SUSPENDED!!

FOLKS,

I have been advised to finish this bloody thing and post it free on amazon. If I am lucky to get enough hits and buzzes, I can then start charging for it. All emails of encouragement are deeply appreciated!!!

Ruth
x

Chapter Twelve: An At-Home

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.

Chapter Eleven: The Lesbian Encounter

Sometimes, when on the road to recovery from an injury, you feel as though you’re taking one step forward and two steps back. I remember that from having a broken leg when I was a kid: just when I thought I’d be fine, I’d overdo it and ache for another day. So is it with matters of the heart.

I was doing fine without Jimmy. I’d been without him for almost three and a half years, but had managed not to think about him too hard, or cry over the guy for at least two months. And that’s a start. What is it the alcoholics say? One day at a time?

Only someone who has been through this amount of torture can really appreciate how tough it is to just “get over it.” Maybe we should have our own support group.

“Hello, my name is Rebecca and I’m a love-aholic.”

“Hello Rebecca.”

Anyhow.

Spring had made a brief visit to Manhattan that year. Rather, we had been plunged directly into summer, with no regard for our clothing storage situation. Despite this nagging sense that it would snow as soon as I had pushed all my cashmere to the back of the closet and reinstated my shorts, I went through the bi-annual ritual of clothing reorganization.

It was a cleansing ritual I rather enjoyed, particularly as I had been numb with pain during the previous six or seven closet-switches.

I separated the clothes that I had held onto at least five years too long in the hope that I would have an excuse to wear them and miraculously lose thirty pounds (was I ever that skinny?), and divided that pile into “take to thrift store” and “donate to homeless.” Crinkling my nose in disgust, I vacuumed out the closet, refolded everything, and stood back to enjoy the view: for a whole two days, my closet would look like Martha Stewart had hired a team of WASPy elves to organize me.

Bagging the donations, I set out to a church on 86th Street that I knew clothed the less fortunate, and then schlepped the other bag to my favorite thrift store. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks and stared. Just stared. An arm-waving, cell-phone user tutted loudly as she ran into my back, but I barely noticed.

Somehow, miraculously, there was Jimmy, walking right in front of me. I recognized his swaggering walk, the way his hair plummeted down his square shoulders, and his North Face backpack. What was he doing here, in a city he despised? Looking for me, maybe?

I waddled as fast as I could to the thrift store entrance on the block, and almost hurled the bag at the blue-haired lady manning the shop. There was no time for the luxury of a tax-deductible receipt. I ricocheted off the door and ran the distance that separated me from Jimmy’s retreating form. About four yards from him, I slowed to a reasonable, confident strut, and prayed that I didn’t look as disheveled as I felt.

Almost parallel now to this body that I knew as well as my own, and now one step ahead, I brushed shoulders deliberately and turned to apologize and look calmly surprised.

“Jimmy! Fancy seeing you here! What a coincidence!”

The words were almost formed in my mouth when I caught the face belonging to the neck that adjoined the shoulder of my Jimmy. It belonged not to my long lost lover, but to a rather butch woman with a lapel pin that read “A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bike.” She was not amused.

“Jesus!” she griped, “Ain’t the sidewalk big enough for your ass?”

Apparently not.

I apologized profusely and shuffled back to the thrift store to grovel to the blue-haired Brun Hilda in the hope of still getting a receipt for my donation.

Later at home, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s swiftly disappearing down my fast-closing throat, I wondered how I could have been so deceived. Could I no longer tell the difference between a rather butch New York chick and a lithe Californian male? And what about having gotten him out of my system? Clearly, even though I had reluctantly started the dating rituals again, Jimmy was lodged somewhere between my stomach and my heart.

A wise friend of mine had once said that getting over a man is like having a baby: all your friends gather round you and say, “You’re doing so well! Push!”

Certainly, there were going to be more contractions before this particular afterbirth was out of my system.

Chapter Ten: Preparation for Sex

When you are planning to sleep with a new man, timing is of the essence. I don’t mean “should I do it on the first date?” timing, or even working around your menstrual calendar (although it couldn’t hurt).

I also don’t mean all that “will he call me if we do it?” worry. I am talking about being prepared. There is nothing worse than being cured (mani and pedi), waxed, douched and ready to go, with clean sheets and a recently scrubbed toilet, and the opportunity just doesn’t present itself.

