Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl. Tracy Quan

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      “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.”

      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.”

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