you don’t grab Steven while he’s hot, you simply have to wait for the next urge to strike, and this is the third time we’ve struck out in a month. What with Charmaine’s timeshare and my new responsibilities as a wife, I’m starting to lose my impulsive quickies. It’s hard to connect these days if a guy can’t make his appointment in advance.
Too bad: Steven’s the easiest guy in my client book and I miss his pret-a-porter erections. So reliable. Too big and fast to fail. Even when you know better than to take it personally, a dependable hard-on makes you feel more successful, more attractive. A three-quarter erection backed by regular visits might yield more profit in the long run—and I know how to keep a man from going soft because it’s my job. (I’ve been doing this since Ronald Reagan was in office!) But I like it when desire’s a bit more obvious.
Lately, I’m working harder to retain those regulars who find it easier to make appointments way ahead of time. It’s better for my marriage but not so good for my ego: a man suddenly hot to see you has a more straightforward erection than one who plans ahead. A long-winded way of saying, will Steven really call next week? His hard-ons are more reliable than his projections.
The last message in my system was the most promising. I called Trisha back pronto on her cell.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes?”
“What time?”
“One second,” she said. “The dinosaur cape? It’s upstairs. Don’t forget your juice. We have three minutes.…Next Tuesday at two, he likes boots,” she mumbled quickly. “Can you find an extra girl? What about Allison? We’re getting ready for school here. That sounds perfect!” she disconcertingly chirped. Suddenly, her voice was clear as a bell. “For sure! We have to talk. The picnic is a great idea!”
Picnic? These sudden non sequiturs—second nature to Trish—always precede a hang-up. Her husband must have popped back into sight. Of course, you don’t end a conversation too abruptly when you want things to sound normal.
I can’t believe Trish has the nerve to take all these calls from girls and clients when he’s around! But I’m learning not to make judgments about other people’s marriages. Every girl must decide for herself when it’s safe to answer the phone.
LATER
My shrink has moved her office from Riverside Drive to Central Park West—and wants to know how I feel about it. Of course, you can say things to a shrink that you wouldn’t say to others but there are some things I don’t get into. Not because I’m ashamed or anything—it’s just that she would regard my feelings about hair as Material for an entire session and I don’t want to go there. My hair is a little too delicate for this world and tends to lose its shape when exposed to the elements, but I can’t explain this to Dr. Kessel, who always looks like she needs a haircut even when she’s just had one.
I used to dread visiting her windy corner. Last month, to prevent my hair from being whipped out of shape, I wore a pleated Herm籠scarf—and almost lost it. My head scarf, viciously attacked by a sudden gust, went flying toward the river. When I arrived at my session, having chased the scarf for half a block, a layer of perspiration was threatening my hair. If I never have to brave Riverside Drive again, I’ll be a happier camper than most.
On Central Park West, the air was calm today. Upstairs, a small plaque identified Dr. Wendy Kessel’s new whereabouts. In the waiting room, I found myself staring at a collection of black-and-white portraits: Eleanor Roosevelt and Josephine Baker on one wall. A young Doris Lessing on another. Where has all the ethnic pottery gone?
“How do you feel about the new look?” Dr. Wendy asked.
“It’s a little in your face.”
“Somebody else made the same observation.”
She seemed to take pleasure in the disturbance her new decor was causing. A nerdlike pleasure, not malicious. But still.
“Maybe I’ll get used to it,” I said. “It’s a trade-off because your location’s more central. Not that there’s anything wrong with the pictures,” I added.
Am I a lab rat under scrutiny? Or a valued emotional stakeholder? I couldn’t quite tell.
“Change is always a challenge,” Dr. Wendy pointed out. “Even when we expect it.”
Her therapy room is more soothing than her new waiting room: plants everywhere, peachy hues, a harmless quilt on the largest wall.
“But Josephine Baker seems out of place in there.”
“Really?” As Dr. Wendy leaned forward, some light bounced off her glasses. “In what sense?”
“Not for racial reasons,” I added. Wendy looked relieved. “She’s the only one showing any flesh.”
“That’s a good place to start,” Wendy replied. “Nu?”
“Yiddish?”
“Just keeping my hand in. I’m not that invested. Or proficient.”
“Well, speaking of…proficient, I did some business on Sunday.”
Dr. Wendy’s reaction to this short-term achievement report was hard to read.
“I know it’s risky to work on Sundays—it’s safer when Matt’s at the office. But I took the call and guess what? I almost made my quota.” I told her about my visit to the Waldorf and the ensuing muddle. “Matt was so happy when I finally showed up at the Gap, he didn’t suspect a thing. But the situation almost turned against me. His sister could have called him, said something incriminating. Or he could have spotted me leaving the hotel. But I got a fairytale ending. For now.”
“For now is not an ending,” she said. “How do you feel about the outcome?”
“Well, I didn’t get caught—which is good. But I still have this nagging guilt.”
“Because you kept Matt waiting?”
“Because I fell short of my quota for the third week running! When I got married, I had this policy—never on Sunday—but it’s totally clashing with my quota. And my quota is much older than this policy. Or this marriage. It’s too important.” I felt my face growing warm. “I can’t just abandon it.”
“Many things are older than your marriage. But some women in your position would adjust their expectations. Is it realistic to set the same goals when you have a new living arrangement which might impact your energy level?”
I blinked at Dr. Wendy. So I’m like a working mom who should be on halftime? But I have no kids, and Trisha (who does) is just as driven as any unmarried hooker. Okay, she no longer has a place where she can see guys, so her expectations may have changed—but now she has a stable of outcalls, really good ones, who stay at hotels.
What’s my excuse?
“Are you telling me I should reduce my quota?”
“No,” Dr. Wendy said firmly. “That”—her tone grew
