Tracy Quan - Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

Allison poured the zines and T-shirts into a huge Duane Reade shopping bag, along with some bright pink Safe Sex Ho buttons, condom-covered pamphlets and other political detritus from her last NYCOT meeting. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

The transformation was impressive. Her grandmother’s rosewood furniture lends a grown-up quality to the room … when it’s not buried beneath back issues of Whorezine, Rentgrrl , and now, Queer Diaspora .

While Allie dressed in her bedroom, I changed in the bathroom. By coincidence, we had both decided to wear balcony bras —balconies without railings, so our nipples were completely exposed to the breeze from her living room air conditioner.

“Maybe we should turn that down,” I said. “I feel like my nipples migrated to the North Pole! We’ll both catch cold.”

“You’re right.” Crossing her arms over her breasts, she scampered toward the AC in her heels and fiddled with the controls. She adjusted her shiny pink panties. “But Ron likes it cold. He’s got high blood pressure!”

Allie and I have similar bodies, but her stomach has always been flatter than mine. I’m closer to a C-cup and she’s closer to a B. Her pubic topiary is fuller than mine. She used to wear it shorter, but lately it’s edging toward naturalism. Funny how Allie’s boyfriend, who’s so open-minded about her work, is also kind of bossy about her bikini line. He wants her to stop waxing altogether. Whereas Matt’s quite happy leaving this policy decision to his wife.

We’ve never been attracted to the same guys. It’s a problem and a blessing, that our lifestyles are so at odds. Despite our differences—her extreme blondeness, our opposite taste in men, her love affair with activism—we manage to see a lot of customers together. Clients like being around us. We fit. And she has enough sense to hide the “sex work” propaganda when they come over.

When the doorman announced Ron’s arrival, Allie turned up the chill again. It’s not my style to rush someone else’s customer, but I moved him into the bedroom, away from the AC. He didn’t object.

Kneeling on Allie’s bed, I held his cock and teased the head with an alert nipple. As she pulled my panties to one side, I felt, on the back of one thigh, a pair of soft lips. Then her mouth got much closer to my pussy and, before I knew it, Ron was coming on my neck. Perhaps he was aiming for my breasts or my face? I wasn’t sure, but I extricated myself quickly, to rinse my hair clean, while Allie took care of everything else. I had done the heavy lifting, after all.

Like most five o’clock dates, Ron had no time to linger. “I’d love to go twice,” he told us. “But there’s a family dinner …”

Allie, still dressed in her pink bra and panties, looked appropriately disappointed. “Next time!” she said, as she helped with his jacket. “You can’t be late for that!”

While she saw him to the door, I stuffed my undies and heels into Ziploc bags, and tucked them under the bed. Then I changed into married hooker camouflage—slightly faded jeans and a plaid blouse.

As I walked down Eighty-fifth Street toward York, I checked my phone messages. A call from Charmaine—“The cable bill’s in your condom drawer”—and another from Milt, sitting in his car: “If you get this before five-thirty, call me back, kiddo. I’m a prisoner of the Garden State Parkway for the next twenty minutes.”

The sun wasn’t ready to set. In my bright yellow sneakers, I felt like a small town schoolgirl playing hooky on a warm afternoon. York Avenue has that effect on you during the summer.

Damp hair brushed against my neck. Uh-oh. Will it be dry by the time I get home? This might be hard to explain! I stopped and dabbed my hair with my sleeve.

Then I heard a man’s voice—“Nancy is right here”—slightly formal, yet warm and familiar, that made me turn around. Allie’s boyfriend, Lucho, was standing near the entrance to Arturo’s talking into his cellphone. His free hand held a slightly dog-eared copy of The Nation . “Of course,” he said, beaming at me. “I will do that, my dear. See you at the bar.”

Lucho must know I just left Allie’s apartment. What do you say to a guy who’s waiting for his girlfriend to tidy up after a session that you’ve been part of? And he obviously knows it! I stared back at him and felt myself blushing as he put his phone away.

“Lucho!” My voice was unnaturally high. “What are you—” doing here sounds wrong, rather hostile. As if he doesn’t belong here. But he doesn’t! Why can’t she meet him on the West Side, where he lives?

The last thing I need is to be running into a best friend’s boyfriend on the corner of York Avenue when I’ve just turned a trick with her, and my hair is still damp from—did he see me doing that? When he cuddles up with Allie, later tonight, my bra will be right there, in its plastic bag, hiding beneath her bed.

Suddenly, I felt naked. His polite nod was almost a bow, and there wasn’t a trace of discomfort in his eyes—or flirtation, either—as he greeted me. “How are you doing, Nancy?” He gestured toward the restaurant door, as if nothing strange had just happened. “Will you join us for dinner? We can wait for Allie at the bar.”

“Oh—I—um—I can’t!” I said, taking in his knit tie and his summer suit. His dark wavy hair is well-managed, though it falls below his ears. I felt not just naked, but silly and immature in my jeans and sneakers. Allie must be getting a little dressed up to meet him for dinner. “I’ve got a loin of pork marinating in the fridge!” I exclaimed.

“Allison tells me you’re a very accomplished cook.” He flashed an affectionate smile. “Another night then. Perhaps we could all go out. We would both love to have dinner with you and Matt.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “You know, Matt—Allie—I’m not sure about Matt’s schedule.”

Allie’s been trying to engineer a double date with Matt and Lucho for the last six months!

Last year, when we ran into Lucho and Allie at a party, Lucho was unfailingly discreet. And Matt’s always hinting that he’d like to hang out with them because, well, you don’t meet a lot of trendy Latin American professors on Wall Street.

But the whole idea of Matt dining out with three people who know something he doesn’t? I can’t. No matter how discreet Lucho is, I can’t put my husband at a table with people who know he’s being deceived.

There are times when a wife must quietly become her husband’s loyal opposition.

Allie doesn’t get it. There’s no room on her romantic hard drive for these tricky nuances of infidelity. Because the New York Council of Trollops has taken over her personal life ! Sometimes she forgets how normal people actually live.

On days when Allie’s not working , she’s chairing NYCOT meetings, planning the next conference, or distributing condoms in Hunts Point. I used to think activism was a phase she would outgrow—until Allie met Lucho at a harm reduction conference. Any “phase” that yields a devoted boyfriend isn’t something Allie can be expected to take leave of lightly. Bohemian courtship has its own rules—I’m afraid to find out what they are—but it’s still courtship. It still, somehow, works, when the right people are in the right place at the right time.

A double date with my best friend and her boyfriend? It’s just another one of those things everyone else does—but not me.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002

“Honey?”

This morning, Matt was surprised to find me in the kitchen wearing cotton panties and a work-out bra. He gave me an appreciative but quizzical look. I’m almost never up first.