Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl. Tracy Quan

       1 Ménage à Quoi?

      MONDAY. 1/31/00

       Dear Diary,

      Today I had the most embarrassing experience—with one of my regulars. Howard was flat on his back enjoying our threesome with Allison when I decided to straddle him backward—something I’ve done hundreds of times. So I carefully lowered my body, confident that my acrobatics looked like zero effort.

      Howard stood firm inside of me, but I threw in a just-in-case moan for good measure. With my shoulder blades resting against his chest, all he could see was the back of my neck. Lying still in that position is more work than bouncing up and down, but it’s usually the perfect strategy when you’re doing a session with another girl. Howard can’t check to see whether her tongue is really where it’s supposed to be. And besides, it’s his favorite position.

      I felt serene. Supple. At the top of my game. Allie slithered down to the edge of my bed, placing her head somewhere between my legs—and his. I felt her long blond hair tickling my thighs. My cue to start moaning louder: “She’s soooo good at that…she’s licking my clit! Tell her not to stop! Oh, please don’t stop…”

      Unfortunately, when I thought Allison was pretending to do me, she was really doing Howard.

      “Hey!” she whispered, when he had disappeared into the shower. “When you were telling him all that stuff, I was tickling his balls with my tongue!”

      “You were?” I was indignant. “We’re supposed to pretend you’re eating my pussy! If you’re going to change the routine, you have to tell me,” I hissed. “You know I can’t see what you’re doing from that angle!”

      “He seemed to like what I was doing!”

      “Well,” I was forced to concede, “I suppose that’s what really matters.” But still. How annoying.

      Turning my attention to the bedroom phone, I quickly checked my voice mail. Jasmine’s crisp clarity—“Thursday. Don’t be late. Harry at five P.M.!”—was a welcome distraction. Then voice mail from Eileen: “I gave your number to Steven G. He’s dying to meet another Oriental. But he’s kind of kinky, so call me first. It’s for today!” Eileen Wong’s clients tend to be impulse buyers with a hundred strange quirks. And a message from Steven himself, sounding bashful but eager: “Hi, uh, well, I’ll have to call you back. Hello? Are you there? I’m on my way to an ATM. I’ll call back in ten minutes.” There was street noise in the background. Car phone? Pay phone? Hard to tell. He sounds like the type of guy who’s cautious enough to use a pay phone when he calls a working girl. Probably married. Or maybe just self-conscious and paranoid about whatever it is that turns him on.

      Allison mumbled apologetically into her cashmere sweater as she pulled it over her face: “Honestly, I thought you could see me, Nancy! I didn’t know…” As her pale shoulders disappeared into the sweater, her silly ingratiating grimace almost made me back down.

      “How can I possibly see you if I’m staring at the ceiling?” I retorted crossly.

      Howard returned, a towel wrapped around his soft damp middle, smirking with satisfaction. I was furious with myself for revealing a trade secret. To a John I’ve been seeing for more than five years! But I brazened it out with professional blitheness. As I bade him farewell, he winked and said, “See you next Monday—I’ll bring two Oscars. You both earned them!” I flashed him a cool smile.

      Allison followed me into the bathroom, pondering her latest dilemma out loud. “Guess who called? Jack! He’s trying to make an appointment with me!”

      This is so typical. Whenever I’m annoyed with Allison, she tries to distract me with her problems.

      Jack can still find new girls through the back pages of New York magazine, but he’s barred from the beds of girls like us who trade customers privately. Shouldn’t Allie know better than to contemplate seeing Jack?

      From behind the shower door, I reminded her, “We