The loneliness of a longtime working girl

Tuesday, 2/22/00

Around 11 last night, I got a totally strange call from Jack -- he never calls girls at that hour! That's when he's supposed to be contained -- in the 20-room cond-op with his rich wife and their perpetually dependent adult son. But last night, he sounded dangerously free. Perhaps his wife's out of town? Sirens in the background made me think he could be roaming the city streets. Or standing on the balcony in his slippers with a cell phone. It was a cold night for either.

There was little hope of detecting Jack's whereabouts because I don't have Caller ID on my landline. Caller ID is lethal. It leaves a numeric trail for boyfriends and other visitors to decipher. Private clients dislike it. Caller ID is for girls who advertise, for people who consort with the public. No one in our safe little circle has Caller ID at home. We all have our numbers blocked, as do a number of clients. If a private girl tried to prevent blocked numbers from coming through, her phone might simply stop ringing. But Caller ID was starting to have some appeal last night. Jack's phone calls are downright creepy.

"Listen," Jack said, in a pushy urgent voice. "I really have to talk to you. It's about Allison. I'll make it worth your while! I want to surprise her. Can you set it up?"

"Set what up?"

"The three of us, at your place. You can get her over there, can't you? She says you're her best friend. And besides, she's -- " His voice lowered to a desperate lust-filled whisper. "She's really hot for you. I know it. She likes it when you take control."

Good god, is he jerking off? I felt like blowing the whistle on our feigned lesbianism, right then and there. Listening cautiously, I tried to detect some telltale heavy breathing. "Look," he said, rather testily. "If you're not interested, there are plenty of other girls. But I'd rather do this with you. So would she!"

"Um, how do you know this?"

"She was telling me how much she likes partying with you."

"Really? When?"

"The other day. Come on. Help me out here. You're not being fair to me!"

Did Allie spin this two-girl tale while they were having lunch? That's really annoying, if true. She has no business using me as bait.

"Jack," I said firmly. "I wish I could help, but my aunt is visiting. She's staying with me for the next two weeks, and I'm completely tied up with family obligations."

"Your aunt? Is she ...? What does she look like?"

"My aunt?" I repeated crossly. For a moment, I forgot this was a made-up aunt. "I have to go!" Disgusted, I hung up on him. What is he thinking? Christ.

Thursday, 2/24/00

After stewing over the call from Jack, I decided not to bother discussing it with Allie. But when I saw her today in the cardio room at the gym, I forgot all about my resolve. She was on the recumbent bike, wearing a headset, which she removed when I appeared in front of her.

"Hey!" she said, quite innocently. "I've been calling you for two days! What's going on?"

"What's going on? You'd better straighten your life out," I warned her. "That jerk has been calling me and making strange requests. He says you've been talking to him about doing a threesome with me! And he's bothering Eileen as well."

She looked around to make sure nobody could hear us. Still pedaling, she whispered, "That's ridiculous! I never said that to him. And why is he bothering Eileen?"

"Because he can! You took money from this phone freak and now he's obsessed. You weren't supposed to see him or talk to him! Much less take money from him!"

Allison stared at the clock behind me and checked her pulse. There wasn't a trace of remorse in her eyes. She was in another world.

"Roxana's meeting me later at Zen Palate," she announced breathlessly. "She's coaching me for the radio show. We're brainstorming. She wants to talk about changing the name of our group. What do you think of Sex Workers Organization of New York? SWOONY. You know, like SUNY? She thinks NYCOT is kind of retro, kind of 80s. Or maybe even 70s. You know, when everybody wanted to sound sexy. But now we're demanding our place on the world stage and we have to be recognized as workers, like everybody else."

"I see."

"Want to come? I know she'd love to hear your take on this."

"No, thanks," I said coldly. "I have a regular at 3 o'clock and a bikini wax at noon. Some of us have business to conduct." In other words, Fuck you -- but I'm too ladylike to put it that way.

