Читать книгу: «Diary of a Married Call Girl»

1 Roundheels and Caballeros
MONDAY, 3/12/01

Dear Diary,

My two best friends are no longer at war: They invited me to brunch on Sunday. Do I want this unlikely alliance to succeed? Let’s just say I’m ambivalent.

Yesterday, I was late for the brunch at Quatorze—which I had to embroider into a birthday celebration when my husband started asking too many questions about my day. Sliding into a banquette, I looked around furtively. Jasmine, sitting next to me, barely noticed my arrival.

“You can’t fuck him on the first date!” she was telling Allison. “You’re becoming a public figure!”

Across the table, Allie was sipping a mimosa.

“What do you mean, ‘a public figure’? I’m just me,” she protested.

“He met you at that crazy conference!”

“That was a panel discussion. For Lucho’s course. Re-Writing the Extra-Colonial Body. He’s fostering a dialogue with sex workers! And he wants to discuss his plans for a documentary. He was too shy to introduce himself at the harm-reduction conference. So we didn’t really meet till last week. Tuesday will be our first chance to—”

“Discussion, conference. To him, you’re a public figure. This isn’t like turning a trick! This guy’s a fan. Fuck him right away, and you’ll destroy his illusions. Listen, those panties stay on if we have to glue them on.” Jasmine paused. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint a fan…would you?”

Amazing. Jasmine has gone from blanket rejection of Allison’s “sex worker activism” to micromanaging all the details now that Allie’s a budding spokesperson.

Allie blushed. “A fan? I never thought of it that way! But”—she began to looked worried—“I don’t want Lucho to have illusions. I want him to really know me.”

“For god’s sake, he knows too much about you as it is. Now look at Nancy. I’ll bet she didn’t fuck Matt on the first date.”

“Please,” I warned Jasmine. “I am so not in the mood to dissect Matt!”

“What’s wrong?” Allison was glad to change the subject from her latest crush to my new husband. “Is everything okay? With you and Matt?”

“Matt’s fine,” I said tersely. “I’d much rather hear about your professor friend. You met him at…a harm-reduction conference?”

Should I tell Allison about the birthday ruse?

Maybe not. There are things your single girlfriends just don’t understand. Especially a friend like Allie, who seems to be grooming the man she just met for an illusion-free romance. Which sounds as appealing to me as a sugar-free meringue.

“When you became a spokesman,” Jasmine told Allie. “You gave up your right to sleep with guys on the first date.”

“I—what are you talking about?”

“He knows you’re a working girl! If he doesn’t, you can sleep with him anytime you want. Because he won’t know he’s getting free sex from a hooker! But he knows. And you’re not just any working girl. You’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“A reputation. This isn’t the 1950s,” Allie objected.

“No kidding! If you sleep with him right away, he can go on Craig’s List. Or yap about it on his website! You have to find out more about his past before you fuck him. And don’t tell him anything about yours.”

The waiter appeared at our booth. Jasmine ordered a martini and I, with genuine remorse, a businesslike Evian.

“No kir royale?” he asked.

“Not today,” I said. “Medication,” I added, as both girls were giving me owlish looks. “I have to leave early,” I explained, when the waiter had drifted away. “Something at the Waldorf.”

Alcohol and work don’t mix. Or shouldn’t.

Jasmine eyed my pale blue yoga pants with curiosity. Then my matching hoodie and my gnomish tote bag, larger than usual, chosen for its excellent zipper. The last thing you want, when carrying lots of dildos and a pair of fuzz-lined manacles (not to mention a serious change of shoes, underclothes, and a Donna Karan suit) is a clever bag with nifty magnets, Velcro flaps, or gimmicky pockets. A laptop case—my usual cover for a hotel call—is way too small for all this gear. And you don’t want the zipper to jam!

“Smart move,” Jasmine said, staring down at my new suede sneakers.

Faux sloppy is a look I’ve been cultivating since my marriage began. It’s pulled together but says “no special plans.” The goal here is to look vague, not mysterious.

Allison, who never has to think about married-girl mufti, was perturbed.

