Episode 2: The just-in-time orgasm

When love is your business, pleasure takes a serious toll.

Published July 15, 1999 4:00PM (EDT)

Tuesday night, July 6

Dear Diary,

Today I was the very model of efficiency. I don't mind letting
Morty go twice because he sees me every week, but his second orgasm
is never as easy as the first. When I have a busy schedule, it can
be quite nerve-racking: I have to compress our leisurely chat,
his two orgasms and my one into a period of less than two hours --
without making him feel rushed. Had I never developed the habit of
coming with Morty, doing him would be much easier and wouldn't take
as long. On busy days, this occurs to me.

Do I really need to come with Morty? Well, it's more trouble not
to. He's just so eager to please. If I thought I could discourage
him, I would. But following the example of the Serenity Prayer, I
know what's within my power and what's not! So I always time my
orgasm carefully. If I come at the beginning of the session, my
nerve endings will be too sensitive during the second half. No
matter how good a client is in bed, I don't like to be manhandled
after I come -- my breasts are especially tender after an orgasm.

I've practically got Morty down to a science. Holding out until the
intermission gives me something to look forward to, and gives him
something to do while he's getting revved up for more. Just-in-time

Some girls think it's awful to come with a client -- but isn't
there's something rather diclassi
about never coming with a john? It's like being one of those union
employees who won't move a sheet of paper from one side of the desk
to the other if it's not in their contract. What a dreary way to work!

Wednesday, July 7

Most embarrassing incident today at Duane Reade. I ran into the
appropriately named Randy -- that bald teenager from the health
club. Unfortunately, I was standing there with two boxes of Ramses
Lubricated and one box of Trojan Extra Large in my shopping basket.
I'm sure he noticed that I was buying two different sizes. Not
wanting to attract attention to my situation, I just kept
chattering. But he was staring into my shopping basket while the
owner of a stroller in front of me took a year and a day to talk her child through
some insane parental travelogue -- "First we'll take these things
home, and then we'll go to the park for your play date with Kyle.
Then we'll ..."

The kid looked way too old to be sitting in a stroller -- what is
that about? Lately, I see a lot of 4-year-olds sitting in
strollers. (Last week, I saw a German shepherd in a stroller at
the corner of First and 79th. But that tired old creature looked
like he had lived a long, arduous existence -- perhaps he needed
the break.) In the 'burbs they have road rage -- on the Upper East
Side, stroller madness. Pedestrians are at the mercy of cavalier
moms arrogantly directing their Perego strollers wherever ...
Chariots of the Tots!

Anyway, thanks to this other shopper of the parental persuasion,
Randy had ample time to check out every item in my basket. He is
such a lowlife -- most trainers are, I suspect. What rankles is the
possibility that he'll discuss my three dozen condoms in the
locker room. How embarrassing. Guess I'll just brazen it out and
"act as if." As if what? I'm not sure -- as if I only buy condoms
of one size? As if one size fits all my needs?

Thursday, July 8

I felt guilty this morning, turning off the ringer on my business
phone. Torn between making my self-imposed quota or preserving my
raw material, I opted for extra sleep.

I am not used to having my routine disrupted by a love interest. Or
a lust interest, whichever this might be. Darling Matt kept me up
until 4 a.m. talking, sipping red wine and making love -- then he got
up at 8:30, rushed off to the No. 6 train and apparently put in a full
day of work downtown. (How does he do it? I'm almost next door to
the Lexington line but still have no idea how to use the subway.
My Metro Card is still in its plastic wrapper, either
expired or growing mold like the yogurt in my fridge.)

More to the point, I cannot function on four hours of sleep.
Matthew can because he doesn't feel obliged to look his
youngest. Actually, his boyish features are holding him back on
the job, because he "doesn't look senior enough" and he thinks
staying up late will make him look more experienced and
businesslike. (His problems are the opposite of mine: The last
thing I want is to look "experienced.") The good news is that Matt
is so busy cultivating his patina of exhaustion that he doesn't
ask how I spend my days. Or evenings, for that matter ... I love
this phase of a relationship.

I woke late to discover umpteen hang-ups in voice mail -- one of my
morning regulars was so anxious to get laid that he couldn't leave
a message. "Make hay while the sun shines" -- but I was out like a
light. This is the story of my love life, isn't it? A boyfriend is
a professional liability, eating into precious time and energy that
might have been expended profitably. I should keep Darling Matt at
arm's length, but that's hard to do. The sound of his voice makes my
heart sort of quiver. And I'm starting to keep score: If he calls
before I start wanting him to, I'm ahead ... if he calls after, I'm a bit miffed.

Must go and take off this camphor mask before my 6:30 arrives.

By Tracy Quan

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