Tracy Quan - Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

“You’ll have your own bedroom,” he promised. “I may be a dog, but I’m a well-trained dog. If you want, you can sleep in a separate wing with the door locked. This place has more bedrooms than we need. You’ll have first choice.”

“How many bathrooms?”

“Who can remember? Six? Anyway, the upstairs rooms all have their own.”

“They do?” My body relaxed a bit. “The next time you invite a girl to your house, tell her about the en suite bathrooms upfront, Milt. You’ll save her a lot of anxiety.”

“That’s my point!”

“Your point?”

“You’re the one who knows how to talk to girls! And I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Really? Should I find someone to keep us company?”

“Now you’re talking. She’ll have a very nice room.” Milt sat up and looked at his watch. “I’m flying to Nice via Paris. I can try to get you both onto my flight or—”

“I have to think about it,” I warned him. “I haven’t promised you anything.”

“I know. But the last time you said that …” My favorite customer appeared to be suppressing a smirk. “You came around to my point of view. Remember?”

“Now look here!”

“Never mind,” he laughed. “Take your time and think it through. Tell me what it’s going to cost. I’m sure you have to get all your ducks in a row and make a few calls. I leave the third member of our house party in your capable hands. It’s all up to you.”

“My fiancé—” I began. “I can’t just go to France without—”

Milt placed his hand on top of my wrist. “It’s okay, kiddo. I know you’ve got a life.” His touch was light and reassuring. “So do I. When you have it figured out, call me.” He reached for his boxers. “That boyfriend of yours doesn’t know how lucky he is. A two-week break will keep the guy on his toes.”

Milt doesn’t realize that Matt’s my husband . Would he still do business with me if he knew?

On my way out of the elevator, I spotted Charmaine in the vestibule, coming in from the street.

Ten feet away, the super (who isn’t “supposed” to know she lives here) was hauling a recycling bin toward the back of the building. Charmaine’s a perfectionist about the apartment. Given that we could both be evicted for violating the rent stabilization laws—never mind the business we’re conducting—she’s the model roommate. As she passed me in the hall, I nodded silently, and she winked in the deliberate, labored way Botox-users must when seized with the impulse to wink. Every facial gesture’s a major decision with that girl!

If I take this trip with Milt, should I bring Charmaine? I can count on her to keep all my secrets. But first, do I really want to spend two weeks with a customer?

I’ve never spent more than a night with a john, and overnight calls make me claustrophobic. Milt assumes I’ve taken lots of well-paid journeys to far-flung destinations—that’s what high class call girls do, isn’t it? I won’t puncture his illusions by telling him about my origins. The Yellow Pages escort agency that got busted by the NYPD. A handful of hotel bars. And the nightclub (almost in Mayfair, not quite) where I hustled champagne. I’ve come a long way from that, but never lost my taste for the quick finite transaction.

In a perfect world, I’d rather turn five tricks in one day than spend five hours with the same date. My clients don’t realize this, because (they think) a girl who prefers quickies can’t hold a conversation, pass in polite society, or disguise the fact that she’s rushing you.

It’s not that simple. When you see five customers in one shift, you’re building your business. Each new date—even a guy you barely tolerate—makes you less dependent on any given client. Everyone has a favorite john, the phone call that makes you smile, but that doesn’t mean you can trust him with your future.

You see more of the world and retain more independence, when you’re in hustle mode. But you can’t stay like that forever. The price of success is losing some freedom. I now have a handful of good reliable dates I can’t afford to lose. I certainly can’t start over again in this business! And this is what I actually wanted when I began my career. So I have no business regretting my comfortable predicament. Do I?

Later still

Putting business aside, I’m never at my best when vacationing with a man. That trip to Wyoming with my husband last summer? It felt rather crowded, actually.

Thank God New York bankers only take two weeks’ vacation!

CHAPTER FOUR

Friday, June 21, 2002

This morning, two messages on my cellphone from Milt, playing it cool while applying a subtle flattering pressure. “Did I tell you how good you’re looking? You can wear your bikini indoors, kiddo. I’m ordering a busload of poolside umbrellas, just in case you decide to honor me with your presence.”

Minutes later, he called back, sounding a more practical married note. “Can’t talk this weekend, though. In-laws! Get in touch Monday.”

Can I really get away with such a prolonged session chez Milt? It might, as Milt says, be good for my relationship with Matt—but only if I have a convincing alibi. (Spa vacation with one of my girlfriends? Minibreak en famille ? But where? Pretend to be in the Caribbean when I’m really in the south of France? No, I don’t think so .)

This calls for a consultation with Liane. There are times when you need a madam’s friendship more than you need her business.

Later

Must break down my current dilemma. What to tell husband? How to avoid flying with customer, so he won’t find out real name? Or age? (Can’t let Milt see my passport!) But the first thing I need to sort out is the third person in our—in Milt’s—bed. I can’t do this trip to Provence alone—now that Milt’s on Viagra!

Sometimes I wish my favorite john were an easy hand job. One of those customers you can do in your sleep. You have to “dance with the guy that brought you,” and Milt, for better or worse, is that guy. Long before I met my husband, there was Milt, reliable and financially faithful. Three years ago, when I had that huge tax bill, I was afraid my problems would just scare Matt away. Milt came to my apartment with all the cash I needed, in one payment. We called it a season ticket. In return, he persuaded me to do something … unprofessional. Then we bickered about whether to call it a pound or a gram of flesh.

When I was alone with him, I allowed Milt to kiss me—a real kiss, just a few times—but I prevented this from becoming a habit. After a steady diet of acrobatic threeways, he seemed to forget we had ever kissed.

Until yesterday!

Is Milt hoping I’ll bend my rules again? Do something unprofessional when I’m off the grid? Away from Manhattan?

Even so, he’ll never try to kiss in front of another working girl. That much he understands. And his appetite’s too much for one woman to handle on a daily basis. Clearly, I can’t even consider Provence without some very appealing reinforcements.

The question is: Who?

Later still

Charmaine?

Milt’s only heard about her, and never pushes me to arrange a session, thank God. Two weeks in the company of my bionic twenty-something roommate might get him looking at my body in a whole new way.

She’s methodical, easy to work with—and much too ambitious for this gig. But Charmaine knows all the New Girls. For a finder’s fee, she can introduce me to someone brand new.

How tempting to bring in a newbie—someone who doesn’t yet have much business sense—to do the heavy lifting. Everyone has to be that girl at some point, and we’ve all paid our dues.