“It’s a long story,” I sighed. “Charmaine’s using the apartment, so I have to change in the hotel bathroom!”

Or maybe here? But no, this restaurant’s too intimate for that sort of thing. Why did I ever go in on this deal with Charmaine? A married hooker has to downsize—but I couldn’t bear to part with my rent-stabilized lease. That would be like discarding your oldest friend. Charmaine is mostly a boon but sometimes I feel like my small sunny 1BR on East Seventy-ninth is being slowly colonized by a stranger whose ways I barely understand.

“You’ll manage,” Jasmine said. “Nancy always manages,” she added, casting a meaningful look at Allie, who was gazing pensively into the distance.

“Nancy didn’t sleep with Matt because she didn’t know if she wanted to!” Allie began. “But Lucho and I are different. Besides, this doesn’t feel like a real first date. We exchanged at least a hundred e-mails before I spoke at his class. Not that kind of e-mail,” she added. “I had no idea who Lucho was. Someone gave him my e-mail address. Then I got something from his department, inviting me to speak on the panel. I know he didn’t ask me out until after the panel but—don’t you think this is more like a third date? Or even a fifth? We spent two hours IM-ing about the problems in his mother’s homeland. His e-mails are totally articulate! And sensitive! And he wants me to be part of this documentary. That’s the real reason for our lunch.”

Jasmine was looking more Solomonic than usual in a subdued argyle V-neck. She pulled her dark hair behind her ears, and the eighteen-carat glow of her Bulgari knockoffs seemed to compete with her highlights.

“We’ll make allowances for technology,” she said. “Taking the obsessive e-mails into account, so long as you’re not sending each other thinly disguised porn, you might be able to treat this like a second date. Hooking is like backgammon. Dating and marriage are like chess. This guy is a knight. Or, if you handle this right, a rook! Your strategy, as queen, is ‘be enigmatic.’ Don’t be making these extravagant moves. At this point in the game, you and Lucho—”

Jasmine was cut off by a bouncy version of “Hungarian Dance #5,” which caused Allison to fiddle nervously with her Prada bowling bag.

“Hello?” Allie whispered into the phone. “It’s hard to talk here!” Extricating herself from the chess tutorial, she simpered incoherently. As I watched Allison heading for the front door, a tiny red cell phone pressed against her long blond hair, I realized she was thinner than usual in a pair of striped pants I’ve never seen before.

“Is this love? Or lipo?” I asked Jasmine. “She must have lost ten pounds! In less than two weeks.”

“It’s the Internet. How can you keep your pants on for a third date if you’re falling in love before the first? Very dangerous. But great for your metabolism. I think she burns a pound of fat every time she gets an e-mail from this guy. Her hips are disappearing. That—or she’s spiking her pomegranate juice with cocaine. Don’t worry,” Jasmine added, reading my mind, “better to be a size six, happily married to a banker, than a frazzled four throwing yourself at some nutty-sounding professor!”

Is hooking really like backgammon? What if it’s all chess? And maybe our johns—so numerous yet essential—are the pawns? If, as Jasmine says, a devoted e-mailer is a knight with the ability to evolve into a castle, what is Matt? A king?

Allison’s approach to the business reminds me more of bingo. As for Jasmine, she’s good at backgammon and did well at chess in high school. But how much does she know about dating? Or marriage—never having lived with any man that I know of? Jasmine thinks real dating is a liability, cutting into the time she devotes to meeting her self-imposed quota of clients.

In fact, Jasmine doesn’t feel right going out on a real date unless she tells herself that she’s pretending to litehook. But here’s the thing about being a litehook: you have to enjoy being “rescued” financially by a man. Even if he’s only saving you from your Con Ed bills, you must feel victorious and grateful. This doesn’t come naturally to Jasmine. It doesn’t even come to her unnaturally. That’s why she’ll never pass for a damsel in distress. Despite what Jasmine thinks, she can’t fake being an amateur hooker.

Allison returned, just as the food was arriving. Jasmine had ordered her usual—“bacon chicory salad, hold the croutons”—followed by a dozen Fanny Bay oysters. With a righteous Atkinspowered smirk, she announced: “Looks like I’m the only chick at this table who knows how to order a real meal.”

