Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (14 page)

I couldn’t let it go. Instead I hit the refresh button of my e-mail. “Come to Momma.” Oh yes. Then the e-mail that turned it all around bubbled to the top of my inbox:

That sealed it for me. Let it go, indeed. Normally, girls are excited when he talks of the future, committing to things in advance, showing his faith in the relationship. This was not one of those times. This was a Skipper e-mail. You know, Skipper, of Ken and Barbie. Okay, fine, let me explain.

Some girls collected floppy bunnies with pink noses and whiskers, fluffy white kittens with rhinestone collars, or stuffed bears with X-stitched eyes. Their otherwise flat rooms had hills of mushy companions along their dresser tops, with puffs of soft cotton, hovering like mountain caps. Stuffed dolls were strewn in the valleys between throw pillows on floral bedding, there for hugs and to sponge childhood tears. I was not one of these girls.

Bunnies, kitty cats, and bears don’t have breasts. There was nothing sexual about any of them, so they never, not one, ever appealed to me, but there was always Barbie. My Barbies always made it on the first date.

Barbie had fragrant sweet-smelling plastic hair, shiny, flowing like a river, while Skipper, her kid sis, was unscented and forced to wear overalls and bangs. Barbie got insane proportions, a 1950s waist and slim, sculpted calves leading to her always-pointed toes. Always. Clearly Barbie was always midorgasm, her ass cheeks clenched in pleasure, her arms slightly hovering as if she were unsure where they belonged, and there, hiding beneath her petticoat, a square, wide vagina. Ken was behind the orgasms. Skipper stayed home and masturbated.

Skipper, in contrast to the orgasmic Barbie, was more board than babe. Flat, uniform, solid, like a square digital clock. You couldn’t find an hourglass anywhere near her. She counted the minutes until she’d see Ken again, scheming away during those long pent-up nights while Ken and Barbie relaxed in Malibu tossing a beach ball. How wretched. Ken would never see Skipper as a Barbie. She’d always be that pal, the one who got relegated to the backseat of the Barbie Jeep. And when he dropped her off at home, he shouted, “Peace out,” rather than planning their next encounter.

I am not Skipper. I’m not a buddy or a pal. I don’t want pats on the head or to be called DUDE by men. I do not have a penis. I have a vagina that works, that’s anatomically correct, and I’d like to be treated as such. And that’s how Skipper felt, but Skipper didn’t have a book with chapters about oral sex.

If I responded to Ken’s e-mail with a “sure, sounds fun” e-mail, I would be reinforcing the behavior. It would be like introducing myself as Skipper in place of Stephanie. Instead, I phoned him.

“Look, I don’t want to be your buddy. Clearly, you’re working things out with your ex.” I knew it wouldn’t work. Usually, “going back” to an ex is just “going backward.” They do it because they’re lazy, lonesome, and lustful. One of them claims “love.” So they reconcile and begin to order in dinner and watch their shows again, too lethargic to autopsy what went wrong in the first place. Then the wrong creeps back in again, leaving you sad, missing the times you ordered in and watched your shows.

Ugh, there was no point in trying to convince him he was making a mistake. Forget words, even. It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d just applied a fresh coat of Want lipstick, kissed my skin with his favorite scent, and paid seventy-five dollars for a Bumble and Bumble blowout and spoken with him in person. He wouldn’t want me more. The boy needed to figure it out on his own. Let it go!

“So, I’m just calling to wish you the best. I’m not closing a door here. I’m just letting you know how I’d like mine to be opened.”

“Fair enough, Steph. Fair enough.” Christ, what a Malibu line.

The only skipping I’d be doing was right past Malibu Ken. I might have been a little more Skipper than I would have liked to be in my past, but now I’m more Barbie. More Veronica than Betty, more Ginger than Mary Ann, more Laverne than Shirley, and don’t even bring up Thelma or whatshername ’cause they were just crazy. I’m more Puss than Boots, more arsenic than old lace, more seek than hide, and yes, more Lady than Tramp…despite the penis grabbing. And, now, hells yeah, I was letting it go.

NEXT.