You can bet your life that the one time you are sweaty and stubbly, with chipped toenail polish and a full trashcan in the can, he’ll call up for an impromptu drink, one thing will lead to another, and you won’t be able to follow through, because - well, LOOK AT YOU!

So, on my third date with Shaun, I was prepared. Not that we had so much as kissed, but I had a feeling the electricity was mutual, and I was sure that the accidental hand-brushing and the gentle palm on the back routine was not as innocent as it seemed.

It had been a long time, and to be honest, a decent-looking man could ask me where the Brooklyn-bound N train was, and I would tell myself optimistically that it had been a veiled attempt at a pick-up.

“Oh, the nearest stop is 5th Avenue and 23rd Street,” I trill, and he would reply, “How about the nearest Starbucks instead. Wanna join me?”

In reality, he would just mumble a thank you and trudge towards the subway.

I am always wary of bikini waxes; apart from the fact that they hurt like all get-out, I always assume that the little Asian ladies are talking about me.

“Man, you should see this one. You could knit a sweater with this!” And the like. Or my worst paranoia, that there is a web cam hidden somewhere in the back room of these nail salons, and perverts are spying on me at www.gyneewax.com.

Nonetheless, waxed, mani’d and pedi’d (cured), cellulite rubbed to within a millimeter of its relentless existence, there I was, ready to have dinner with Shaun. The doorman announced him promptly, and I made sure I was wearing my casually prepared but not eager expression when I opened the door.

“So, this is your habitat, huh?” he smiled.

“Sure, come on in. Glass of wine?”

There was no answer. His charming smile had become a grin of Congressman proportion, and his eyes were bulging out of his head. I followed his gaze to the television.

“You have cable?”

“Well, yes,” I murmured, in an embarrassed fashion. “I mean, I really only use it for old movies I want to catch. And of course PBS. You know, you can’t really get a signal in the city unless....”

My words faded away like spring rain. I wasn’t getting through to him.

“Can we order in?” he asked hopefully.

Four hours later, I was cleaning up take-out containers of mediocre Thai food, and Shaun was a third into a “Gilligan’s Island” marathon.

“I thought you didn’t watch TV,” I said between gritted teeth.

“No, I said I didn’t have a TV.”

“You said you got so much more done...”

“Well, here’s a case in point! They don’t make shows like this any more. At least, I don’t think they do. How would I know? I don’t own a TV!”

He laughed delightedly. I was happy he found himself to be charming, and cursed the $65 I had spent at the salon.

“Well,” I performed a perfect fake yawn, “I have to turn in soon.”

“Yeah, that’s OK. You don’t mind if I just stay up and watch this, do you?”

Of course I did. But I had been out of this world for so long, I wasn’t sure how to handle it. I hesitated for a moment and then snapped out of my haze.

“Actually, yes, I do mind.”

I strode to the door, which is hard to do dramatically in a tiny apartment, and flung it open.

“Good night, Shaun.”

He barely looked at me, his eyes were so trained on the screen. The commercials had ended and he was straining to see the very last frame before the door hit his perfectly formed ass.

I watched him walk down the street, and saw him take out his cell phone. He was probably calling up likely cable television owners, looking to snag some more of the Professor and Marion. I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched him weave and bob, oblivious to all, and never once “pulling over to the curb.”

Lying bastard.

Chapter Nine: Nice Hands

Three days later found me back in the coffee shop, in what I remembered to be vaguely provocative, attractive clothes, my hair gelled against any frizzing possibilities, and my cynicism dial temporarily set to mute.

Shaun’s profile was amazing: it was as though he’d read my mind as to the perfect man, from his music and film choices right down to his politics. How many men do you know who contribute to both Planned Parenthood and Emily’s List?

There were no pictures attached to the profiles, but I found that refreshing; we would surely have enough to talk about even if we weren’t fiercely attracted to each other, and that had to be more important...

While I was figuring out the most elegant way to sit in a sagging armchair, without the one spring pinging up into my privates, I noticed one of the hitherto-mentioned miserable workers serving a man whose back was turned towards me. She nodded her pierced chin in my direction, and before I could untangle my skirt, which had entwined itself claustrophobically around my pantyhose, he spun around to face me.

“Rebecca?” he said, placing a steaming latte on the table.

“You must be Shaun,” I smiled, desperately wondering if protocol stated that I rise, which, given the circumstances of my skirt and the dead springs in the chair, seemed difficult at the very least.

