

I refastened the manacles, then picked up the paddle and used it to caress the back of each thigh. Remembering the impact to my wrist, I tapped his skin lightly. His hands were playing near his erection, getting closer. When I began to smack his buttocks, the panties fell out of his mouth. He grabbed his cock as best he could and came on the carpet.

“I’ll clean that up,” he said meekly. “If you take these off.”

I brought my phone into the bathroom. Charmaine wasn’t answering the landline or cell. But the deal we struck at noon was very clear: at five pm, I return to the apartment, stash my work toys and clothes, change back into what I was wearing when I last saw my husband, and fly so she can prepare for her sixthirty. We’ve had a few close shaves, but Charmaine has always been prompt about answering the phone.

And this time, I really needed to get back into my apartment. The laddered stocking was a serious liability. Changing in the lobby bathroom again would be pushing my luck. If noticed, I’d be earmarked for future visits and singled out by security. But putting on your sneakers in the hotel room is just out of the question.

Fortunately, dommes are supposed to be aloof, not warm and friendly like normal hookers, so I didn’t have to overcompensate—much—for my disturbed attitude.

In the elevator, I was having mixed feelings about the session. It’s exciting to rise to the challenge of being something you’re not, but domination is a chore. I never feel convincing and it’s not really what I do. I hate having to worry about whether a slave is happy while pretending not to give a damn.

Avoiding the Park Avenue entrance—where the out-of-towners vie for taxis—I waved anxiously at a cab on Fiftieth and hopped in, still clutching my cell phone optimistically. But when it rang, it was not Charmaine.

Why, when somebody owes you a phone call, do you get called by the one person in your life whose call must be dodged? I watched my husband’s cell phone number flashing on my display screen and waited for him to go into voice mail.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I told the cab driver. “Can you take me to Starbucks on Seventy-fifth and First?”

Nursing a small decaf and a large bottle of water, I dialed Charmaine obsessively. What was she doing? Trying to squeeze in a quickie before her six-thirty? In voice mail, I could hear Matt urging me to meet him at the Gap. “Hey, babe. If you get this by six, come on over, you can help me pick out some underwear.” God, what part of the city is he in? Matt has a tendency to treat his own whereabouts as an afterthought. “I’m almost there. Oh…hey, it’s the one at Citicorp.”

I should be the kind of wife who can turn a trick at three pm and help her man decide between boxers and briefs a few hours later without raising a hint of suspicion. So why is Charmaine screwing this up for me? It’s almost five-thirty and I want to be there for him!

I left a tense message for Jasmine, another for Allie. Among the blue-jeaned, stroller-pushing couples, I felt ridiculously overdressed. I was in the right place in the wrong outfit, dying to look like a pseudo-slacker again.

Suddenly my cell phone was chiming, flashing “Private.” That’s either Jasmine calling from anywhere—she’s a fanatic about that—or Charmaine, calling from the landline. I’ve got

everybody’s relationship to Caller ID completely mapped.

Or so I thought.

“Nancy!” said a female voice. “How and where are you?”

“Where—?” I couldn’t believe it. My sister-in-law never calls from a blocked number—and she had twins two weeks ago! Isn’t she better off at home? Recovering?

“Gotcha!” said Elspeth. “How’s it going?”

“Where are you?” I asked back.

“Oh, I’m leaving Karen’s baby shower.”

I froze. Her friend, Karen, lives eight blocks from here.

“I have an appointment with this amazing cake designer. Her birthday cakes are gorgeous! And so original! She designed one for the mayor’s son—listen, is it true you’re allergic to chocolate? Did Matt tell you I’m planning a surprise dinner party for Jason?”

Who knew that there was such a thing as postpartum mania. Elspeth, talking at breakneck speed, was hard to keep up with.

“Ummm. Not yet,” I mumbled nervously. “How many guests?”

How can she be planning a dinner bash for her husband when she just started nursing twins?

“Twenty max. My brother says you never eat chocolate. Well, it’s Jason’s birthday, not yours, but still! I wanted to ask. Should we go for the praline? Or the genoise? Or maybe—do you want to come with me? Meet me at her loft. I need some female input. And you need to check out these cakes!”

“I can’t! I’m in a cab—I’ll call you right back!”

A man at the next table looked up from his laptop and gave me a long thoughtful stare. I pretended not to notice and called Charmaine again. As her voice mail began to chatter, another call was coming in—Matt, causing a twinge of guilt as I imagined him pacing the floor of the Gap, confounded by too many choices. I was praying that Elspeth wouldn’t call him in the next few.

I took another swig of bottled water and fumed. Okay, Plan B: shall I duck into the bathroom here and change? What thehell. Take a cab to Allison’s and leave my tote bag with her doorman. Then meet my husband at Citicorp in my vague, woman-without-a-plan costume.

As I got up, drawing more stares from the laptop user, my phone chimed. When I saw Charmaine’s long-awaited phone number, I wanted to scream with gratitude.

“I thought he would never come,” she whispered. “Can you get here soon? He’s dressing.”

The apartment was dim when I let myself in, the door to the bathroom wide open. Charmaine was standing in front of the sink in a pair of lace bicycle-shorts. Her wavy hair was piled high, held in place with a plastic clip. I know the look well: she was wiping her shoulder carefully with a damp cloth, dabbing her neck and cleavage.

“He came on my chest but he took for freaking ever. And he kept losing his hard-on.” She frowned at herself in the mirror, grabbed another washcloth, and patted her hair. “I guess I should be grateful! He could be one of those young guys who fucks for an hour and stays hard the whole time.…I know things have been crazy but I had to see some extra people before my trip to Florida.” She paused, knowing full well that I won’t mind having the place to myself while she’s gone. “I picked up two boxes of Trojan Extra Large. They’re in my closet.”

As the cab sped down York Avenue, I closed my eyes and waited for Matt to answer his cell phone.

“So I have it narrowed down,” he said. “Message in a bottle? Dalmatians? Or sliced fruit?”

Matt was still at the Gap. “What…kind of fruit?” I inquired, trying not to express too much emotion.

“Huh. They look like oranges but they’re bright turquoise.”

“Are you sure they’re not supposed to be limes? Don’t do anything until I get there!”

“I knew I could count on you,” he said cheerfully.

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.

“What a gorgeous view!”

I mounted his cock with that in mind, bending forward as much as possible to enhance his view. His climax was louder than usual and I made a mental note not to fuck him in this position for the next two sessions. Despite his cuddly personality, Milt gets jaded rather easily. It might soon be time to suggest a threeway with Allison. Or Jasmine. I never call a client to promote myself but it’s okay to call a guy if you’re making a sales pitch involving another girl.

While dressing, he gave me an affectionate pat.

“You’ve lost weight, kiddo.”

“You’re every woman’s dream,” I laughed.

He slid an envelope under the tissue box on my bedside table.

“Don’t exaggerate. Now…where did I put my briefcase?”

Five minutes later my cell phone was chiming at me. Liane, trying to locate Charmaine. Or someone like her. Or, in the absence of someone like her, someone who’s available. After five decades in this business, first a call girl but mostly a madam, she knows that you can’t always get what they want.

“I need somebody fresh and wholesome. A Charmaine type. For Bernie. Remember Bernie? I told him about Charmaine but she hasn’t called me back!”

Bernie wants to meet a college girl (or someone who looks like one) who is supposedly getting paid for the first time. After “corrupting” the alleged newbie, he likes to cultivate her. As a result, I’ve seen him at Liane’s apartment five or six times.

Liane provides as many professional innocents as she can for the harem in Bernie’s mind.

“Charmaine would be perfect,” I agreed, “if she weren’t…still in Florida.”

Though somewhat tempted to share the truth with Liane, I held back. A trustworthy timeshare is hard to find and I don’t want to alienate Charmaine by gossiping about her new implants—or whatever the mystery process of the week happens to be.