THE AFTERNOON DATE IS A BIT OF A QUANDARY. SOME BELIEVE
it’s his true attempt at getting to know you. He cares less about the hook-up and more about something substantial. He wants to get to know you without the alcohol, makeup, and heels. Yes, he’s just that into you. And if you adore each other, afternoon parlays into evening.

There’s, of course, another school of thought, majoring in noncommitment. According to Dulce, “If he really liked you, he’d book you for a Saturday night. Period.” He’s hedging his bets, so if your time together is intolerable, he still has an out and alternate plans for dinner.

I subscribe to the latter, except I actually prefer afternoon dates. They feel like courting. Poodle skirts, malteds, and the beginning of something. Afternoons typically mean walks through some park on the way to something, something more, you hope. You smell it in the grass, see it in the dog leashes, and children with balloons tied to their wrists. Weekend afternoons remind me of family, so the date feels like a beginning, like a chance, laden with promise and friendship, more real in the daylight where you can’t counterfeit chemistry with two glasses of Veuve Clicquot.

I was certain Christian said, “Proper date,” so I anticipated his showing up for one. You know, at my door. Maybe along with a woefully romantic gesture of a lone red rose wrapped in plastic from the bodega beside my apartment. I’d even say, “How nice,” and pretend it had a scent. I should have known he’d disappoint me. He was Gabe with an accent.

Midweek at the outdoor garden of the Hudson Hotel, I’d met Christian, a thirty-three-year-old Eurosexual sponging off someone in Manhattan. It was worse than metrosexualism. Tack on an arresting British accent, chaotic hair I knew he’d molded with designer “mud,” and discourtesy often favorably confused for detachment, and you’ve landed yourself one of your very own Eurosexuals. This wasn’t the plan, of course, to meet another creampuff of a man who preferred tanning beds and vintage over
my
bed and vagina. But I decided to put my reservations on hold and entertain his “proper afternoon date” invitation. Maybe it was time I took “holiday” from judgmental.

Though it’s a tall order not to judge the urban dater who believes he’s clever for suggesting the zoo. It’s just so milk and water. The zoo has been done, I mean really
done
, and it’s never as exciting or original as it sounds. I’m left feigning interest in the behavior of western lowland gorillas and, in turn, of the “clever” date who’s obsessed with the reptile wing. Far worse than the zoo, though, is when a date suggests we “check out
the
new art exhibit.” As if by saying “the” I’m supposed to already know he means the much-awaited Guggenheim display. It’s not like I’m anti-art, but I prefer to visit museums alone, to stroll at my own pace and discover something just for me. I enjoy it quietly, inside myself. Typically, though, I got roped into these anesthetizing dates out of old-fashioned pity. I’d choke up a “sounds fun” at the mention of art, otherwise my taupe date would read me actual reviews of an exhibit. Yes, that’s right. Plural.
Reviews
. I won’t so much as glance in the general direction of a movie review, fearing it’ll influence my thinking.

Because Christian was an art dealer, I was expecting the worst of it, certain he’d suggest we hit the galleries, the ones with reviews I assumed he’d dog-eared from varied sources. I was sure I was screwed. I’d sooner have plucked my entire pubic area than spend my Sunday afternoon proving I could discern Kandinsky from Chagall. But twenty minutes after our date was scheduled to begin, when I still hadn’t heard from the cunning Eurosexual, the museum didn’t sound so bad. It was certainly better than being stood up.

I deserved it. Why was I even considering going out with this man? He was all flash, right down to his bleached Invisalign smile. Clearly, I was only interested in him because of those dimples, the nose, and his man scent. He smelled like Sicilian citrus, rosemary, and shaving cream. I was sure his cologne came in an orange leather box.

Okay, so he did have some redeeming qualities. As an art dealer and European, he came across as cultured and world-traveled, educated, and poised. He reminded me of my grammar school librarian, Mrs. Charles, who read us fables on rainy afternoons beside her twirling lantern that cast shapes on the walls around us. Christian, and his velvety British accent, was a whirlpool of mesmerizing, and when near him, I couldn’t help but stare at his shapes. It’s exactly why I deserved to be stood up, favoring little more about him than his looks. I warranted a life of knit one, purl two, cats, and old maid clichés. But since I was terrified I’d be lonely for the rest of my life, I allowed my happiness to rest in the manicured hands of an Englishman in New York. I was worse than a Sting song.

