Run Catch Kiss

by Amy Sohn

  I called the Corinne column “Dyke Hands,” named her Beat Writer, and said that after the book party I took her back to my house and fisted her until she female-ejaculated on my face. I hoped it sounded convincing.

  But there was a rub. I’d have to trust that she wouldn’t squeal about the fiction to Starsky and Hutch. She seemed cool enough not to—but maybe it was best to call her, just in case. I picked up the phone.

  “There’s something I have to talk to you about,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I wrote this column about the two of us hooking up, and I want to know if you’d mind me printing it.”

  “You fabricated a liaison?”

  “Yeah.”

  I heard her exhale on a cigarette. “Is it hot?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Does it sound authentic?”

  “I don’t know. I used my imagination.”

  “What do you call me?”

  “Beat Writer.”

  She laughed. “Go for it.”

  “You won’t tell Turner I made it up?”

  “No.”

  “Promise? Because they told me I wasn’t allowed to lie.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  After I hung up I called Jake to tell him what I was planning. He said, “I can’t wait to read it.” Everything was under control, and I was five days ahead of schedule.

  But the next day “Smutlife” came out, and I had a new set of worries. The first was my dad. I had to find out if he’d heeded my “Do Not Read” warning. I checked my machine twelve times that afternoon to see if he left a message, but by four-thirty he still hadn’t. So I called him.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t. Larry Stanley tried to read it aloud to me, but I put on my Walkman and cranked up NPR so I couldn’t hear him.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But my eye couldn’t help but catch the first sentence. Mom and I don’t want to tell you how to run your life, but we’re at our wits’ end. We don’t know if you should be in therapy or if we should.” I could see him running his hand through his hair.

  I had to let him know I was OK. He had to know I was growing up.

  “I’m actually seeing someone new,” I said. “And I’m really happy.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He was a guy I dated in youth group. Jake Datner.”

  “This is the best news I have heard in months! I can’t believe it! I am just so thrilled for y—” His voice cracked. He had to stop talking and take a few deep breaths. He cries at everything. Every hokey human-interest tale they air on NPR, Hallmark commercials, sappy movies. He even cried at Splash. “What I mean to say is,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m just . . . delighted.”

  When I walked into BarBarella after work, though, and saw Jake sitting at the bar, I wasn’t sure how long he and I would last anyway. His mouth was turned down at the corners and he had two empty shot glasses in front of him. Before my butt cheeks were fully planted on the bar stool he said, “Your column really upset me.”

  “I thought you were OK with my mistakes,” I said.

  “I am,” he said. “I just didn’t know you’d made so many.”

  You would think a guy who was seeing a sex columnist would figure she’d been around the block once or twice. But Jake was a Guy in a Relationship, so he desperately needed to cling to the two big Guy in Relationship myths: (1) that his girlfriend is an innocent flower whose sexuality he is bringing out and (2) that he is the bigger player in the pair. If a guy feels for one instant that his girlfriend’s sexuality has already been brought out by other guys, or that he’s the lesser player, he freaks. That’s why, when a girl asks a guy how many girls he’s slept with, he’ll give her the real number, then smile proudly, but when a guy asks a girl, she’ll gauge his tolerance level, then reduce accordingly.

  “Jake,” I said, “are you afraid of me?”

  “I think I am,” he said.

  “What can I do to make you less afraid?”

  “Have you been tested?” He sure didn’t mince words.

  “Yes.”

  “Since that guy in the porno booth came in your mouth?”

  “He didn’t come in my mouth. I made that part up.”

  “Why?”

  “To make a better story.”

  “Did you go to Show World?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have sex with him?”

  “Yeah, but protected, and he didn’t come anyway, because an attendant interrupted us in the middle and we had to leave.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t say anything for a second and then he sighed and said, “It’s not just the testing I’m worried about.”

  “What else is it?”

  “I feel like I could never be enough man for you.”

  “You could. You are!”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeated dumbly.

  “What is it you see in me?”

  “You’re . . . decent.”

  He winced. “That’s the kiss of death.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had more girls tell me I’m decent than any other guy I know. When a girl says that, she might as well be saying she could never fall for you.”

  “I’m not telling you you’re decent in a blow-off way. I’m telling you you’re decent and that I want to keep seeing you. But I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He squeezed my hand and leaned in to kiss me, and everything was semi-OK again.

