The Longest Date: Life as a Wife (8 page)

I didn’t know what that entailed, but I did know that (1) I did not wish to see strangers having sex, (2) I did not wish to have sex in front of strangers, and (3) I did not wish animals to be involved in any way.

Ian assured me that the show would not include sex acts or animal acts, and that it was known among tourists as a Ping-Pong show.

Now my curiosity was piqued, not just because I’m a good Ping-Pong player (although I have to say, “Ping-Pong in Patpong” had a certain poetry I found hard to resist), but also because as a woman you hear tales of bachelor parties where strippers shoot Ping-Pong balls or eggs or strawberries out of their hoohahs. (Well,
I
hear those stories. Maybe other women don’t, but I always press men for details without any sign of being judgmental, because men don’t give you details when you’re judging.) So I figured this might be my only chance to see a woman shoot a Ping-Pong ball out of her hoohah.

Plus, cards on the table, I had never been to a strip club with Ian or any other guy.

I know, it’s shocking. Most of the women I think are cool (and even some I do not) have gone on a strip club date at least once. This is not a date you will see on
The Bachelor
, incidentally, but my friends have reported either watching a boyfriend get a lap dance, getting one themselves for his amusement, or getting one for their own amusement. Any of those options seemed to require more alcohol than I was currently drinking, but a sex show in Bangkok would certainly clear up any unexplained gaps in my sexual résumé. At least, that’s what I was thinking when we told our cabdriver we were going to Patpong.

He grinned and said, “Ping-Pong show?” We nodded. He laughed. I’m still not sure if he was laughing with us or at us. I figured Patpong was a tourist trap, the kind of place no locals would bother going. Or maybe there were more authentic, traditional Ping-Pong shows that the locals preferred. In fact, what our cabdriver was probably thinking was
We’ve got ancient temples, rich cultural traditions, beautiful landscapes, and these bozos want to see a girl popping Ping-Pong balls out of her vagina.

Yeah, in retrospect, I’m pretty sure he was laughing
at
us.

Just as you get handed a menu outside some restaurants in foreign countries, a similar bill of fare was available outside of sex shows in Patpong.

I felt for the women holding these laminated menus, setting aside for the moment the reason they were laminated. I feared the menu holders were deemed not pretty enough to be
in
the sex show, so each was in khaki pants and a solid-color golf shirt that matched the solid-color bikinis of the girls in their club. Through the open doorway you could see the girls inside, listlessly dancing on a stage in bikinis and go-go boots, some in athletic socks and sneakers. But outside, their Ping-Pong protégées were enthusiastically handing us a menu and waving us in.

The menu made it clear that sluggish dancing was just an amuse-bouche, because typed in English was a list of what we could expect to see, including but not limited to:

Pussy Plays Ping-Pong

Pussy Smokes a Cigarette

Pussy Blows a Whistle

Pussy Drinks a Soda

Pussy Writes a Letter

Everything sounded impressive, but I was most intrigued by “Pussy Writes a Letter.” Maybe it was the writer in me, but I couldn’t help but wonder (thank you, Carrie Bradshaw):
To whom was this pussy writing, and what did the letter say?
I told Ian we had to see Pussy Writes a Letter, and he agreed and promptly paid the cover charge, and in we went.

It was a slow night in Patpong, so after we were seated in this smallish, dimly lit theater in the round, we were immediately surrounded by dancers, some now topless but still in socks and sneakers, some who spoke a little English (which made the whole thing more awkward rather than less). They giggled and prodded Ian to kiss me, and then they wanted to kiss us, and then, I’m not sure, but I think there was a back room involved.

We tried to explain we were just there for Pussy Writes a Letter, as if we had come for a Broadway matinee and they were talking over the orchestra. They didn’t seem to care.

Frankly, Pussy was a little pushy, so we left, and at the next club, Ian paid more than the cover charge to ensure that we not be bothered. We were given a large red balloon (which I figured was code for
Please don’t try to have sex with these people
) but as soon as we sat down, there was a loud
pop
and I realized a blow dart had been shot directly into our balloon from the stage, where a dancer was pointing her crotch at us.

She put on her bikini bottoms and came down to collect the remains of the balloon and her tip, and that was the first sign that we would be spending and doing much more
not
to have sex than we would spend and do to have it. You see, other than a drunk guy who looked rather creepy, we were again the only tourists there, which meant we had front-row seats, which you don’t necessarily want for this particular show. It was like having front-row seats for a birth.

