Tracy Quan - Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl

Like me, Allie looks easily ten years younger than she really is. If we were aging at different rates, would we have stayed friends for so long? In fact, I wonder sometimes if looks are the basis for most female friendships: the looker who takes up with a lesser looker because it bolsters her ego; the attractive girl who (having learned that lesson) seeks out pretty friends so she won’t have to deal with another woman’s jealousy raging out of control—it’s easier to manage your own insecurities, after all. Those of another girl can be hard to read, impossible to quell, and therefore highly dangerous. Allie and I have our problems—I know in my heart that it’s not the healthiest friendship—but where looks are concerned, ours is a bond between equals. And that’s important.

“I didn’t agree to do anything with him,” Allison was insisting. “We’re just talking about it.”

“You shouldn’t even be talking to him,” I warned her.

If I wasn’t as pretty, she’d suspect me of sabotaging her out of jealousy. And if she wasn’t as pretty, she’d hate me for being so dismissive of male admiration. Allie appeared to be listening respectfully, but she became distracted and started glancing at her watch. I gave up.

Before she left, Allison begged me not to mention Jack’s phone calls to Jasmine. “You know how she jumps to conclusions!” she simpered. “Jasmine’s so judgmental. And she might tell everyone.” She tucked four hundreds into a shiny pink Louis Vuitton backpack and zipped it shut.

Maybe I should take the cut from Allie, instead of relying on her to send me back a date, but her parting words killed that possibility: “Oh, good! I can pay my rent now. Thanks! I’ll send you someone soon. Okay?” Catching the look on my face, she added, “February’s rent! It’s due tomorrow. I have to get to the bank.”

“You’re seeing guys to pay the rent the day before it’s due —?” Before I could finish, the phone interrupted me. Allie headed for the elevator as I grabbed the ringing phone.

“I think I missed Steven’s call,” I told Eileen. “I have to go out now. I can see him around seven.”

“Oh. Bummer. ” Eileen sighed. “You have to get this guy while he’s hot. He’ll call next week. Do you have sheer stockings? They have to be sheer, not stretch. And please don’t wear platforms—he likes real heels.”

“Platforms? Why would I wear platforms with a john?”

“You wouldn’t believe what the last girl wore. These new girls! Listen, I know he’ll call. He wants to see an Oriental—badly. Don’t let him make an appointment for the next day, though. He’ll screw it up. If he calls when you’re not busy, that’s the best way to see him. He’s very fast. Three fifty. Be cold and bitchy but don’t order him around. He’s not a slave. But he wants to worship you…”

What kind of guy knows the difference between sheer and stretch stockings? For $350, I’m quite intrigued. Eileen and I trade a lot of business—we both have clients who go for the petite Asian look, though I think my guys are less fixated on it. (A lot of my clients enjoy Allison, too—maybe it’s the blond contrast.) Funny how every call girl I know ends up with a certain type of regular. Eileen’s customers are fetishistic, Jasmine’s are among the quickest. I’m not sure how to define a typical Allison client…not sure I want to.

“Hey, by the way. I’ve been getting these calls,” Eileen said. “Hang-ups! And voice mail with lots of stupid breathing. Ever since I heard from you-know-who.”

“Oh god. Jack?”

“Yeah. The nerve! He acts like nothing happened, you know? Like we don’t know .”

“Well, don’t let on!” I said, alarmed. “Just tell him you’re busy and get off the phone— politely .”

When you blacklist a client, he’s not supposed to know about it.

“Look, I don’t have to humor him—not after what he did to me ! Blabbing to that—”

“If he finds out he’s being blacklisted, he might take it out on you in some way! What’s more important? Being right? Or being happy? And safe?”

“Well, I hung up on him, okay? I told him to leave me alone. And now I’m getting these calls. I bet it’s Jack! He has no right to do this.”

Between Allison wanting to make up with him, and Eileen self-righteously provoking him, I really don’t know what to do. The whole idea was to turn the volume down on this guy in the hopes that he would just go away and stay out of our circle. Ever since he—

Yikes—almost 3:30. All the cabs are changing shifts! It will be a nightmare getting across town. Must log off NOW, SOON, five minutes ago, if I really plan to be on time for therapy.

Despite the traffic, I actually snagged a taxi quickly, by offering an off-duty cabby twenty dollars. Stuck in Central Park traffic during the cross-town pilgrimage to Dr. Kessel’s funky West Side office, I couldn’t stop thinking about Allison and Jack. She still has a soft spot for the guy. Her taste in men has always been appalling. And yet she has a natural talent for this business. Strange…And Eileen will be pissed if she hears that Allison has been talking to him. As will Jasmine. And everyone else. Oh god. And they’ll be furious with me if they find out that I knew and didn’t tell them. Why does Allie put me in these impossible binds? Why do I tolerate it?

As I emerged from the park, I spotted a big picture of Tony Soprano’s shrink on the side of a bus shelter. This week, the Sopranos are everywhere—magazines, bus shelters, you name it—and everyone seems to identify with Tony for some reason. But my shrink’s much hipper than Dr. Melfi; for one thing, she’s on a first-name basis with her patients. And, unlike Tony, I’m a savvy veteran of self-absorption, as unembarrassed about seeing a shrink as I am about getting a monthly haircut. And yet. Just like Tony, I must take this radical leap of faith! In my case, it’s about leaving my cozy East Side cocoon for the shopless tree-lined wasteland that is Riverside Drive.

I may be one of Manhattan’s therapized elite, but I’m still coming to terms with some aspects of the process—like having my recently blown-out hair savagely reblown by the punishing wind off the Hudson. Examining my hair—again—in the lobby mirror of Dr. Kessel’s solid prewar building, I was struck by the hugeness of her lobby. It’s like being in a cathedral. The West Side, whether indoors or out, is so disorienting. Leaving the East Seventies is like getting squeezed out of a grid-shaped womb into wide-avenued anarchy.

I sat patiently in Dr. Wendy’s waiting room, taking in the unchanged ethnic pottery, the Arts and Crafts furniture, while another patient went overtime. I’ve never told Wendy how simple it is to eavesdrop in that second chair to the left of the bookshelves.

“I can’t stand it!” a female voice was saying. “I don’t want to be confined or constrained in any way…I don’t like it when he asks for a date on Wednesday …” The voice became muffled and my listening spree ended. Minutes later, a mousy girl—unaware that the acoustics had been working against her—strolled past, carrying a Coach briefcase. I was impressed. Some guy is trying to constrain her? Maybe she’s more interesting than she looks…My turn.

After ranting—not too audibly—about Allison for a few minutes, I noticed a bemused expression on Dr. Wendy’s face.

“I feel betrayed,” I grumbled, but I didn’t go into the Howard mix-up. It would take half my session just to explain the physical mechanics, let alone the irritating dynamics, of my three-way with Allison. Instead, I sputtered on as best I could about Allison and Jack, trying to get the feelings accurate without discussing the money or the other girls or any of the classified details. I wanted to tell her about Eileen, but I stopped myself.