Lesbian blind date

Nancy calls upon a mismatched couple and can't decide which lie is the truth.

By Tracy Quan
Published August 26, 1999 8:00PM (UTC)
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August 26, 1999

Friday morning, July 30

This morning I got a long-distance call from Roger, a big spender whom I rarely see because he lives in London. "Sabrina," he said (my London clients call me "Sabrina Tong"), "I've a special request ..."

Roger's new mistress, a transatlantic American, is an up-and-coming dress designer in London. "I promised her a three-way with another girl on her birthday," he explained. "We're flying in tonight. Amy doesn't know I've seen you before. She thinks I only have sex with my wife -- and with her, of course."


Oh, of course, I thought -- how is it that I'm perfectly at home with these arcane complications while plagued by the most provincial jealousies in my own love life? I wish I could be Sabrina or Suzy all the time, and shed all those middle-class yearnings for good. Life would be simpler -- but (I can't help feeling) shallower. Oh, God. Why are we always convinced that our hang-ups make us deeper, better people? I hate being middle class!

"How do we explain my sudden appearance in your bed?" I asked him.

"I told her I would call an escort agency. She loved that!"


"Well, I guess I could fake it -- fake being an escort," I added with a giggle. "I don't know much about escort agencies." One of my cosmetic lies.

"Well, neither does she," Roger said. "Could you bring something that straps on?"

"Has she ever been with a girl before? I don't want to scare her."


"Not since college. But she talks about that sort of thing all the time," he assured me.

When I first moved to New York, the escort agency (which I pretend never to have worked for) had quite a few couples as clients. But these days, a "couple call" is rare -- could it be coming back into fashion? Not sure how I feel about that.


Friday evening

Just got back from a strategy session at Eileen's apartment. "My sister finally left!" she announced. "I can't talk to customers when she's here. You know how many calls I missed?"

"Why do you have to hide your business from her?" asked Jasmine. It's well-known that Eileen is practically supporting her sister's son. "She's benefiting from it!"


"You don't understand," Eileen replied. "If my sister knew I was seeing guys for money, she would turn into a bloodsucker! This way, she's grateful for what she gets."

Eileen gave me a knowing look. She assumes I'll understand certain things because we're both Chinese -- she keeps "forgetting" that I'm many generations removed from China, and mixed. Pretending that I'm entirely Chinese is a politeness though, since she regards miscegenation as a genetic screw-up on the part of my Chinese ancestors.

Eileen's left eye was twitching nervously by the time we filled her in on April's scam. "Wow. Allison's gotta call the deal off, give that $1,500 back to April or she'll have a permanent enemy."


"I told her that but she's already spent it," I said.

"When did April show up in New York?" Jasmine wanted to know.

"Almost two months ago," said Eileen. "I got this call from a Chinese gal in L.A. She said April was her friend so I offered to help April relocate ... What a bitch! After all I did, she turns around and ... Sometimes it's better to stick with your own kind, you know?"

Jasmine, the lone Caucasian, pretended not to hear this.


"California girls," I interjected. "You can't trust them."

In the elevator, I apologized to Jasmine. "Eileen can't help it. When I told her I couldn't speak Chinese, she thought I was lying. She was even more upset when she realized it was true. She's much better than she used to be -- as long as you're not Korean."

"What a mentality," Jasmine grumbled. "I hope she doesn't say stuff like that around the customers!"

Saturday afternoon, July 31


Last night, I put in a call to Matt's voice mail at the office, pleading a persistent summer flu. He called back and left a super-sweet message: "Is there anything I can bring you?"

How about your severed head on a platter? I thought. But I felt better, contemplating all the money I'm going to make tonight. Why don't I call in sick to this relationship more often? I could be raking it in on the weekends!

I'm trying to figure out what to wear to my appointment with Roger and his girlfriend. It's been a few years since I've been in bed with a couple. It's important to look good but not to outshine the Mrs. or mistress, as the case may be. If she turns out to be gorgeous, everything's easy. If she's not gorgeous, the safest thing is to ignore the guy completely and focus on her. At the same time, these ladies are eager to meet a real live pro, so you have to wear the expected undergarments. I'm nervous about getting her off. Other women's orgasms are hard to figure out. Whenever I do make a girl come, I'm surprised. Like so many guys, Roger assumes that lesbianism comes naturally to hookers -- they must think we practice on each other when we're off duty! Frankly, I would rather not deal with girl-girl sex -- guys are easier -- but do I have anything better to do on a Saturday night? At least it's a profitable diversion from my own relationship.

Sunday morning, August has begun


I arrived at Roger's Sutton Place hideaway at 8 on the dot. His brother was in Southampton for the weekend, so a skeleton crew was taking care of the townhouse. An absent-minded older servant let me in, then gestured toward the stairway -- he couldn't wait to get back to the Spanish-language soap blaring away on the kitchen TV set.

On the second floor, I heard a Gipsy Kings CD playing softly. I poked gently at the bedroom door and saw Roger, lying naked on the king-size bed. "You must be Sabrina. We started a little early," he said, winking at me. He pointed discreetly to an envelope on a chair. A slim but curvy blond was kneeling on the bed, and her hair caressed his thighs as she moved her face up and down. While I undressed, she wriggled around.

It was Allison!

So this is Roger's London-based girlfriend? While Allison still had Roger's erect cock in her mouth, her eyes grew alarmed and saucerlike. She took in my look of surprise. "Sabrina," Roger said, "this is Amy." Allison had enough presence of mind to keep her lips in motion during this awkward moment. Roger suspected nothing, and his own fantasy remained intact -- whatever it was! I was too stunned by Allison's presence to sort out what was happening but I continued undressing. For an instant, I wondered -- How could Allison fool me into thinking I was her best friend while leading a secret life that didn't even include me?

As I unpacked the strap-on dildo, Allison aka Amy changed positions. I wasn't worried about getting "Amy" to reach a climax now. But just what was Allison doing?

Tracy Quan

Tracy Quan is the author of "Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl."

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