Tracy Quan - Diary of a Married Call Girl

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 kne w 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.

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 god send. Fab ulous. 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.