“I wonder if Bernie would like to see a naughty little married girl,” Liane said. “I could tell him that you graduated and met—”

“I don’t want Bernie to know I’m married! Nobody’s supposed to know!”

“Well, not if you feel so strongly about it, dear. But it might pique his interest. A restless wife can be titillating. And it makes you respectable. You know how important that is. And it gives me an entree. I can’t just say, ‘How about Nancy instead of the New Girl?’ I’ve got to have a nice story to tell! A way to make you sound new.”

“Maybe another time,” I said. “I have to hit the cheese counter at Agata Valentina before they close. I’m making something special tonight.”

“Of course, dear. What are you preparing for dinner?”

“Baked pecorino cheese with toasted pine nuts and truffle honey. Followed by a whole trout. Steamed with bay leaves. And an arugula salad. With a very light pinot noir.”

“I think it’s wonderful that you’re taking this marriage so seriously! I’ve always said that women like us make the best wives.”

But I still prefer to keep my marital status under deep cover. Even Milt isn’t sure I’ve actually tied the knot—he thinks I’m still engaged. If the customers find out I’m actually married, it might spook them. They might fear a spying, curious husband or an enraged, jealous one. Worse yet, they might think he knows what I’m up to, that he lets me hook. Not the sort of image I want to be promoting at all.

What if they think I married a guy who can’t support me or mistreats me, that I turn tricks in order to make ends meet? Maybe they’ll think I have to support him? I don’t want my customers to think I’m that kind of hooker—that I married purely for love. Rich girls can sometimes marry for love, but girls like me, we’re supposed to marry smart. Not get taken advantage of. You can be in love, sure. But use your head. If you seem to be the kind of call girl who marries a ne’er-do-well or behaves foolishly with men, the clients lose respect.

It’s sexy to let on that you’re a lady when you’re not working, a hooker who feels equally at home on a pedestal. But it’s not just my vanity kicking in—I also want to protect Matt’s image. What if I run into one of these clients when I’m at the theater with my husband?

Do I want them looking at Matt and thinking he’s a bum? Not!

And yet, if they know I’m married to a banker, they’ll think I don’t really need the money. When it’s time to raise my prices, I invoke the high cost of living in Manhattan. There are times when I must appeal to a client’s desire to help a brave, defenseless single girl. If a john finds out that I’m married to a guy with a good income, he’s got a ready-made excuse to keep the price “stable.” You’re just doing this for extras, pin money, or cheap thrills.

I made that mistake only once, with Etienne, who now lives in Paris. When I tried to hit him up for something extra on his last visit to New York, my marital status worked against me. Never again!

Trish doesn’t tell her clients she’s married—or that she has a kid. It’s understood that we can trust each other not to blab. Jasmine and Allie are both under strict orders to keep mum. Charmaine I have to trust—in the hope that she values the great deal she has here, enough to keep her promise of silence.

Liane might be right—married women can be alluring—but I don’t want to go there with her clients.

SUNDAY MORNING, 3/18/01. EAST THIRTY-FOURTH STREET

This morning, while cleaning out my in box, I almost deleted two e-mails from Allie. Thrown off by her new address, I took m.power@trollops.org for just another spammer.

Subject: Come to the NYCOT Cabaret!

A benefit for the New York Council of Trollops at The Pussycat Lounge…featuring punk soprano Wiltrud Mars…Miss Chelsea Jane at the piano…the Triple-X Cheerleaders…stand-up comedy’s Domina Blue. Doors open 7:30 pm.

Members of the Media: Please contact our fabulous EmCee, ALLISON m.power@trollops.org for ticketing, interview requests and more.

The Pussycat Lounge? Is Allie planning to appear on stage? And what’s all this about the media?

This was followed by another e-mail with a more personal subject header:

Re: urgent lunch need yr advice

Hey! Lucho is taking me to a special party next weekend. Lots of people from his faculty! Do you think it’s too soon to meet his friends? What should I wear? It’s all the way uptown near Columbia. Can you meet for lunch? It has to be soon because I need your advice!

PS: He used the L word last night! Twice! But he’s making some really strange demands and I’m not sure what to do. Don’t tell Jasmine but…I couldn’t hold out til third date. And now there’s this THING that he wants me to do. I’m crazy about him too but—not ready for this!

Strange demands? Thing that he wants her to do? I wrote back immediately.

What is this THING? Let’s discuss in person.

3 The Ballad of East and West
SUNDAY EVENING, 3/18/01

This afternoon, a pilgrimage to my sister-in-law’s shrinking Carnegie Hill condo. Her once-spacious two-bedroom has been completely transformed. As we entered, there was a whiff of baby powder in the air but no sign of the twins themselves. Or their father.

Elspeth held a finger to her lips, and told Matt, “Your niece and nephew are finally asleep. And so is Jason!”

She, however, was showing no signs of fatigue. She placed our present—still in its shopping bag—next to a box of disposable diapers.

“You went to Bambini! I love their clothes! But I’ll wait till Jason gets up before we open it.”

Two high chairs with gingham-covered seat pads stood next to the foyer closet. A Peg Pérego stroller built for two was blocking Matt’s access to the living room couch. I pushed the crowded vehicle cautiously to one side. The front unit was harboring a blanket covered with appliqu袠ducks and daisies. In the backseat, more baby presents, decorated with pink and white ribbon, were jumbled together, waiting to be opened. In the storage area below, I spotted a large diaper bag designed to match the gingham seat pads.

“This carriage is huge! How do you manage?” I asked.

“Oh, I had the mommy biceps before I was even pregnant,” Elspeth said. “I call it the baby Hummer,” she added proudly. “Want some herbal tea? Or”—she gestured toward the kitchen—“I could fix you a cappuccino with steamed breast milk.” Snickering at her younger brother’s discomfort, she changed the subject, sort of. “Yams are the culprit! Everybody’s eating yams twice a week for the betacarotene but you end up having twins because of all the plant estrogen. Well, Jason and I were planning on having two, anyway. Nancy, I want to show you something. This is right up your alley!”

She returned seconds later with a square box.

“I want Bridget and Berrigan to learn Spanish; Jason thinks they should be learning Japanese.” The box was decorated with words and numbers in various languages. “How’s your schoolwork going?”

I flinched inside. I haven’t actually attended a class yet, but I’ve been carrying around my French textbooks just to get Matt accustomed to my new alibi.

“Oh…kind of rusty,” I said hesitantly. “But I’m determined to make a go of it.”

“Nancy plays these tapes at night. I can’t understand a word.” I felt Matt’s arm on my waist. “She’s studying for the…DALF?”

“DELF. Eventually. Not yet. I have to get up to speed conversationally.”

“Well, they say that learning a language will increase a baby’s IQ. What are you working on these days?” Elspeth asked. “I’m still waiting to see the acupuncture book!”

“Oh that”—my voice trailed off—“was nothing but problems! I’m waiting, too.”

Elspeth thinks—or I hope she thinks—that I do some freelance copyediting. Last year, I convinced Matt, Elspeth, and my own family that I was toiling over an illustrated guide to acupuncture. Since there’s no hope of the book actually materializing, I’ve decided that the author is having a personal crisis that prevents him from finishing the final chapter.

“Well, my part of the project is done,” I told Elspeth. “And,” I said, with more conviction, “I feel like that part of my life is done. I’m ready to focus on something else. So I’m just working on my French. No distractions.”

When Matt and I met, he assumed—quite wrongly—that my family was paying my rent. I concocted a few slacker gigs to generate income for those extras that a moderately supported adult would have to buy for herself. It wouldn’t make sense to pretend I’m rich. (What if he tried to marry me for my money? The complications would be embarrassing for both of us. Not that Matt is the type who marries a girl for money. But still.)

Now that we’re married, I can’t fall back on freelance editing. He would surely expect to see me carrying around a manuscript from time to time. Poring over a stack of papers. So I announced a career transition and became, instead, a student at the French Institute on East Sixtieth Street, a student who aspires—one day in the future—to pass the DELF and become a translator.

