Tracy Quan - Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

“What happened? Who was that?”

“Jasmine!” I unclenched my teeth. My cellphone was starting to chime. I turned it off and threw it into my bag. “Jasmine has crossed a line .”

“Oh.” Charmaine can’t raise her eyebrows because of the Botox, but the devilish expression in her eyes said it all. “Jasmine? In my opinion—”

“Don’t say it,” I moaned. Charmaine has kept her distance, from the moment they laid eyes on each other two years ago. But Jasmine and I have been trading dates since our twenties. She helped me when I was in trouble and needed a lawyer. “We’ve known each other forever,” I said.

“I don’t know why you put up with that girl.”

Charmaine’s bare pussy—lasered to match her smooth, Botoxed forehead—was staring me in the face. Her up-to-the-minute enhancements were spilling out of her exercise bra. It’s not just that she’s twenty-three—her entire body looks like it was invented two years ago. She really is a New Girl, in more ways than one.

“Well—” I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite, but now I wanted to change the subject “— you don’t have to put up with her, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

She’s too young to understand my friendship with Jasmine, but she has her own business, pays her rent on time, and never seeks my advice. She looked, for a moment, like she was on the verge of giving me some, and I didn’t want to hear it.

When I was sure that Charmaine was completely immersed in the white noise of the shower, I checked my messages.

“Call me when your hormones stabilize. We can’t let your period stop you from seeing Harry!”

What is Jasmine thinking? Does she really think I have no idea how to disguise my period? I have two diaphragms—one for each apartment—and a year’s supply of cosmetic sponges from Duane Reade.

Which part of “You have some fucking nerve” does she not understand?

Saturday, June 15

This morning, as soon as I knew Matt was safely en route to his squash game with Jason, I bolted the apartment door and turned my phone on. With my right hand, I checked my messages. With my left, I emptied the dishwasher. Etienne, now in Frankfurt, managed to intercept one of his own voicemails while I was shaking a few remaining drops of water from a miniature whisk.

“Bonjour, petite mignonne.” His elderly purr was reassuring, but it brought disappointing news. “I regret this trip is delayed. I’m glad you finally answered your phone,” he added. “I tried to call you from Cologne. Don’t change your number!”

“Of course not,” I said. “Why would I do that?”

“So many things are changing these days. I take nothing for granted. Tell me, how is New York? Do the girls still remember me? Is it true? Nobody wears high heels anymore?”

“What? Oh. Don’t worry. We’re all wearing heels again.”

“Not just in your bedrooms?”

“Everywhere,” I said with more confidence. “I wore my favorite pair to dinner the other night.”

“Really! Can you describe them?”

“Not right now,” I said firmly. Etienne has never been a phone freak, and I would hate to be responsible for spoiling him.

Some would say I’ve been guilty of that for at least five years! I don’t tell other girls that I come when he goes down on me. You never know what another pro might think—or say—about a working girl having real orgasms.

“Why don’t you come back to New York?” I said in a warmer voice. “We can discuss my heels in person. I might even wear them!”

“That would be my preference, cocotte. A live appearance. But—” He paused. “There is something I haven’t told you. Something which prevents me from examining those pretty feet in person. Not to mention the rest of your delicious body.”

Oh dear. There comes a point in every girl’s career when some of her best customers start dying or faltering for reasons of age—and stop visiting. I held my breath. Not his prostate, I hope.

“I have tried to enter the country three times in the last eight months,” he told me. “It seems my name is on one of those bothersome new lists.”

Another one of Etienne’s polite fictions?

“Or perhaps,” he continued, “my name resembles the name of someone else who is really on this list. But you have no idea. When this sort of thing happens, reality is beside the point. I haven’t been to London in six months either!”

“You’re … on more than one list?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I can travel anywhere on the continent, as long as I don’t fly! Or try to cross the channel. My American lawyer calls it House Arrest Lite.”

“You have an American lawyer?”

“And a French lawyer. And a Brit. You don’t want to know. I hope your life never becomes this complicated and tedious, mignonne.”

“The city isn’t the same without you!” I was trying to sound light-hearted.

“And vice versa!” he exclaimed. “Germany is quite boring. I promise you will hear from me when I resolve this.”

As we hung up, another call was coming in. “I’ve been trying to reach you!” Allison, sounding breathless and distressed. “Did you get my emails? What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”

“Jasmine said you weren’t feeling well.”

“You can tell Jasmine I feel fine.”

“Oh.” Now Allie was puzzled. “Maybe I misunderstood. I thought she said ‘acute medical symptoms.’”

It is just like Jasmine to assume that this rift is the result of some biological malfunction, when it’s really a consequence of her own demented—and completely insensitive—worldview.

“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” I said calmly.

“Does that mean you can work?”

“Of course.”

“Ron’s coming over Monday, at five. He wants two girls.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Honestly,” she sighed. “I must be hearing things, because I’m sure Jasmine said you were turning down business and not answering your phone.”

“Only where she’s concerned.”

“What … happened?”

“She crossed a line . And that’s all I wish to say.”

“Omigod, does she KNOW you feel this way? You have to tell people how you feel.”

“I don’t have to do anything of the sort! Jasmine is totally oblivious to anybody else’s feelings, including mine. Why should I discuss them with her?” I looked at the clock and excused myself from Allie’s impromptu sermon. “I have to go,” I told her. “I’m making a cheese soufflé for dinner. I need to concentrate.”

“It’s only eleven A.M.! What time are you having dinner?”

“I’ve never made this before. I want to get it right.”

But I don’t expect Allie to understand. Her idea of cooking is opening a box of soy burger mix from the health food store and trying to turn it into a cake.

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

Yesterday, when I arrived at Allison’s apartment, her client was running late—and she was still tidying up. A pile of New York Council of Trollops T-shirts sat on her coffee table, next to some unopened bills and a stack of zines I haven’t seen before. The cover of Queer Diaspora features a group of naked girls and guys holding up a rainbow banner: “Straight for the money! And gay for pay! Get used to it honey!” Roxana Blair, NYCOT’s founder, was the only familiar face—thank God Allie hasn’t been persuaded to undress for the cover of Queer Diaspora . Roxana’s one of those out-of-the-closet zealots who believes the truth will set us free (which any sensible call girl knows to be wrong), and she’s tried, many times, to recruit me because NYCOT needs more “sex workers of color.”