Tracy Quan - Diary of a Married Call Girl

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.

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.