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“Don’t panic.” Dr. Peele was holding up a speculum. “One more thing to do here.” I tried to relax. “Breathe through your mouth. Good. Many women are having voluntary c-sections. It’s safer when you can prepare for a c-section. But you have to realize, it’s major surgery. And some of your questions should be answered by a dermatologist.”
I glanced at the triplets, then averted my eyes. “Maybe I need to postpone this project.”
“You mean pregnancy?”
“Yes.” When she removed the speculum, I took my feet out of the stirrups and sat up slowly. “When I thought I was pregnant, I was excited. But when my period started? I was disappointed at first, and then I was so relieved!” Dr. Peele was perched on a stool, looking at my medical records. “The other day, I was visiting a girlfriend.” I bit my lip.
“Go on,” she said. “How many children does your friend have?”
“None. And she’s single.”
“Ah.” She placed the paperwork to one side. “I think I see.”
“I was walking down the street,” I told her. “It was so nice out! I felt sort of naughty.” Dr. Peele doesn’t know anything about my job, but I told her what I could of the truth. “And I felt free. I was wearing my size four jeans. It took me six months to get back into those!”
“And?”
“I don’t think I want to be pregnant. I want to wear my size four jeans!”
“Then you should not be. Pregnancy is more dangerous for your health than being a size four.”
Dr. Peele—closer to a fourteen than a four; founder of an A-list fertility boutique—said that?? I feel so vindicated.
On my way to Seventy-ninth Street, I stopped at Duane Reade to drop off my new prescription. I had just enough time to change into a miniskirt and get ready for Ted’s mid-morning blow job.
Thursday, June 20, 2002
A call from Milt. For the first time in weeks, he insists on seeing me solo when I want him to spring for a threeway! I was hoping to pay Allie back for Monday. Normally, he’s more than willing to be my currency du jour. But not today. “We have some important business to discuss.” More important than MY business? But I didn’t protest. Sexual book-keeping should always be invisible.
Later
I was wrapping a hot post-coital washcloth around Milt’s cock when he announced, “My house in France is almost done. You should come over with me.”
“With you?” I adopted a dreamy tone and pressed the damp cloth against his lube-drenched groin. Some girls long to visit the Riviera with a rich guy in exchange for massive amounts of shopping money. I fear being away from New York, beholden to some guy who has paid for an oversized chunk of my time, unable to retreat from a diplomatic nightmare. “I should?”
“Yes!” His hand stroked my rump. “It would be nice to have this in my bed,” he mused. “Your skin’s so smooth. And you can practice your French.” As he felt my body pulling away, he said, “Don’t worry. I promise not to abuse my privileges!”
“What exactly are you planning on my behalf?” I asked with a skeptical smile.
“I’m going to spend a few weeks in the new house,” he explained. “Make sure everything’s in working order. Get out of my wife’s hair for awhile. They’re working on the pool as we speak. You’ll have a great time breaking it in with me.”
“It’s in the Luberon?”
“An hour and a half from Nice. Right next to a vineyard … off the beaten track … we had the pool rebuilt.”
“But I don’t swim! I’m not much of a poolside girl, you know, and I’m allergic to sunshine. Are you sure I’m the … houseguest you have in mind?”
“Of course I’m sure! Stay in the shade, then. It’s a fully equipped house. I just installed a new exercise room. I converted one of the dairy sheds into a media hut. There’s a nice library with a fireplace … What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You might wear me out! I need my beauty sleep, eight hours minimum, and I don’t think I can sleep in the same bed as—”
“You’ll have your own bedroom,” he promised. “I may be a dog, but I’m a well-trained dog. If you want, you can sleep in a separate wing with the door locked. This place has more bedrooms than we need. You’ll have first choice.”
“How many bathrooms?”
“Who can remember? Six? Anyway, the upstairs rooms all have their own.”
“They do?” My body relaxed a bit. “The next time you invite a girl to your house, tell her about the en suite bathrooms upfront, Milt. You’ll save her a lot of anxiety.”
“That’s my point!”
“Your point?”
“You’re the one who knows how to talk to girls! And I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Really? Should I find someone to keep us company?”
“Now you’re talking. She’ll have a very nice room.” Milt sat up and looked at his watch. “I’m flying to Nice via Paris. I can try to get you both onto my flight or—”
“I have to think about it,” I warned him. “I haven’t promised you anything.”
