Spooning (38 page)

“We've been dating just over a year … What? Marriage? Oh, no [insert laughter], we're not to that point yet. I mean, um, I want to be established in my career before I have to spend hours pouring over bridal magazines. Right? Don't you
agree?” Okay, was he buying it? I wasn't sure, but in the mirror's reflection I envisioned my hair in an elegant up-do perfect for a tiara, a subtle one, and topped off with a simple ivory veil. And, even though O's newest follicle masterpiece wasn't anywhere near completion, I knew my radiant highlights would shimmer underneath the twinkling Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling of the tent at my December wedding. I slipped into a deep wedding haze and, for lack of anyone else to think about, began to envision Mr. J. P. Morgan standing at the end of the aisle waiting for me. As I walked toward him holding my father's arm, guests would ring little bells that hung on robin's-egg-blue taffeta ribbon. I'd happened to catch an article in last months
S&S
magazine that highlighted unique wedding favors and bells were one of them.

“You know, he's thinking about moving into his own place,” I went on. “He's sooooo tired of roommates and is looking to buy … Oh, you own too! Yeah, he's thinking loft space.” Think fourteen-foot ceilings, hardwood floors … Good God, can you imagine? I could.

“You're done!” O's husky voice proclaimed. “Give me fifteen minutes and I'll wash it out.” Exactly fifteen minutes later, he led me to a plastic-covered chair in the back of the salon. Was this the finger-in-the-ear scenario I'd been promised or the finger-on-the-neck rub down action? Sweet Jesus, I wanted it now! My domestic dreams vanished in favor of graphic images of raw, rough caveman sex complete with beauty parlor bubbles and spray hoses. Seconds later, the moment I had waited for arrived. O leaned me back and cradled my head in his mammoth hand. He then placed a towel lovingly under the nape of my neck. Oh God, I was already quivering.

He was so gentle with me. I could have sworn his hands were shaking—or was that the rattle of the subway underneath? I didn't care. What I did know was that my innocent loins were trembling from the sheer excitement of what was about to happen. Warm water streamed through my junked-up hair. And then came his fingers. All ten of O's digits proceeded to massage my head with an exotic banana-scented shampoo. I closed my eyes and was instantly transported to a rainforest in a third world country. I could feel the air. It was like a warm blanket, thick and soothing, while our naked bodies were moist and sticky. I envisioned his luscious tongue twirling and licking his way like a curious serpent around my body exploring every crevasse and every hole. O and I continued our mating ritual while make-believe monkeys howled their approval from the trees. Jane Goodall, that
Gorillas in the Mist
chick—I think she was a blonde, so she knows what I'm talking about. Uh huh. It was very jungle lovin’ at O'Divine and I was into it.

O's thumb roved and ravaged for what seemed like eternity. In the ears, over the lips, down the neck, into the armpits (yes, the erogenous zone of the new millennium). Tara was oh-sofucking right. I was again relieved that I hadn't worn that ratty old T-shirt. Wait, were his fingertips rubbing my ribs or were they seriously reaching for my breasts? At that moment, O's thumb slid over the outside of my left breast. He was careful not to go too far over toward the nipple region—now that would have been too much for me to handle. But good God, he knew the female body so well. And suddenly … oh man, there it was! I'd just had my very first O'Divine orgasm. No joke! It started down there and went all the way to the top of my head. And all it had taken was a couple of fingers, some shampoo, and a strapping hairdresser.

But wait, it didn't stop there. After the rinse, he glided me to his love lair (aka his chair) and sealed the deal with the blow- dry. I sat down and bent over placing my head in between his legs. Okay, it was sexual. My head was firmly entrenched in his crotch. After the ten-minute head massage I felt I owed him at least this subtle gesture of gratitude. Up, down, right, left, went my lifeless head. It was thrashing around like a ragdoll's. I could sense his penis about two inches away from my mouth. I know, totally gross, but I was so relaxed yet wound up that I couldn't have cared less. His hand tightly gripped my blond locks as he moved my head, and at this point I was ready to have him drag me across the tile floor to the waxing table and have his way with me. Finally he flipped my head back to its normal position—head rush—and smiled slyly. “Your man is a lucky guy.”

“What? Huh?” I mumbled. “Oh, yeah. Um, we have fun.”

Back into the chair, I looked into the mirror. My new blond hair was brilliant. I had gone from a mousy brown to a sun- kissed bona fide beauty. I felt like a supermodel.

I tipped O handsomely and promised repeatedly to return very soon. O had rocked my world and lord knows it had been awhile since anyone had done that! After what seemed to be a way too long hug and a kiss on the cheek, I was out the door.

I knew that this hair addiction was going to cost me. Most women get highlights every couple of months. Well, after this out-of-body experience, I was going to have to make hair trips every couple of weeks. As I was walking across the street to catch the crosstown bus, a construction worker whistled and shouted “Hey, Blondie! Looking good!” The fashion and makeover gods were smiling down on me now. Look out New York, Charlie is back and looking good. Money well spent. Snap! Double snap!

T
hat night we all decided to go out for a big night on the town. I was gung ho to whoop it up mainly because I wanted to flaunt my new blond hair and my new hot DVF dress. By Sunday morning, I knew the makeover had worked because I woke up to find two phone numbers written on Top Shelf napkins inside my purse. Score!

Out in the living room, Tara was still passed out on the couch. She was face down next to a bowl of Ramen soup, obviously a late-night attempt at a snack. I was definitely beyond Ramen soup, but after last night I wasn't beyond finding a new boyfriend. Thanks to my new do and new chic clothing, I had gained some much-needed confidence in the dating and overall style department. No more daydreaming about walking down the aisle with J. P. Morgan for this girl. What I needed was a new fling.