Matt finds my fuzzy career plan quite plausible. For some reason, when Elspeth starts asking questions about it, I can feel the moisture rising on my skin.

“Matt and I were thinking…” Elspeth began.

Before I could stop myself, I flashed a nervous glance at my husband. I wish he would stop “conferencing” with Elspeth behind my back!

“Christopher’s coming to dinner next week—you know, the surprise I’m throwing for Jason.” Her voice dropped and she made a warning gesture in the direction of the master bedroom. “Let’s invite your friend Allison!”

“Allison?” I squeaked. “Why—um—why Allison?”

Matt and Elspeth looked surprised.

“Why not?” Matt said.

“Matt keeps telling me she’s single and great looking! And Chris is a catch,” Elspeth added. “Didn’t you meet him?”

I felt my throat drying up as I recalled my brief encounter with Chris at one of Elspeth’s parties. Before taking maternity leave, Elspeth was a prosecutor. When I met Chris, he had just started working with her in the Special Prosecutions Unit of the Manhattan DA’s office.

“Tall? Dirty blond hair?” Elspeth was saying. “He just bought a sailboat. Does Allison like to sail?”

Allison is indeed single—and better looking than most—but her eligibility for mating with Chris ends right there. Inviting her to Jason’s surprise birthday event would certainly have an impact—a disastrous one. For all kinds of reasons, I am determined that Allison must never come within five hundred feet of Elspeth and Jason’s apartment. And now that Allie has been promoted to media czar by the Council of Trollops, one thousand feet sounds even better.

“Allie,” I said, casting my inner net for answers, “is seeing someone.”

“Are they engaged?” Elspeth asked

“They just started dating but she—”

“That settles it. Don’t tell her about Chris. We’ll invite her and see what happens! There’s no pressure. If she’s not engaged to this guy and they just met?”

“Let the best man win,” Matt suggested. “I think we should invite her. What if they hit it off?”

“What does Allie do, anyway?”

“Do?” I repeated numbly.

Elspeth sat on the love seat, quizzing me with one eye trained on the passageway to her bedroom.

“She’s—uh—temping,” I said. “And thinking about getting a social work degree.”

Elspeth cocked her head to one side and gave me a wide-eyed look. Jason had appeared in the living room doorway, shortcircuiting any further discussion of the guest list. Or my best friend’s occupational history.

I’ve never been happier to see a man in my life!

MONDAY, 3/19/01

This morning, as he dressed for work, Matt tried to reopen the possibility of inviting Allie.

“I wish you would let me decide what’s best,” I replied petulantly. “Elspeth doesn’t know Allie the way I do. And I wish you wouldn’t discuss it with her.”

“Why does it bother you so much?” He was standing in front of the mirror, straightening his tie.

“Aren’t there any single women in your office? Chris is not Allison’s type.”

“How does this look? And how do you know?”

“I just know. It looks, hmmm. Even better than I expected.” I got out of bed in just my panties and embraced my fully clothed husband. He’s wearing the tie that I gave him the other day, purchased with my illicit earnings. I could feel my nipples responding as I pressed my bare skin against a crisp cotton shirt, a silk tie. I was surprised to feel so aroused just seconds after being annoyed with him. Matt pushed me away gently. Holding my shoulders, he kissed the side of my neck.

“Not now,” he said. “But later…”

I began sliding to my knees, but he blocked my descent. “Honey, I know this seems counterintuitive but I have to ask you to stop.” He pulled me closer. “I have a meeting with a very important client. Try to understand.”

One of his clients is interfering with our sex life? I guess there’s a first time for everything.

I gave him a tender smile—and accepted my raincheck obediently, determined to save my pleasure for Matt.

But, this afternoon, during a session at Jasmine’s apartment, my body misbehaved.

Jasmine, under pressure to deliver some “real” action with a girl, had lowered my bra to expose my breasts. Harry, her favorite client, was rubbing his erection against my thigh, urging Jasmine to “get Suzy” (that’s me) “nice and wet.” Her fingertips caressed my nipples and she closed her eyes. Jasmine hates getting too close to another girl’s body, but she’d rather do the hated thing with a girl she likes. An excited-sounding moan (hers) was followed by a wet flicker—Jasmine’s tongue reluctantly touching my breast. I couldn’t hide the fact that my nipples were hard. This fresh tingle, spreading quietly through my flesh, reminded me of my early-morning encounter with Matt.

My nipples are a little too independent. They can’t be told what to do and they don’t want to hide. The pleasures of my pussy are more discreet: they can be obscured by my outer lips. But I can’t tame the visual evidence of a tingling nipple.

As the pleasure grew more intense, I grew more quiet and didn’t mind listening to Jasmine’s fake sound effects. Harry was removing my panties, convinced that Jasmine’s mouth was on its way to the place where I now had my finger. But she stayed firmly on my left nipple. As I touched myself, I kept hoping she wouldn’t suspect me of enjoying her tongue. I wondered if I might even get away with coming, but Jasmine was just too near. She would be horrified if she figured it out!

I turned toward Harry—he was already wearing his condom—and got into a sluttish kneeling pose. Jasmine’s hand was at the base of his cock, guiding the head into my mouth.

“She’s ready for your cock,” Jasmine told him. “She’s wetter than she’s ever been.”

When Harry was finished, he offered a half-baked apology for being premature. As he always is!

“I didn’t give you girls enough time,” he said. “You were just getting warmed up.”

“But I think Jasmine got off.”

“Sure did,” he said. “You have quite an effect on that gal. You’re dangerous together!” Jasmine, now out of earshot, was listening to her telephone messages while Harry dressed. A Town Car was waiting downstairs to take him to his office. When she had closed the door behind him, she apologized for the girl-on-girl action: “These guys get spoiled by other girls and there’s only so much you can do. Or not do.”

Jasmine looked vaguely disgusted, not with herself but with the sorry state of the sexual marketplace. But I was impressed by how little she had gotten away with.

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “It’s just business. And he’s still an easy date.”

“And I raised him!” she said happily. “I got him up to five. This is yours.” She handed me a thick stack of new-looking twenties. “But”—her tone grew darker—“the girls today have no control over their customers! Our guys are trained. These New Girls don’t even know what that means. Harry’s never been a runner,” Jasmine mused.

A runner rarely sees a girl twice—until he’s forgotten her, at which point he can be talked into seeing her under a new name. That’s not Harry.

“But they all stray now,” she said. “Even a regular like Harry. Have you seen what some of these websites are like?”

“No.” I shuddered. “I don’t think Harry would go online. Do you? He’s so…old school, you know?”

He looks like one of those semiwired senior execs who gets a young assistant to open his e-mail, print it, and type a response! Would a guy like that go shopping for lesbian sex online?

“Well, if he’s gonna pull that stuff, I’m glad you’re here. You, I can count on. Once I did a date with Eileen, and she practically had her tongue up my snatch! That girl’s a degenerate at the best of times.”

“I’m sure Eileen was just trying to be helpful—”

“Gratuitous muff-diving is not helpful! Why does any girl do that when it’s not being requested?”

Jasmine’s cell phone interrupted, giving her the last word.

What can you learn about a girl from the way her phone rings? Not, um, how often it rings—I mean the ring she has chosen to announce her callers. Allison’s phone is playing a lot of Brahms lately, because she read on some website that he practically lived in a brothel. (Well, his name was Johannes.) Jasmine’s phone goes off like a smoke detector.

“Allison’s postponing our lunch,” she told me. “She has a customer.”

“You’re kidding. She was so…”

“…psyched about our meeting!” Jasmine agreed. “But she’s practicing some fiscal responsibility for a change. Putting business before boyfriend was never Allison’s default setting.”

