Diary of a Married Call Girl

How dare he discuss his lurking disenchantment with his sister?

Did he discuss disenchantment with his sister? Or did he merely hint at it, in the way men sometimes do—before they’re even aware of their own feelings? In which case, the betrayal is unconscious, as so many masculine betrayals are. For some reason, that doesn’t make the loss of face any easier to digest.

“These tomatoes are great!” he enthused. “What’s in this dressing?”

I threw him a flirtatious, secretive smile. If you admit to a loss of face, then you’ve really lost it.

“I think you’re a better cook than…” he paused. “Don’t tell Elspeth I said this, honey, but you’re a better cook than my mother.”

I tried to look pleased, but this wasn’t what I needed to hear.

A good marinade is no replacement for that mysterious allure which pulled him toward me when we first met. I was smart enough, while dating, to save something for marriage. Matt didn’t know I could cook until we moved in together.

Okay, so I know how to date, which is no mean accomplishment. Too many hookers are good at their job yet abysmal at the dating game. But am I smart enough for marriage? It’s a lot to keep track of. Provocative single girlfriends. Keeping my career a secret while keeping it afloat. An extra six pounds. And now, this stain upon my self-image that I’m too proud to discuss with him. Being cast as an insecure member of the Couples Brigade makes me feel officially overweight.

As Matt cleared the table, I made a decision. After he disappeared from the kitchen, I gathered up every bread stick and new potato, and all the crackers, then threw them into a bag. I started to remove a sliced loaf of Eli’s sourdough from the freezer. But Matt will freak if I do that! He’s so impressed with our constant supply of distinctive, ready-for-toasting bread. I spared the sourdough and trashed the frozen wholewheat waffles.

After I disposed of the starch-filled bag, I discovered a box of hazelnut biscotti in a cupboard.

“What are you doing?”

Matt’s voice startled me as I approached the apartment door.

“Throwing these out!” I said petulantly. “I thought you were online! Why are you spying on me?”

“Why are you throwing out the biscotti?”

“They’re stale! Can’t I clean up my own kitchen without being questioned about it?”

He gave me a puzzled look and disappeared again. Perhaps I should have said something else, but I refuse to admit to a man that I’m thinking about my weight. I learned many years ago that if you don’t mention the first five pounds, most men don’t see them. This means I am only one pound overweight in the context of our relationship—even if I’m six pounds heavier in real time. Math is more like a language than people realize. With many dialects.

Later, as I tried to sleep, Matt placed an affectionate hand under my camisole. The memory of his curious compliment came back to me. Cooking. Mother. Maybe the six pounds is taking its toll after all.

“I am not the one who confides in your sister about the details of this relationship!”

His hand stopped moving.

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I’m talking about?”

Sitting up, he put his hand on my hair and stroked it gently.

“Something’s bothering you,” he said. “I knew it when you threw out the biscotti.”

Why doesn’t he remember comparing my cooking with his mother’s less than three hours ago? Or what he said about not telling Elspeth? If I don’t remind him, I run the risk of being seen as an irrational harpy, possessed by mental demons! And if I do remind him? He just might decide that I am his mother.

God.

What’s happening to me?

MONDAY, 3/26/01

Matt has replaced the biscotti. A loving gesture, but I wish he wouldn’t.

After a weekend of moody reflection, make-up sex, and a Pilates class (to take my mind off the mood that the sex didn’t dissolve), I’ve got an emergency session with my shrink—to discuss the mood that Pilates could not vanquish.

Yesterday, while we made up, I imagined that Matt was degrading me in all sorts of unspeakable, systematic ways. I sometimes wonder about the orderly nature of my fantasies. Of the lurid underworld I’ve invented where I only have to fall into my correct place for everything to go according to plan.

Is this a hooker thing? In the business, there are too many days when sex doesn’t go the way you hope it will, and the body (his, yours) miscalculates. A hard-on falters, a dollop of K-Y is just not as much as you need, or another girl is in bed with you, misreading your cues. Sometimes a customer is late, or you get stuck in traffic, which throws off your whole routine. A perfectly choreographed day with the sex just so and everybody coming (or showing up) on time is a dream I’ve been chasing since I started hooking. In my erotic fantasies, it is somebody else who plans and organizes the sex. Within seconds of envisioning such efficient depravity, I find it hard to stop myself from coming.

And making up with Matt is always good. He’s got that instinctive knowledge about how to touch me. As I held on to Matt after an explosive climax, he had no idea what I was thinking. Matt has a certain way of coming that satisfies and possesses. Because I’m not the first or second girl in a list of favorite phone numbers. And there is no chance that I may have been the third number called, in the hope of fitting in a quickie before the Metroliner. When he comes, it’s with me, and the sensation can’t be replicated—for either of us—because it’s too intense.

In the physical afterglow, our bodies were at peace. But my mind was still warring—with itself.

LATER

This afternoon, I put it to Dr. Wendy: “I have every right to protect my marriage from my best friend!”

Dr. Wendy leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap. I could see her biceps peeping out of her polo shirt.

“Say more,” she urged.

“Allie would be hurt if she knew this but lately I trust Trisha more than I trust her. I could introduce Trish to anyone in Matt’s circle. Even my nosy sister-in-law.”

While I’ve met Allison’s parents—a trusting gesture on her part—I keep her as far from my husband as possible.

“I can’t trust Allison to keep our story straight. I feel close to her—because of what we’ve been through—but that’s not the same thing as trust.”

Trish is just a girl I work with but there is so much I don’t have to explain to her. Our priorities are the same: preserving a husband’s innocence without losing too many clients.

“Matt and Elspeth are asking me all these questions. They can’t figure Allison out. And I don’t want them to,” I said. “Straight people always want to know how you spend your time. They have no idea how nosy they are! Nobody would ask me what Trish ‘does.’ Trish doesn’t have to explain herself because she’s a mom. I feel safe around her. I hardly know her but I know we belong to the same tribe.”

“And yet, this tribe is a faction of a much larger tribe,” Wendy said.

“Marital Nation,” I suggested.

“Do you and Trish belong to a special branch of the marital tribe? Or do you feel like the married branch of the sex worker tribe?”

“Nobody I work with—except for Allie—calls herself a sex worker,” I said.

Wendy looked thoughtful.

“Is there a preferred term?”

“Oh, it all depends. Allison likes this word Trollop, actually. She’s got a new e-mail sig: ‘Trollop-at-Large!’ She’s putting together a benefit for the…Council of Trollops. And she’s dating this guy who’s making a documentary about hookers! She went and spoke to his class at the New School because he wanted to make sure there would be an actual working prostitute to answer all his students’ questions! And now they’re going out together!”

“What does he teach?”