Shaun saved me by sitting down in a shabby-chic sofa next to me, and shaking my hand. I barely noticed it. I was transfixed by this god sitting before me: chiseled chin, slight designer stubble, and an eminently kissable neck. But I did sneak a peak at his hands. Because that’s the second clue as to whether you will ever end up in bed with a man, the first being whether he is even vaguely attractive. The attraction can grow, but if he has dirty fingernails, or worse, a manicure, it will never happen with me.

Jimmy had nice hands.

I blocked the sneak attack memory from my head, and concentrated on the hand reaching out towards me. Big (a good sign) and muscular, with prominent veins, and - yes! - neat, clean fingernails, void of buffing and polish.

We shook hands formally. Soft hands. Bet they’d feel good on my back. I shook the thought from my head. It had been way too long, but perhaps I should know the guy for more than ten seconds before jumping his lanky bones.

Nice package altogether, lanky though the bones might be. Our hands touched. A definite spark, I thought. I could feel myself blushing and cursed my redheaded aunt for passing on those particular genes.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he inquired politely.

So dating conversation hasn’t changed since I’ve been out of circulation. I replied with the formatted response, which would have come out of my mouth even if I’d been looking at my watch for two hours:

“Oh, no. I just got here.”

“So. You live around here?”

In any other part of the world this would seem like a normal question. But in Manhattan, that could be perceived as a stalker inquiry. Luckily, each block contains so many hundreds of tiny apartments crammed together that giving out an intersection is not particularly informative.

I gave the low numbered avenue and high-numbered street. He was clearly disappointed I had not been able to provide him with a hip cross-section from the West side, but then so was I. I hated the Upper East Side, but it had become more affordable as its West side counterpart had become trendier.

East Siders claim there is no difference, but there is. New Yorkers everywhere are self-absorbed, arrogant pricks. The West side just has a more forgiving, liberal feel. The children on the East side look as though they just stepped out of some dreadful British period film, clad in velvet and lace. The West Side Yuppies dress their offspring in real kid clothes: baggy sweaters, jeans... Maybe it’s because the north-south subways on the West side run from New York University up to Columbia, hence the liberal academics. The East side subway runs directly to Wall Street.

Shaun and I discussed the peculiarities of this geographical anomaly, as well as the way the atmosphere and one’s safety can change in a matter of one block.

“Ah,” he sighed wistfully. “It was great in the ‘70’s.”

I looked quizzical. Most people recall that decade as the one in which New York suffered blackouts, bankruptcy and graffiti on the subways, a time when it wasn’t safe to walk the streets even outside fancy doorman buildings.

“I miss the crack and the hookers,” he continued. “It’s just so safe now. No one knows how to walk fast any more. They’re weaving around on their cell phones, bumping into each other like a lost generation.”

I decided that I should fall in love with Shaun.

“I don’t have a cell phone, either.”

“Well,” he mumbled sheepishly, “I do, but I never, ever use it without pulling over to the side of the curb.”

“You have a car?”

“No, when I walk on the street. You can’t be swerving all over the place. Let’s be honest: most people can’t talk on a phone and walk at the same time.“

“Right.” There was a pause. “Don’t you think you might be a tad defensive about this?”

Shaun laughed, and his eyes crinkled. I liked that his eyes crinkled.

“Yeah, I’m a passionate kinda guy. When I get riled up about something.... well, this is what happens.”

He shrugged adorably, and stirred his latte. I wondered if it was made with non-fat milk, or if I was dealing with a real man.

“What other topics set you off?” I wondered aloud. “I just want to be prepared!”

“Television!” he gasped. “I got rid of mine five years ago and I don’t miss it at all. I use my time better. I read more. I go see movies. It’s great!”

“So... the big game?”

“Sports bars!”

“The Oscars?”

“Ever since they canned the Debbie Allen dance routine, what’s the point of watching it? To see Jennifer Lopez’s breasts? Nice as they are, I can see those on the front page of the Post the next day.”

Wow. I really liked this guy!

Chapter Eight: Life Existed Before Jimmy

Maybe it’s time I gave you a little background. You’ve had plenty of insight into my disastrous love life. Fast or famine, that’s me...

But before Jimmy, I was quite fun. I grew up in a suburb of Baltimore called Towson, which was made less dreary by the fact that there is a university there (and therefore all the hoopla that comes with college students) and that John Waters shot some of “Serial Mom” at my high school.

