Diary of a Married Call Girl. Tracy Quan

A lowfat Dean & Deluca blondie, perhaps.

      “Leave your skirt and blouse on,” she whispered. “I’ll undress you in there.”

      I followed her to the bedroom, where a familiar-looking client was waiting, relaxed and ready, on his back. I couldn’t remember his name. Lanky, pale, with a birthmark on his thigh. Where did I meet this guy? And when? More than five years ago, I think, but I’m supposed to be a New Girl. Or so I was told when Allie called last night.

      Happily, he didn’t seem to recall our brief encounter at Liane’s apartment. In those days, I was Suzy, wearing my hair in a wavy perm. Now, my hair is long and smooth, long enough to confuse any man who isn’t prepared for a condom—unrolled with expert lips onto his cock—and long enough for other reasons. Allison began to unbutton my blouse. She played with my skirt, exposing my thighs, then—gradually—more. When I was reduced to bra and panties, I became the aggressor, pushing Allison toward the bed. Her own panties slid to her knees and, with my help, to the carpet.

      My face was pressed against her pussy while my hair, falling around her thighs, formed a gentle curtain. I felt Allison pulling my head closer, a signal that he might be in the mood for a “work inspection.” Neither of us wanted him peeking behind my hair, to see if I was really eating her pussy or just playing at it.

      “You wait your turn,” she told him. “Nancy’s not finished.…If you do that, she’ll stop!”

      Nancy’s the name I now use when I want to be taken for a New Girl. I’ve used lots of names on the job, but never my own. In this case, Nancy’s a newbie who prefers girls to men—or so I was told, last night. I unhooked my bra and began stroking Allie’s clitoris with my nipple while she made all the right sounds and movements. My panties were staying put, to discourage any masculine exploration of the contents. Something a girl-who’s-only-into-girls would surely insist upon, even if she’s getting paid.

      But Allie’s customer was excited about getting those panties off. If a guy thinks he’s having sex with someone who’s not into men, I suppose there are two ways to play it. Grit your teeth like you hate every second of it (that’s awfully dark and edgy but there’s probably a market). Or act like you’re in the throes of being converted to cock. I chose the latter. A sensible move. Allie’s client was trying not to come too fast—but the whole idea of Nancy, enthusiastic lesbian about town, losing her cool while getting fucked on her hands and knees, was too much for him.

      He departed in a good mood, never hinting that he recognized me as Suzy.

      While I stood in Allison’s bathtub, rinsing Astroglide from my inner thighs, she wandered in, to give me a boyfriend bulletin.

      “I just got a text from Lucho!” she announced. “I’ve been accepted by the Colloquium Committee. He nominated me last week because one of the members had to resign. They all voted for me because I’m a sex worker. And a member of NYCOT.”

      “That’s nice,” I said, but my mind was really on other things.

      Like checking to see if the lube was really gone from my inner lips. If you don’t remove it all, it’s a magnet for germs and you can get a UTI. At the same time, I was trying not to rinse all the moisturizer off my legs! A tricky balancing act: avoiding cystitis and maintaining silky skin are both crucial to a call girl’s survival.

      “So! I’m helping to plan the Colloquium on Informal Economies and Human Rights! It’s going to be at Cornell,” Allie was saying. “And my job is to represent NYCOT on the Colloquium Committee. I spoke to Roxana about it. We’re going to need your help.”

      I turned off the water.

      “My help? Roxana knows I don’t want to be involved with NYCOT,” I told Allie. “Much less this new committee you’re joining.”

      Roxana Blair is the founder of the New York Council of Trollops which is—in theory—leaderless. But she’s also chief spokeswoman, keeper of the e-mail list, and, for almost ten years, the engine that runs NYCOT. All their meetings are held at her apartment in the East Village. I wish Roxana weren’t so keen on grooming my best friend for a leadership role but there’s nothing I can do to stop her. Why, oh why, doesn’t she want to sit on that Colloquium Committee? Roxana must be getting burned out.

      “I understand that you do worthwhile things,” I said, “but this—all this activism isn’t for me. This is a job, not a cause.”

      “It’s a job and a cause. We have to get people to recognize it as a job. That’s a cause.”

      “Each to her own,” I said as Allie handed me a towel. “As long as I know it’s a job, I don’t care what people think.”

      And the less people are thinking about my job, the better!

      “Tell Roxana to forget she ever met me and to stop talking about me. Did she bring this up at one of your meetings? I don’t want all those NYCOT members to have me on their radar,” I added.

      “Don’t worry!” Allie said in a tense voice. “Roxana doesn’t have your number. Or your e-mail.”

      “She’d better not.”

      In the living room, a pot of ginger tea was brewing and Allison had organized a plate of odd-looking munchies.

      “No cookies,” I insisted. “I’m trying to lose six pounds.”

      Allison was wearing just her camisole and panties again—with a pair of huge white terry cloth slippers that no client has ever seen.

      “Try these! They’re made with soya protein and sugar alcohols. I made them myself! From a recipe on the low-carb vegan site.”

      They were like dried sweetened glue.

      “Very nice,” I said, midnibble. I washed the cookie down with some ginger tea. “And they’re so filling,” I said strategically.

      “Now,” she said, counting our money out. “I have to explain. We aren’t asking you to come to any NYCOT meetings. Roxana knows you can’t come to meetings.”

      “Good. But I don’t want her to know why. I want you to promise you won’t discuss my marriage with her.”

      Allie looked hurt. “I already promised. Why don’t you trust me?”

      “Of course I trust you!” I lied. “I’m just reminding you.”

      Bits of soya cookie were lodged in my molars. It was maddening.

      “We want you to help us find a lawyer,” she told me. “Roxana—”

      “After all these years of running a hookers’ union, Roxana doesn’t have her own lawyer?”

      “Her contacts are with Legal Aid. And there’s Reverend Moody at Judson Church—he knows a few people at the Urban Justice Center. But this is different. And it might cost money.”

      “I can donate. Anonymously.”

      “That’s not it. I have to find a lawyer who can help me get a visa.”

      Uh-oh. What is Allie getting into now? She was standing near the window, bent over the computer station. Her camisole slid north and a patch of smooth, fat-free midriff peeked out above her panties.

      “Noi is going to be the keynote speaker at the Colloquium on Informal Economies. She’s the Bangkok coordinator of Bad Girls Without Borders.” Allie fiddled with her trackball on a mouse pad that proclaimed safe sex slut in white block letters. “We need a visa so she can attend the conference and we need to find a place for her to stay. If she really has to, she can stay here. But she needs a lawyer. The Legal Aid people can’t help because she’s in Bangkok. They don’t do visas…and this is the BGWB website!”

      Against a pistachio-colored background, a series of magenta greetings—Hola…Bonjour…$awadee Kha—wiggled