Diary of a Married Call Girl

“It’s a lot to keep track of,” Wendy said. “But you’re not alone. Some women call it ‘the second shift.’ Taking care of a household and a personal relationship while maintaining your professional foothold.”

“In secret?” Well, I suppose keeping secrets might qualify as relationship upkeep.

“Most people have secrets. But if the secrets are too numerous, keeping them becomes a full-time job. In today’s world, it’s common to have more than one part-time job. But most people would find it impossible to hold down two or three full-time jobs.” Dr. Wendy paused. “I want to call the management of your secrets ‘the third shift.’ Is this a useful concept?”

“So the first shift is what you do for money. The second shift is what you do for love. And the third shift?”

“Maybe it’s what brings you here.”

I told Dr. Wendy about my discovery, how this morning it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve been almost faithful in a roundabout way for more than a year.

“In my own fashion,” I added ruefully. “I don’t think my husband would understand, though.”

“The arithmetic of emotional fidelity is extremely private,” Wendy assured me.

“Are you sure it’s arithmetic? And not geometry?”

Dr. Wendy wasn’t sure.

“But you do have a system for making sense of your actions. I’m pretty sure of that.” She paused and gave me a quizzical smile. “Were you good at geometry?”

FRIDAY, 3/16/01. EAST SEVENTY-NINTH STREET

The last few days have been profitable and peaceful. Charmaine, true to her word, has gone to Florida, leaving our shared onebedroom spotless and orderly. Dust-free. Charmaine’s even more of a clean freak than I am: buys her lubricant in those disposable one-use packets, has an air purifier in the living room, and keeps a box of surgical gloves next to the kitchen sink. On the twentyfifth day of each month, she hands me a neatly arranged pile of hundreds and fifties, her share of the rent and utilities. I couldn’t ask for a more desirable roommate.

All her things are stashed in the hall closet as agreed, and I have the run of this place until she returns. It’s like being single again—when I’m here, that is—and my phone has decided to cooperate. It rings often, making me realize that I still have what it takes: an active client list and a safe place to work from.

This apartment’s safe because the neighborhood’s safe. I’ve taken steps to ensure that Matt has no excuse to be strolling past my apartment when I’m here, and no reason to be uptown on a casual basis. That’s why we moved to Thirty-fourth Street, to a neighborhood I don’t even like. I nixed every place we looked at that wasn’t safely south of Seventy-ninth, even when I found my dream condo with the perfect balcony on East Eighty-fourth. It was too close to my stomping grounds, so I made a huge sacrifice and chose, instead, the impersonal two-bedroom with the twenty-ninth-floor view, in a part of town that feels like a giant parking lot. When people ask how Matt and I can live so close to the heliport, so far from all the great food shops, I cite the FDR and limitless views. I sometimes think about the apartment on Eighty-fourth Street that I fell in love with and walked away from, but never with regret.

Today, I saw Howard at noon, followed by a surprise visit from Steven. After Steven left, I examined my naked body in the mirror and liked what I saw.

My breasts look perky and my stomach somewhat flatter. (I don’t eat as much when I have all these consecutive dates.) My face looks smoother because I’m more relaxed when I see my customers here: less chance of being spotted by my husband—or someone who knows him. Better working conditions make a girl instantly better looking.

Woman with a past has a warped new meaning this week because I feel like I’m playing a trick on time itself. When Charmaine returns, things revert to the married present. For now, my afternoons are spent in a place that belongs to my single years. But my next customer’s due in twenty minutes and the sheets need changing! So much for outwitting the notorious arrow of time.

LATER

Just before Milt arrived, Charmaine called with surprising news.

“I’m changing my flight,” she said. “I need five more days. But I’m seeing someone the morning after I get back,” she reminded me. “I’m booked solid that week.”

“Of course. I’ll stay out of your way. But don’t get too much sun!” I warned her.

“Oh, I’m not—it just looks like a vacation.” She giggled. “I’m as careful about the sun as you are. It’s really a doctor’s visit. Didn’t I tell you?”

