Tracy Quan - Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

I was in a cautious mood, because the last time I had an appointment with my ob-gyn, Matt wanted to be there too. I will never get used to seeing other women’s husbands in a gynecologist’s waiting room—is nothing sacred anymore? And I refuse to contribute to this trend.

“I forgot to organize the coffee last night!” I lied. Matt’s coffee is a built-in excuse whenever I need to rise early. As I filled the coffee maker, he came closer. I felt his bare skin against my back, boxer shorts against my prim white briefs. “There’s a new class I want to try.”

His hard-on was distracting, and so was his right hand on my panties. I was tempted to turn around, but a quick glance at the clock made me stop. Dr. Peele’s office agreed to squeeze me in early .

Matt kissed my neck while the coffee brewed, and teased the cotton-covered parts of me with his finger. I was beginning to swell and relax. If I’m late for Dr. Peele, she’ll make me wait two hours. I’ll have to cancel my quickie with Ted. And Dr. Peele’s receptionist will be furious .

“Your exercise class can wait,” he whispered. “There’s another one tomorrow. And you want this.”

“I—I do, but we can’t,” I told him. “My period …” Though it just ended, I insinuated that it was just beginning. As I turned around, I felt his hands in my hair. “Can I do this instead?” I tried to lower myself to the floor and felt my panties tugging against my pussy. My mouth was already half-open. I felt like that playful Mafia wife in Goodfellas who takes care of her husband in her kitchen.

“No.” He was holding my upper arms, firmly enough to stop me from moving. I was breathing harder. “It’s better when you have to wait.”

“But—”

I was beginning to regret that my period “just started.” I like to think I can do anything I want with my period—hide it, fake it, or have it. Now I’ve outsmarted myself, and waiting three days seems more like an ordeal than a successful parry.

Though I was on time for my appointment, I was battling the sensations of unsatisfied arousal as I changed into my paper gown. The stirrups on Dr. Peele’s examining table are never left uncovered. Today, they were dressed in soft, inviting cashmere booties which I was eager to feel against my bare feet. When she entered, I was already on the table, day-dreaming about what might have been if Matt hadn’t stopped me from getting on my knees. Though I felt pampered by the booties and tantalized by our skirmish, it’s just not possible to stay turned on during a transvaginal sonogram.

“Is there any such thing as a mini -miscarriage?” I asked. “My last period was ten days late. Was I twenty-four days pregnant?”

“That’s hard to say.” She was looking at the screen. “We may never know. Long cycles are more common than miscarriages.” I felt the probe moving to the left. “Which are also common,” she added.

“So, if I have a c-section …”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking about the scar. How low can you make the incision?”

“Most women find that a bikini covers the scar.”

“Is it true it can double as a kind of tummy tuck?”

“There are easier ways to obtain a tummy tuck. Not that you need one.”

“Thanks, but—” When I turned my head, I was staring at a portrait of blond identical triplets playing in a garden. “—can you actually get rid of the scar?”

The probe moved to the right.

“Nancy.” Dr. Peele withdrew the probe. “Childbirth is not cosmetic surgery.” I suppose she’s right. “We can discuss vaginal deliv—”

“I don’t think so!” I tried to sit up.

“Don’t panic.” Dr. Peele was holding up a speculum. “One more thing to do here.” I tried to relax. “Breathe through your mouth. Good. Many women are having voluntary c-sections. It’s safer when you can prepare for a c-section. But you have to realize, it’s major surgery. And some of your questions should be answered by a dermatologist.”

I glanced at the triplets, then averted my eyes. “Maybe I need to postpone this project.”

“You mean pregnancy?”

“Yes.” When she removed the speculum, I took my feet out of the stirrups and sat up slowly. “When I thought I was pregnant, I was excited. But when my period started? I was disappointed at first, and then I was so relieved!” Dr. Peele was perched on a stool, looking at my medical records. “The other day, I was visiting a girlfriend.” I bit my lip.

“Go on,” she said. “How many children does your friend have?”

“None. And she’s single.”

“Ah.” She placed the paperwork to one side. “I think I see.”

“I was walking down the street,” I told her. “It was so nice out! I felt sort of naughty.” Dr. Peele doesn’t know anything about my job, but I told her what I could of the truth. “And I felt free. I was wearing my size four jeans. It took me six months to get back into those!”

“And?”

“I don’t think I want to be pregnant. I want to wear my size four jeans!”

“Then you should not be. Pregnancy is more dangerous for your health than being a size four.”

Dr. Peele—closer to a fourteen than a four; founder of an A-list fertility boutique—said that ?? I feel so vindicated.

On my way to Seventy-ninth Street, I stopped at Duane Reade to drop off my new prescription. I had just enough time to change into a miniskirt and get ready for Ted’s mid-morning blow job.

Thursday, June 20, 2002

A call from Milt. For the first time in weeks, he insists on seeing me solo when I want him to spring for a threeway! I was hoping to pay Allie back for Monday. Normally, he’s more than willing to be my currency du jour. But not today. “We have some important business to discuss.” More important than MY business? But I didn’t protest. Sexual book-keeping should always be invisible.

Later

I was wrapping a hot post-coital washcloth around Milt’s cock when he announced, “My house in France is almost done. You should come over with me.”

“With you?” I adopted a dreamy tone and pressed the damp cloth against his lube-drenched groin. Some girls long to visit the Riviera with a rich guy in exchange for massive amounts of shopping money. I fear being away from New York, beholden to some guy who has paid for an oversized chunk of my time, unable to retreat from a diplomatic nightmare. “I should?”

“Yes!” His hand stroked my rump. “It would be nice to have this in my bed,” he mused. “Your skin’s so smooth. And you can practice your French.” As he felt my body pulling away, he said, “Don’t worry. I promise not to abuse my privileges!”

“What exactly are you planning on my behalf?” I asked with a skeptical smile.

“I’m going to spend a few weeks in the new house,” he explained. “Make sure everything’s in working order. Get out of my wife’s hair for awhile. They’re working on the pool as we speak. You’ll have a great time breaking it in with me.”

“It’s in the Luberon?”

“An hour and a half from Nice. Right next to a vineyard … off the beaten track … we had the pool rebuilt.”

“But I don’t swim! I’m not much of a poolside girl, you know, and I’m allergic to sunshine. Are you sure I’m the … houseguest you have in mind?”

“Of course I’m sure! Stay in the shade, then. It’s a fully equipped house. I just installed a new exercise room. I converted one of the dairy sheds into a media hut. There’s a nice library with a fireplace … What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You might wear me out! I need my beauty sleep, eight hours minimum, and I don’t think I can sleep in the same bed as—”