Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (17 page)

“Yeah. I hear ya. It’s just so frustrating. I hate all this crap. I just want to meet someone, get married, and put all this other crap behind me.”

“Hey, when I was going through my divorce, do you remember what my mother told me? I know I’ve told you this before. ‘What we wait around a lifetime for with one person, we can find in a moment with someone else.’ It’s out there for you, hon, but you won’t see it until you quit funneling.”

“I know,” she said, sounding defeated. “I just don’t know how to force myself to like celery.”

“You’ve never had my celeriac puree, darlin’. I whip that shit with butter and serve it warm under a potato-wrapped sea bass. Good times, lady. Good frickin’ times.”

Yes, usually the celery stalkers go out of their way to please us, rarely bringing anything extraordinary to the table because they’re too wrapped up in the girl, spending their energy on trying to make her happy in lieu of investing in their own interests.

“Okay,” Smelly said, “I’ll try. But I’m still allowed to bitch to you about it if I get frustrated again.”

“I know, babe; you always do,” I said lovingly. “Smell, at least now there’s the idea of someone out there. It’s not like being dispirited in a fruitless marriage wishing for single. I’d rather be frustrated with hope than stuck in a sexless marriage second-guessing myself. And I should know, hon. I’ve been on both sides of the grass.”

WHEN I WAS MARRIED, I TRIPLE-GUESSED MYSELF, AND
“frustrated” didn’t even begin to cover it. I’d heard sex ebbs once you’re married. Okay, so I did more than hear it—I rolled around in the sheets alone with it. Hallmark anniversary cards depicted the end of an active sex life with illustrations of bathrobes and fuzzy slippers, cushy sofas, and remote controls. Talk shows devoted segments to helping men deal with their “you try wiping the kids’ snot all day then giving a blow job” wives.

Yeah,
so
not the case in my house.

Gabe preferred baseball to body language, soccer to sucking, and then the obvious: football to fucking. From lace garters imported from a specialty shop in Cannes to Mary Janes and a plaid skirt, Gabe only offered, “later, I promise” as he lunged for the volume setting on the television. I was married to that Hallmark card.

Did you just yawn? Oh believe me, I’m sidled up right beside ya. We’ve all heard this sad-sack story before. I’m certainly not the first to sumbitch about it, but here’s what I didn’t realize then: the antidote to barren bedroom banter isn’t about lipstick, lingerie, or lipo. It’s not something
you
can fix. It’s something you both have to work on together. And lean in close for this one: it usually has nothing to do with sex.

“Sex is the barometer of the relationship; it’s a tool to indicate what’s really happening in your relationship.” It was Phone Therapist’s way of saying something else was really going on beneath the surface.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t me,” I was quick to defend. “I was always ready for sex with Gabe. Worked out, felt good, and I’m passionate about everything else, so sex was certainly no different. He just never really wanted it.”

“Perhaps you made yourself too available to him,” Phone Therapist said. “Sometimes you can’t let them peek at all your cards.” This is exactly what I’d said to Smelly. But I didn’t think it still applied once you were married. “Oh, it’s the same when you’re married,” Phone Therapist continued. “I do it to this day with my husband. In the afternoon, he might begin to feel amorous and ask if we can have sex later that night, and even though I know we’re going to, I’ll reply, ‘well, maybe.’ Let him work for it a little.” She didn’t actually use the word
amorous
. She said
horny
. But even thinking of her saying it now makes me cringe, as if I were watching Cinemax (aka Skin-e-max) with my parents in the room.

“Listen, it’s really hard for me to now start playing hard to get after treading a lifetime in Lake Hardtogetsome.” I was saying it in response to her lecturing me about having taken Christian home to bed with me the week prior. Now our conversation suddenly took a turn toward the past, as therapy is apt to do. I suspected she’d correlate my current behavior to my childhood. Instead we spent the session discussing Gabe. Again.

Here’s the thing: yes, I could have pretended more often that I had no interest in sex. I could have smiled wildly when I realized Gabe preferred fantasy baseball to exploring any of his own fantasies with me. I could have, indeed. But I got married so I could stop playing games. Playful is one thing. Games are another. And don’t get me started on The Rules. My begging for sex wasn’t the real problem.

“Stephanie, like I said, something outside the bedroom had to be going on. A problem between the two of you that perhaps was never discussed?”

“No. I really think we just weren’t sexually compatible. Even before we got married, he expressed his fear that I was more sexual than he was. He said he was worried he would be denying me a part of myself. He was scared he couldn’t satisfy me. I thought it was just his coming up with an excuse for us to postpone the marriage.”