It’s Jasmine’s, though. And I sometimes wonder, What’s it like to be Jasmine’s boyfriend? She must have had more than one. She positions herself as such an authority on relationships, but I know very little about her love life. And she claims she has never “shacked up” with a man for longer than a weekend.

“So what about this guy?” Jasmine was saying. “This boyfriend of hers. Sounds like he might be trouble.”

“She says they’re in love.”

“The L-Word. On the second date? Whatever! As long as the guy goes first.”

“God. Allie wouldn’t use the L-Word first—would she?”

“It’s possible,” Jasmine said. “If she did, we’ll find out. Look, is this guy some kind of bedroom freak? Did she tell you anything?”

“Just—there’s something she’s not ready to do! I’m kind of worried.”

The thing that has no name!

Is Lucho pressuring Allie to quit the business? Even though she’s a spokesperson for the Trollops’ Council? Or maybe he’s going to the other extreme and trying to have a threesome with one of us? Does he want to hide in the closet while she turns tricks? That’s the problem with telling a guy you’re in this business. If he doesn’t want you to quit, he thinks you’re a one-woman fantasy fulfillment center. In fact, if a boyfriend knows you’re hooking, it doesn’t matter whether he accepts or rejects it. Either way, he’ll cause trouble and make impossible demands.

It’s the wrinkle, not the war, of the sexes. Allie joined the hookers’ movement thinking she could eradicate this wrinkle, but you can’t reconfigure the male animal with a manifesto.

THURSDAY, 3/22/01

Well!

I don’t know if Lucho qualifies as a bedroom freak, but he’s making some very unsettling requests. Creating a bit of a lifestyle crisis for Allison.

Today, over thin-crust pizzas at Petaluma—veal salad for Jasmine—Allie came clean about the source of their first quarrel. Which made no sense at all to Jasmine.

“Isn’t he from Brazil?” she asked. “Personally, I thank the Brazilians for teaching us how to wax! As far as I’m concerned, less is more! He should be glad you’re taking an interest in his cultural heritage.”

I had to agree. When I think back to how things were before pubic hair got Brazilianized! It was like being preliterate. Memories of underdevelopment can be elusive—especially in matters of style. I can hardly believe we were once so naive about our lower parts. These days, even if you let your hair grow, it won’t look simple and carefree—instead, it’s like you’re taking a stand, refusing to wax. It now seems quite natural to be hairless.

But Lucho has other opinions.

“He’s from Colombia, not Brazil,” Allie explained. “Bikini waxing isn’t part of Lucho’s heritage! He lived in Paris for ten years—”

“Paris!” Jasmine interjected. “No fucking wonder! I bet they’re still doing the ‘natural’ look. Well, now he’s in Manhattan. This is Brazilian territory!”

“—and his mom’s Lebanese. She met his dad when they were studying in Geneva, and they moved to Bogot?before he was born. His dad is a fifth-generation Colombian. There is nothing…Brazilian about Lucho, but he does speak some Portuguese,” Allie added. A dreamy expression took over. “I’ve never known a man like Lucho. He makes love to me in five different languages and he’s totally supportive of everything I want to do!” She paused. “Well, everything but the waxing. Would you grow your pubic hair back for a man?”

I was at a loss for words. Matt would never take the liberty of tampering with my pubic hair. He might make suggestions about redecorating the apartment, but redecorating my pussy would be out of the question. Like trying to redesign my essence.

“Not a chance,” Jasmine said. “My clients like it this way. And it’s cleaner. This guy has some nerve!”

“He says I’m the love of his life! Why does he want me to change?”

“Maybe he’s just experiencing culture shock,” I suggested.

“This is what happens when you start messing around with someone from the Upper West Side.” Jasmine stabbed a piece of pink veal with her fork. “If he prefers going down on some unwaxed bohemian, let him stay on the West Side! He knew you were an Upper East Sider before you even met. What does he expect? Of course you’re gonna wax!”

Allie began nibbling the pointy end of a pizza slice. Her eyes widened with dismay as Jasmine continued.

“This is not culture shock. It’s the ultimate clash of civilizations!”

“But I want this relationship to work!” said Allie. “And you’re being totally divisive. Escalation is not the way to resolve—”

“You’re from two different worlds,” Jasmine insisted. “And he’s trying to impose his values on you. I did not invent these divisions.”

“I don’t think this has anything to do with him living on the Upper West Side.” Allie flashed a worried look at me. “Does it?”

“Actually,” I told her, “Jasmine’s got a point. The only client who ever complained about my waxing was that divorced rabbi. What’s his name? On West End Avenue. He looks like a guitarstrumming priest from the sixties…”

“I met him last year,” said Jasmine. “Melvin. I call him the day before I get my pussy waxed and he’s, like, in a cab before the call ends.”

“Well, I can’t see Lucho only on the days before I wax!” Allie pointed out. “He’s not a client! Isn’t compromise essential to intimacy? Maybe I should try to meet him halfway.”

“But you’re already halfway,” I said.

Allie retains, at all times, a small fuzzy triangle above her labia…I prefer a complete waxing, so I can watch my hair growing back to a uniform softness. I relish the dark silky hairs that emerge every six weeks. It’s a psychic treat to feel like a proud little twelve-year-old, surveying her womanly evidence. Further proof that being a teenager is way more fun when you’re a grown-up.…By comparison, Allie’s blond topiary is not extreme. More of a hedge than a bush, perhaps, but still. Why isn’t that enough?

“Lucho says”—Allie took a nervous sip of Chardonnay—“he says I should stop removing it from my inner thighs and let it peek out of my panties. I’m just not ready for that! I’ve been waxing since I was sixteen!”

“Does he want to take pictures?” I wondered.

“Of course not!” She blushed. “He says it’s about oral sex. And my lower lips ‘were meant to be like a wild forest, not a suburban lawn.’ Removing too much pubic hair makes it hard for him to ‘experience my scent.’ Well, that’s what he said last night.”

“Well,” Jasmine conceded. “He’s telling you something very important.”

“He is?”

“And he’s paying tribute! That’s a good thing.”

“Paying tribute?”

“When a man isn’t paying, he’d better be paying tribute. This guy”—Jasmine, looking inspired, raised an index finger—“this guy is paying tribute to your pheromones. Love is the grand total sum of all the brain chemicals and pheromones and whatever else coming together in the great big ledger book of human experience. The sense of smell is connected to the tastebuds,” she continued. “So it’s all one package.”

“You mean…” Allie was unconvinced. “The way to a man’s heart is through…?”

“His nostrils? Maybe! He can’t get enough of your natural scent. But here’s the thing. When you’re dating a guy, you go out with him just twice a week—to keep things fresh. Men always want what they can’t have. Well, the same thing applies! This guy already knows he likes your natural scent, and he wants more. From your point of view, that’s all that’s needed. You’ve won the first round! You don’t have to satisfy his appetite, you just have to recognize it. It’s like The Rules for Sweat Glands. Always leave them wanting more!”

Jasmine’s biology lecture was interrupted by my chiming phone. Trish, calling from her gym to confirm a repeat performance with Colin. He’s coming into town with his wife! For his next session, he’s booking a room at the Mayflower on Central Park West—a safe distance from the Waldorf, where they’ll be staying.

And way off the beaten path where Matt’s concerned. Thank god! When I entered this business, I never thought I’d see the day when a three-star hotel trumps a five-star.

Marriage changes everything.

4 Lingerie Liberal
FRIDAY, 3/23/01

This morning my fingers were engaged in a painstaking task—removing tiny green rosemary leaves from a stalk containing too many black ones—when both phones started ringing at once. The domestic landline I share with Matt and my cell phone (shared with no one), vying for attention. I grabbed the phone on my kitchen wall.

“Nancy! What’s up? Those bibs are adorable! I can’t wait to break them in.”

One of Elspeth’s newborns could be heard wailing in the background.

“My au pair started yesterday. She’s a godsend. Fabulous. And I finally had a chance to open all the presents! What are you doing?” she inquired.