“I know. But the last time you said that …” My favorite customer appeared to be suppressing a smirk. “You came around to my point of view. Remember?”
“Now look here!”
“Never mind,” he laughed. “Take your time and think it through. Tell me what it’s going to cost. I’m sure you have to get all your ducks in a row and make a few calls. I leave the third member of our house party in your capable hands. It’s all up to you.”
“My fiancé—” I began. “I can’t just go to France without—”
Milt placed his hand on top of my wrist. “It’s okay, kiddo. I know you’ve got a life.” His touch was light and reassuring. “So do I. When you have it figured out, call me.” He reached for his boxers. “That boyfriend of yours doesn’t know how lucky he is. A two-week break will keep the guy on his toes.”
Milt doesn’t realize that Matt’s my husband. Would he still do business with me if he knew?
On my way out of the elevator, I spotted Charmaine in the vestibule, coming in from the street.
Ten feet away, the super (who isn’t “supposed” to know she lives here) was hauling a recycling bin toward the back of the building. Charmaine’s a perfectionist about the apartment. Given that we could both be evicted for violating the rent stabilization laws—never mind the business we’re conducting—she’s the model roommate. As she passed me in the hall, I nodded silently, and she winked in the deliberate, labored way Botox-users must when seized with the impulse to wink. Every facial gesture’s a major decision with that girl!
If I take this trip with Milt, should I bring Charmaine? I can count on her to keep all my secrets. But first, do I really want to spend two weeks with a customer?
I’ve never spent more than a night with a john, and overnight calls make me claustrophobic. Milt assumes I’ve taken lots of well-paid journeys to far-flung destinations—that’s what high class call girls do, isn’t it? I won’t puncture his illusions by telling him about my origins. The Yellow Pages escort agency that got busted by the NYPD. A handful of hotel bars. And the nightclub (almost in Mayfair, not quite) where I hustled champagne. I’ve come a long way from that, but never lost my taste for the quick finite transaction.
In a perfect world, I’d rather turn five tricks in one day than spend five hours with the same date. My clients don’t realize this, because (they think) a girl who prefers quickies can’t hold a conversation, pass in polite society, or disguise the fact that she’s rushing you.
It’s not that simple. When you see five customers in one shift, you’re building your business. Each new date—even a guy you barely tolerate—makes you less dependent on any given client. Everyone has a favorite john, the phone call that makes you smile, but that doesn’t mean you can trust him with your future.
You see more of the world and retain more independence, when you’re in hustle mode. But you can’t stay like that forever. The price of success is losing some freedom. I now have a handful of good reliable dates I can’t afford to lose. I certainly can’t start over again in this business! And this is what I actually wanted when I began my career. So I have no business regretting my comfortable predicament. Do I?
Later still
Putting business aside, I’m never at my best when vacationing with a man. That trip to Wyoming with my husband last summer? It felt rather crowded, actually.
Thank God New York bankers only take two weeks’ vacation!
CHAPTER FOUR (#ud0d92b94-f107-5df2-9692-711b81b2a66c)
New York: Jamais Provence?
Friday, June 21, 2002
This morning, two messages on my cellphone from Milt, playing it cool while applying a subtle flattering pressure. “Did I tell you how good you’re looking? You can wear your bikini indoors, kiddo. I’m ordering a busload of poolside umbrellas, just in case you decide to honor me with your presence.”
Minutes later, he called back, sounding a more practical married note. “Can’t talk this weekend, though. In-laws! Get in touch Monday.”
Can I really get away with such a prolonged session chez Milt? It might, as Milt says, be good for my relationship with Matt—but only if I have a convincing alibi. (Spa vacation with one of my girlfriends? Minibreak en famille? But where? Pretend to be in the Caribbean when I’m really in the south of France? No, I don’t think so.)
This calls for a consultation with Liane. There are times when you need a madam’s friendship more than you need her business.
Later
Must break down my current dilemma. What to tell husband? How to avoid flying with customer, so he won’t find out real name? Or age? (Can’t let Milt see my passport!) But the first thing I need to sort out is the third person in our—in Milt’s—bed. I can’t do this trip to Provence alone—now that Milt’s on Viagra!
