Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl. Tracy Quan

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

      New York: Jamais Provence?

       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.

      Is it my turn to collect?

      When I was the New Girl, I met a thirty-something call girl who took a fifty percent cut. Belinda would literally walk around the bedroom in her underwear and heels, smoking a joint while I did the session. I was the energetic, naive bait, willing to get on top of a customer and wear myself out, by riding up and down while faking one orgasm after another. A more diplomatic girl makes an effort to arouse her own regulars, and takes a smaller cut—forty percent might do it—just to keep a hard-working apprentice in a good mood. It’s only ten percent less, but it can make all the difference to a young hooker’s attitude. Within two months, I got wise to Belinda, did the math, and started slipping my number to some of her best clients.

      Perhaps a New Girl isn’t such a good idea after all. Better to do business with another girl who knows how hard you work to cultivate your regulars. Someone like …

      Jasmine? Out of the question.

      There’s Trish, of course. If any girl can micromanage a two-week escape from two different husbands and two different zip codes, it’s Trish. As with Charmaine, I trust her to keep all my secrets, but—having even more to lose—she’s even more trustworthy.

      But way too kinky.

      Once every ten years, a pro-domme like Trish encounters a manageable sleaze like Milt and flips his switch, turning him into one of her legendary creatures. An insatiable perv who can’t get enough pain, whether it’s his own or somebody else’s. Who knows what Trish might do to Milt’s psyche if I allow them to meet! I can’t afford to find out. Could she transform him into one of those mentally exhausting slaves? A golden shower addict?

      He already takes too long to come. That I can handle, but kink takes its toll in a different way.

       Later

      As my insecurities climb the wall of my pragmatism, like so much virtual ivy, it’s all becoming much too clear. There’s only one person unambitious enough, pretty enough, yet old enough to bring on this trip. She’s safely in her thirties, and she won’t steal my best client or warp his mind.

       Monday, June 24, 2002

      This morning, when Allie returned my call, I was in the computer nook, dusting my husband’s college souvenirs.

      “Have you heard from Jasmine?” she asked.

      I aimed the can of compressed air at Matt’s shot glass collection.

      “No,” I said. “Why would I?”

      “You’re not still—you have to make up with her!” Allie insisted.

      “What are you talking about?”

      “She’s—she asked about you yesterday.”

      “Oh? What did she want to know?”

      “Something to do with your hormones,” Allie said in a sheepish voice.

      “And THAT’S SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME WANT HER AS A FRIEND? Cunty remarks about my hormones?”

      “They weren’t c—it wasn’t like that. Stop using that word!”

      “Is there a better one?” I asked.

      “It’s just her way of saying she misses you! Anyway, I’m sick of running interference.”

      “Then give it a rest. Nobody asked you to.”

      “But …” There was a strange pause. Allie’s voice was wobbling out of control. “Sh—she did. She asked me to call you and find out—I don’t think Jasmine was held enough as a child! She has trouble expressing her feelings!”

      “I’ll call her,” I lied, anxious to stem the teary tide. As usual, Allie’s feelings come first—even when she’s delivering an insult from another girl.

      “Please