I said firmly. Etienne has never been a phone freak, and I would hate to be responsible for spoiling him.
Some would say I’ve been guilty of that for at least five years! I don’t tell other girls that I come when he goes down on me. You never know what another pro might think—or say—about a working girl having real orgasms.
“Why don’t you come back to New York?” I said in a warmer voice. “We can discuss my heels in person. I might even wear them!”
“That would be my preference, cocotte. A live appearance. But—” He paused. “There is something I haven’t told you. Something which prevents me from examining those pretty feet in person. Not to mention the rest of your delicious body.”
Oh dear. There comes a point in every girl’s career when some of her best customers start dying or faltering for reasons of age—and stop visiting. I held my breath. Not his prostate, I hope.
“I have tried to enter the country three times in the last eight months,” he told me. “It seems my name is on one of those bothersome new lists.”
Another one of Etienne’s polite fictions?
“Or perhaps,” he continued, “my name resembles the name of someone else who is really on this list. But you have no idea. When this sort of thing happens, reality is beside the point. I haven’t been to London in six months either!”
“You’re … on more than one list?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I can travel anywhere on the continent, as long as I don’t fly! Or try to cross the channel. My American lawyer calls it House Arrest Lite.”
“You have an American lawyer?”
“And a French lawyer. And a Brit. You don’t want to know. I hope your life never becomes this complicated and tedious, mignonne.”
“The city isn’t the same without you!” I was trying to sound light-hearted.
“And vice versa!” he exclaimed. “Germany is quite boring. I promise you will hear from me when I resolve this.”
As we hung up, another call was coming in. “I’ve been trying to reach you!” Allison, sounding breathless and distressed. “Did you get my emails? What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”
“Jasmine said you weren’t feeling well.”
“You can tell Jasmine I feel fine.”
“Oh.” Now Allie was puzzled. “Maybe I misunderstood. I thought she said ‘acute medical symptoms.’”
It is just like Jasmine to assume that this rift is the result of some biological malfunction, when it’s really a consequence of her own demented—and completely insensitive—worldview.
“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” I said calmly.
“Does that mean you can work?”
“Of course.”
“Ron’s coming over Monday, at five. He wants two girls.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Honestly,” she sighed. “I must be hearing things, because I’m sure Jasmine said you were turning down business and not answering your phone.”
“Only where she’s concerned.”
“What … happened?”
“She crossed a line. And that’s all I wish to say.”
“Omigod, does she KNOW you feel this way? You have to tell people how you feel.”
“I don’t have to do anything of the sort! Jasmine is totally oblivious to anybody else’s feelings, including mine. Why should I discuss them with her?” I looked at the clock and excused myself from Allie’s impromptu sermon. “I have to go,” I told her. “I’m making a cheese soufflé for dinner. I need to concentrate.”
“It’s only eleven A.M.! What time are you having dinner?”
“I’ve never made this before. I want to get it right.”
But I don’t expect Allie to understand. Her idea of cooking is opening a box of soy burger mix from the health food store and trying to turn it into a cake.
Tuesday, June 18, 2002
Yesterday, when I arrived at Allison’s apartment, her client was running late—and she was still tidying up. A pile of New York Council of Trollops T-shirts sat on her coffee table, next to some unopened bills and a stack of zines I haven’t seen before. The cover of Queer Diaspora features a group of naked girls and guys holding up a rainbow banner: “Straight for the money! And gay for pay! Get used to it honey!” Roxana Blair, NYCOT’s founder, was the only familiar face—thank God Allie hasn’t been persuaded to undress for the cover of Queer Diaspora. Roxana’s one of those out-of-the-closet zealots who believes the truth will set us free (which any sensible call girl knows to be wrong), and she’s tried, many times, to recruit me because NYCOT needs more “sex workers of color.”
Allison poured the zines and T-shirts into a huge Duane Reade shopping bag, along with some bright pink Safe Sex Ho buttons, condom-covered pamphlets and other political detritus from her last NYCOT meeting. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
The transformation was impressive. Her grandmother’s rosewood furniture lends a grown-up quality to the room … when it’s not buried beneath back issues of Whorezine, Rentgrrl, and now, Queer Diaspora.
While Allie dressed in her bedroom, I changed in the bathroom. By coincidence, we had both decided to wear balcony bras —balconies without railings, so our nipples were completely exposed to the breeze from her living room air conditioner.
“Maybe we should turn that down,” I said. “I feel like my nipples migrated to the North Pole! We’ll both catch cold.”
“You’re right.” Crossing her arms over her breasts, she scampered toward the AC in her heels and fiddled with the controls. She adjusted her shiny pink panties. “But Ron likes it cold. He’s got high blood pressure!”
Allie and I have similar bodies, but her stomach has always been flatter than mine. I’m closer to a C-cup and she’s closer to a B. Her pubic topiary is fuller than mine. She used to wear it shorter, but lately it’s edging toward naturalism. Funny how Allie’s boyfriend, who’s so open-minded about her work, is also kind of bossy about her bikini line. He wants her to stop waxing altogether. Whereas Matt’s quite happy leaving this policy decision to his wife.
We’ve never been attracted to the same guys. It’s a problem and a blessing, that our lifestyles are so at odds. Despite our differences—her extreme blondeness, our opposite taste in men, her love affair with activism—we manage to see a lot of customers together. Clients like being around us. We fit. And she has enough sense to hide the “sex work” propaganda when they come over.
When the doorman announced Ron’s arrival, Allie turned up the chill again. It’s not my style to rush someone else’s customer, but I moved him into the bedroom, away from the AC. He didn’t object.
Kneeling on Allie’s bed, I held his cock and teased the head with an alert nipple. As she pulled my panties to one side, I felt, on the back of one thigh, a pair of soft lips. Then her mouth got much closer to my pussy and, before I knew it, Ron was coming on my neck. Perhaps he was aiming for my breasts or my face? I wasn’t sure, but I extricated myself quickly, to rinse my hair clean, while Allie took care of everything else. I had done the heavy lifting, after all.
Like most five o’clock dates, Ron had no time to linger. “I’d love to go twice,” he told us. “But there’s a family dinner …”
Allie, still dressed in her pink bra