Sex
Black market, black book
Allison breaks down and decides to profit from her business.
Monday July 19
Last night, Jasmine cheered me up by insisting on martinis at the
Peninsula. I updated her on Allison: “Zack takes a train in once a
week to see her at the Sexaholics Anonymous meeting. Not to be outdone,
she goes to three 12-step meetings a week. But she’s not telling Sexaholics
Anonymous that she’s also in Prostitutes Anonymous!”
Jasmine took a thoughtful sip and summed it up. “So, we’ve got a
guy who Just Says No when a hooker offers him free pussy, and a hooker who’s totally wet for him! The girl can’t even give it away!”
“That’s uncalled for,” I scolded. “Allison’s in a vulnerable state
right now. When I asked her about Tom — that strange caller — she went off
on some New Age tangent. But meanwhile this creepy guy knows her address.”
“You’ve got her book, why don’t you just look him up?”
“You know I can’t do anything of the sort.”
“You’ve always been a stand-up chick, Nancy,” she answered
earnestly. The martini was making her maudlin. “And I respect you for that.”
“Thanks,” I said, cringing. Jasmine — for all her talk — would
never have looked, and I do regret peeking in Allie’s book. “Another round?”
When I got home, quite wobbly from my third drink, I had a
voice mail from Eileen Wong: “I wish you wouldn’t give out my
number without telling me!” In the two years that we’ve worked
together, Eileen’s phone manner has grown more abrupt.
“I wouldn’t give out your number without asking,” I insisted.
“A guy called Tommy Warren says you recommended me for a party
on somebody’s boat. He wants me to find three girls for him! He’s
talking about $500 an hour.”
“He’s a phone freak!” I warned her. “And you should be careful
when you get calls like that.” It’s nervy to lecture Eileen about
a mistake that I made, too, but I was in that kind of mood. She promised
to tell me if she heard from him again.
Tuesday July 20
Today Allison rang while I was sorting my laundry: “Nancy, I’ve
been thinking it over … you’re right. I want to sell my book.”
I was surprised to hear from her so soon — but I wasn’t
enthusiastic. Since Allison’s outburst at Starbucks, I’ve had cold
feet about that whole idea.
“Just take it back. I don’t want to be involved,” I told her.
“Look, I’m really sorry about Sunday. I realize you were offering
to help and I was being a jerk.”
I resisted the impulse to agree.
“I’ll give you a cut,” she pleaded, “I need cash. I thought your
friend — the new blond girl?”
Promising nothing, I hung up. But I was sort of pleased when April
answered her phone.
“Let’s all have lunch,” April bubbled. “I have to see what she
looks like — I mean, if she’s a lot bustier than me, her guys
might be disappointed.” Trust me, I thought, very few people are a
lot bustier than you, April — but California is D-cup country, and
April’s a California gal.
Wednesday evening
Lunch with Allie and April went better than I expected — Allie
didn’t bend April’s ear with her tale of addiction. April
assessed Allie’s breasts from across the table and gave me a
businesslike nod. “So why are you quitting?” April asked point
blank.
“Oh, I’m … involved with someone,” Allison said in a vague voice.
She wasn’t quite ready for April’s bluntness.
“This guy must be rich! Does he know about your business?”
“Oh, no,” Allison assured her. “Of course not.”
April looked relieved — most girls don’t want to work with a
girl if her boyfriend knows what she does.
“How many calls were you getting a day? I mean, how many were you
doing?”
“I’d say, on a slow day… two? And on busy days, as many as six.
Average — four. I have lots of afternoon business.” Allison was
coming to life, switching tenses, as she described her routine.
“And most of the guys in the book — the ones with numbers? Those
are my day guys. My nighttime guys — I didn’t have numbers for
most of them because they were mostly hotel calls — out-of-towners.”
“Don’t you have any out-of-town numbers? In my experience, those
are the biggest spenders.”
“Oh sure,” Allison said. “I’ve got a guy in Dallas who would love
to meet you! You could just call and say Patricia gave you the
number. A lot of my out-of-towners call me Patricia.”
“How many names do you work under? I’m just April, all the time.”
“Most of my local guys call me Allison. Let’s see … Patricia, Sue
or Allison. But I had to stop calling myself Sue because of ‘Suzy’
here.” She looked at me. “That’s Nancy’s name.”
“Right,” said April. “It’s going to take me a few days to get the
money together. How can I reach you?”
Allison hesitated. “Can you call Nancy? I’m hard to reach these
days.”
When I got home, I had disconcerting news from Jasmine. “That
crank caller is making the rounds,” she told me. “He’s
claiming that you gave him my number. Well, I told him I didn’t
know you. Then he said the girl he was really trying to find was
Allison but he lost her number. So I gave him the number for the Salvation Army.
That’ll teach him to nose around.”
“He’s not a normal phone freak.”
“Tell me about it. I think it’s Allison’s boyfriend.”
An obsessive, suspicious boyfriend is scarier than an STD, and
somebody else’s boyfriend is even worse than your own — an
unknown quantity.
“But why? How? I’ve never met her boyfriend. Neither have you.”
“He probably wants to see if she’s still working. Maybe he’s peeking in
her address book — following her around. Who knows? I wouldn’t put
anything past that nut. You have to tell Allison about these calls!”
I promised to do it. Now I realize that not only do I not have
Allison’s phone number, but she’d probably be flattered to hear that Zack is tailing
her. If it’s Zack, and he’s figured out how this cozy little seller’s club works,
he could have us all thrown in jail for pandering.
Tracy Quan is the author of "Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl." More Tracy Quan.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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