Picking at her salad, Allie giggled nervously. “I can’t help it if I’m not hungry!”

Jasmine’s got a point. Falling in love and sneaking around are the two most effective appetite suppressants known to woman. But Allie gets a metabolic boost—meriting low-slung pants—while I merely curb my intake to avoid discomfort.

On Seventy-ninth and Second, available taxis were so plentiful that I took it as a happy omen. What have I done to deserve such good fortune? Something in a former life, I’m thinking. Sitting in the back seat of a yellow SUV, I began my transformation, tucking my hair into a ponytail and slipping it beneath the collar of my hood. As we approached the Waldorf, I donned my sunglasses.

After years of coming here on a frequent basis, I’m still thrown off balance when I try to use the public areas. I’m hardwired to head straight for the elevator, keeping the time downstairs to a bare minimum. The Waldorf’s not the worst offender when it comes to fanatical security but neither is it one of those cozy new boutique hotels where a single woman might be taken for a visiting dot-commer. At the Waldorf, you remember that once upon a time all unescorted females were inherently suspect. You can feel the ancient history when you pass through those revolving doors, and I’m always on the lookout for a snoopy security guard because, in fact, the ancient history is still with us.

My heart was beating a little too fast as I scanned the lobby for a ladies’ room. In the privacy of my self-contained cubicle, I changed into high heels and stockings. Despite the luxury of my own sink and a good mirror, I felt a little too naked.

Jasmine’s commentary—a happily married six, a frazzled size four—echoed in my head. Marriage has caused a few pounds to visit my hips, but it’s nothing I can’t reconfigure, damn it. I can get away with some fluctuation without alienating my regulars, but I might be approaching the limit.

As I hooked a smooth black garter belt around my waist, I felt like a superhero sprouting magical powers. In my high-heeled slingbacks and push-up bra, I was suddenly sleek yet curvy and my suit had not wrinkled: the finishing touch. I loosened my ponytail and played with my hair, stuffed my clothes into the tote, and hid my wedding ring in a change purse. Nobody would guess that the pastel-hued slacker in sneakers and sunglasses had just morphed into a womanly vision in crisp black-and-white houndstooth, hair falling around her shoulders, wearing just enough eye makeup. It occurred to me that lipstick would change my appearance even more. But lip color at three in the afternoon? Too…professional.

I took out my Zagat—essential camouflage when posing as an out-of-town guest—and checked the clock on my cell phone. Transformation accomplished. In less than ten minutes. I’m definitely getting better at this!

Then, spotting a run in my left stocking, I felt a pang of remorse. I forgot to bring spares! Suddenly I felt less like a superhero and more like a refugee, yearning bitterly for the lost comforts of home. Not to mention my supply of stockings. It is maddening to have all the right stuff when it’s totally out of reach.

I’ve been turning tricks since my teens. Never, until I married an investment banker in my thirties, was I reduced to changing my underwear and brushing my teeth in a public bathroom.

Is this what “going straight” is really about?

In the lobby, a tall man with a walkie-talkie was dangerously close to the elevators. Adopting a matronly scowl, I walked right by, hoping the ladder in my stocking was not reaching my knee. On the twenty-fifth floor, I glanced around quickly to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Not until I was in the room, with the door securely bolted, did I feel truly safe.

Trisha’s weekend regular was put out by my solo arrival but did his best to couch things in submissive terms.

“Thank you for coming, Mistress.” He paused and looked around. “Mistress Thalia was planning to arrive at two-thirty. Would you like me to wait for her?”

Colin was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, silk boxer shorts, and nothing else. Despite a round, childlike face, he looked rather virile. It was that salt-and-pepper chest hair, much thicker than the hair on his head. I could feel steam from the shower seeping out of the bathroom.

“Of course,” I said sharply. “Thalia is definitely on her way.”

“May I offer you a drink, Mistress…?”

“Sabrina,” I reminded him. “You may.”

I nodded at a row of bottles on the dresser. Five bottles of mineral water! This guy is more than prepared.