Later

Allie has no idea what kind of trouble she could be courting. She thinks I'm exaggerating the dangers because she doesn't know how unsafe this business can be when you're careless. I've learned, the scary way, not to be cavalier with men's appetites. Aside from that coke addict with the gun, there were a few others. And all they did was scare me. But that was enough for me. There was a guy who tied me up -- because I let him. Because I was 15, curious about bondage, and completely clueless about the dangers. He was my fourth customer ever. But once I was tied up, he gagged me with my pantyhose, despite my objections. Not something I had expected. I was terrified because I thought he was going to kill me. After he came, he apologized for scaring me -- and untied me right away. His apology spooks me to this day. I never let anyone do that again. What was I thinking? I was lucky he didn't do any of the things he talked about doing while I was lying there, immobile and frozen with fear. I was lucky, in a way, to meet up with a man who got his kicks from scaring hookers; though I wonder if he graduated to worse stuff.

Allison has always had it easy. Despite all this "sex worker" babble, she hasn't a clue what most hookers have to deal with when they start working. The wild-goose chases and time wasters. The risks you take. The stupid and dangerous mistakes you can make. If she knew what really goes on out there, she would think twice about playing hide-and-seek with Jack. Right now, she's flattered by his air of desperation, by his money, and by his horticultural choices. Okay, so Jack isn't a kinky john she picked up in a bar. He has never displayed the slightest bit of weirdness in bed. But the other day, what was that about hoping to surprise Allison with another girl? Customers are not supposed to plan "surprises."

Straight people wouldn't understand why it's so dangerous for a client to show up at your building without warning. (Unless, of course, he happened to be a sexual freak.) But a customer who disrespects the whole concept of calling first -- that guy is already flirting with the dark side of being a john. Especially if the john in question is a middle-aged guy with money. I mean, we're not talking about a construction worker who wanders into a cheap massage parlor. Professionals demand that their clients behave like gentlemen, and while this might seem quaint or silly to the new girls, it's quite a serious matter. It's too easy for customers to get away with mistreating hookers; you can't afford to have guys around who are just barely acceptable. They have to be held to a standard.

How can a girl hook for this many years in a place like New York and still be as naive as Allison? She walked right into being a private call girl, that's how. Without ever working for an escort agency. Without paying her dues. Unlike me, Allison started out as one of Liane's new girls.

I met Allie on a call at the Pierre, about eight years ago. I was alone with a client in my panties and heels, waiting for the new girl to arrive and doing my best to keep a very impatient gentleman amused. Roland had a plane to catch, but I didn't want him to come before Allie got there -- Liane would be furious, and justifiably so. I tried to distract him by pretending to be impressed with his Central Park view. It worked for about a minute. When Allie showed up, 15 minutes late, I was immensely relieved. And we actually hit it off. We worked well together, like concert pianists who have practiced their duet many times. We faked it but it was fun, and Roland loved our act. He gave us each a hundred-dollar tip on top of our basic fee. Not bad for a first meeting with a new girl!

As we waited for the elevator to reach the lobby, Allie's cheeks were glowing. She had been working for only a few months, and she was still excited by all the new places and girls, the new situations she was getting herself into. Like being late for a double at the Pierre and trying to find her house keys and her K-Y at the last minute and ... all those things that can make a new girl so flustered. On the way downstairs, I could tell she was still a bit dazzled by the Pierre Hotel's old-fashioned lushness. There's nothing trendy or Schrageresque going on there; it's a well-oiled, well-preserved Fifth Avenue institution, a very hospitable fortress.

Despite the panic on her way to the call, she had enjoyed performing well and getting paid cash for it. She couldn't wait to spend it. Though she made me feel like some sort of Jurassic tart -- I was a veteran by then -- I recognized a kindred spirit. Or thought I did. We went to Cipriani's for a snack and a drink, and as we got to know each other, I began to find out how little we really had in common.

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From the forthcoming book "Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl" by Tracy Quan. Copyright (©) 2001 by Tracy Quan. To be published in August by Crown Publishers, a division of Random House, Inc.

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