I was the middle child of three, with my siblings and I getting along just as well as siblings can and do, with no extraordinary tales of woe, deception or angst. My dad worked for a local brewery, and my mom stayed at home through most of my childhood, returning to part-time nursing when my younger sister was in school full-time. An average, all-American family.

My prom date has since gone on to law school, having decided that medicine was not for him. Over-educated, certainly, and probably still a really bad dancer.

I went off to NYU for a few semesters and transferred to UCLA to study film. I really thought I could learn all I would need to know about movie-making in college, but the truth is that while my parents were busting themselves to pay for tuition, rent and a car, I should have just started as a production assistant’s gofer and worked my way up.

After a four-year degree (cum laude, I might add) and a very impressive and expensive education, that’s where I started. My first day on the job, I broke the coffee machine. The PA found me in the production trailer, sitting on the floor in tears. It got better after that, but not much, so after a while, I ditched movie making for something less glamorous (ha): production finance.

The great thing about the film business is that you don’t actually need to be an accountant to go into finance. In fact, it’s better if you don’t know anything about bookkeeping. I was numerate and knew my way around a set, so it was an easy transition, and it led me straight to Jimmy. I entered my trailer one day, booted up my computer, and was faced with a question mark in place of a smiley Mac. Jimmy was the computer dude who fixed it.

He put his hand over mine to steer the mouse to show me some neat tricks I hadn’t known, and then left me his card. There was an instant ripple of anticipation. Of course, I called to thank him, because a computer geek is a useful friend to have. He asked me out, and the rest is clichéd history.

But between college and Jimmy, I went home frequently to see my family: the usual, Christmas or Thanksgiving. They rarely came out to see me, however, because my dad was too scared to face the freeways in California and my mother was a menace on the roads, so he wouldn’t drive with her.

They say (whoever “they” may be) that you should look at your parents’ relationship to figure out where you went wrong in yours, but to tell the truth, my folks seemed to get on just fine. Maybe that’s why Jimmy’s departure from an idyllic relationship caught me so off-guard.

Chapter Seven: Belgian Beer and Smores: Girls’ Night

“One lousy date and you’re giving up?” Joan spluttered in exasperation.

Amanda was subtler.

“So Erik wasn’t a match made in heaven. You didn’t have too tiresome a night, did you?”

“Tiresome?” I asked her. “Who says tiresome? Joan, are you getting her hooked on those Jane Austen novels?”

“Don’t change the subject,” bossed Joan. “Answer her!”

I had to confess that although Erik had not been my Prince Charming, he was also neither a Big Bad Wolf or a Frog (just waiting for my kiss). He was just like The Guy Who Sells Jack the Magic Beans, or some other nebulous character that everyone forgets.

“What do you want me to do?” I whined. “Just go up to strange men in the street and say, ‘Hi, I just got over my boyfriend after three years and I need a date?’”

We were sitting in one of the many coffee shops inspired by the ever-irritatingly successful show Friends. It had overstuffed couches, a sullen but hip wait staff and the same lack of black people (in New York, I swear). I never understood how these places made any money, as the earnest men and women who pay their outrageous $4 for a latte simply stay in one place for hours at a time with no intention of ever getting a refill.

They were getting money out of us, though. Amanda sipped a raspberry beer imported from Belgium and priced as though a plane had been chartered for that express purpose; Joan was enjoying a hot chocolate with enough whipped cream on it to inspire an entire series of porn flicks; I was having a simple mint tea, accompanied by an obscenely large Smores’ fondue, which I justified as a reward for even thinking about dating again.

“This place!” shrieked Joan.

I wiped melted chocolate off my chin and glanced at her quizzically.

“They have a blind date book!”

In an apparent effort to increase their clientele (or more likely to amuse themselves), the staff had concocted a ridiculous scheme whereby a willing victim fills out a form detailing such pertinent information as favorite movie lines and horoscope, along with vital statistics like sports team affiliations and hair color. All these forms go in a book and if someone wants to meet you after having their interest piqued by these scintillating facts, the downtrodden baristas would make the introduction.

It seemed like a ludicrous idea, but I had nothing to lose but my recently rediscovered dignity. After scoffing publicly at the lunacy of such a desperate stunt, I waited for the girls to hail a cab and told them to go ahead, because I wanted to stand outside and smoke a cigarette. Back in the coffee shop, I quietly snuck a form and plonked myself in an all-embracing armchair to commit to paper my various peculiarities.