Girl Most Likely To (11 page)

“Yes, I absolutely could.” Reena turned serious. “I think that porn is disgusting. And I don’t want any part of it, watching or otherwise.”

“
You
have a problem with porn?” Cristy nearly choked on a mint leaf. “This, coming from a woman who refers to her breasts as
man-catchers?
”

“Well, have you
seen
my breasts?” Reena raised a prideful eyebrow.

“Everybody’s seen your breasts,” Pam said.

“Um, yeah. Everybody to whom I have chosen to show them,” Reena defended herself, to everyone’s surprise. “You know, lately I get the impression that you ladies think I’m too aggressive, but I like the way that I am. And because I go after what I want in the operating room as well as the bedroom doesn’t mean that I don’t have standards. I take control of my life and responsibility for my happiness. I realize now that I’m the only person I have to answer to. And I’m having fun. I may never find the love of my life, yet at least I will be able to say that I didn’t sit around on my couch waiting for the party to come and find me. Men always act like dogs, and we are expected to work as hard, make as much money, and then sit around and cry that they use us for sex? Uh-uh. That’s not gonna work for me.”

“Well, I guess you’re right,” Pam conceded, while the rest of us sat silent. “I mean, personally, I need some chivalry from a man, but generally they are a lot like dogs.”

“They
are
furry,” Cristina offered helpfully, cracking a small smile.

“And we do drool at the sight of fresh meat.” Christopher shrugged. “Gay
or
straight.”

“And they will try to mount everything in sight until someone explains to them why it is not acceptable,” Pam chimed in.

“And their loyalty is transferable,” Cristina added.

“And they’re always sniffing things they shouldn’t be sniffing. Like their socks. Why do they
do
that?” Pamela asked, her pupils dilating.

“And they wouldn’t bathe unless we made it clear that it was expected.” Reena brightened.

“And they will follow home anything that wags its tail at them,” Christopher said.

“And they almost always find a way to embarrass us at our dinner parties!” Pam laughed.

“Excuse me. That’s only the heteros,” Christopher corrected.

“And they need constant positive reinforcement!” Reena continued.

“And if you rub that particular spot behind their ear, they instantly forget their own name and start having unseemly, involuntary physical reactions,” Pam joked.

“And they always want to hump you in public!” Cristina suggested, to collective applause.

“What’s with you tonight?” Pam leaned over and whispered sloppily to me. “You’re very quiet.”

“I don’t know. I’m tired, I guess.”

“That’s crap, Vina.” Pam’s eyelids drooped slightly. “And you know it. You haven’t even touched your food. It’s Jon, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not. I…”

“Vina, this isn’t you. Don’t become one of those pathetic women who lets a bad situation with a man suck the life right out of her. Trust me.” Pam looked me straight in the eye, sober for a tenth of a moment. “I might not know a lot about picking up guys in bars, but I do know something about what a difficult relationship can do to your life. Not being able to let go of one man can turn you into a woman you don’t even recognize anymore. And the longer you hold on, the worse it’ll get. So stop it.”

Two shots of Malibu rum later, I was beginning to think that maybe I could
Stop It.
Maybe I could, as Bridget Jones might say,
do whatever I bloody well pleased.

S
oon after we settled the bill, I was helping Pamela into a cab. She had received a frisky call from William at eleven p.m. and decided, as usual, to go running. When I returned to our table, Reena, Cristy and Christopher had already made their way over to the lounge. I planted myself on a stool beside them, and was thinking about the look on Pam’s face as I closed the taxi door behind her, when Christopher’s voice interrupted my hazy thoughts.

“Are you ready for your second drink, lightweight? Another mojito?”

I sighed, and responded, “Well, it’ll be my third, actually. But who’s counting? Bring it on, Mary.”

“Good. I’ll go get that waiter.” He perked up, smoothing his hair and, I could’ve sworn, adjusting his butt as if it were cleavage.

“There’s a bartender right behind us.”

“I know. But that waiter has been giving me the eye. So if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to get my drinks from him.”

Christopher disappeared, and within minutes, Reena spotted something she liked.

“Don’t look now,” she said, with her teeth frozen, and her eyes cleverly diverted at our drinks, “but there are three cuties at nine o’clock.”

On cue, Cristy and I whipped our heads simultaneously to the left, and commenced staring directly at the men in question.

“Nice,”
Reena chided.

What we lacked in subtlety, Reena made up for in taste. We nodded our approval, while sharing a conspiratorial giggle, like a couple of married senators at a strip club. Christopher returned and dropped a raspberry martini into my hand.

“I thought you were gonna order me a mojito.” I pouted, steadying myself on what seemed like an increasingly wobbly barstool.

“I did,” he said in hushed tones. “He may not be all that smart, but he’s pretty. And that’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.”