And we were basically expected to applaud heartily and assist in all the tricks.

I’m not proud of this, but I did everything from lighting a cigarette (Pussy Blows Smoke Rings!) to returning a Ping-Pong ball. My view for the former was disturbingly good, but I couldn’t look away, because then Pussy Catches Fire. As far as returning the Ping-Pong ball, okay, maybe I
am
a little proud of that. I don’t know how many participants actually return the ball with the paddle you’re given, but I did, and the fact that Ian cheered for me instead of for the naked woman onstage made me happy I married him.

Incidentally, Pussy put olive oil—or some kind of oil—on the Ping-Pong balls, which I thought was sort of cheating. I mean, what wouldn’t come flying out of your vagina if you covered it in olive oil?

As I pondered that question, Ian was pulling on the end of a brightly colored handkerchief that led to another brightly colored handkerchief, and another, and another. You might have seen this trick performed by a clown or magician, but when Pussy did it, frankly, it wasn’t so impressive. I mean, you knew where the handkerchiefs were coming from, and you didn’t really want to think about it.

Pussy Sips a Soda was probably the ickiest trick. The dancer put a soda bottle between her legs and then did a handstand, emptying the contents of the bottle into herself; then she got upright and moved her hips for a while, then reinserted the bottle and filled it up again. She offered the refilled bottle to us, and we tipped her almost everything we had left to take it away.

Pussy Uses Chopsticks really made me question what my own pussy had done for me lately. Of all the acts we saw that night,
that one seemed to require the most skill. I can barely manage chopsticks using my fingers.

I started to think about who originated these tricks. Did word filter down the street that a dancer at Thai-One-On (not a real place, but should be) had put chopsticks on the menu, and then all the dancers scrambled to get it on their club’s menu, much like what happened in California with quinoa? Furthermore, if I can do Kegel exercises, could I learn to manipulate chopsticks? Forget the human brain; apparently we’re only using 10 percent of our vaginas.

The fact that my mind was wandering made me realize something else rather remarkable: I was bored. These pussies were working their asses off (if that’s possible) and I was sort of feeling
Seen one pussy blow out birthday candles, seen them all
.

So Ian went to the bar and asked how long before Pussy Writes a Letter, because we weren’t leaving until we saw that. The bartender made a note and passed it to a dancer, and she dutifully went onstage, took off her bikini bottoms, put a felt-tipped marker in her vagina, and squatted over a large piece of paper, all the time referring to the note from the bartender until she had gyrated and produced a sign that said, “Hello Cindy Ian!”

As we rode home, rolled-up letter in hand, my attempt to salvage the night with some fun, colorful local transportation ended with a crash, literally, when our
tuk tuk
(bicycle rickshaw) collided with a slow-moving car. Ian and I barely spoke as we left the
tuk tuk
and got into a regular taxi.

I felt vaguely depressed. I’d like to say it was the fact that we had witnessed the exploitation of young girls, but honestly, they didn’t seem to mind. It felt more as if they were exploiting
us
. (Cue angry letters, some written by Pussy.) But what I mean is, it seemed as if they had been showing off. There, I said it. My pussy couldn’t even muster the most basic trick—Pussy Produces a Person—and theirs were sipping sodas.

I felt that what Pussy really wanted to write in her letter was: “I’m a pussy. I should be having fun. So why do I feel like I’m working?”

But maybe I was projecting.

And maybe Ian was projecting that night at Jason and Meredith’s when he decided we needed a hero to rescue us from the roof deck. More likely, Ian needed to feel like a rock star (or at least a rock climber) after congratulating yet another couple on yet another child while we were still nowhere near getting one of our own.

But for me, both of those nights—the night Ian rappelled down the side of an apartment building and the night he applauded my Ping-Pong playing at a Thai Ping-Pong show—were about what a great match we were.

Some people get boring when they get married. I used to worry that marriage meant my life would get smaller and more predictable, but with Ian, the opposite is true. I think it bodes well for our future that after all of these years, I still find my husband rappelling.

M
ost couples don’t think of a prenup as a romantic moment in their relationship, but in our case, it was. Ian insisted on an agreement that made it crystal clear that he was not marrying me for my money, and that I would not inherit his many debts, and that if the marriage ended, he would basically leave with the shirt on his back. Even the pants, I believe, were at my discretion.

