Diary of a Married Call Girl. Tracy Quan

guys who fucks for an hour and stays hard the whole time.…I know things have been crazy but I had to see some extra people before my trip to Florida.” She paused, knowing full well that I won’t mind having the place to myself while she’s gone. “I picked up two boxes of Trojan Extra Large. They’re in my closet.”

      As the cab sped down York Avenue, I closed my eyes and waited for Matt to answer his cell phone.

      “So I have it narrowed down,” he said. “Message in a bottle? Dalmatians? Or sliced fruit?”

      Matt was still at the Gap. “What…kind of fruit?” I inquired, trying not to express too much emotion.

      “Huh. They look like oranges but they’re bright turquoise.”

      “Are you sure they’re not supposed to be limes? Don’t do anything until I get there!”

      “I knew I could count on you,” he said cheerfully.

       2 The Meaning of Wife

      WEDNESDAY, 3/14/01

      This morning, while Matt was dressing for work, I was pretending to sleep.

      Marital possum is a newly acquired habit, more puzzling to the player than the played. Why am I doing this? Do other women pretend to be asleep for no apparent reason? What about their husbands? And why do I compare myself to other marrieds? Is it all just a normal side effect of matrimony?

      As a kid, I faked sleep to trick my mother after Lights Out, but I never asked myself if the other kids were doing it. The scam was all instinct, my approach zenlike. I did not second-guess myself; I simply became the sleeping daughter. Now, as sleeping wife, I’m beset with self-doubt.

      Fortunately, I have therapy later.

      Late last night when Matt drowsily remembered that he had a breakfast meeting, I tiptoed out of bed. Muffling the coffee grinder with a batik teapot cosy—wedding gift from Mother—I felt like the very model of a modern wife. After filling the coffee maker with Aged Sumatra and filtered water, I placed a packet of sweetener on a saucer, then took stock of my domestic achievement. With one flick of a switch, my husband has access to caffeine when he will most need it and least expect it. How cool is that? When I returned to our bed, he was snoring. I fell asleep with the aroma of tomorrow’s coffee lingering in my nostrils.

      When I woke, he was quietly selecting a shirt from his side of the closet. I quickly closed my eyes and sniffed the air for signs of coffee. And now he was leaning over my pillow, kissing my forehead tenderly to wake me from a phony but convincing slumber.

      “Thanks for the java,” he murmured “You’re a genius!”

      As I stroked his smooth, shaved cheek, he added, “I like that purring sound you make when you’re happy.”

      How often do I touch a man’s cheek?

      No matter how many clients I’ve seen, days can go by when my hands do not venture above the chest. I might blow lightly into a customer’s ear while straddling his body—or ruffle his hair while he’s going down on me. I might kiss a john’s cheek or his neck to evade his mouth. But Matt is probably the only guy whose face I touch with my fingertips. How long has he occupied this exclusive slot? It’s funny how I work to avoid some things—like kissing—with my clients, while others just don’t happen. Why is it so personal and sweet to touch a man’s face? As we kissed good-bye, I realized that my hands have been accidentally faithful for more than a year. For a brief second, I felt like a stranger to myself.

      I heard the apartment door close and got up quickly. My cell phone, snug in the bottom of my tote bag, had three messages on it—one from Allison (eager to dissect her first date with Lucho) and another from Steven, the typical voice mail of a disappointed impulse buyer: “I’m in the neighborhood, try you again next week.”

      If you don’t grab Steven while he’s hot, you simply have to wait for the next urge to strike, and this is the third time we’ve struck out in a month. What with Charmaine’s timeshare and my new responsibilities as a wife, I’m starting to lose my impulsive quickies. It’s hard to connect these days if a guy can’t make his appointment in advance.

      Too bad: Steven’s the easiest guy in my client book and I miss his pret-a-porter erections. So reliable. Too big and fast to fail. Even when you know better than to take it personally, a dependable hard-on makes you feel more successful, more attractive. A three-quarter erection backed by regular visits might yield more profit in the long run—and I know how to keep a man from going soft because it’s my job. (I’ve been doing this since Ronald Reagan was in office!) But I like it when desire’s a bit more obvious.

      Lately, I’m working harder to retain those regulars who find it easier to make appointments way ahead of time. It’s better for my marriage but not so good for my ego: a man suddenly hot to see you has a more straightforward erection than one who plans ahead. A long-winded way of saying, will Steven really call next week? His hard-ons are more reliable than his projections.

      The last message in my system was the most promising. I called Trisha back pronto on her cell.

      “Yes,” I said.

      “Yes?”

      “What time?”

      “One second,” she said. “The dinosaur cape? It’s upstairs. Don’t forget your juice. We have three minutes.…Next Tuesday at two, he likes boots,” she mumbled quickly. “Can you find an extra girl? What about Allison? We’re getting ready for school here. That sounds perfect!” she disconcertingly chirped. Suddenly, her voice was clear as a bell. “For sure! We have to talk. The picnic is a great idea!”

      Picnic? These sudden non sequiturs—second nature to Trish—always precede a hang-up. Her husband must have popped back into sight. Of course, you don’t end a conversation too abruptly when you want things to sound normal.

      I can’t believe Trish has the nerve to take all these calls from girls and clients when he’s around! But I’m learning not to make judgments about other people’s marriages. Every girl must decide for herself when it’s safe to answer the phone.

      LATER

      My shrink has moved her office from Riverside Drive to Central Park West—and wants to know how I feel about it. Of course, you can say things to a shrink that you wouldn’t say to others but there are some things I don’t get into. Not because I’m ashamed or anything—it’s just that she would regard my feelings about hair as Material for an entire session and I don’t want to go there. My hair is a little too delicate for this world and tends to lose its shape when exposed to the elements, but I can’t explain this to Dr. Kessel, who always looks like she needs a haircut even when she’s just had one.

      I used to dread visiting her windy corner. Last month, to prevent my hair from being whipped out of shape, I wore a pleated Herm籠scarf—and almost lost it. My head scarf, viciously attacked by a sudden gust, went flying toward the river. When I arrived at my session, having chased the scarf for half a block, a layer of perspiration was threatening my hair. If I never have to brave Riverside Drive again, I’ll be a happier camper than most.

      On Central Park West, the air was calm today. Upstairs, a small plaque identified Dr. Wendy Kessel’s new whereabouts. In the waiting room, I found myself staring at a collection of black-and-white portraits: Eleanor Roosevelt and Josephine Baker on one wall. A young Doris Lessing on another. Where has all the ethnic pottery gone?

      “How do you feel about the new look?” Dr. Wendy asked.

      “It’s a little in your face.”

      “Somebody else made the same observation.”

      She seemed to take pleasure in the disturbance her new decor was