“Classy,” I said, feeling my oats as much as my brimming bladder.

“Don’t judge me,” he snapped.

“Okay. Who’s hypersensitive now?” I laid my raspberry-tini carefully on the bar, spilling nearly a fifth down my arm, and then licked the back of my hand. “Anyway, what do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Forget about it. Just wish me luck.” He winked. “And save your money for your cab ride home tonight. Alone.”

And with that, Christopher was swallowed by the growing crowd.

“Are you sure we should do this?” Cristy asked.

“Oh, what’s the big deal?” I asked, feeling bolder, and gulping down a third of my raspberry-tini. “They don’t look like the kind of guys who would be offended by some assertive women.”

I took a moment to examine the men, who were trying to make it clear that they were checking us out, if we wanted them to. Two blondes and an African-American. The shorter blonde looked like a country mouse in city man’s clothing; as uncomfortable in his slick black suit as he was in his skin, but trying to act as if he wasn’t. Or, to put it in Reena-speak: he looked a lot like
lunch meat.
The taller blonde was clearly the alpha male, scanning the bar for attractive females, lightly bopping his head to the music and grinning at the good fortune of having woken up that morning as himself. The African-American sat back; he was taking it easy, taking it in and taking great care to cultivate the impression that he was thinking deep thoughts.

Cristina narrowed her eyes and stuck out her chin. “You can’t tell something like that just by looking at them.”

“I can do whatever I want.” I was getting sick of being told what I could and couldn’t do, and sicker of having my decisions made for me.

I hopped off my bar stool. Maybe it was time to let loose? Maybe I could rechristen myself as free of Jon by taking control of tonight? Maybe Reena’s skin was
just the ticket.

“It’s something about the way they carry themselves,” I explained. “Some men can handle it and others can’t. They’re cowboys. They prefer to feel like
they
conquered
you,
that they
won you
in some grand way. But other guys couldn’t care less who starts the game, as long as they get to play. I’m betting these guys are playful. And because I’ve been out of the game for a while doesn’t mean that my radar’s necessarily rusty. I mean…I’m not sure that radars actually get rusty, but you know what I mean.”

They were silent. I was restless. And the rest of my raspberry-tini was already well on its way to my head.

“You don’t believe me?” I slurred. “Let’s make it interesting. I’ll bet you, um, I’ll bet you a
pedicure
that if I do something very assertive, they’ll come over and talk to us.”

“You’re on,” Reena agreed, adjusting her man-catchers and sucking her teeth with her tongue, “because if it works, I get dibs on the shorter blonde. And if it doesn’t work, then I get a pedicure.”

“I’m scared,” Cristina shared.

“Oh, hush. Nobody asked you. Now sit there and look pretty.” I grinned, and then downed the contents of my glass before setting it on the bar and refocusing on Reena. “This is purely for research purposes. And also because I’m bored. So, I’m sending them a drink each, with our compliments.”

“How do you know what to send them?” Crisina asked, pulling a compact out of my purse to check her lipstick.

“I was thinking nothing says
Wanna come out and play?
like alcohol,” I answered, waving over the bartender.

“Very funny,” she shot at me, while reapplying some of my lip gloss to her own lips. “I meant what
kind
of drink.”

“Oh, well.” I fingered an imaginary beard. “I’m thinking they’re not burly enough for Scotch. And they’re not double-o-seven enough for martinis. And
we’re
far too classy for beer. So maybe just some mojitos? We
are
in a Cuban joint, right?
When in Rome.
Or should I say,
When in the meatpacking district?
”

“That sounds good to me. They’ll think we’re international.” Reena accepted the bet, breathing hard against her palm.

“They’ll think we’re escorts is what they’ll think,” Cristina suggested.

“Come on,” I teased Cristina and started feeling like a bit of an alpha-female myself. “Where’s your sense of adventure? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

The longer I live, the more I become convinced that God has someone on staff to keep record of my hubris, and find creative ways to put me in my place. Swiftly. Case in point: I specifically told the bartender to take the drinks over to
that group of three men over there.
Naturally, he walked right past
that group
and toward another group, none of whom could have been less than sixty years old, and gave them the drinks instead.

Imagine my horror when I saw our messenger saunter past our intended targets, and knew there was nothing I could do to stop him. Imagine my shame when one of the geriatrics actually lifted a pair of spectacles to get a better look at us. Imagine my rage while I explained to the bartender afterwards that (1) those were the wrong men, (2) he would have to rectify his mistake before they invited us to their next Ice Cream Social and (3) he needed to take another round of mojitos to the correct group of men. As I had predicted, when they finally received the round of green, minty mojitos,
the correct group
of men sent back over three pink, peachy Bellinis. And they raised a gentlemanly toast in our direction before coming over to introduce themselves. I was vindicated. I grabbed hold of my fruity victory drink, like the trophy that it was. I was a tigress, predatory and majestic. I spotted what I wanted and I took it.