“Making a rosemary marinade. And I have garlic all over my hands!”

It was nice, for once, to have an easy answer for my sister-in-law.

“We have to talk about your friend Allison.”

“We—um—we do?”

“You’re obviously uncomfortable about inviting her to Jason’s birthday party.”

“I don’t think—”

“Nancy, it’s the kiss of death. You can’t let this happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

The garlic on my hands was now overwhelming.

“During the first year of my marriage, I made the same mis

take. You’re alienating yourself from your single girlfriends. It’s a normal feeling. But you have a great relationship with Matt and there’s no reason for you to act so insecure! Besides, I’d like to meet Allison.”

“I don’t think any of this is relevant,” I said, rather stiffly.

“I think it is. And I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through.”

Been there? Elspeth has no idea where I’ve been!

“I am not going through what you think I’m going through.”

I instantly regretted the coldness in my voice. Then realized there was nothing to regret. Elspeth was barreling ahead, determined to liberate and reform.

“I know exactly what you’re going through. Matt already told me how uptight you’re getting about Allison. I just want you to know—this is a phase and it’s not a healthy one! Single women are not the enemy! They can make married life more interesting. And acting paranoid about single women makes you less attractive to your husband. I found that out on my own, and I’m giving you the benefit of my experience.” After a heavy silence, she continued. “You missed out on having a sister.”

She’s trying to be…my big sister?

I am a big sister. With two brothers! As an eldest sister herself, she should know that this is just not done.

“I always wanted a sister,” said Elspeth. “We need to communicate more! Besides,” she added, “all my girlfriends are married or engaged, and Chris is such a catch! I hate to see a guy like Chris at loose ends.”

The distant wailing resumed. Would Elspeth’s maternal instinct please override the sisterly one? But her fabulous new au pair wasn’t going to let that happen.

“What about…” I hate to do this to my twenty-something cousin, but she doesn’t have to know it was my idea. “What about Miranda?” I suggested. “I know she isn’t dating anyone special.”

“Your cousin? Isn’t she a little immature for Chris?”

“Chris would be perfect for her! She needs to start dating above Fourteenth Street.”

“Good point.…Hey,” she said, “aren’t you—? Don’t you have a French class on Friday mornings?”

Elspeth has an unnerving habit of starting a new topic just when I think I’m getting a handle on the previous one.

“I—um—I don’t always go at the same time. My instructor switched days this week.”

“Oh. I thought it was a class. It’s one-on-one?”

“I have to go!” I gasped. Riffing desperately, I added, “Someone’s at my door—I’ll call you back.”

I hung up fast and counted to ten. Gazing in horror at the kitchen wall, I discovered that I had a bad case of garlic phone. You can’t tell your phone to chew a handful of raw parsley, so I attacked the handset with a succession of cleaning potions and hoped for the best.

As I returned to my marinade, I could feel the mantle of frumpiness enveloping my deltoids. Settling upon my shoulders like a ghost. Elspeth has no idea what my life is really about, but something she said managed to hit home: couple-centric paranoia isn’t pretty. And makes single women look soooo much more attractive to a guy. Especially your own!

Of course, there are plenty of other good solid reasons to keep Allie far away from Elspeth and Jason. I’m doing the right thing.

But still. I don’t trust my best friend the way I used to. Because she’s not married! And I trust Trisha—whom I’ve known for just a few months—because she is.

Married hookers instinctively trust each other. We speak the same code, tell the same lies, fear a common peril. I can’t help feeling that an unmarried hooker—especially one like Allie—hasn’t got enough to lose.

Does that make her the enemy of my marriage?

SATURDAY, 3/24/01

Matt told Elspeth how uptight I’m getting? Paranoia “makes you less attractive” to your husband?

It’s all starting to get to me!

Last night, sitting across the table from Matt, while he gazed at my candle-lit presence, I felt betrayed.

How dare he discuss his lurking disenchantment with his sister?

Did he discuss disenchantment with his sister? Or did he merely hint at it, in the way men sometimes do—before they’re even aware of their own feelings? In which case, the betrayal is unconscious, as so many masculine betrayals are. For some reason, that doesn’t make the loss of face any easier to digest.

“These tomatoes are great!” he enthused. “What’s in this dressing?”

I threw him a flirtatious, secretive smile. If you admit to a loss of face, then you’ve really lost it.

“I think you’re a better cook than…” he paused. “Don’t tell Elspeth I said this, honey, but you’re a better cook than my mother.”

I tried to look pleased, but this wasn’t what I needed to hear.

A good marinade is no replacement for that mysterious allure which pulled him toward me when we first met. I was smart enough, while dating, to save something for marriage. Matt didn’t know I could cook until we moved in together.

Okay, so I know how to date, which is no mean accomplishment. Too many hookers are good at their job yet abysmal at the dating game. But am I smart enough for marriage? It’s a lot to keep track of. Provocative single girlfriends. Keeping my career a secret while keeping it afloat. An extra six pounds. And now, this stain upon my self-image that I’m too proud to discuss with him. Being cast as an insecure member of the Couples Brigade makes me feel officially overweight.

As Matt cleared the table, I made a decision. After he disappeared from the kitchen, I gathered up every bread stick and new potato, and all the crackers, then threw them into a bag. I started to remove a sliced loaf of Eli’s sourdough from the freezer. But Matt will freak if I do that! He’s so impressed with our constant supply of distinctive, ready-for-toasting bread. I spared the sourdough and trashed the frozen wholewheat waffles.

After I disposed of the starch-filled bag, I discovered a box of hazelnut biscotti in a cupboard.

“What are you doing?”

Matt’s voice startled me as I approached the apartment door.

“Throwing these out!” I said petulantly. “I thought you were online! Why are you spying on me?”

“Why are you throwing out the biscotti?”

“They’re stale! Can’t I clean up my own kitchen without being questioned about it?”

He gave me a puzzled look and disappeared again. Perhaps I should have said something else, but I refuse to admit to a man that I’m thinking about my weight. I learned many years ago that if you don’t mention the first five pounds, most men don’t see them. This means I am only one pound overweight in the context of our relationship—even if I’m six pounds heavier in real time. Math is more like a language than people realize. With many dialects.

Later, as I tried to sleep, Matt placed an affectionate hand under my camisole. The memory of his curious compliment came back to me. Cooking. Mother. Maybe the six pounds is taking its toll after all.

“I am not the one who confides in your sister about the details of this relationship!”

His hand stopped moving.

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I’m talking about?”

Sitting up, he put his hand on my hair and stroked it gently.

“Something’s bothering you,” he said. “I knew it when you threw out the biscotti.”

Why doesn’t he remember comparing my cooking with his mother’s less than three hours ago? Or what he said about not telling Elspeth? If I don’t remind him, I run the risk of being seen as an irrational harpy, possessed by mental demons! And if I do remind him? He just might decide that I am his mother.

God.

What’s happening to me?

MONDAY, 3/26/01

Matt has replaced the biscotti. A loving gesture, but I wish he wouldn’t.

After a weekend of moody reflection, make-up sex, and a Pilates class (to take my mind off the mood that the sex didn’t dissolve), I’ve got an emergency session with my shrink—to discuss the mood that Pilates could not vanquish.

Yesterday, while we made up, I imagined that Matt was degrading me in all sorts of unspeakable, systematic ways. I sometimes wonder about the orderly nature of my fantasies. Of the lurid underworld I’ve invented where I only have to fall into my correct place for everything to go according to plan.

Is this a hooker thing? In the business, there are too many days when sex doesn’t go the way you hope it will, and the body (his, yours) miscalculates. A hard-on falters, a dollop of K-Y is just not as much as you need, or another girl is in bed with you, misreading your cues. Sometimes a customer is late, or you get stuck in traffic, which throws off your whole routine. A perfectly choreographed day with the sex just so and everybody coming (or showing up) on time is a dream I’ve been chasing since I started hooking. In my erotic fantasies, it is somebody else who plans and organizes the sex. Within seconds of envisioning such efficient depravity, I find it hard to stop myself from coming.

