Diary of a Married Call Girl

Allison’s passive-aggressive idealism tries my patience. Is she out of her mind?

“We cannot go there,” I said. “And you know it.”

As I glared at her, she bit her lip, averting her eyes.

“You could say you have a friend from Thailand who—”

“There’s no way! I don’t want my in-laws to start wondering how I know someone who’s in this business.”

“But this isn’t business. It’s about social justice. And it’s my chance to make a difference. For a Bangkok bar girl to be a keynote speaker at an Ivy League school? Do you realize how huge this is?”

Allie was staring at a close-up of Noi. Then she clicked on something and brought up a street scene: working girls in long colorful saris, carrying yellow placards. Three dark brown girls in their twenties appeared to be dancing in the street, in front of a purple banner. The letters, in gold, were in a language I don’t recognize.

“These are the girls in Bangladesh. Last year, a judge ruled they couldn’t be evicted from the red-light district and they had a huge celebration.”

Allie looked radiant. As if she herself had been threatened with eviction. From a red-light district in South Asia rather than a doorman building on the Upper East Side.

She moved on to a chubby pink-skinned redhead in a leopardprint bustier holding up a sign: u.s. out of our underwear…free the nevada three! A group of protestors in leopard T-shirts, nighties, shorts, and much less were gathered around the redhead.

“This is Leopard-Look Solidarity in Vegas! When the Nevada Three got arrested they were at a bachelor party wearing leopardprint thongs.…Everyone went to the courthouse to protest the sentencing. In leopard print. To show solidarity. Oops. Except for David—he’s wearing a zebra hat. He might be coming to the Cornell colloquium.”

So these are Allie’s new friends! A global in-crowd of signwaving, sari-clad, zebra-hatted card-carrying “sex workers.”

“Well, I don’t think Jason can help you with this. And I certainly can’t ask him,” I said.

As she clicked and surfed, Allie didn’t seem to be listening. She returned to some snapshots of Noi. Lithe and gutsy, in a pair of capri-style jeans, platforms, and a tank top, holding a bullhorn on a busy street corner. “From Soi Cowboy with love and condoms, Noi.” Standing at a podium in front of yet another banner in yet another language. I noticed a poster decorating the podium: a sewing machine in a big red circle with a diagonal line crossing out the machine.

Allie turned to face me. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Are you absolutely sure?”

Something had changed. The expression on her face—I’d never seen it before—made me realize, If I ignore this, it’s not going away.

But what does a girl like Allie know about visas? Her determination and ignorance could get a lot of people in trouble. Including me, perhaps. The safest course is to placate her for now. Even if I have no intention of asking Jason for anything.

“I have to think about it,” I said carefully. “He’s not the only lawyer in this town…maybe I can ask him for a referral. But you need to give me a few days. It’s a bad time to ask Jason for a favor. And I have to figure out how—without, you know, saying what it’s for.”

Indeed, I’m not quite sure what it is for. To help a righteous bar girl? Or to save Allie from looking like a silly East Side princess in the eyes of her West Side intellectual boyfriend? Maybe Jasmine’s right, and never the twain should date. But now it’s too late.

5 Fluff and Aft (#ulink_11238ba2-2955-5633-a3fc-b630e44a72c5)

WEDNESDAY, 3/28/01

Today, while picking up the rent, I got my first glimpse of Char

maine post-Florida.

“It’s…rather natural,” I said. “Like you went to a spa.”

“You see?” Looking pleased with herself, she tilted her face slightly. “More fluff and loft. Dr. Fielding is the best. Actually I did go to a spa. Just—a really good spa.”

There’s something different about her cheeks. And what about her mouth? Is it the shape of her lips? Or the color?

“I did some A.F.T. And I’m all recovered from the liposuction.”

“A.F.T.?”

“Autologous Fat Transplantation. I’m not waiting for God to give me cheekbones.”

With a pang of guilt, I suddenly realized that I’ve always taken my cheekbones for granted. But Charmaine’s already used to the way she looks now, even if I’m not, and what she really wanted to show off was our new thigh-high state-of-the-art…shredder.

“You’re gonna thank me for this!” she enthused. “I had it delivered this morning.”

A sleek gray object with a black switch and a small green light stood in the corner of the living room.

“It matches the carpet,” I said. “But why do we need such a powerful shredder? It’s not like we generate a lot of paperwork!”

“That’s what you think.”

Charmaine disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a small stack of cardboard. She’s been hoarding the condom boxes, storing them flat, and waiting for a chance to get rid of them. We both want to make sure the landlord doesn’t find anything incriminating in our trash.

“How many of these things have you got?” I asked.

“No idea. Better safe than sorry.” She held the stack of red, white, and black boxes. “The problem is…”

Our eyes met.

“I know. The different sizes. It’s a total tip-off,” I agreed.

“Totally.”

It’s not safe to take them outside to the corner where a neighbor might see you. Charmaine flipped a switch and started feeding condom boxes into the shredder.

“It’s built for volume. Turns everything into confetti. Even a Trojan Magnum box.”

She tipped open the receiving bin and showed me a small pile of black confetti. The answer to our nightmares.

“Oh—and if we really need to,” she added, “you can destroy the video boxes. But some guys like to look at those. What do you think?”

“The Bells of Saint Clemens” started chiming madly in my handbag, and I scrambled to answer.

“What a happy occasion,” said the voice of Barry Horowitz. “I tried to call you back twice, but I didn’t leave a message.”

“I think we should talk in person,” I told him. “Do you remember my friend Allison?”

“How could I forget?”

Barry’s the kind of lawyer who takes a perverse delight in solving the personal problems of hookers.

“I promised Allie—” I glanced sideways at Charmaine, now sitting on the couch doing rehab on some chipped toenail polish. “I’ll call you later when I know more.”