My accountant, a woman usually wary of men who marry “up,” said that even she would not advise Ian to sign such a document, let alone propose it, but he ignored her advice, and she has heartily approved of him ever since.

Ian is secure enough in his manhood to be comfortable making less money than his wife. “I’m very comfortable with it,” he jokes (a joke I’m slightly uncomfortable with).

He’s always been extremely grateful that my success (doing something I love, I should add) has enabled him to do the kind of legal work he loves and finds meaningful—even though meaningless, soul-killing jobs (like the one he had when I met him) pay better.

After marrying me, Ian spent several years working for the Public Defender’s office, representing people who couldn’t afford representation, and he also did pro bono work in conjunction with the Center for Constitutional Rights, representing Guantanamo Bay detainees. I am proud of the work Ian does, and of the integrity and heart he puts into it, and I often tell friends “the currency of happiness” is just as valuable as actual money in a relationship.

But I might be full of shit, because sometimes I catch myself thinking things I am reluctant to admit, like that I should have more say in our relationship because I make more money.

Don’t judge me.

Most days I don’t even think about who makes what. We’re a team. The fact that I put more into the team’s joint bank account because my teammate could not live three months on what he makes never crosses my mind.

Okay, maybe it does. But when the issue really bubbles up is when Ian says things like someday he’d like to build a cabin in the woods where he could keep a horse.

That’s a very romantic image, but instead I’m thinking
I’m not buying you a horse
. And he’s not, in fact, asking me to buy him that horse. But I don’t see his being able to afford a horse, let alone building the cabin where he’s going to keep the horse, so I have moments when I think those thoughts, and then I feel horrible, like I do right now.

Let me give you another example, one that doesn’t make Ian sound like such a dreamy pioneer horse whisperer.

One day in the car, we were talking about the fact that we weren’t having sex that often.

Yes, it’s true. Even though when I was single I used to get all up in my stuff and say, “Show me a woman who doesn’t want to have sex with her husband, and I will show you a man who doesn’t know how to kiss her!” I was wrong. I now understand, especially if infertility is part of the equation, that there are times, even if you’re married to a very good kisser, when you won’t be excited about sex—and with any luck you won’t be responsible for a sex column for
O, The Oprah
Magazine
, when that happens, and they won’t put a tagline by your photo that says, “Have no sexual fear, Cindy Chupack is here!”

Probably because of that damn column, I took this opportunity to open up a dialogue with Ian about what might make sex more fun for each of us again, and I listed a few ideas—nothing crazy, just things like switching up the position more often; trying to have sex before dinner instead of after so we wouldn’t be too tired or too full. (That’s an issue that comes up only once you marry, by the way. I don’t remember ever choosing side dishes over sex when I was single, and yet now, a really delicious creamed spinach or lobster mac and cheese seems worth taking another night off.)

Ian nodded thoughtfully and started to add something, but then decided against it.

Being a sex columnist, a “sexpert,” I did what I would advise readers to do: I told my husband there was nothing we shouldn’t be able to say to each other.

Turns out that is the biggest lie of all.

There are plenty of things married people should never say to each other, and Ian was about to say one of them: “I’ve been thinking maybe you might like to get a breast reduction.”

My jaw dropped. Just like my boobs had, apparently.

I didn’t see how that was relevant. Yes, I have big(gish) boobs, but I’ve always had them. I used to wish they were smaller, but they grew on me. I mean literally, they grew on me, so I can’t imagine abandoning them.

And supposedly Ian liked big boobs. He always told me the story of how he once was at a Billy Idol concert with a female friend, and as they were dancing to “Rebel Yell” he got distracted by her cleavage and decided then and there that he was a boob man. What was the point of that story if not to attest to the fact that he liked a nice rack, particularly mine? It’s not a great story to tell your wife otherwise.

“What’s the big deal?” he asked. “All of your friends have done it.” I couldn’t think of one, and he proceeded to name several of my friends—all of whom, in fact, had had breast cancer.

“A double mastectomy is
not
a boob job,” I said, dumbfounded. “It’s not elective surgery if it’s potentially lifesaving.”

“Still,” he went on, slightly deflated (as he was hoping
I
might be someday): “They seem happy with their new boobs.”