And making up with Matt is always good. He’s got that instinctive knowledge about how to touch me. As I held on to Matt after an explosive climax, he had no idea what I was thinking. Matt has a certain way of coming that satisfies and possesses. Because I’m not the first or second girl in a list of favorite phone numbers. And there is no chance that I may have been the third number called, in the hope of fitting in a quickie before the Metroliner. When he comes, it’s with me, and the sensation can’t be replicated—for either of us—because it’s too intense.

In the physical afterglow, our bodies were at peace. But my mind was still warring—with itself.

LATER

This afternoon, I put it to Dr. Wendy: “I have every right to protect my marriage from my best friend!”

Dr. Wendy leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap. I could see her biceps peeping out of her polo shirt.

“Say more,” she urged.

“Allie would be hurt if she knew this but lately I trust Trisha more than I trust her. I could introduce Trish to anyone in Matt’s circle. Even my nosy sister-in-law.”

While I’ve met Allison’s parents—a trusting gesture on her part—I keep her as far from my husband as possible.

“I can’t trust Allison to keep our story straight. I feel close to her—because of what we’ve been through—but that’s not the same thing as trust.”

Trish is just a girl I work with but there is so much I don’t have to explain to her. Our priorities are the same: preserving a husband’s innocence without losing too many clients.

“Matt and Elspeth are asking me all these questions. They can’t figure Allison out. And I don’t want them to,” I said. “Straight people always want to know how you spend your time. They have no idea how nosy they are! Nobody would ask me what Trish ‘does.’ Trish doesn’t have to explain herself because she’s a mom. I feel safe around her. I hardly know her but I know we belong to the same tribe.”

“And yet, this tribe is a faction of a much larger tribe,” Wendy said.

“Marital Nation,” I suggested.

“Do you and Trish belong to a special branch of the marital tribe? Or do you feel like the married branch of the sex worker tribe?”

“Nobody I work with—except for Allie—calls herself a sex worker,” I said.

Wendy looked thoughtful.

“Is there a preferred term?”

“Oh, it all depends. Allison likes this word Trollop, actually. She’s got a new e-mail sig: ‘Trollop-at-Large!’ She’s putting together a benefit for the…Council of Trollops. And she’s dating this guy who’s making a documentary about hookers! She went and spoke to his class at the New School because he wanted to make sure there would be an actual working prostitute to answer all his students’ questions! And now they’re going out together!”

“What does he teach?”

“Something to do with American Studies. He wants her to be in his documentary—and she hasn’t said no, which worries me sometimes. I don’t dare look at my e-mail when Matt’s around. What if he sees Trollop-at-Large swimming around in my in box? Allie’s turning into a liability.”

But my shrink was looking impressed rather than horrified.

“Your friend sounds rather brave.”

“Brave! Allie’s not—I was hustling in hotel bars when I was fifteen! That was brave!”

“Yes,” Wendy said “Perhaps—”

“But if I continued to do the things I did when I was a teenager, I wouldn’t be brave, I’d be out of my mind!”

“But what do you think Allison was doing? When she was a teenager.”

“I know exactly what. She was a cheerleader! At some high school in Ridgefield, Connecticut! Allison didn’t have to clean her own room until she went to college! I had to clean my room, do the dishes every night, AND rake the leaves. Her mother picked up after her.”

I had to nip my shrink’s budding admiration in the bud ASAP.

“You have different parents and you’ve led different lives,” she said in a more neutral tone. “But you’re very close to her. Or you have been. Is friendship always about sharing the same values and experiences? Sometimes—”

“It’s not about her!” I blurted out. “It’s me! I found out the other day that everybody thinks I’m some kind of overweight paranoid housewife who hates single women!”

“Everybody? How did you find this out?”

“My sister-in-law! She’s—she’s conspiring with my husband—”

Wendy was staring at me intently.

“—to invite Allison to a dinner party. There’s only one way to deflect Elspeth from hunting down Allison. I have to let her think I’m one of these, you know, hardcore wives who just wants to hang with other couples. I know how to keep Matt and Elspeth off the scent—but I hate myself!”

“For betraying Allison?”

“For being the victim of my own frumpy game! I guess I should feel like I’m winning. They have no idea what I’m really hiding. But my sister-in-law thinks I’m a clingy wife, shunning my single friends. And my husband is starting to compare me with his mother! I’m turning into…”

I couldn’t say it.

“What are you afraid you might become? Marriage can play havoc with a woman’s particular sense of her own identity,” said Dr. Wendy. “In your case, there are multiple identity issues—”

“I don’t have multiple personality disorder!”

“I didn’t say that.” Dr. Wendy was gentle but firm. “It’s clear that you’ve chosen your various identities. But what are you trying to say or not say about being a wife?”

“Could I have become, in less than a year of marriage, the total embodiment of everything that causes men to see hookers in the first place? That’s so not fair!”

I was getting shrill and looking around for the box of tissues.

“That’s probably not how I would describe it,” she said. “But that’s how it feels to you. Today.”

“Not just today—all weekend! But if I seem to be that and I’m not really, then I guess I’m doing a good job at being a wife?” I grabbed a few tissues. “In fact, I’d be doing a great job.”

“Because you’re still in control of your identity.”

“But if I’m really becoming what I was pretending…” I was fighting back tears of anger. “I don’t know how to do this—this married thing. And all these questions she was asking—my sister-in-law started pestering me about my French lessons. It was awful. Remember the plan I came up with, to become a translator?”

“Yes. I remember that.”

“It’s a lot more stressful than I thought it would be.”

“Career transitions are emotionally demanding,” said Wendy. “I went through one myself when I decided to be a psychotherapist—after six years of teaching phys ed.”

That explains the biceps! I’ve been to three different female shrinks, all on the West Side, and Dr. Wendy’s the only one who takes responsibility for her upper arms. I’m not saying that’s why I stuck with her, but it certainly didn’t hurt. It’s hard to take advice from a therapist who doesn’t take care of herself—like my first shrink, Dr. Anita Samson, who was very overweight and chain-smoked. During sessions! There’s nothing more discouraging than a shrink who looks physically unhappy. Dr. Wendy hasn’t got a clue about hair and she doesn’t bother with her nails, but she takes good care of her body. She has the cheerful yet earnest look you want in a shrink. Or a phys ed instructor.

“But this is a fake transition,” I said. “I’m just transitioning from one cover story—one fake job to another!”

“You aren’t the only person I’ve encountered who is juggling additional career narratives,” Wendy pointed out. “An imaginary transition is quite challenging.”

Put that way, my situation sounds almost genteel.

“From a therapeutic perspective”—Dr. Wendy adjusted her glasses and leaned forward—“the imagined career is as meaningful as a remunerative job. Perhaps even more so. Every career is an exercise of the imagination, if you think about it. Your transition is not unique,” she told me. “In the world of work, it’s common to exaggerate or invent. I knew a man who was unemployed for months. His family had no idea. He got up every day, put on his suit, and went out of the house, without ever missing a beat. The human imagination is pretty resilient.”

“Oh my god. Like that middle-aged guy in The Full Monty? Are you saying I’m in the same boat as him?”

The out-of-work factory manager with the bad lawn decorations? Who can’t tell his wife that he lost his job?? My self-image doesn’t really see itself that way.

“That’s a good example of what I’m talking about.” Wendy looked pleased, as if she might be on the verge of handing out a gold star. “The boat is very full.”

TUESDAY, 3/27/01

When Allie called last night to set up something for this morning, I couldn’t say no. Matt was in the shower, and when my phone started vibrating, I answered cautiously. Despite misgivings about her lifestyle, I still trade customers with Allie. Besides, turning down business from another girl is rude when she owes you a date.