“How did you respond to him?”

“I just shrugged and told him we had the rest of our lives to have sex, that it wasn’t that big of a deal to me. I didn’t think it mattered then. I just thought, please, it’s sex. What’s important is that we love each other. I found my best friend. Who the hell cares about sex?”

“And now?”

“I’ll never do that again. Sexual appetite can’t just be shooed away. And it is a big deal because when he didn’t want sex, I felt ugly and rejected. I didn’t feel adored. I felt like I was in a one-sided relationship, like I loved him more. And when I felt that way, weak and sorry for myself, I became confused because my self-image had been as a strong, confident woman. Yet I wrestled with this discordance between what I felt and what I knew, which left me feeling like shit, crying all the time, wondering which way was up. I’d cry tears of frustration that I couldn’t even articulate. So then I’d act out and pick fights with him, just to hear him apologize for something he probably didn’t even do. Just to hear and feel how much he loved me. All because he didn’t show me enough, physically.” Screw that. He didn’t show me emotionally either.

Every relationship takes work and compromise, but some take less than others. With someone else, there would be less bending. It would take fewer steps to get on the same side of the lines we drew. Bottom line, our libidos were askew, which left me feeling rejected and envious of my single friends. Grass greener? At least their grass was getting mowed.

When I was married, I combed the self-help section for a respectable book on the lack of sack act. Searched for something geared toward a woman whose ailment wasn’t menopause but dealing with a
manonpause
. I couldn’t find a one. However, the magazine racks had no dearth of advice. The covers were littered with promises of improving your sexcapades with a list or a quiz, offering readers one hundred tips to turn him on, secrets to his hidden erogenous zones. Technique articles explaining what to do with his perineum and prostate promised you’d send him into orbit. Dear Lord. I wouldn’t be sending him anywhere if he had no interest in being there in the first place.

I flipped through the pages and was assured of only one thing. Had I reached out for help to one of their “carnal counselors,” their solution would involve a new pheromone perfume scent, nail polish shade, or attitude. “Suggest doing it with the lights on in front of a mirror.” Guess what? It’s all bullshit. Because while men are visual creatures, if they habitually prefer playing with their Xbox over your box, something is wrong, and it’s not your thighs.

I couldn’t tolerate one more fashion show featuring a bearded husband complaining that his dumpy housewife, who always somehow had cake batter in her hair, used to be HOT and now let herself go. It usually preceded another show about how Wifey can’t get Hubby to leave the garage for her. “I even tried replacing the batteries in some of his tools with a note reading, ‘turn me on instead.’” Everything was solved once they slapped some dye on her and gave her a blowout. Heels. A skirt. Close up on flannel man’s mouth agape. It was all a sham.

I took matters into my own hand, and when my orgasm came to a close, I’d cry softly. Staring at the ceiling, I envisioned shapes in the texture of it as the tears blurred. How did I get here? I knew, in those moments, I was more alone than I ever was when I was single. Because now there were shoulds.

I should have had more sex when I was single. Once I was married, I was stuck. Even when I begged and literally got on my knees for it, he was too tired or not in the mood. Then I was selfish because I didn’t understand how Hard. He. Worked. or how Tired. He. Was. When you’re single, you’re salacious. Then you’re married, and you’re suddenly selfish, selfish for wanting sex with your husband.

It was tragic. I became the wife they show in porno films. Hubby goes to the garage to play with his car, or tools, or something masculine, and I go sulk in the barn, left to stare lustfully at the horses. Then Wifey gets her Mc’Fixins. Brutes arrive and take over, brutes who smell like sports and taste like salt. Gabe and I lived on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, far from the stables. And my diet prohibited anything with “Mc” in it.

I begrudged my single friends’ freedom to ring Pavlovian bells and have their men salivate. Over warm sake and charashi boxes, they shared their one-night-stand details, and between salty bites, I wanted to lick up their slutty lives, dig my stacked heels into their limbs, and navigate their walks of shame. I hankered to feel sore and hungover from too much sex. I coveted the tramps their doormen thought they were. I wanted my face to sting from his stubble from a night full of kissing and grinding and hands up skirts. I missed the dirty, missed everything I never had, and I wished for their lives full of funnel cake and celery. I missed the future I was about to have. Be careful what you wish for.

LITTLE BLACK DRESSES ONLY TAKE YOU SO FAR. I DON’T
care what Audrey got away with.

