Faking It (8 page)

"I used to do this with Andrew," I said softly, in almost a whisper.

"Who's Andrew?" he replied in the same quiet tone. It suddenly occurred to me that I'd never mentioned him.

"My ex-fiance."

"No kidding. I didn't know you had a fiance."

"Well, I did."

"And his name was Andrew?"

"Yep."

"Did people ever call you Andy and Andi?"

"You think you're the first jackass to think that's funny or original?"

"Well, did they?"

"He's always 'Andrew'."

"Not
Drew
?"

"Good God, no. I picture guys named Drew wearing argyle sweaters and Dockers and loafers."

"When'd you break up?"

"About a year and a half ago."

"Is that why you moved back to New York?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I caressed his face, now cupping it with both hands, and then followed my fingers along his neck and down his bare chest. His skin was firm, his muscles tight, his arms full and massive. God, I wanted to kiss him. As I moved my hands back up to his shoulders and massaged them almost like kneading bread, my nails slightly digging into his skin, he grabbed me by the wrists.

"Okay, that's good enough," he said. I looked in his eyes, but quickly looked turned my attention to his hands, which now took hold of my own and squeezed them--I couldn't tell which of us was trembling. He took a breath, as if to compose himself.

"Wanna know what I think?"

"What." My breathing slowed down.

"I think you're doing what you want a man to do to you, and you don't even realize it. I think you'd like someone to, for instance, touch your hair..." he tucked a strand of my hair behind my left ear, "to run his fingers along your neck..." the back of his hand glided over my left carotid, along the edge of my chin, and down the center of my neck, stopping at my cleavage, like a melting ice cube, "to just completely saturate you with touch..." he whispered in my ear.

I closed my eyes and my breathing deepened. When his index finger barely grazed my left breast, I let out a soft sigh that turned into a moan, and fell into him. He caught me just as I snapped out of his sexual trance. Once again, his eyes burned into me.

"Can I have some ice water?" I asked foggily, still staring at him. He commanded me to sit on the sofa and got me a bottle of Dasani and a glass of wine for himself. He then sat next to me. After a few sips, he began talking.

"It's all about communication," he said. "You wanna let him know what you like, and find out what he likes. And like readers, each one is different. What one does well, another may suck at--forgive the pun. One guy may like when you run your fingers through his hair, while another may want you to run them someplace else. Lovers aren't mind-readers, Andi. Never assume he knows what you want--you gotta tell him. And trust me: he'll want to know. He'll feel good knowing he's making you feel good. Men feel a sense of satisfaction when they can make a woman come, 'cause they don't know what the hell's goin' on in there. And he'll be more willing to tell you what he likes."

"But what if I don't like to do what he wants me to do, or what he likes? Or what if I don't like what he likes to do?"

"Well, then, he might not be the right guy for you."

I looked at him, confused. "Just because we don't agree on foreplay?"

"Depends on how important it is to him, or to you."

I pondered this and sipped my water.

"Isn't it true that most men would rather skip the foreplay?" I asked.

"Not if it's the best part of the sex."

"I thought the other part was supposed to be the best part. You know, the 'biggie'."

He leaned in close, and I could still feel the heat coming off his body from our role-playing before. "Let me tell you a little secret, Andi."

"I was hoping you'd kiss me instead."

"Everything they told you about sex is wrong," he practically whispered.

"Who is 'they'?" I whispered back.

"Whoever told you what you think you know." He then leaned back on the sofa, and looked at me more quizzically. "How
did
you learn about sex?"

No one had ever asked me this, and I'd never really given it much thought. I grew up in an Italian, patriarchal household on the North Shore of Long Island, the youngest of three. My two brothers, Joseph and Anthony, were handsome, popular, and extremely talented musicians, both playing professionally by the time they were adolescents. Joey was a jazz pianist, Tony a rock guitarist. They were quite protective of me until they moved out and went on the road with their respective bands. They would beat up bullies and each would walk on the other side of me, like bodyguards, regardless of whether we went to the mall or the movies. I certainly didn't turn to them for sex education. Whenever I went to one of the seamier dives where they performed, they would actually announce to the audience that I was their little sister and "off limits", much to my embarrassment. In sixth grade, when Gary Whitmore sent me a Valentine along with his phone number and a picture of himself, Tony called Gary and warned him to "stay the hell away" from me. The next day, Gary stopped speaking to me; the week after that, he gave my friend Rosie a little stuffed bear.