Allie has never specialized in early-morning business. Today was a lucky exception. Ten am on a weekday is the married call girl’s favorite time slot. I don’t feel guilty about returning home by six if I’m starting to make money before noon.

Ideally, I’m preparing dinner when Matt returns from the office. If I show up later than he does, I’m on the defensive, and he’s more likely to ask about my day. While it’s not always possible to keep a low profile in your own home, it’s something to aim for, and early-morning clients contribute to my effort.

Getting from Thirty-fourth Street to Eighty-fifth should be a cinch—a straight line up First—but my cabdriver was forced to take a detour near the UN. When I arrived at Allie’s building, flustered and late, the doorman waved me through without asking for my destination.

Allie was half-dressed, in a transparent polka-dot camisole with matching panties. In her bare feet, showing off pearly white toenails, she looked like somebody’s very willing dessert. A lowfat Dean & Deluca blondie, perhaps.

“Leave your skirt and blouse on,” she whispered. “I’ll undress you in there.”

I followed her to the bedroom, where a familiar-looking client was waiting, relaxed and ready, on his back. I couldn’t remember his name. Lanky, pale, with a birthmark on his thigh. Where did I meet this guy? And when? More than five years ago, I think, but I’m supposed to be a New Girl. Or so I was told when Allie called last night.

Happily, he didn’t seem to recall our brief encounter at Liane’s apartment. In those days, I was Suzy, wearing my hair in a wavy perm. Now, my hair is long and smooth, long enough to confuse any man who isn’t prepared for a condom—unrolled with expert lips onto his cock—and long enough for other reasons. Allison began to unbutton my blouse. She played with my skirt, exposing my thighs, then—gradually—more. When I was reduced to bra and panties, I became the aggressor, pushing Allison toward the bed. Her own panties slid to her knees and, with my help, to the carpet.

My face was pressed against her pussy while my hair, falling around her thighs, formed a gentle curtain. I felt Allison pulling my head closer, a signal that he might be in the mood for a “work inspection.” Neither of us wanted him peeking behind my hair, to see if I was really eating her pussy or just playing at it.

“You wait your turn,” she told him. “Nancy’s not finished.…If you do that, she’ll stop!”

Nancy’s the name I now use when I want to be taken for a New Girl. I’ve used lots of names on the job, but never my own. In this case, Nancy’s a newbie who prefers girls to men—or so I was told, last night. I unhooked my bra and began stroking Allie’s clitoris with my nipple while she made all the right sounds and movements. My panties were staying put, to discourage any masculine exploration of the contents. Something a girl-who’s-only-into-girls would surely insist upon, even if she’s getting paid.

But Allie’s customer was excited about getting those panties off. If a guy thinks he’s having sex with someone who’s not into men, I suppose there are two ways to play it. Grit your teeth like you hate every second of it (that’s awfully dark and edgy but there’s probably a market). Or act like you’re in the throes of being converted to cock. I chose the latter. A sensible move. Allie’s client was trying not to come too fast—but the whole idea of Nancy, enthusiastic lesbian about town, losing her cool while getting fucked on her hands and knees, was too much for him.

He departed in a good mood, never hinting that he recognized me as Suzy.

While I stood in Allison’s bathtub, rinsing Astroglide from my inner thighs, she wandered in, to give me a boyfriend bulletin.

“I just got a text from Lucho!” she announced. “I’ve been accepted by the Colloquium Committee. He nominated me last week because one of the members had to resign. They all voted for me because I’m a sex worker. And a member of NYCOT.”

“That’s nice,” I said, but my mind was really on other things.

Like checking to see if the lube was really gone from my inner lips. If you don’t remove it all, it’s a magnet for germs and you can get a UTI. At the same time, I was trying not to rinse all the moisturizer off my legs! A tricky balancing act: avoiding cystitis and maintaining silky skin are both crucial to a call girl’s survival.

“So! I’m helping to plan the Colloquium on Informal Economies and Human Rights! It’s going to be at Cornell,” Allie was saying. “And my job is to represent NYCOT on the Colloquium Committee. I spoke to Roxana about it. We’re going to need your help.”

I turned off the water.

“My help? Roxana knows I don’t want to be involved with NYCOT,” I told Allie. “Much less this new committee you’re joining.”

Roxana Blair is the founder of the New York Council of Trollops which is—in theory—leaderless. But she’s also chief spokeswoman, keeper of the e-mail list, and, for almost ten years, the engine that runs NYCOT. All their meetings are held at her apartment in the East Village. I wish Roxana weren’t so keen on grooming my best friend for a leadership role but there’s nothing I can do to stop her. Why, oh why, doesn’t she want to sit on that Colloquium Committee? Roxana must be getting burned out.

“I understand that you do worthwhile things,” I said, “but this—all this activism isn’t for me. This is a job, not a cause.”

“It’s a job and a cause. We have to get people to recognize it as a job. That’s a cause.”

“Each to her own,” I said as Allie handed me a towel. “As long as I know it’s a job, I don’t care what people think.”

And the less people are thinking about my job, the better!

“Tell Roxana to forget she ever met me and to stop talking about me. Did she bring this up at one of your meetings? I don’t want all those NYCOT members to have me on their radar,” I added.

“Don’t worry!” Allie said in a tense voice. “Roxana doesn’t have your number. Or your e-mail.”

“She’d better not.”

In the living room, a pot of ginger tea was brewing and Allison had organized a plate of odd-looking munchies.

“No cookies,” I insisted. “I’m trying to lose six pounds.”

Allison was wearing just her camisole and panties again—with a pair of huge white terry cloth slippers that no client has ever seen.

“Try these! They’re made with soya protein and sugar alcohols. I made them myself! From a recipe on the low-carb vegan site.”

They were like dried sweetened glue.

“Very nice,” I said, midnibble. I washed the cookie down with some ginger tea. “And they’re so filling,” I said strategically.

“Now,” she said, counting our money out. “I have to explain. We aren’t asking you to come to any NYCOT meetings. Roxana knows you can’t come to meetings.”

“Good. But I don’t want her to know why. I want you to promise you won’t discuss my marriage with her.”

Allie looked hurt. “I already promised. Why don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you!” I lied. “I’m just reminding you.”

Bits of soya cookie were lodged in my molars. It was maddening.

“We want you to help us find a lawyer,” she told me. “Roxana—”

“After all these years of running a hookers’ union, Roxana doesn’t have her own lawyer?”

“Her contacts are with Legal Aid. And there’s Reverend Moody at Judson Church—he knows a few people at the Urban Justice Center. But this is different. And it might cost money.”

“I can donate. Anonymously.”

“That’s not it. I have to find a lawyer who can help me get a visa.”

Uh-oh. What is Allie getting into now? She was standing near the window, bent over the computer station. Her camisole slid north and a patch of smooth, fat-free midriff peeked out above her panties.

“Noi is going to be the keynote speaker at the Colloquium on Informal Economies. She’s the Bangkok coordinator of Bad Girls Without Borders.” Allie fiddled with her trackball on a mouse pad that proclaimed safe sex slut in white block letters. “We need a visa so she can attend the conference and we need to find a place for her to stay. If she really has to, she can stay here. But she needs a lawyer. The Legal Aid people can’t help because she’s in Bangkok. They don’t do visas…and this is the BGWB website!”

Against a pistachio-colored background, a series of magenta greetings—Hola…Bonjour…$awadee Kha—wiggled slowly across the screen. When Allie clicked on the dollar sign, hot pink condoms tumbled forth, followed by a montage of dancing girls with long black hair and light brown skin in bikinis and heels. In another picture, a banner was held high on a crowded street: entertainment workers sans frontieres. I could see two slim black-haired girls in sunglasses, T-shirts, and jeans carrying the banner.

