Diary of a Married Call Girl. Tracy Quan

can you learn about a girl from the way her phone rings? Not, um, how often it rings—I mean the ring she has chosen to announce her callers. Allison’s phone is playing a lot of Brahms lately, because she read on some website that he practically lived in a brothel. (Well, his name was Johannes.) Jasmine’s phone goes off like a smoke detector.

      “Allison’s postponing our lunch,” she told me. “She has a customer.”

      “You’re kidding. She was so…”

      “…psyched about our meeting!” Jasmine agreed. “But she’s practicing some fiscal responsibility for a change. Putting business before boyfriend was never Allison’s default setting.”

      It’s Jasmine’s, though. And I sometimes wonder, What’s it like to be Jasmine’s boyfriend? She must have had more than one. She positions herself as such an authority on relationships, but I know very little about her love life. And she claims she has never “shacked up” with a man for longer than a weekend.

      “So what about this guy?” Jasmine was saying. “This boyfriend of hers. Sounds like he might be trouble.”

      “She says they’re in love.”

      “The L-Word. On the second date? Whatever! As long as the guy goes first.”

      “God. Allie wouldn’t use the L-Word first—would she?”

      “It’s possible,” Jasmine said. “If she did, we’ll find out. Look, is this guy some kind of bedroom freak? Did she tell you anything?”

      “Just—there’s something she’s not ready to do! I’m kind of worried.”

      The thing that has no name!

      Is Lucho pressuring Allie to quit the business? Even though she’s a spokesperson for the Trollops’ Council? Or maybe he’s going to the other extreme and trying to have a threesome with one of us? Does he want to hide in the closet while she turns tricks? That’s the problem with telling a guy you’re in this business. If he doesn’t want you to quit, he thinks you’re a one-woman fantasy fulfillment center. In fact, if a boyfriend knows you’re hooking, it doesn’t matter whether he accepts or rejects it. Either way, he’ll cause trouble and make impossible demands.

      It’s the wrinkle, not the war, of the sexes. Allie joined the hookers’ movement thinking she could eradicate this wrinkle, but you can’t reconfigure the male animal with a manifesto.

      THURSDAY, 3/22/01

      Well!

      I don’t know if Lucho qualifies as a bedroom freak, but he’s making some very unsettling requests. Creating a bit of a lifestyle crisis for Allison.

      Today, over thin-crust pizzas at Petaluma—veal salad for Jasmine—Allie came clean about the source of their first quarrel. Which made no sense at all to Jasmine.

      “Isn’t he from Brazil?” she asked. “Personally, I thank the Brazilians for teaching us how to wax! As far as I’m concerned, less is more! He should be glad you’re taking an interest in his cultural heritage.”

      I had to agree. When I think back to how things were before pubic hair got Brazilianized! It was like being preliterate. Memories of underdevelopment can be elusive—especially in matters of style. I can hardly believe we were once so naive about our lower parts. These days, even if you let your hair grow, it won’t look simple and carefree—instead, it’s like you’re taking a stand, refusing to wax. It now seems quite natural to be hairless.

      But Lucho has other opinions.

      “He’s from Colombia, not Brazil,” Allie explained. “Bikini waxing isn’t part of Lucho’s heritage! He lived in Paris for ten years—”

      “Paris!” Jasmine interjected. “No fucking wonder! I bet they’re still doing the ‘natural’ look. Well, now he’s in Manhattan. This is Brazilian territory!”

      “—and his mom’s Lebanese. She met his dad when they were studying in Geneva, and they moved to Bogot?before he was born. His dad is a fifth-generation Colombian. There is nothing…Brazilian about Lucho, but he does speak some Portuguese,” Allie added. A dreamy expression took over. “I’ve never known a man like Lucho. He makes love to me in five different languages and he’s totally supportive of everything I want to do!” She paused. “Well, everything but the waxing. Would you grow your pubic hair back for a man?”

      I was at a loss for words. Matt would never take the liberty of tampering with my pubic hair. He might make suggestions about redecorating the apartment, but redecorating my pussy would be out of the question. Like trying to redesign my essence.

      “Not a chance,” Jasmine said. “My clients like it this way. And it’s cleaner. This guy has some nerve!”

      “He says I’m the love of his life! Why does he want me to change?”

      “Maybe he’s just experiencing culture shock,” I suggested.

      “This is what happens when you start messing around with someone from the Upper West Side.” Jasmine stabbed a piece of pink veal with her fork. “If he prefers going down on some unwaxed bohemian, let him stay on the West Side! He knew you were an Upper East Sider before you even met. What does he expect? Of course you’re gonna wax!”

      Allie began nibbling the pointy end of a pizza slice. Her eyes widened with dismay as Jasmine continued.

      “This is not culture shock. It’s the ultimate clash of civilizations!”

      “But I want this relationship to work!” said Allie. “And you’re being totally divisive. Escalation is not the way to resolve—”

      “You’re from two different worlds,” Jasmine insisted. “And he’s trying to impose his values on you. I did not invent these divisions.”

      “I don’t think this has anything to do with him living on the Upper West Side.” Allie flashed a worried look at me. “Does it?”

      “Actually,” I told her, “Jasmine’s got a point. The only client who ever complained about my waxing was that divorced rabbi. What’s his name? On West End Avenue. He looks like a guitarstrumming priest from the sixties…”

      “I met him last year,” said Jasmine. “Melvin. I call him the day before I get my pussy waxed and he’s, like, in a cab before the call ends.”

      “Well, I can’t see Lucho only on the days before I wax!” Allie pointed out. “He’s not a client! Isn’t compromise essential to intimacy? Maybe I should try to meet him halfway.”

      “But you’re already halfway,” I said.

      Allie retains, at all times, a small fuzzy triangle above her labia…I prefer a complete waxing, so I can watch my hair growing back to a uniform softness. I relish the dark silky hairs that emerge every six weeks. It’s a psychic treat to feel like a proud little twelve-year-old, surveying her womanly evidence. Further proof that being a teenager is way more fun when you’re a grown-up.…By comparison, Allie’s blond topiary is not extreme. More of a hedge than a bush, perhaps, but still. Why isn’t that enough?

      “Lucho says”—Allie took a nervous sip of Chardonnay—“he says I should stop removing it from my inner thighs and let it peek out of my panties. I’m just not ready for that! I’ve been waxing since I was sixteen!”

      “Does he want to take pictures?” I wondered.

      “Of course not!” She blushed. “He says it’s about oral sex. And my lower lips ‘were meant to be like a wild forest, not a suburban lawn.’ Removing too much pubic hair makes it hard for him to ‘experience my scent.’ Well, that’s what he said last night.”

      “Well,” Jasmine conceded. “He’s telling you