Macie wandered into the kitchen and immediately sensed my good mood.

“Did you meet someone last night?”

“Perhaps,” I said coyly. “I think I'm ready for a spring fling! Do you remember Natalie?”

“You mean the Natmare?” Macie asked.

“Yeah, she e-mailed me the other day,” I said. “Apparently she wants to set me up.” Macie just raised her eyebrows in that annoying motherish way, and walked out of the kitchen hugging her coffee mug to her chest.

There was no real rhyme or reason to the time-honored rituals of dating, but after being semi-single for nearly a year in New York, I figured that if opportunity knocked, I had better let it in. Natalie was a sometimes-friend from college who last
week had e-mailed me out of the blue. I decided that it couldn't hurt if I called her.

“Charlie! Hey, how are you, Chuck?”

Her use of the nickname “Chuck” alone should tell you just what kind of “friend” she was. Natalie, aka the Natmare, and I had had Spanish together all four years in college. We had skipped the entry-level courses freshman year and instantly had been put on the intensive fast track. For four solid years, I rose before dawn to drag myself to the 8:15 A.M. classes. My r's didn't quite roll that well early in the morning, but the Nat- mare and I worked on projects together (she had a better accent than I) and traded notes. Once in a while, she would hunt me down at one of the local bars with a, “Hey Chuck! What are you doing here?” A) I am not a Chuck—chuck is a smelly, faded, basketball sneaker—and B) What was I doing there? Had she drunk so much that she'd completely lost sight of where we were and what the purpose of a bar was?

Now once again, Natalie had tracked me down, this time in the city—with a blind-date proposal. I generally tried to be open-minded about all relationship prospects. I mean, in theory, you do get a free meal with every date. Plus, most males come with friends, and one of them is bound to be at least nice looking if not cute. Either way, I was feeling good these days and it was time to put myself out there.

“Do I have a
winna
for you!” She'd gushed at me a few days before. Ugh, that Long Island drawl. Who calls boys winnas?

“Really?” I'd asked.

“Yes!”

“Oh.” It was an enthusiastic “oh,” I swear.

“Okay, so here's the deal-io.” What? “I don't know him all that well. Hottie works in a hedge fund on the floor above me.
I've gotten to be good friends with the admin on their floor and she raves about him. Ivy says—”

“Who?”

“Ivy,” my ears perked up, “the amazing admin!” That quote should go on Ivy's résumé, I thought wryly. “She says that he's down to earth, smart, well-liked, and he went to Columbia too.” Hello! Now my ears were open. An Ivy League degree was the cherry on top of the white icing on top of the chocolate cake. Score!

“So, Nat, why did you think of me?” I'd asked. This was the true mystery. I'd bumped into her once last fall and given her the brush off in a way that I hoped made it seem like I was merely drunk and clueless.

“Why you're great, Chuck! I love doing favors for good college friends.” Was she being taped or something for one of those blind dating shows?
Take a Chance on a Loser
!

“And I know you like the cute, rich, brainy types.” How did Nat know my type? Had I mentioned Mr. J. P. Morgan back in November? All she knew about me was my meager Spanish proficiency!

“Well, that's nice.” What else could I say?

“So, do you want me to set it up?” Big, deep breath.

“Sure, why not? I'm adventurous.” I had reached a new low (but also a possible high) as of four minutes and thirty-two seconds ago, when I had decided to converse with Nat.

“Now that's the old college spirit!” She cheered. What were we, fifty or something?

I sighed. Tara was going to have a field day with this one. She could not stand the Natmare. Macie had always tried to be politically correct about Nat until Nat spilled a full glass of cabernet on her at a career center function during our senior
spring. Then Nat landed on Macie's black list—not a place anyone wants to be. We ended the phone call with Nat promising me, promise-promising me, to call back as soon as she had any sort of details.

About five minutes later the phone rang. Promise fulfilled.

“Chuckie!” Ugh! Could the nickname get any worse? Now I was that psycho-killing redheaded doll with the awful bowl cut.

“Okay,” she began. “So first I need you to e-mail me a picture.”

“What?” What!

“Well, Ivy said that Hottie's friend, Joe, wants to see a picture of you before we give Hottie your number.”

“Ivy, the admin, Joe, the Hottie's friend,” I recited. Too confusing. “By the way, what is um, Hottie's name?”

“Brad. Think Brad Pitt!” Oh, genius. “So send me your pic and I will pass it along.” I felt like I could hear her taking shorthand notes about this whole process. Yes, it was beginning to be a process.

“Do I get his picture?” I said with a sneer.

“Actually, you can see his pic in the advertisements for his firm. They're on buses all around the city. Can you believe that hedge funds advertise? Gives you an idea of how bad the economy is.” Nice political slide-in. So his picture was on a bus. Classic. Was that cheesy or not? I needed an outside opinion.

“Here's my e-mail address …” Nat began to prattle on as I immediately IM'ed Sydney.

Thank goodness for Syd. I knew I would get candid feedback soon. In the meantime, I had some time to reflect on the whole situation. Here I was, being set up by my former college Spanish partner, with a guy recommended by some sort-of friend-secretary in her building, and now I had to send my picture. I was being screened! God, what had my dating life come to? It was not supposed to be this complicated. It used to be much simpler. Boy meets girl, boy calls girl, boy marries girl. Done.

Still, I realized that it was time for new beginnings in my personal life and there was no time like the present to start. So I had Syd take a picture of me that night with her digital camera. Of course, I'd had to put on one of my new DVFs for the “candid” shot. I wanted to look hot for Hottie's friend. As soon as I got into work the next morning, I e-mailed the pic to the Natmare.