That’s what “Time Out” magazine said about Tracy Quan’s new book “Diary of a Married Call Girl: A Nancy Chan Novel.” And I got to hear for myself “straight from the (w)horses mouth,” so to speak. Ahem. Ms. Quan was demure and bookish as she read passages from her newest book on October 26th at Rocky Sullivan’s on Lexington Avenue. Her first one, “Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl,” has been translated into more than six foreign languages! Well, you know what they say, “sex sells.” And boy does it! I bought two copies that night after hearing the steamy snippets she carefully doled out to us. She’s actually pretty good at tantalizing people...getting us to beg for more...hmmm....makes one wonder.
I’d innocently (“oh, yeah...I know this woman...yeah, she’s having this book reading...”) invited my friend, Bobby Spillane (http://movies.aol.com/celebrity/main.adp?sid=344223), a writer, actor and producer, to come along. We sat next to each other on little black leather stools, staring straight ahead as Tracy nonchalantly began reading about erections, spiked heels, manacles and dominatrix scenarios. I had second thoughts whether this was the best thing to do for only our second time hanging out.
Tracy continued, “As I hooked a smooth black garter belt around my waist, I felt like a superhero sprouting magical powers. In my high-heeled slingbacks and push-up bra, I was suddenly sleek yet curvy and my suit had not wrinkled: the finishing touch. I loosened my ponytail and played with my hair, stuffed my clothes into the tote, and hid my wedding ring in a change purse...
... Trisha's weekend regular was put out by my solo arrival but did his best to couch things in submissive terms. "Thank you for coming, Mistress." He paused and looked around....Colin was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, silk boxer shorts, and nothing else. Despite a round, childlike face, he looked rather virile. It was that salt-and-pepper chest hair, much thicker than the hair on his head. I could feel steam from the shower seeping out of the bathroom. "Of course," I said sharply. "Thalia is definitely on her way." "May I offer you a drink, Mistress . . . ?" "Sabrina," I reminded him. "You may." I nodded at a row of bottles on the dresser. Five bottles of mineral water! This guy is more than prepared...I could hear my cell phone chiming in my pocket. "Mistress Thalia" stuck in traffic, no doubt. "It's me! I've been trying to get some privacy so I can call. What a disaster! You're gonna kill me! Let me talk to him, then I'll talk to you." What? Why didn't she talk to me first? I was doing my best to look imperious while feeling somewhat unnerved when I summoned Colin to the phone. "Yes. Yes, I will," I heard him saying in that flat monotone that slaves like to use. "Yes, Mistress. Of course, Mistress. No, I promise. One moment, Mistress. Right away." Slinking off to the bathroom, he looked both dejected and turned on. Trisha was apologetic and panicky. "I told him to wait in the bathroom. My daughter's playdate was canceled! At the very last minute! Do you have a ball gag?" "Um, no." "You'll have to improvise. Put some of your underwear in his mouth. Okay? Later on. Don't do it right away."
When Tracy finished she entertained questions from guests like Guy Gonzales, who was recently featured in “Time Out” magazine’s Porn issue. Having about all the titillation I could handle on a weeknight, Bobby and I made a hasty retreat. As I unraveled my big heavy steel chain from a pole and prepared to...ride my bike home...Bobby and I chatted about the discourse of the evening. I agreed with him when he commented, “erotica’s fine...just in the right place.”