“Some coffee or soda perhaps?”

“Just the water,” I replied.

I could hear my cell phone chiming in my pocket. “Mistress Thalia” stuck in traffic, no doubt.

“It’s me! I’ve been trying to get some privacy so I can call. What a disaster! You’re gonna kill me! Let me talk to him, then I’ll talk to you.”

What? Why didn’t she talk to me first? I was doing my best to look imperious while feeling somewhat unnerved when I summoned Colin to the phone.

“Yes. Yes, I will,” I heard him saying in that flat monotone that slaves like to use. “Yes, Mistress. Of course, Mistress. No, I promise. One moment, Mistress. Right away.”

Slinking off to the bathroom, he looked both dejected and turned on.

Trisha was apologetic and panicky. “I told him to wait in the bathroom. My daughter’s playdate was canceled! At the very last minute! Do you have a ball gag?”

“Um, No.”

“You’ll have to improvise. Put some of your underwear in his mouth. Okay? Later on. Don’t do it right away.”

“What time can you get here? He’s in the bathroom.”

“I CAN’T. I have simply got to stay and deal. I told him this was my secret plan to test his loyalty. He doesn’t come out until you tell him.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Trisha was recovering some of her composure. “If he can please you, he’s allowed to see us together next time. But he has to follow all my instructions—and yours—in my absence. You report back to me and give him, like, a grade. Then I decide if he deserves—”

“I get the idea.” But I was also getting irritated. I’ve never been good at domination—and what about the ball gag? Colin’s used to all this fancy equipment, and I brought only a few props to supplement Trisha’s arsenal. “Do you think it’s safe to stuff my underpants in his mouth?”

“Oh, please. It’s fine. Just use your common sense. If he starts choking, you pull them out. But he won’t.”

“Are you sure you can’t just come later? Take over when I leave?”

“No! You don’t understand! I can’t find a babysitter.”

“But I can’t do it all myself! You promised.”

“What do you mean?” She paused. “Oh. Just drink a lot of water! What’s the big deal?”

This was hardly the moment to be discussing why a golden shower’s a big deal to me and not to her. How do you explain your spic-and-span prohibitions without making it sound like you’re judging the other girl as unsavory? It’s a conversation no sensible hooker gets into. I took a deep breath and gazed at the bottled water on the dresser. People with kids seem to be a lot less squeamish about some things.

“Look, I told you upfront!” I said, moving toward the window.

I didn’t want Colin to overhear. Our lack of cohesion must be finessed. Like two parents dealing with a wayward child, Mistresses Thalia and Sabrina must present a united front.

“I’m sorry! My day’s been a disaster! I’ll work something out on the cut if you want. I have to go but—call if you have to. I’m alone this weekend.”

How can the mother of a five-year-old sans babysitter say she’s “alone”? I guess she means her husband’s out of town so the coast is clear for phone calls. I’ve never asked Trisha what he does but he travels a lot more than Matt—and she, in turn, is never inquisitive about my husband.

Standing in front of the bathroom door, I wondered if my normal instinct—a quiet knock—would be too submissive a gesture. What should I say? I had really been expecting to play second fiddle to Mistress Thalia. You can come out now sounds kind of lame! More like a sidekick than a sole proprietress.

In a cold dignified voice, I advised Colin to stay on his hands and knees.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Is the door unlocked?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Do they say this just to get on your nerves?

“Reach up and open it with your right hand. I will be waiting in the bedroom.”

Colin crept out of the bathroom hardly daring to look up. His eyes were trained on the carpet as he crawled toward my feet. Suddenly, I had a brainstorm.

“You will adjust my garters.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he paused, “…Sabrina. You have beautiful legs,” he added shyly.

“I know. Come here. Start with my back garter.” I turned around slightly so he could reach it. I couldn’t let on how good it felt to hear about my legs when I’m starting to angst about my weight. “Slowly. Not like that. You have to loosen it first, then pull—very softly.” I turned again. “Now the front.” I could see a bulge in Colin’s shorts. “Good. Now the right garter. Carefully.” I leapt back. “You clumsy idiot! You ripped my stocking!”