I’d been dating Oliver, the Cuban from the café, for several weeks, even if he was a bit more celery than I would’ve liked. Since no one is perfect, I tried to enjoy our now together, less concerned about where it was going. He had procured an impossible reservation at Il-something-or-other, and I’d exhausted every hem of cloth in my closet-full-of-nothing-to-wear on my prior dates with him. I required something boobalicious. According to Gay Max, aside from my snark and hair, my breasts are my best assets. I corrected him over the phone, “It’s not my breasts. Victoria’s ‘secret’ is the padding, my friend.”

“What. Ever. Men like busty. We don’t care if they’re smacked behind shoulder pad bras of armor as long as we can stare at cleavage. Cleavage is hot.” Like balding men in baseball caps, padded bras are false advertising. I’m all about the fine print. Bring on the plunging black necklines and padded bras. All is fair in dating and décolleté.

“Max, do you know what happened to me last time I brought on the cleavage?”

“No.”

“Does ‘chicken cutlets’ ring a bell?”

He began to giggle, which signaled he did indeed remember my chicken tragedy. And I’m not talking about the fact that I was a vegetarian for nine years until Gabe tempted me to eat a chicken nugget. The chicken cutlets I’m now in love with cannot be consumed. They’re add-on breasts, silicone cups you slide into your bra; there’s even some nipple mimicking going on.

Most men don’t know that women tape their tits together. Some bras just don’t cut it, and if you’re backless, well, it’s all about the surgical tape. Back to the cutlets. Do I need them? No. But are they fun? Hells, yeah. Turn my c’s into d’s—delightfuls. I bring them out on special occasions. Like, okay, you’re on a date with a new boy and you know he’s not going home with you; it’s safe to wear the cutlets. Certain dresses, tops, occasions where you want to be boobalicious call for the cutlets.

A word of warning on the cutlets: don’t get caught running late, in a sweat and whirl to get downtown. ’Cause running late means sweat. Running late means slippery when wet. It’s exactly what had happened to me the last time I’d braved boobalicious. I was out. Someone dropped an earring. I leaned down to help the girl out, and my cutlet slid out, raw. Tripping to clutch her earring, I actually stepped on my tit-for-the-night. Oh dear God, had anyone noticed? Oh yes. What’s a girl to do? It wasn’t exactly a Lee Press-On Nail. I pulled a fucking Julia Child. Picked up the chicken, patted it off, and slipped that sucker back into place with a smile. Then I drank a bottle of wine.

“Max, my liver can’t handle another bottle of wine tonight.”

“Fine, just wear your coat-of-armor bra and a dangly necklace that kind of falls into your boobs. That’s almost as hot as those stripper shoes you have.”

“I have stripper shoes?”

“Yuh, those ones with the clear heels. Strippers wear them.”

“They do?” I felt my eyebrows pinching together.

“Oh yeah, hot.
Hot
.” Ew. When we got off the phone, I put the shoes beside the garbage chute in my apartment hallway. No army would find salvation in those heels. Maybe a neighbor would.

When I suggested Bloomingdale’s to Smelly, she revised Operation Outfit for Oliver Durán. “I have two words for you, Klein: Berg. Dorf’s.” Smelly never had a sister, and I consider myself on loan to her at all hours of the night, indefinitely, despite the fact that she runs actual errands at Bergdorf Goodman’s department store. My to-do lists involve milk, color negative film transparencies, and dog toys. Duane Reade and tampons. Smelly’s tasks include wardrobe preselection, “trunk shows,” and “the most insane stilettos.” The only thing keeping me from punting Smelly across the waxed Bergdorf floors is that she’s as sweet as Häagen-Dazs French Vanilla, and she lets me borrow anything I want from her wardrobe of “hip without making you look hippy.”

Mary, an oversized woman with a higher-pitched voice than expected, greeted us on the fourth floor, near the fur salon. Her scent was more “Kimmi with an i” than “Mary,” a plume of cake batter and sparkly Urban Decay products. She probably sat on all the boys’ laps in junior high. In true JV fashion, she led us toward a dressing room, looping her arms through ours as if she’d known us since passing notes was the thing to do. Despite her warmth, I was terrified of Bergdorf’s. It’s not the twirl of floors or The Elevator, toe-to-top looks I abide from the canary-yellow-bejeweled saleswomen. It has everything to do with Rome.