I don't remember much about my father; he died from a heart attack shortly after my thirteenth birthday. He worked a lot and played golf and guitar on Saturdays and attended church on Sundays with the rest of the family. He forbade me to watch soap operas ("those things are disgusting"), wear two-piece bathing suits ("you're not a woman; you're just a girl"), and swearing was absolutely forbidden in the house, dammit. After my father died, my mother was too consumed with grief to usher her daughter through any pubescent curiosities. And the older I got, the more she seemed to resent me for my youth and vitality and figure. She criticized every accessory I wore, and the sound of my laugh was "too suggestive." She bought me baggy sweaters and spandex leggings. By the junior prom, I had gained thirty pounds and the boys reviled me and gawked at the Heather Locklear-types instead.

Public school treated the matter of sex education like something as rote and sterile as the SATs, and I was simply too scared to ask my friends, one of whom called me a prude after I refused to look at the
Playgirl
magazine she had managed to get her hands on.

I babbled all this to Devin, barely pausing for a breath. So then, how did I learn about sex?

"Judy Blume books, I guess," I finally answered.

"Trust me, there are better sources."

My head sunk; God, how pathetic. I'd felt this feeling before. Shame penetrates every internal organ like bile, churning and eating away from the inside out.

Despite telling me that lovers aren't mind-readers, Devin responded to my thoughts as if I'd spoken them out loud.

"What are you so ashamed of?"

My head stayed tilted toward the floor and I took a few seconds to find a voice with which to answer him. "My inexperience."

"I don't think that's anything to be ashamed of. At least you're learning something now. You're willing to own your experience. And besides, it's not like you had much encouragement growing up."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you were told that you were off limits, and that sex was some big taboo, a secret, and you were not worthy to know about it."

I had never realized that. Suddenly I saw my childhood through new lenses.

"And that's a bum wrap," he continued. "It's bad enough that society teaches us that a woman's body is supposed to be a thing of service. You had a double-edged sword. Your brothers, although well meaning, sent a message that you were to serve no one. And both notions are dead wrong. They punished you for being who you were, for being attractive to and pursued by others. They probably thought you were too good for the average guy, but you took it to mean that
you
were the one who wasn't good enough. I'll bet you were vivacious and even sexy as a girl, and your family snuffed that right out of you."

He reached out, gently touched my chin with his hand, and lifted it, to find tears streaming down my cheek. He moved his hand from my chin and smudged the wet line across my face. I tried to look at him, but couldn't.

"You're a very sexy woman, do you know that?"

I shook my head.

"You wanna know something else?" he asked.

I felt like a little girl, and he was soothing away a scrape on my knee or exonerating me from the vase I broke. "What," I nearly whimpered.

"You turned me on before."

I sat up a bit.

"Really?"

"Hell yeah."

"How? What did you like?"

"I liked the way you stroked my hair. It's been a while since a woman's done that to me." He took my hand and held it, touching each finger. "I like the feel of your hands. You've got these delicate fingers. I'll bet men like your gentleness."

If they did, they never told me.

I looked at his hand, and moved my own so that his was now in mine.

"I like hair that I can run my fingers through," I said, looking at his dark brown layers. "I like
your
hair."

Womanhood rushed back in and took over, and my voice lowered to a soft, round tone. "And I loved the way your hands felt on my neck," I added.

He smiled and looked down--I could swear he was blushing. I moved close enough so that our legs were touching, and leaned in to him. "Do you want more?" I asked. He laughed lightly and very slightly moved back, and I recoiled in secret mortification when I assumed that he thought I was kidding.