Sometimes I wish my favorite john were an easy hand job. One of those customers you can do in your sleep. You have to “dance with the guy that brought you,” and Milt, for better or worse, is that guy. Long before I met my husband, there was Milt, reliable and financially faithful. Three years ago, when I had that huge tax bill, I was afraid my problems would just scare Matt away. Milt came to my apartment with all the cash I needed, in one payment. We called it a season ticket. In return, he persuaded me to do something … unprofessional. Then we bickered about whether to call it a pound or a gram of flesh.
When I was alone with him, I allowed Milt to kiss me—a real kiss, just a few times—but I prevented this from becoming a habit. After a steady diet of acrobatic threeways, he seemed to forget we had ever kissed.
Until yesterday!
Is Milt hoping I’ll bend my rules again? Do something unprofessional when I’m off the grid? Away from Manhattan?
Even so, he’ll never try to kiss in front of another working girl. That much he understands. And his appetite’s too much for one woman to handle on a daily basis. Clearly, I can’t even consider Provence without some very appealing reinforcements.
The question is: Who?
Later still
Charmaine?
Milt’s only heard about her, and never pushes me to arrange a session, thank God. Two weeks in the company of my bionic twenty-something roommate might get him looking at my body in a whole new way.
She’s methodical, easy to work with—and much too ambitious for this gig. But Charmaine knows all the New Girls. For a finder’s fee, she can introduce me to someone brand new.
How tempting to bring in a newbie—someone who doesn’t yet have much business sense—to do the heavy lifting. Everyone has to be that girl at some point, and we’ve all paid our dues.
Is it my turn to collect?
When I was the New Girl, I met a thirty-something call girl who took a fifty percent cut. Belinda would literally walk around the bedroom in her underwear and heels, smoking a joint while I did the session. I was the energetic, naive bait, willing to get on top of a customer and wear myself out, by riding up and down while faking one orgasm after another. A more diplomatic girl makes an effort to arouse her own regulars, and takes a smaller cut—forty percent might do it—just to keep a hard-working apprentice in a good mood. It’s only ten percent less, but it can make all the difference to a young hooker’s attitude. Within two months, I got wise to Belinda, did the math, and started slipping my number to some of her best clients.
Perhaps a New Girl isn’t such a good idea after all. Better to do business with another girl who knows how hard you work to cultivate your regulars. Someone like …
Jasmine? Out of the question.
There’s Trish, of course. If any girl can micromanage a two-week escape from two different husbands and two different zip codes, it’s Trish. As with Charmaine, I trust her to keep all my secrets, but—having even more to lose—she’s even more trustworthy.
But way too kinky.
Once every ten years, a pro-domme like Trish encounters a manageable sleaze like Milt and flips his switch, turning him into one of her legendary creatures. An insatiable perv who can’t get enough pain, whether it’s his own or somebody else’s. Who knows what Trish might do to Milt’s psyche if I allow them to meet! I can’t afford to find out. Could she transform him into one of those mentally exhausting slaves? A golden shower addict?
He already takes too long to come. That I can handle, but kink takes its toll in a different way.
Later
As my insecurities climb the wall of my pragmatism, like so much virtual ivy, it’s all becoming much too clear. There’s only one person unambitious enough, pretty enough, yet old enough to bring on this trip. She’s safely in her thirties, and she won’t steal my best client or warp his mind.
Monday, June 24, 2002
This morning, when Allie returned my call, I was in the computer nook, dusting my husband’s college souvenirs.
“Have you heard from Jasmine?” she asked.
I aimed the can of compressed air at Matt’s shot glass collection.
“No,” I said. “Why would I?”
“You’re not still—you have to make up with her!” Allie insisted.
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s—she asked about you yesterday.”
“Oh? What did she want to know?”
“Something to do with your hormones,” Allie said in a sheepish voice.
“And THAT’S SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME WANT HER AS A FRIEND? Cunty remarks about my hormones?”
“They weren’t c—it wasn’t like that. Stop using that word!”
“Is there a better one?” I asked.
“It’s just her way of saying she misses you! Anyway, I’m sick of running interference.”
“Then give it a rest. Nobody asked you to.”
“But …” There was a strange pause. Allie’s voice was wobbling out of control. “Sh—she did. She asked me to call you and find out—I don’t think Jasmine was held enough as a child! She has trouble expressing her feelings!”
“I’ll call her,” I lied, anxious to stem the teary tide. As usual, Allie’s feelings come first—even when she’s delivering an insult from another girl.
“Please do that!” she begged me. “I’ve seen Harry at her place, twice, and I think he misses you. I don’t think I’m really his type.”