Despite what I deserved, on the half-hour, I received a too-loud phone call from my too-late date. “Yeah, come to ‘Felix,’ dahling.” I was both relieved and insulted. Relieved he hadn’t stood me up completely, reassured he wasn’t suggesting a day of art, but irritated that my walking pocket square was hardly an old-school gentleman. I sort of hated him. The kind of hate I couldn’t sit home with. I’d need to yell at him properly. Besides, I looked too good to sit home alone.

Restaurant Felix, on a Sunday afternoon, was a Eurotrash nightclub hiding in skin-tight bistro clothing. It was the epicenter of Eurosexuals, teeming with dark-haired men who stood in the middle of the restaurant, hovering above their cassoulets, nicoises, and croque monsieurs. They hawked their prey by extending a new glass of their old French wines to a gallery of deserving talent. “Deserving” meant she summered in Monaco, owned a leather corset or four, or screwed one of his friends who subsequently touted her as “the bouncing bird.” When I first saw Christian, his French-cuffed arm was draped ’round the narrow shoulders of one of these very men. He was wearing narrow faded Diesel jeans, two sizes too small for even me to ever wear. I felt like the man immediately. This was his Sunday afternoon station. I was not “deserving.”

Upon seeing me, he whispered, “Don’t worry love, we’ll be dining alone.” If calligraphy had a sound, it came from Christian’s mouth, in one winding strip. I was unsure of where one word ended and the next began, but I didn’t mind. His breath in my ear felt like want. He introduced me to the Jean-Lucs, Edgars, and Pieros of his crowd. In a phrase: SPF antiwrinkle moisturizer. That pretty much summed the crew up; thirty-somethings who took the year off to party, absorbing time at safari-themed nightclubs, spending their days fakin’ bakin’ it after waxing everything from their brows and backs to their sacks and cracks. I could almost smell the melanin.

At a small wooden table toward the back of the restaurant, Christian offered me the girl seat, the one against the wall with the view. “Fabulous top,” he commented as he draped a napkin on his lap. This made me smile. Scarves are my signature. I use them for everything: belts, beach sarongs, headbands, and yes, as tops.

If there were a soundtrack to this next part, you’d hear Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain,” and you’d turn up the volume. You’d start to really sing along for the chorus, but you’d picture Gabe’s face when you heard, “You had one eye in the mirror as you watched yourself gavotte.” Routinely The
Was
band complained I dressed too matronly, without ever using the word matronly. He’d regularly survey my closet. “What the fuck, Stephanie, you act like you’re fifty. No one our age wears scarves.” As he held up my Anya Hindmarch snakeskin bag, he’d command, “Go buy some Gucci, and get with it.” Gabe would stand shaking his head, in a sawhorse stance, and judge the contents of my closet as if it were a Rothko. “Here, take my gift certificate and buy something. You need it more than I do.” Clearly, when I agreed to marry him, I gave him the wrong finger.

When the waiter approached to recite the specials, Christian interrupted him without apology. “Yes, we’d like sparkling water for the table and a bottle of your Châteauneuf-du-Pape.” I wasn’t in the mood for either. I arrive at a bistro mid-July and I’m thinking two things. Mussels and mussels. And where I come from, that means vin blanc. Maybe it was his way of taking control, proving to me he could be the man in the relationship, despite his waxed brows?

Open mind. Open. Mind. Good girl.

He ordered his burger well done, which meant he was terrified of death. Why else would you char a perfectly good piece of cow? After submerging the patty in a swamp of Dijon mustard, he removed the bun, placing it on his pristine bread plate. Would he butter it first? I’m afraid not. His bread plate was his discard station, housing all the unwanted food objects from his main dinner plate. This made me think of a child. “Mommy, eww. Take it.” A child would whine, unable to eat his dinner if a pickle touched his burger. Christian had pickle issues and then some.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a voice that definitely conveyed disgust.

“Dahling, carbs are the enemy.”
No
, I thought,
you, my friend, are the enemy, your own worst enemy
. He was a thin man with a thin frame, and he wouldn’t touch a carb. I imagined a life with him where he’d eventually refuse to dine out and insist on eating chicken from a can. He then began to cut his burger into manageable bites, all at once, like a mother cutting her child’s lamb. He was such a Mary.

