Tracy Quan - Diary of a Married Call Girl

“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.”

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.