ROME WAS A WALKING AMPERSAND. SHE IMBUED ROOMS
with Colefax & Fowler, Brunschwig & Fils, and Cowtan & Tout fabrics, Aside from her estate in Long Island and her five-bedroom home in Atherton, California, she lived at Bergdorf’s. She frequented the store in lieu of eating—it’s the Bergdorf Binge Diet. I was terrified I’d run into her.

As a size sixteen who insisted she was a twelve, Gabe’s mother never felt deterred to shop at Bergdorf’s. Cashmere wraps, Judith Lieber handbags, and Manolo’s always fit, despite how much she shoveled in for dinner. “Well, I’ve always had very narrow feet.” Besides her mind, nothing about Romina Rosen was narrow, and I always marveled how those tiny kitten heels didn’t buckle under the heft of
The Bulldog
. It was her perpetual scowl and way of walking that coined my private nickname for her.

Insisting Gabe and I register at Bergdorf’s, Rome took me there when she thought we were only engaged; our marriage was still a secret. I’d already registered at Bloomingdale’s with my mother, but this was my attempt at making Rome feel included. I didn’t want to be doing this. Any of it. And I didn’t want to spend any more time with her than was absolutely necessary, but I did it for Gabe. Acting 101.

As Rome and I approached the escalators, she whispered, “You have to see this woman’s engagement ring. Out-rage-ous.” Rome wore a sixteen-stone, platinum-set, Tiffany & Co. diamond wedding band from the Schlumberger collection on her right ring finger because her nine-carat, center-cut, oval engagement ring took up a quarter of her left hand. I was curious to see what Rome thought was “out-rage-ous.”

“The woman gives me attitude,” Rome continued. “Who is she to give
me
attitude? She’s the one on her feet all day. I mean, I’m not the one who has to work.” Note to faint-hearted self: working is bad. When we passed the fake redhead with the real rock, Rome poked me. “Have you eva?” I didn’t notice the ring, only Rome’s fierce obsession with the thin woman whose hair probably never frizzed, even in the rain. Rome looked as if she wanted to eat her, and I wasn’t sure if my nightmare-in-law hated or envied the saleswoman behind the glass case.

I knew exactly how that felt.

At the end of the day, I was horrified by how similar I was to Rome, how we had the same exact taste in everything from our disdain of fennel to our love of ribbons. We both adored peonies, monkeys, and rerun episodes of Martha Stewart. Each of us saved the Thanksgiving issues of all the cooking magazines and made the same face when we liked something we were eating, closing one eye a little more than the other. Relaxing involved knitting and creative “projects.” We had all this in common, yet she made hating me a sport.

I really don’t know why she hated me, but I have my suspicions. When little boys are in love with their mothers, sometimes they climb onto their laps—“Mommy, I want to marry you.”

That’s when mommies laugh and tell their little boys, “No, sweetie, I’m already married, but one day you’re going to meet a woman you love, and you’ll marry her. And, it won’t mean you love me any less.” I’m guessing Rome never had that little chat with her dimple-faced son, or with herself for that matter. “It won’t mean you love me any less” was a hat Rome would never try on. “Gawd, there’s nothing worse than hat-hair.” See, sharing Gabe with his previous girlfriends was one thing. Girlfriends come and go. Mommy will be here for you through all the breakups. But like a first-born child who’s suddenly forced to cope with a new arrival in the family, she was jealous of the attention he was giving me. “Gabe, are you sure Stephanie is the one for you? I mean, really, how can you be getting married?” It was her equivalent of “send the baby back to the hospital.”

To allay her fears, I had sent a card on Mother’s Day, thanking her for raising such a wonderful son, to which she responded, “I’m not some creative writing exercise.” Although she tried to be dismissive, it was clear she was
infatuhated
with me, the way Nellie Oleson was with Laura In-galls. What she didn’t know was that she was my “have you eva” saleswoman. I envied the life she had: her adoring family, beautifully decorated houses, and car seats heated for winter. The only real difference being, when I scratched her polished surface, I revealed fool’s gold. She was saccharine to the faces of her closest friends, but was nothing but salty when she spoke behind their backs. “Audrey really should have those teeth fixed. The woman is all gums, and she thinks they’re her best feature. Have you eva?” While I agree there’s nothing worse than little teeth, I would never continually lob accolades at someone for her smile while we were together. Rome was faux, false advertising at its worst, way worse than my padded bras with silicone inserts.