This is where I need to stop. If you’re a man watching your weight, counting those carbs, do it off peak, please. While dining with a lady, if you happen to eat your burger without the bun, anticipate “visions.” The visions flashing before your date’s eyes are not of pectorals or biceps. Here’s what she sees: you double-knotting laces, you racing to the bathroom after sex to clean, you holding surprise inspections of your children’s sock drawers. All that from a missing bun? Oh yes, because chances are a man who kiboshes the carbs is also quite inept in the bedroom. He might as well just order the fruit plate for dessert. Nothing says “lights-off-only sex” like a dish of berries in lieu of the chocolate soufflé. If he’s that picky about what he’ll eat at the table, I promise he’ll be just as finicky about what he eats in the bedroom. Eurosexuals are so concerned with following decorum, having the “it” cell phone and designer body, that they never really let go. When they hear
unbridled
instead of
passion
, they conjure images of an Hermès Oxer Buffalo Saddle and riding breeches. But hey, I could’ve been wrong.

So one black bowl of mussels and fries later, I was determined to find out. I needed to give Mr. Eurosexual the benefit of the doubt. It wouldn’t be fair to categorize him as a Gabe too quickly. I needed more data to plot along the axis of “ex” and “why?” That meant giving him a chance. It made sense at the time.

“I need to get this out of the way now,” he said as he leaned across our table, “because I’ve wanted to do this all day.” A glint of tongue, a shimmer of wet tooth, his lips full and ready. He kissed me softly. It felt like he was opening a present, pulling the bow apart in one smooth sweep and pull. I felt myself open to him, wanting to become easier, less judgmental, and as fast as that, in a single kiss, I caught power. His coveting me made me feel worthy and important, beautiful. He was proud to be seen with me, introduced me to his friends, in front of whom he now just kissed me. He wasn’t afraid to wear his want, which meant something because Gabe rarely did, worried someone might sneeze up a “pussy-whipped” and smack an “L” on his forehead. Gabe was more “L” than libido.

“I really want to get to know you. So far, I think you’re just fahntastic, but I want to learn so much more.”

“Well, that was nice of you to say, Christian.” His wanting me made me want him back.

“No really, I do.” He held my hand with both of his. “Dahling, let me see your card.” This is why afternoon dates rival evenings. The proof: he wanted to see where I worked, my title, my address so he could send me flowers at the office. I began to fish for my maroon business card. Once I extended it with a smile, he corrected me in a whisper, “No, dahling, your AmEx.”

Holy motherfucker.

He actually whispered it to me, as if he were telling me something mortifying, as if he’d noticed I’d just had my period in my new white pants. I knew Felix had sautéed skate fish with capers on the menu. I just had no idea I’d already had
Cheap
skate staring at me from across the bistro table. Here he was dressed to the nines, sporting Paul Smith everything, and the boy spent more on his cufflinks than my half of the bill. Who does this? And then he actually exhaled with a smile and the word
Dutch
. It wasn’t about the money. It’s about being a woman and feeling taken care of. If it’s raining out, and we’re circling for a parking spot, I would hope he’d be chivalrous enough to suggest dropping me off first while he looked for a spot. Opening doors, standing to greet people, and looking people in the eye are basic points of entry. Of course, I believe it all comes out in the wash, that a woman should offer to pay, eventually, let him know she’s with him for him, not for what he buys her, or where he takes her. But when your date mentions the word
Dutch
, it better be about the clogs he thinks you’ll look cute in. Going Dutch is nastier than giving head after anal sex. I’d sooner pay for the entire thing. So, I handed him the AmEx prepared to do just that.

Christian instructed the waiter to split the bill between our cards. I wasn’t about to argue. I became annoyed and tried to breathe through it. On my count to ten, I reminded myself to be open-minded. I mean, enough with nixing men too prematurely. I had to give him a chance. He was, after all, trying to establish a business with his brother, whom he’d repeatedly referred to as his “nagging wife.” Instead of pigeonholing him as cheap, perhaps fiscally responsible made more sense? Oh please, I wasn’t buying any of it.