Charmaine’s having…surgery?

“But you’re only twenty-two!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t you kind of young for that?”

“It’s never too early,” she told me. “This is like using birth control so you won’t have to have an abortion—or end up looking like one! Anyway, I’ve been using Botox on my forehead for two years. And I’ve already had my nose done. I’m not exactly a virgin.”

“But you have to know when to stop. If you keep modifying…You’ve done Botox? I had no idea!”

“Because it’s very natural. And this will be too.”

“ ‘This’? Do you mind if I ask what you’re having done? There’s nothing wrong with you!”

“You’ll see. Nothing dramatic. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. It’s my face and my future. And the biggest mistake is waiting too long to get the work done. I’m not going to let that happen to me!”

So. Charmaine thinks cosmetic surgery is wasted on the elderly.

I decided not to argue with her, but, while I was giving my four o’clock a long slow blow job, I found myself thinking about my roommate—wrinkle-proofing her brow at twenty-two! I didn’t start worrying about such things until twenty-six.

My lips were sliding toward the base of Milt’s erection but my mind was elsewhere: Is Charmaine tempting fate by starting too early with her face? What if something goes wrong in the operating room? For me, surgery’s a last resort rather than a lifestyle. So it’s her money, her body, and her future. I should mind my own business, but other people’s body parts are my business. And therein lies the problem. I’m so accustomed to making decisions about other people’s bodies that I’m ready to tell Charmaine what not to do with hers. Meanwhile, I’m the one who has gained six pounds—and when you’re 5'1" it shows. Shouldn’t I focus on that instead? As I removed my mouth from Milt’s cock, I was turning over a new leaf.

I reached for a glass of water on my bedside table to cleanse the taste of latex from my palate. There is nothing more icky than condom-breath—a hazard of the profession because you get so used to having rubber in your mouth that you might not notice.

My favorite customer was lying on his back, eyes blissfully shut, stroking my thigh. As I poured some Astroglide onto my palm, he became more alert.

“Before you do that,” he suggested, “why don’t you bring that luscious pussy over here and let me return the favor?”

“You lazy beast. All right. Don’t move.”

I turned around and sat over his face with my buttocks in the air. My hands now had access to his cock, which was threatening to grow soft. But he was getting hard again, thanks to the nearness of my pussy. I decided to let him lick me until he was properly erect. I never come with Milton but I allow him to do more with my body than, perhaps, I should because he’s the client I like best. When I wriggled away, my ass was still facing him and he sighed happily.

“What a gorgeous view!”

I mounted his cock with that in mind, bending forward as much as possible to enhance his view. His climax was louder than usual and I made a mental note not to fuck him in this position for the next two sessions. Despite his cuddly personality, Milt gets jaded rather easily. It might soon be time to suggest a threeway with Allison. Or Jasmine. I never call a client to promote myself but it’s okay to call a guy if you’re making a sales pitch involving another girl.

While dressing, he gave me an affectionate pat.

“You’ve lost weight, kiddo.”

“You’re every woman’s dream,” I laughed.

He slid an envelope under the tissue box on my bedside table.

“Don’t exaggerate. Now…where did I put my briefcase?”

Five minutes later my cell phone was chiming at me. Liane, trying to locate Charmaine. Or someone like her. Or, in the absence of someone like her, someone who’s available. After five decades in this business, first a call girl but mostly a madam, she knows that you can’t always get what they want.

“I need somebody fresh and wholesome. A Charmaine type. For Bernie. Remember Bernie? I told him about Charmaine but she hasn’t called me back!”

Bernie wants to meet a college girl (or someone who looks like one) who is supposedly getting paid for the first time. After “corrupting” the alleged newbie, he likes to cultivate her. As a result, I’ve seen him at Liane’s apartment five or six times.

Liane provides as many professional innocents as she can for the harem in Bernie’s mind.

“Charmaine would be perfect,” I agreed, “if she weren’t…still in Florida.”