“I’m sorry, Mistress! I didn’t meant to!”

“This will be taken into account,” I told him. “Mistress Thalia will not be pleased.”

“Yes, Mistress. Will you allow me to make it up to you?”

“We’ll see.”

Stumped for a response, I decided to go the implacable route.

“Go to my bag and unzip it. Slowly.”

I ordered him to remove a few instruments. Unfortunately, Mistress Thalia wasn’t here to wield her whip, but I did have a small black leather paddle.

“Come here,” I told him. “Not like that. Stay on your knees. Put the paddle between your teeth. Hold it between your teeth and don’t drop it. Do you understand?”

He nodded, and I ordered him to crawl slowly toward the bed. Removing the paddle from his clenched teeth, I told him to rest his head against the bedspread and pull down his silk shorts.

“Slowly!”

I needed to prolong our session because, after all, I was trying to make up for Trisha’s absence. Snapping the leather cuffs around his wrists, I peeked at his erection, then walked over to the clock radio while he enjoyed a moment of suspense. I hunted

around for WQXR.

“Thank you,” he said.

We both know that a genteel-sounding concerto can muffle a telltale spanking. He stays here often and needs to be careful. Was Colin’s “thank you” acknowledging my thoughtful discretion? Or was he just praying for a nice loud whack?

I was so nervous and irate—about Charmaine hijacking my apartment, about the lobby bathroom and my ripped stocking, Trisha standing me up—that I obliged him with a very harsh smack. So harsh that my wrist felt it. I had to sit down for a moment and order him to worship my feet with his mouth. After a few minutes, I rose, giving him a gentle kick.

“If you’re very good for the rest of the afternoon, I’ll recommend a golden shower as your reward,” I told him.

The toe of my shoe caressed his groin.

“I was hoping…”

I leaned over and silenced him by inserting my crumpled thong panties in his mouth.

“Mistress Thalia and I will discuss it. After I leave. And you will be punished or rewarded on our next visit. It all depends on Thalia’s verdict.”

The skin on his cock was firm and very pink. When I brushed the toe of my shoe against his erection, he flinched. Colin was closer to coming than I had realized. I withdrew my toe by tracing a line down his thigh, carefully eyeing the clock to make sure he wasn’t being rushed. Trisha, the absentee dominatrix, was very specific about his time allotment. I walked over to the chair and picked up the paddle.

His wrists were still bound together behind his back, encased in the fuzz-lined leather. I was tempted to reach down and finish him with my hand. But no, that would knock me right off the bitch-goddess pedestal. Instead, I removed the manacles.

“You may place your hands in front.” It was a routine he’d been through before. “Two inches apart, no more and no less.”

I refastened the manacles, then picked up the paddle and used it to caress the back of each thigh. Remembering the impact to my wrist, I tapped his skin lightly. His hands were playing near his erection, getting closer. When I began to smack his buttocks, the panties fell out of his mouth. He grabbed his cock as best he could and came on the carpet.

“I’ll clean that up,” he said meekly. “If you take these off.”

I brought my phone into the bathroom. Charmaine wasn’t answering the landline or cell. But the deal we struck at noon was very clear: at five pm, I return to the apartment, stash my work toys and clothes, change back into what I was wearing when I last saw my husband, and fly so she can prepare for her sixthirty. We’ve had a few close shaves, but Charmaine has always been prompt about answering the phone.

And this time, I really needed to get back into my apartment. The laddered stocking was a serious liability. Changing in the lobby bathroom again would be pushing my luck. If noticed, I’d be earmarked for future visits and singled out by security. But putting on your sneakers in the hotel room is just out of the question.

Fortunately, dommes are supposed to be aloof, not warm and friendly like normal hookers, so I didn’t have to overcompensate—much—for my disturbed attitude.

In the elevator, I was having mixed feelings about the session. It’s exciting to rise to the challenge of being something you’re not, but domination is a chore. I never feel convincing and it’s not really what I do. I hate having to worry about whether a slave is happy while pretending not to give a damn.