I was starting to rethink the boob I married.

“And a lot of women do it after they have children,” he continued, as if his suggestion might still be welcome, even appreciated.

I reminded him that we hadn’t had children yet, and the way things were going I might never give birth or nurse, so my breasts might not be adversely affected.

He seemed relieved, which just made me more annoyed. “How is any of this relevant to our sex life?” I asked.

“I just thought you might enjoy sex more if they were smaller,” he said.

I never thought of my boobs getting in the way of sex. They’re not so big that they’re actually obscuring things, if that’s what you’re wondering. And to be honest, they’ve never been a particularly erotic zone for me. I’ve always wanted to tell men to move along when they get hung up there.

Ian finally explained the sex might be better . . . for him. He might want it more if I had smaller boobs. He said, maybe a little sheepishly, that he’d been noticing smaller boobs lately. . . .

By now even Ian could see this was not a good tact.

“I wouldn’t ask you to get a penis enlargement,” I said, after contemplating this unexpected new turn in our relationship.

He asked if I wanted him to.

He knew I didn’t want him to. His penis is fine. Perfect, actually. (Ian made me add that line.)

Anyhow, I should have said, “Yes, I’ve been noticing bigger penises lately,” just to be tit for tat, so to speak.

We drove in silence for a while, which is what we should have done from the beginning, and then I had a thought I did not say aloud or even admit thinking until just now:
You don’t make enough money to ask me to get a boob job.

I was shocked that that had even occurred to me, but then again, it did seem true. Rich men can ask their trophy wives to do anything, they can dress them how they want, they can make their boobs as big or small as they want, they can even complain about how much their wives spend, and somehow it all seems like bragging instead of complaining. It’s all fine if you bring home the bacon.

Bring home the Bacon Bits, and I control my tits.

(I didn’t say that aloud either, but I was tempted to, on account of the rhyme and all.)

So there it was—the horrible, awful truth about how a woman (me) might feel when she makes more money than her husband. There might be strings attached that she didn’t even know were there until he tugged on the wrong one, specifically one that would require her to go under the knife. I’m not a plastic surgery kind of person. I’m probably the only Jewish woman in the world who has had two deviated septum operations and no nose job.

So where does this leave women? I’m certain we haven’t worked as hard as we have to break the glass ceiling only to wish the men in our lives made more money. I know I was lucky to be able to choose the man I wanted to marry instead of the man I needed to marry.

To my credit (or detriment), I was never one of those women who were looking for a rich husband. (A) I weigh more than 108 pounds, and (B) I find the “gold digger” stereotype offensive. I don’t really know women whose main criterion for a partner is wealth. I know they exist (because I have seen
The Millionaire Matchmaker
), but most of my female friends and colleagues are more than capable of earning their own way.

The truth is, I like being self-sufficient. I remember how good it felt, at sixteen, to be able to buy an expensive chunky sweater with my waitressing tips. It was a sweater my parents never would have bought me (probably because it made my boobs look bigger).

As an adult, supporting myself had always meant having the freedom to leave an unhappy marriage. It never occurred to me that I might wind up in a happy marriage in which I was supporting someone else.

Then again, there are many forms of support (in addition to underwire bras), and Ian
does
support me in countless ways. He puts up with my moods. He roots for me at the right moments for the right reasons. (For example, he’s especially proud when I stick to my guns creatively, because he knows that’s not easy in Hollywood.) He comforts me and calms me when times are tough. He always believes in me, and I believe in him. I’m not convinced that, if it came to it, he
could
actually build a cabin in the woods, but I’m also not convinced that he won’t convince me to let him try.

A marriage, for better or worse, takes you places you never dreamed of going, places
someone else
dreamed of going, and that annoyingly persistent other dreamer is your spouse.

I know these are luxury problems. I know I’m extremely blessed, especially in this economy, to be able to do what I love, and to earn enough doing it so that my husband can do what he loves. I know I’m lucky to live with a man who cares more about making a difference than about making money (although he continues to try to do both), and I know I’m fortunate to live in a country where women have the same opportunity as men to resent their spouses.

Uch, even my boobs are a luxury problem. Boo-hoo, my boobs are too big.

Maybe I will get a breast reduction one day.

But not because Ian asked me to.

Because it will be easier to ride his horse with smaller breasts.