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!
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