“That’s Noi at the International Women’s Day march. And her friend Ying. The bar girls had their own banner!” she explained. “They have a branch in Phuket. And a sister group in Cambodia. But anyway, Noi lives in Bangkok. And I need to find a lawyer who can help her apply for a visa.”

“Can’t Lucho help?”

Allie blushed.

“I can’t ask Lucho.”

“But he must know somebody. These exotic college professors deal with visas and forms all the time.”

“Maybe, but”—Allie’s voice was getting a little squeaky, she looked away from me—“he nominated me for the Colloquium Committee because he thinks I can locate a lawyer. He thinks NYCOT has more resources than we really do and he…he sort of thinks I’ve done this before. When the girls from Ecuador came to that conference in Berkeley.”

“You lied to him? About your activist credentials?”

“No.” Allie looked down at her Safe Sex mouse pad. She tugged nervously on a strand of her long blond hair. “I just—when I realized what he was thinking, I didn’t, you know, say anything different.”

“Allie, it’s good to let a guy think what he needs to think but you’re taking it to extremes. Why don’t you let him help you? Instead of acting so accomplished, let him be the rescuer! Guys love that!”

“It’s too late! And if I did that, I wouldn’t be on all these committees and panels! I’d just be—I want to be on the Colloquium Committee. I don’t want him to save me or have to do things for me. Or feel sorry for me! I’m an activist now and I think Lucho and I could be a power couple. But I have to get more, you know, successful at my activism.”

“A power couple?”

“I told him I would raise the money for Noi’s legal fees and he thinks I’m already interviewing lawyers.”

“How much do you need? I can afford—”

“I want you to help me find a lawyer. What about Jason? Your brother-in-law? He’s a lawyer.”

Allison’s passive-aggressive idealism tries my patience. Is she out of her mind?

“We cannot go there,” I said. “And you know it.”

As I glared at her, she bit her lip, averting her eyes.

“You could say you have a friend from Thailand who—”

“There’s no way! I don’t want my in-laws to start wondering how I know someone who’s in this business.”

“But this isn’t business. It’s about social justice. And it’s my chance to make a difference. For a Bangkok bar girl to be a keynote speaker at an Ivy League school? Do you realize how huge this is?”

Allie was staring at a close-up of Noi. Then she clicked on something and brought up a street scene: working girls in long colorful saris, carrying yellow placards. Three dark brown girls in their twenties appeared to be dancing in the street, in front of a purple banner. The letters, in gold, were in a language I don’t recognize.

“These are the girls in Bangladesh. Last year, a judge ruled they couldn’t be evicted from the red-light district and they had a huge celebration.”

Allie looked radiant. As if she herself had been threatened with eviction. From a red-light district in South Asia rather than a doorman building on the Upper East Side.

She moved on to a chubby pink-skinned redhead in a leopardprint bustier holding up a sign: u.s. out of our underwear…free the nevada three! A group of protestors in leopard T-shirts, nighties, shorts, and much less were gathered around the redhead.

“This is Leopard-Look Solidarity in Vegas! When the Nevada Three got arrested they were at a bachelor party wearing leopardprint thongs.…Everyone went to the courthouse to protest the sentencing. In leopard print. To show solidarity. Oops. Except for David—he’s wearing a zebra hat. He might be coming to the Cornell colloquium.”

So these are Allie’s new friends! A global in-crowd of signwaving, sari-clad, zebra-hatted card-carrying “sex workers.”

“Well, I don’t think Jason can help you with this. And I certainly can’t ask him,” I said.

As she clicked and surfed, Allie didn’t seem to be listening. She returned to some snapshots of Noi. Lithe and gutsy, in a pair of capri-style jeans, platforms, and a tank top, holding a bullhorn on a busy street corner. “From Soi Cowboy with love and condoms, Noi.” Standing at a podium in front of yet another banner in yet another language. I noticed a poster decorating the podium: a sewing machine in a big red circle with a diagonal line crossing out the machine.

Allie turned to face me. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Are you absolutely sure?”

Something had changed. The expression on her face—I’d never seen it before—made me realize, If I ignore this, it’s not going away.

But what does a girl like Allie know about visas? Her determination and ignorance could get a lot of people in trouble. Including me, perhaps. The safest course is to placate her for now. Even if I have no intention of asking Jason for anything.

“I have to think about it,” I said carefully. “He’s not the only lawyer in this town…maybe I can ask him for a referral. But you need to give me a few days. It’s a bad time to ask Jason for a favor. And I have to figure out how—without, you know, saying what it’s for.”

Indeed, I’m not quite sure what it is for. To help a righteous bar girl? Or to save Allie from looking like a silly East Side princess in the eyes of her West Side intellectual boyfriend? Maybe Jasmine’s right, and never the twain should date. But now it’s too late.

5 Fluff and Aft
WEDNESDAY, 3/28/01

Today, while picking up the rent, I got my first glimpse of Char

maine post-Florida.

“It’s…rather natural,” I said. “Like you went to a spa.”

“You see?” Looking pleased with herself, she tilted her face slightly. “More fluff and loft. Dr. Fielding is the best. Actually I did go to a spa. Just—a really good spa.”

There’s something different about her cheeks. And what about her mouth? Is it the shape of her lips? Or the color?

“I did some A.F.T. And I’m all recovered from the liposuction.”

“A.F.T.?”

“Autologous Fat Transplantation. I’m not waiting for God to give me cheekbones.”

With a pang of guilt, I suddenly realized that I’ve always taken my cheekbones for granted. But Charmaine’s already used to the way she looks now, even if I’m not, and what she really wanted to show off was our new thigh-high state-of-the-art…shredder.

“You’re gonna thank me for this!” she enthused. “I had it delivered this morning.”

A sleek gray object with a black switch and a small green light stood in the corner of the living room.

“It matches the carpet,” I said. “But why do we need such a powerful shredder? It’s not like we generate a lot of paperwork!”

“That’s what you think.”

Charmaine disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a small stack of cardboard. She’s been hoarding the condom boxes, storing them flat, and waiting for a chance to get rid of them. We both want to make sure the landlord doesn’t find anything incriminating in our trash.

“How many of these things have you got?” I asked.

“No idea. Better safe than sorry.” She held the stack of red, white, and black boxes. “The problem is…”

Our eyes met.

“I know. The different sizes. It’s a total tip-off,” I agreed.

“Totally.”

It’s not safe to take them outside to the corner where a neighbor might see you. Charmaine flipped a switch and started feeding condom boxes into the shredder.

“It’s built for volume. Turns everything into confetti. Even a Trojan Magnum box.”

She tipped open the receiving bin and showed me a small pile of black confetti. The answer to our nightmares.

“Oh—and if we really need to,” she added, “you can destroy the video boxes. But some guys like to look at those. What do you think?”

“The Bells of Saint Clemens” started chiming madly in my handbag, and I scrambled to answer.

“What a happy occasion,” said the voice of Barry Horowitz. “I tried to call you back twice, but I didn’t leave a message.”

“I think we should talk in person,” I told him. “Do you remember my friend Allison?”

“How could I forget?”

Barry’s the kind of lawyer who takes a perverse delight in solving the personal problems of hookers.

“I promised Allie—” I glanced sideways at Charmaine, now sitting on the couch doing rehab on some chipped toenail polish. “I’ll call you later when I know more.”

I flipped my phone shut and tried to take my time leaving the apartment. It wouldn’t be right to discuss Allison’s predicament in earshot of someone who’s been working for two years. Older girls shouldn’t hang their laundry out to dry in front of the New Girls. And Charmaine looks up to Allison, despite being more serious about her work than Allie has ever been. She has no idea what the real deal is because Allie, after all these years, still looks great and has her own clients. I would be the worst kind of traitor if I don’t let Charmaine believe that the girl who introduced us has her act together. (And a traitor to myself! Charmaine might question my credibility.)

When I got to the corner of Seventy-ninth and York, I tried to call Barry but found myself in voice mail.

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