Avoiding the Park Avenue entrance—where the out-of-towners vie for taxis—I waved anxiously at a cab on Fiftieth and hopped in, still clutching my cell phone optimistically. But when it rang, it was not Charmaine.

Why, when somebody owes you a phone call, do you get called by the one person in your life whose call must be dodged? I watched my husband’s cell phone number flashing on my display screen and waited for him to go into voice mail.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I told the cab driver. “Can you take me to Starbucks on Seventy-fifth and First?”

Nursing a small decaf and a large bottle of water, I dialed Charmaine obsessively. What was she doing? Trying to squeeze in a quickie before her six-thirty? In voice mail, I could hear Matt urging me to meet him at the Gap. “Hey, babe. If you get this by six, come on over, you can help me pick out some underwear.” God, what part of the city is he in? Matt has a tendency to treat his own whereabouts as an afterthought. “I’m almost there. Oh…hey, it’s the one at Citicorp.”

I should be the kind of wife who can turn a trick at three pm and help her man decide between boxers and briefs a few hours later without raising a hint of suspicion. So why is Charmaine screwing this up for me? It’s almost five-thirty and I want to be there for him!

I left a tense message for Jasmine, another for Allie. Among the blue-jeaned, stroller-pushing couples, I felt ridiculously overdressed. I was in the right place in the wrong outfit, dying to look like a pseudo-slacker again.

Suddenly my cell phone was chiming, flashing “Private.” That’s either Jasmine calling from anywhere—she’s a fanatic about that—or Charmaine, calling from the landline. I’ve got

everybody’s relationship to Caller ID completely mapped.

Or so I thought.

“Nancy!” said a female voice. “How and where are you?”

“Where—?” I couldn’t believe it. My sister-in-law never calls from a blocked number—and she had twins two weeks ago! Isn’t she better off at home? Recovering?

“Gotcha!” said Elspeth. “How’s it going?”

“Where are you?” I asked back.

“Oh, I’m leaving Karen’s baby shower.”

I froze. Her friend, Karen, lives eight blocks from here.

“I have an appointment with this amazing cake designer. Her birthday cakes are gorgeous! And so original! She designed one for the mayor’s son—listen, is it true you’re allergic to chocolate? Did Matt tell you I’m planning a surprise dinner party for Jason?”

Who knew that there was such a thing as postpartum mania. Elspeth, talking at breakneck speed, was hard to keep up with.

“Ummm. Not yet,” I mumbled nervously. “How many guests?”

How can she be planning a dinner bash for her husband when she just started nursing twins?

“Twenty max. My brother says you never eat chocolate. Well, it’s Jason’s birthday, not yours, but still! I wanted to ask. Should we go for the praline? Or the genoise? Or maybe—do you want to come with me? Meet me at her loft. I need some female input. And you need to check out these cakes!”

“I can’t! I’m in a cab—I’ll call you right back!”

A man at the next table looked up from his laptop and gave me a long thoughtful stare. I pretended not to notice and called Charmaine again. As her voice mail began to chatter, another call was coming in—Matt, causing a twinge of guilt as I imagined him pacing the floor of the Gap, confounded by too many choices. I was praying that Elspeth wouldn’t call him in the next few.

I took another swig of bottled water and fumed. Okay, Plan B: shall I duck into the bathroom here and change? What thehell. Take a cab to Allison’s and leave my tote bag with her doorman. Then meet my husband at Citicorp in my vague, woman-without-a-plan costume.

As I got up, drawing more stares from the laptop user, my phone chimed. When I saw Charmaine’s long-awaited phone number, I wanted to scream with gratitude.

“I thought he would never come,” she whispered. “Can you get here soon? He’s dressing.”

The apartment was dim when I let myself in, the door to the bathroom wide open. Charmaine was standing in front of the sink in a pair of lace bicycle-shorts. Her wavy hair was piled high, held in place with a plastic clip. I know the look well: she was wiping her shoulder carefully with a damp cloth, dabbing her neck and cleavage.

“He came on my chest but he took for freaking ever. And he kept losing his hard-on.” She frowned at herself in the mirror, grabbed another washcloth, and patted her hair. “I guess I should be grateful! He could be one of those young 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.