Tracy Quan - Diary of a Married Call Girl

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 un naturally. 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.”