I might have had many things in common with Rome, but I had courage. See, Rome was the type of woman who took Nielsen surveys before doing anything, and if her husband asked, “Is that what you’re planning to wear out?” she’d run upstairs to change, two steps at a time. “What will people think?” would have been tattooed on her wrist had “people” not turned up their noses at tattoos. I never gave a shit what people thought until Gabe’s family entered the mix. I wanted so much for them to like me because I saw how important they were to him. His being at the hospital all the time was hard enough. I didn’t want to place any more orange cones on our path to relationship nirvana. Their hating me became an obstacle because I let it, and I hate that my love for him changed my ability to disregard the opinions of others. I was becoming Mrs. Rosen in more ways than a legal name change. I was jumping through her circus hoops, and soon enough, when I took a good look in the mirror, all I saw was a clown.

I NEVER UNDERSTOOD WHY PEOPLE REGISTER FOR FORMAL
china just to have it sit in a cabinet for enough years that your taste changes. All-Clad pots, Wüstoff knives, and a French mandolin…that I understand. I can use them. A $3,300 Buccellati jam jar? Are you kidding? Georg Jensen silverware, Baccarat stemware, and Lalique vases are for people with occasional tables and curios, not for a couple living in a two-bedroom apartment too small for a dining room table. Still, Rome suggested we register for these items. “People will want to buy you nice things for your wedding. You can’t register at Bloomingdale’s.” She whispered “Bloomingdale’s” as if it were cancer. What the hell? Since when did it become Wal-Mart? Clearly, I missed the double gate-fold mailer. “Oh Stephanie, look at this Herend place setting. It’s just like the one I have. You really can’t go wrong with Herend.” I wanted HER to END.

“Very nice, Rome.” It really was nice, but who was going to buy us all of these things? We’d already been engaged for a while, and I didn’t have many friends to invite to the wedding. I was concerned she’d equate my lack of friends with a lack of worth. Numbers were proof, like the size of the engagement ring was a sign of his love. I was insecure and worried she’d highlight my lack of friends to Gabe. “How can you marry her? What kind of social network does she bring to the relationship?” I imagined her saying. Today, of course, I wish I could’ve bitch-slapped myself into reality. You were his wife, not a goddamn country club. Let them think what they want. Stop putting yourself into that woman’s head. It’s a sick place to be.

Rome often asked, “Oh, what gifts have your parents’ friends sent?” Aside from the stemware my father’s closest friends had shipped, we hadn’t received many engagement gifts from my parents’ friends. They were waiting for the engagement party Gabe’s parents had said they would throw for us.

“Oh, you know, some wine glasses. Things off the registry.” She didn’t actually care what we received, only who sent it.

When I’d arrive home, the doorman would stir. “Oh, some boxes arrived…” My shoulders fell under the oppressive weight of dejection. I became enervated with each box I opened. The embarrassment seemed heavier with the unraveling of each slippery white bow. The gifts were a constant reminder of what I wasn’t, of what I lacked. She’d parlay any call into, “Oh, and what else did you get? You know, anything from your side?” Thank God for caller ID. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was always Rome calling for an update. And her husband Marvin called only when he needed Gabe to be a fourth for a weekend round of golf.

When Gabe’s father spoke, he touched strangers on the arm more than once, even while giving directions. As long as his stationary bike worked and his refrigerator was stocked with Diet Coke, he was a happy, easygoing man. Very likeable. And while he doled out “Yes, dear” with frequency and aplomb, Marvin was no stranger to the occasional “Not on your life” when it came to things that mattered to him…you know, like his wife’s appearance.

“Rome, do us both a favor and put on something that fits. And you might consider ordering the fish tonight.”

Despite their battles, Marvin and Rome were a unified, and coordinated, front with a vanguard position against the outside world. I’m afraid I was their WAR. So when Rome was a-ragin’, Marvin raised his voice to Gabe on her behalf. “Listen, Kiddo, I’m not messing around. Smooth things over with your mother because as long as she’s upset, I have to hear about it. And I’ll tell ya one thing: I’m sick of hearing it. Fix it.” Then he’d go back to watching the muted New York Jets game on TV as he raised the volume of the radio announcer’s play by play.

Half his year was spent traveling, taking legal depositions. He brought
The Bulldog
with him on trips where the shopping and eating were good. Otherwise, she’d attend to their Atherton home, nipping and tucking the house into pastel order. With her expensive sable brushes, Rome painted masterpieces using broad, deliberate strokes. “Marvin, that Stephanie is such a liar.” I imagined him rubbing his scalp and exhaling a “What now?” under his breath. The woman could survive on gossip and body fat.