Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl. Tracy Quan

Her reputation as the natural blonde with the wonderful voice—too-dim-to-hurt-a-flea—has been her meal ticket. And not just with men! Allie’s the kind of girl madams adore because she’s too disorganized to steal their customers. During the last seven years, she has decided to quit the business at least four times. Professional call girls regard her as harmless competition. Fortunately for Allie, nobody knows about her angry threats. Well, nobody but me. And Jasmine.

      Today, Jasmine remarked, “That girl owes you big-time. You protected her reputation.” We were walking back from the nail salon, after an emergency pedicure (for Jasmine, due to a stubbed toe) and a routine manicure (for me). I still haven’t said anything to Jasmine about Allison and Jack.

      “If I were a bitch,” she continued. “I’d blackmail Allison and she’d be paying me to keep your secret. How much do you think it’s worth? Three hundred a week? If it’s any more than that, it’s not worth it, she might as well quit the business. But I think she could come up with a couple of hundred. The logic of blackmail—”

      “Don’t even think that way!” I said in horror.

      “Please, Allison’s so kinky she’d fucking love it, having to turn tricks to pay off some evil blackmailer. Wasn’t she claiming to be a sex addict last summer? This is right up her alley!”

      “Stop it,” I moaned.

      “Oh, come on. She’s lucky I’m not a bitch. Therefore I won’t do all those things—which, by the way, I know she would love to have done to her. That girl loves attention, and if there’s one thing a blackmailer gives you, it’s attention.”

      I suppressed a spiteful giggle. “Blackmail is not something to joke about,” I said primly.

      Jasmine became eerily calm. “No,” she agreed. “It’s not.” We were standing at the corner of York and Seventy-ninth, waiting for the light to change.

      “And not being a bitch is not some sort of unique accomplishment that you get a great big medal for,” I added.

      “Maybe not,” Jasmine allowed, heading into the crosswalk, “but it should be.”

      Uh-oh. Five o’clock. Time to rinse off my camphor mask, rewind the video, change the sheets. Milton’s due to arrive any minute now!

      THURSDAY. 2/3/00

      This morning, an emergency rendezvous with Allie at the health club. I was climbing backward on the StairMaster when she appeared, flushed and damp, in flower-print running shorts and a cropped T-shirt.

      “I have to talk to you,” she panted. “I need your advice. You’re the only person I can talk to…Why—uh—are you doing it like that?”

      “It’s supposed to work the glutes,” I said through clenched teeth. “Can you just broadcast our problems a little louder?”

      When I got to the women’s locker room, Allie had already showered. She was standing in front of a full-length mirror, sprinkling talc-free powder on her breasts. The nine-to-fivers had cleared out and the moms had gone off to Power Yoga, leaving the room empty.

      “It’s about Jack,” Allie began. Then, frowning at her image in the mirror, she added, “Does my tummy look sort of…huge today? I feel so puffy.”

      “Your abs look fine,” I reassured her. “What’s going on with Jack?”

      She patted the thin strip of blond hair between her legs with a powder puff, then stood on the scale—carefully setting the powder puff aside before she dared look at the number settings. She stepped off the scale, began pulling her panties on, then confessed, “I—um—ran into him last night.”

      “Ran into him?” I squinted at her furiously. “You saw him, didn’t you.”

      “No! I mean, yes, but not the way you mean. I ran into him because—” She blushed. “He surprised me. I was coming home from a call, and Jack was standing outside my building holding a huge bouquet of lilies! You know I love lilies.”

      “Allie. A john who shows up without an appointment is a stalker. Even if—especially if—he’s carrying your favorite flowers. You could have been walking home with a straight friend—with a boyfriend or something—and then what? Sneaking up on a hooker is pathological and disrespectful,” I told her. “Not to mention ungentlemanly.”

      “Well, I was nervous when I saw him standing there,” she admitted. “But he was very polite and he just gave me the flowers, said good night, and walked away.”

      “God, how creepy.”

      But at least he didn’t make a scene in front of her doorman.

      “And when I got upstairs there was a note. Do you want to see it?” She pulled a small envelope out of her gym bag.

       I know why you’re holding back from seeing me. I’m truly sorry about what happened, and you’ll always be special to me. I think about you constantly. I miss everything about you. Please give me a chance.

       All my love, J.

      “Then he called this morning! I think I should see him. He’s being very generous. He’s offering me a lot of money, and you’ve always said I should treat this more like a business. Well, this is a business decision for me.”

      “You should set some sort of weekly quota for yourself. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have standards. Some things are not for sale,” I pointed out. “While he’s thinking about you constantly, he’s making breather calls to Eileen. He’s a loose cannon.”

      “She doesn’t know it’s him. Eileen doesn’t even have Caller ID! How can she say that?” A towel attendant entered the changing room, and we both clammed up. “Welllll,” Allie mumbled. “Don’t tell Jasmine. Or any of the other girls. Promise me you won’t say a word. But I asked him for two thousand. And he agreed.” Despite wanting to elude everyone’s disdain, she looked rather pleased with herself. “Soooo,” she said, with a hint of smugness. “What would you do?”

      Every girl has a favorite john, and who this guy is tells you a lot about the girl. Jasmine’s favorite is Harry from Darien, who keeps a black Town Car waiting while he’s getting a blow job upstairs in his socks and wing tips. Because he’s her steadiest customer and a quickie, she hasn’t raised his price in two years. In my case, there’s Milton. Unlike Harry, Milt is no quickie. Sometimes, he’s a lot of work. But he spends far more than my other regulars, and he’s willing to help if I get myself into a financial pickle. How could I not like him? He’s financially faithful. And the bottom line with a favorite john is that deep down you like it when he’s faithful. Allison’s favorite? A spineless weasel who married into a real estate family, who ratted on us all to the IRS because he was afraid his rich wife would find out about his midday excursions to call girls. Though he likes a bit of variety, he’s really obsessed with Allie. And who else would be flattered to hear that a john “thinks about her constantly”? Most professionals would run for the hills if a client said that.

      “When you have a business,” I told Allie, “you have to set your own standards. Weed out the undesirables. Being a call girl is like being responsible for a really hot restaurant. Some people get a little dessert on the house, and some don’t even get in the door. Jack shouldn’t be able to get a reservation. He’s been tainted by this IRS mess, and we can’t afford to have him around.”

      “You’re blaming the victim. That IRS agent threatened to ruin his life! You’re not being fair to him.”

      “That IRS guy threatened to ruin my life, too. But I didn’t become an informant, did I?”

      “But you don’t have children! Jack has a family, a marriage, people who depend on him.”

      “Jack’s