Amanda, Joan and I had become the three musketeers, each rooting for the other in the tumultuous world of Manhattan dating. Others had drifted in and out of our girls’ nights, but had either found men with which to watch the Fox TV line-up, or had been driven from our pack by derision or disgust.
We were all very different, the three of us: Amanda, petite, with her long tresses, which she tossed artfully over her shoulder to maximum effect, and superb figure (and self-esteem to match); Joan, whose daily efforts at they gym had rendered her sinewy and lithe, had no self-confidence whatsoever, and lived vicariously through Amanda; and me, average height, average build, above-average IQ and highly-tuned bullshit detector.
Amanda went from one disastrous two-week relationship to the next, not really pausing to catch her breath or to weigh her emotions between beaus. Joan’s standards were ridiculously high and she was attracted to so few men, I was beginning to wonder if she was simply being prurient, which would have explained her interest in Amanda’s sex life. And then there was me. Dating as vigorously as Amanda but with as little enthusiasm as Joan.
Our conversations didn’t focus entirely on our current dating lives, or lack thereof: there were office politics and career traumas to discuss, fashion styles to debate, and reputations of ex-lovers to smear. Pity the man who has to face the wrath of all three of us.
On my behalf, Joan and Amanda seethed at the very mention of Jimmy. Although they had never met him, they knew the type, and were baffled, as was I, as to how I could have jumped into the omelet pan with such an obviously bad egg.
I can’t say I blamed them. If Joan had given anyone a chance or if Amanda had ever stopped long enough for her and her latest beau to fall in love, and had been treated as shamefully as I had, I would have been livid too. But it was meI, not them. And it made it terribly hard, because I wanted to confide in my girlfriends and share with them the dark secret of the Mistaken Identity episode that had taken place the day before.
Instead, I turned the topic of what to get Robert and Vincent. They were a fabulous couple in the neighborhood who had just redone their condo and were holding what was described on their elegantly embossed invitation as “an open house.” This fit conveniently into Joan’s ongoing Jane Austen obsession. As one was an architect, and one an environmental designer, and as none of us had set foot in their home before, the housewarming gift was rather a dilemma.
“Candles,” proclaimed Amanda. “Classy, elegant, always useful. And not smelling of firs or anything ghastly,” she added sternly.
“Who made you Martha Stewart’s candle expert?” Joan spluttered indignantly. I was later to find out that Joan frequently burnt woodsy smelling candles to disguise her roommate’s bong water smell. She had bought them by the gross at Pier One the week after Christmas and Amanda had never let her forget it.
“Candles are so passé,” I commented. “Really, I read it in the Sunday Style section.”
“Well if not candles, a plant?” Joan queried.
“Or pussywillows!” Amanda grinned. “Might be the only way to make sure they have some pussy in that apartment.”
Joan giggled but my mind was still on the hefty non-Jimmy chick. The two of them bantered about foliage for a while before I finally came out of my walk down memory lane.
“There’s a new bakery on 2nd Avenue that looks really cute,” I mentioned. “How about a nice blackout cake for two, decorated with lots of pretty flowers?”
Amanda rolled her eyes and pouted: “You always have the best suggestions. Now what are we going to squabble over?”
Robert and Vincent’s new place was spectacular. Without being pretentious, the bathroom was Tuscan, the bedroom Ralph Lauren Hamptons, the living room Victorian English and the kitchen ultra-modern.
Somehow it all worked together. They had found framed photographs and antique chatchkes from flea markets, despite the fact that I would have turned my nose up at them, sitting on Columbus Avenue on some plastic-topped trestle table. And yet in their home, these pieces worked.
“It’s a steam shower,” enthused Vincent. I figured that if you close the bathroom door and had enough hot water, any shower could be a steam shower, but what do I know? Even their bathmat was pristine, rolled into a little basket under the vanity.
I really don’t often dwell on the machinations of male gay sex, but do these two ever flail about on the 200 count cotton sheets, or muss up the immaculately ironed pillowcases? I had tried to use a dozen or so pillows on my bed, and it had given off the appearance of a remainder sale at a pillow store. But the mish-mash of fabrics, textures and colors coordinated beautifully with the plush drapes and the rich, Oriental rugs.
What is that, a gay gene? It would seem not because I reminded myself of my college roommate who was gay and the biggest slob on the planet. He had a cat that was scared to go in his room, because it was a black hole of unlaundered underwear.
I walked from “East Hampton” back to the room that was reminiscent of Sloane Square circa 1880 and drifted into a conversation. A bone-skinny man was telling a very East Village straight couple about his therapist, and this seemed too good a topic to miss.
“He’s a genius,” anorexic-man said. “I was so scared of dating anyone after Kevin and he made me promise to go out with the next man who asked me, provided he wasn’t a gay Manson -- that’s Charles, not Marilyn. Nothing too threatening. My homework, as it were, was to share nothing at all too personal with the date.”
He paused, glancing round the room in a conspiratorial fashion, but in fact, assessing his audience, which had grown, as other conversations had withered and topic-hungry brunch eaters leaned towards him.
“Well, this guy at the gym asked me out. He’s OK. About a six, I suppose, but I did what my shrink told me to, and went on the date. Well, don’t give me vodka, honey! It was going fine until he asked me where my parents lived, and out of my mouth came this: ‘My darling mother lives in Westchester and my father is burning in hell.’ Ooops! Too much information!"
He slapped his hand over his mouth and raised his eyebrows in a playful fashion. There was a three second silence that fell like a black velvet curtain over the immaculate apartment. Then I started giggling, and soon everyone else followed. He smiled at me gratefully and as people moved uncomfortably back into their little groups, and the East Village couple made their escape to what was probably Murray Hill, he moved towards me, brandishing proscuitto wrapped around pencil-thin breadsticks.
“You, I like,” he announced. “You laughed first!”
“Surely that isn’t the end of the story, is it?” I goaded.
“Well, no. I slept with him, of course! But I never told my therapist. He would have been simply livid!”
I held out my hand in greeting. “I’m Rebecca,” I smiled. He gave me the breadstick so that he could shake my hand.
“I’m Sebastian.” Of course he was Sebastian, not Seb: gay men. Full name, remember?
He continued, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, what’s a lovely girl like you doing in a place like this alone!”
“Oh, I’m not alone. I came with Amanda and Joan, those two over there by the champagne.”
“Interesting! A lesbian ménage à trois!”
“Oh, God, no - nothing like that! We’re friends. Did you mean ‘alone’ as in ‘without a significant other?’ I had no idea that a date was de rigueur at a housewarming.”
“But, my dear, has no one told you? This isn’t a housewarming. It’s an 'At Home.'”
Sebastian was my new best friend.