"So," I began, sitting straight up, recomposing myself and resuming a scholarly voice, "is the purpose of foreplay to have better intercourse?"

"Depends on your audience," he said with a wink. "Actually, I think the purpose of foreplay should be pleasure, plain and simple. Stop worrying about it so much and the intercourse stuff will take care of itself."

"Again with the pleasure--you're a hedonist, you know that?"

"It's my job," he said earnestly.

"Are you saying that your clients enjoy the foreplay more than the actual sex?"

"That
is
the sex."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't go all the way with my clients, Andi."

If I had a dollar for every jaw-dropping moment with Devin, I could've bought his friggin' loft.

"
You don't?
"

"Nope."

"But you're
an escort!
What are they paying you all that money for?"

"To please them."

"And you do that without actually..."

"Inserting my penis?"

The words made me wince.

"There are lots of ways to get laid, Andi. In fact, most female orgasms don't happen during intercourse."

"Actually, that I knew."

"Have you ever had an orgasm?"

"Yes and no." Despite my hope that the conversation would end there, he was clearly waiting for me to continue. "I never had one with a man. I mean--"

"You mean, you did it yourself?"

"Yeah," I said squeamishly.

"That's pretty common. So, how did the men you were with react when you didn't have one with them?"

"Well, my first boyfriend took it personally that he couldn't get me to have one, so after that I started faking it."

"You faked all your orgasms?"

"Yeah--that I've got experience in."

"How'd you learn to do it?"

"Movies."

"Porn or regular?"

"Geez, are you kidding me? Regular."

He laughed. "I know, I just wanted to mess with you. So what kind of orgasm do you give yourself? I mean, how do you do it?"

My face burned a bright red. "I can't."

"You can't what."

"I can't tell you."

"Okay. Last question on the subject: Clitoral or vaginal?"

Oh good God. My face buried in my hands, I had to reach deep to find the guts to answer, "The first one." Finally, I detoured the questioning. "So then, what do
you
do?"

"I do lots of things with my clients, except, you know..." Rather than use words, he made a fist and moved it back and forth in a push-pull motion. "...and none have walked away dissatisfied. Well, few...I mean, they know ahead of time what they will or won't get from me, and they keep coming--forgive the pun--to see me, that is, so obviously it's enough for them. They love it, actually. For once, they don't have to work so hard, don't have to literally bend over backwards to please the guy, after which he rolls over and goes to sleep, leaving her feeling all alone. I told you: it's not about me; it's about them."

"Are all the escorts you employ like that?"

"Not all. Christian used to be, but he stopped servicing his clients altogether. He manages the business now."

"How come? I mean, how come he stopped?"

"He wanted a serious relationship."

"And?"

"And women are much more tolerant when they find out you're not actually doin' it." He continued, "James stopped, except with a few regular clients, and Simon still does even after we told him not to. Both of them charge extra and pocket the cash--that way, if they get arrested, Christian and I can say that we had no knowledge and can produce their contracts, which state that they're not supposed to."

"Smart thinking. And you?"

"What about me?"

"You don't?"

"Nope."

"Never did?"

"I told you--in my experience, that's not what my clients need."

"It's what
I
need," I blurted in frustration, surprised I'd said the words out loud.

"Oh, you definitely need to get laid," he agreed. "When was the last time you did?"

Again, I pondered. How could I answer that question truthfully? I thought about the last time Andrew and I were together, in a bed-&-breakfast inn on the Cape, the night he told me about Tanya...

...
It is supposed to be the night we finally "do it..." Flowers, candles, and expectations in abundance. We've been engaged for four months. We undress each other, and he lowers me on the bed, soft acoustic guitar music playing in the background. He touches me in all the places I love to be touched: up my thigh, inside my elbow, behind my earlobe. I run my fingers through his long hair and feel my body tremble. We're both naked. Just as he's about to go inside, I sit up, overly apologetic. He stares at me coldly for a long second, and then proclaims, "
That's it
."