Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl. Tracy Quan

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      There was a hungry moan as he held back from coming too fast.

      “Let’s go in the bedroom,” he suggested.

      “Good idea,” I agreed, glancing at the clock on the VCR. “Where we can relax…and I can try out your tongue.”

      This wouldn’t work if Bob knew how long I’ve been in the business. He needs me to be Sabrina: naive, dirty-mouthed, willing to do all the work, very much in control, excited by my “new” career. A tall, complicated order. Especially when you’re really new.

      I teased him and sat over his face, demanding that he lick my ass.

      “Your tongue…” I was cooing again. “I could get addicted to that tongue!”

      I changed positions and slipped a condom onto his erection. “Are you going to fuck me today?” I was kneeling on the bed, poised to suck his cock. I ran a fingertip over his dark chest, flicking the gold chain to one side; Bob’s generation still believes you can’t be too rich or too tan.

      “Oh, my god. Sabrina—you’re such a hot little girl!” His erection was impressive. I placed it in my mouth and gave some attention to the head, then worked my way toward the base. “Not yet, not yet,” he moaned, pressing his cock upward. Only with a condom could I give him the following treat; I felt an unexpected throb as I pulled him into my throat. He exhaled loudly, turning rapidly to jelly—my signal to pull away, grab a tissue, and shift gears.

      As I tidied up, I turned off my slutty act but continued to play bubbly Sabrina. My boyfriend never sees this part of me. Guys like Matt don’t mate with bubbly chicks. It’s true, I do seem unambitious, compared to the women in Matt’s daily life—his boss, his up-and-coming female colleagues. But unambitious is permissible (in a girl) if you’re not too bubbly, and if you’re respectable. My fake job isn’t a power gig—nor is it glamorous—but it has nothing to do with my looks. And Matt wouldn’t want to be seen as a guy who marries a girl for her looks! (Though of course he wouldn’t have fallen for a girl who wasn’t pretty.) That stack of volumes on my bedroom floor by dead white novelists from Thackeray to Mrs. Gaskell to Henry James, interspersed with stuff by live brown ones implies that I’m serious at the core. Matt never reads fiction that was written before 1960 but wants to marry a girl who does.

      Whereas Matt finds my reading tastes respectable, Bob’s impressed that I read anything at all. Bob’s the kind of self-made guy who could marry a woman who doesn’t even read. He made all his money in real estate speculation.

      “You’re a very nice girl,” Bob assured me in a deliberate, fatherly tone. “A wonderful young lady.” He was sliding some hundreds under the tissue box on my bedside table.

      I was touched by his desire to validate the fluffy dirty-mouthed girl he sees three times a year. I suddenly wondered if Matt, upon meeting such a bimbette, would bother to say something corny, something kind. Would he know that it makes a difference? Would he care? I don’t want to go there, I guess; anyway, Matt belongs to a different part of my life.

      As I closed the door I could hear Bob stepping into the elevator, and I wondered: What happens to the bubbly “Sabrina” when Nancy marries Matt? Must I burn the bimbette to save the woman?

      FRIDAY AFTERNOON. 2/11/00

      Etienne is back from a short trip to Paris. “Realizing this is intolerably short notice,” he began in a wheedling voice. “I hope you still remember who I am? What a week! Could we perhaps…this evening? Allow me to forget this gruesome week…”

      After almost ten years—he’s one of my oldest customers, by which I mean longest—he still employs these coy icebreakers.

      “Be here no later than six!” I cautioned him.

      I have to meet Matt at seven, but didn’t tell him that, of course. Never let a guy feel he’s being rushed. And never let him know why! Just in case he does feel rushed.

      “Bien sûr,” he purred agreeably. Etienne has lived on East Sixty-seventh Street for more than three decades, but his accent remains strangely intact. One of his many style decisions.

      SATURDAY. 2/12/00

      Etienne arrived last night, carrying a chocolate-brown umbrella with an engraved brass handle in the shape of a swan’s head.

      “Very handsome,” I told him. “Did you find it in Paris?”

      “It keeps me dry,” he said with a humorous shrug. “My children gave it to me for Christmas.”

      Etienne’s son is an eye surgeon, and his two daughters are teachers. I think he once told me that the oldest daughter is married to a guy at Salomon.

      Lying on the couch with my bare feet nestled in Etienne’s lap, I smiled as he traced gentle lines on my calves with his fingertips. “Do you know what your most interesting feature is?” he asked dreamily. “I am always curious to know what a woman will designate as her most important feature. Women are so often at odds with their paramours.”

      I gazed down at my legs. Sometimes, when I’m with Matt, I get paranoid about my thighs. But never when I’m with a customer. At work, a pragmatic self-appreciation kicks in: I instantly feel, oh, 10 to 30 percent more attractive as soon as I have an appointment lined up. It’s an engine that switches on by itself. You answer the phone, make the appointment, look in the mirror, and you see what the client will be getting. It’s hard to be so objective with a boyfriend. And lovely to be appreciated by a succession of men over fifty.

      I was wearing my new zebra-print thong and nothing else—so I couldn’t hide the effect this was having on my nipples. A familiar tingle caused my thighs to turn in slightly. Etienne ran a considerate fingertip over my right breast and smiled. Now, I thought, smiling back, here he comes, as predictable as a clock. Sensing my body’s pliant mood, he moved closer. His lips made a dangerous beeline for mine, but I dodged him gracefully and I slid away from his kiss.

      “Let’s continue this biology lesson in the bedroom!” I giggled, grabbing his hand.

      “You are a foul-tempered devil,” he muttered. “Why do you welcome my kisses here,” he said, tapping the front of my panties, “but not here?” He touched a finger to the corner of my mouth.

      “One of life’s mysteries,” I murmured, slipping out of my panties.

      “You never answered,” he said, placing his mouth against one breast. His tongue was warm, not too demanding, and my nipple couldn’t help but encourage him. “If you had to choose just one important feature?”

      “I’d pick two,” I said, knowing how much my vanity pleases Etienne. “My face and my breasts.” I couldn’t exactly repeat my secret answer: “If only I didn’t rely on them so much! My face has made me rather lazy about exercise, and my tummy always threatens to betray me. I should go to the gym more often, but I seem to be getting away with it because you keep calling.”

      He smiled and cupped one breast, then ran his hand over my abdomen. “No quarrel with your assessment—but for me, it’s your skin.”

      “Really?” How, after a decade of seeing me, does this man come up with such charming new material? He’s a born flirt, the genuine article.

      “The texture is what I find so…compelling.” And then, as my flattered smile registered on Etienne, his intrusive mouth sought another off-limits kiss.

      “Darling,” I breathed, maneuvering my neck to evade him, “my pussy is getting so impatient…” I tactfully directed his face toward my open thighs. Almost six-thirty. How time flies when you’re being hustled by a veteran john!

      When I emerged from my building—just a few moments after Etienne’s departure—Matt was waiting in a cab, delighted that, for once, I was ready on time.

      Elspeth’s