“Ladies, thank you for the mojitos,” Alpha Male said as he glided into our bar space, and made it clear with his gaze that I was the one he had his eye on.

“And thank you all for the Bellinis. Nice choice,” Reena purred like a cougar in the direction of the farm boy. He took one look at her and hurled himself happily into her imaginary lair.

“Can we just tell you girls? That’s, like, the coolest thing any woman has ever done. I mean, we were sitting around getting drunk and talking about how men do all the work in places like this,” Farm Boy babbled, “and then you sent us these drinks! That’s great. Really. Thanks. You made our night.”

Alpha Male glared him into silence, before returning his attention toward me.

“So, what can we do to repay the favor?” he asked, slipping an arm almost imperceptibly behind me, and staring so hard down my blouse that I worried he might fall in.

Well, for starters, you can look me in the eye and ask me my name before you try to climb into my bra.

“Oh, it was really nothing. We thought you guys looked like you were worth getting to know. So we decided to have a little fun. And thanks for the Bellinis, by the way.” I leaned on the bar for support, and felt the alcohol in my system begin to take hold.

Sometimes I worried that I might actually hurt myself while trying to act as if I were this effortlessly sophisticated. At that moment, however, I shook it off. Tonight, I would not second-guess myself. Why shouldn’t I be able to pull this off? Why couldn’t I decide to be this suave? Why wouldn’t I simply choose to be over Jon? Or choose not to take so much of what my parents said to heart? Or take control of my own damn Friday night? Maybe I could just block things out and think about myself for once! I could forget about Jon. I could take control.
Icouldbe funny and still be sexy! I could do whatever the hell I wanted!
I took a deep breath and shook my hair away from my shoulders.

“I’m Vina. And this is Cristy and Reena.”

“And I’m Ron. The guy humping your friend’s leg is my little brother Tim. And this big muscle-head over here is my buddy Daniel,” Alpha Male explained.

Tim and Reena had already separated a foot from the circle and forgotten about the rest of us. She was throwing her head back and laying a hand on her throat, laughing particularly hard at his particularly witty jokes. He was convinced that she was the only woman in the room. I was watching her mannerisms, rooting her on and wondering if I looked that shameless when I was flirting with a man.

“Cristina, what nationality is that?” Daniel asked.

“Cuban.” She fluttered her eyelashes, and f lung my blue purse over her shoulder.

“Really?” He perked up. “Then you know that it is pronounced ‘Don-yell,’ not ‘Dan-yul.’ I was born in Cuba. My mother is Jamaican and my father’s Cuban. That means you can probably dance, girl. And the band’s playing salsa.
¿Quieres bailar?
”

“So Vina.” Ron turned to me after Cristy and Daniel headed for the dance floor. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m in finance.” I twirled the stem of my glass between my hands. “I—”

“Really?” He smiled, cutting me off. “I’m a VP at Globecom. You’ve probably heard of us. We’re publicly traded. So you’ve got beauty
and
brains. That’s a pretty lethal combination.”

He arched what I could’ve sworn was a waxed eyebrow, confident that he had me cornered.

“I guess so.” I was losing interest in him fast, along with my motor skills. Living inside his own happy little world,
Ron Quixote
failed to notice my sentiment.

“So what do you like to do for fun?”

“The same stuff as everyone else, I guess.”

“Do you like to party?” He wiped what seemed like an inordinate amount of sweat from his forehead, using the back of his sleeve.

Cocky
and
sweaty. Now,
that’s
hot.

“Sure. I mean, I don’t go out all that much, to be honest with you, what with working crazy hours and all. But I do okay.” I racked my murky mind for legitimate excuses to leave, but came up empty.

“No. I mean
party.
” He stared at me as if I were a five-year-old. “I’ve got some really good powder back at my place. We’re celebrating tonight. I just closed a
major deal.
”

He said it in a way that made it clear I was supposed to be turned on. I wasn’t sure what was making me dizzier—the five drinks I had downed, or the fumes of unwarranted arrogance emanating from Ron’s pores.

“Let me be honest with you,
Ronald,
” I lied, having decided he was too slimy for my taste, but not wanting to have to explain that to him. “I’m seeing someone. I didn’t mean to lead you on. I was just playing wing-woman for Reena. She thought Tim was cute.”

“I don’t see a ring on your finger,” he challenged.

Did he think he was presenting me with a loophole that I was unable to find for myself?
Eureka! You’ve found the trap-door in my commitment dilemma! Now I guess I’ll just have to go home and get naked with you!

“Well, that’s true.” I crossed my arms before me, and speared him with my most take-no-prisoners glare. “I’m not married. But I
am
in a relationship, so I
am not
on the market.”