  The next three nights in a row, we went out together, to dinner, drinks, and a movie. I loved all the relationship perks—dressing up for him, getting calls from him at work, making out in backseats of cabs, falling asleep next to him, eating breakfast at The Fall together. My entire Perfect Guy dream was finally coming true.

  Until we hit a bump. We were fooling around on his futon Sunday night when suddenly his interest disappeared. I never know what to do when that happens. It’s generally a lose-lose situation. If you don’t say anything the guy gets upset and embarrassed, and if you say something the guy gets upset and embarrassed.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said, jumped out of bed, put on some boxers, and went into the living room.

  I put on my clothes and followed him in. He was sitting on the couch, lighting a cigarette and twitching his leg. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  He sighed, knotted his brow, and looked at me mournfully. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you but I couldn’t seem to find the right time.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m bipolar.”

  “You have an apartment in L.A.?”

  “No, I’m manic-depressive. I just started taking Paxil a couple days ago. One of the side effects is . . . so that’s why that happened.”

  “How long have you known about this?”

  “All my life, really, but technically, about a few weeks. That’s when my company put me on staff. I got health coverage and I started seeing a shrink on the plan, and he said I was bipolar and prescribed the Paxil.”

  “Do you feel like it’s helping?”

  “I’m not sure. And I don’t like this side effect. I’m thinking of going off it.”

  “Are there other drugs you can take that might not—”

  “This is the first one I’ve tried. I’m gonna talk to the shrink about it.” He got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with a bottle of beer.

  “Are you sure you should be drinking if you’re on an anti-depressant?” I asked.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” he spat.

  “I’m just trying to—”

  “Well, stop trying.” He turned on the TV.

  This was awful. Jake was supposed to be the answer to my problems—not a new problem. I went into the bedroom and got under the covers. He came in a few minutes later and crawled under next to me.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at
you,” he said quietly.

  “You should be,” I said.

  “Ariel . . .” He got that pleading look in his eyes again. “Please don’t give up on me.”

  “I’m not,” I said. But the mood had dampened, and we fell asleep with our backs to each other.

  •

  On Monday morning I got a strange call from Corinne. “There’s something we need to discuss,” she said sotto voce.

  “What is it?”

  “Turner’s been acting funny today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He came up to my desk a little while ago and asked if ‘Dyke Hands’ was true. I told him yes but I don’t think he believed me. He said, ‘She seems like such a breeder. It’s hard for me to believe she’s bisexual.’”

  “He said that?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what you want to do about it, but I thought I should warn you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I hung up and chewed my pencil. It didn’t take me long to come up with a plan.

  •

  After work I went to the Week. Corinne was at her desk. I looked to my left toward Turner’s office and spotted the top of his head protruding from behind his computer. Perfect timing. I crossed behind Corinne’s desk and stood over her chair, my back to Turner. “Are we in his line of vision?” I whispered.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Take a step to your left.” I did. “OK. Now we are.”

  I sat on her lap, stared at her, and laced my fingers through hers. She had dark pretty lids and long lashes. She smirked at me, getting off on how nervous I was. But I screwed my courage to the sticking place, shut my eyes, and lunged for her. Unbelievable. She had incredible technique—not too much tongue, all the action in the lips. Our chests touched as we held each other, and I felt two hard spots between us. I wasn’t sure if they were her nipples or mine, and not knowing kind of turned me on. She put her hand on the back of my neck. I pulled her in closer. This was a dirty job, but someone had to do it.

  We smooched for another two minutes and then I swiveled her around and stole a glance into Turner’s office. He was looking right at us, his face redder than a nursing mother’s teat. Bingo. I yanked my face away, leapt off Corinne’s lap, and straightened my clothes. Turner came out.

  “Hello, Bill,” I said, turning to him. “I didn’t know you were, um, in there.”

  “Me neither,” said Corinne, pulling out her compact and putting on a fresh coat of lipstick.

  “Well, I was,” he said. “You two should try to show a little more discretion. People have to get work done around this place. You don’t want to throw them off balance. It could affect the quality of the paper.”

  Operation: success.

  “I’m really sorry, Bill,” I said contritely. “I guess I just got carried away.”

  “Me too,” said Corinne. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Good,” he said, went back into the office, and shut the door. I winked at Corinne and gave a thumbs-up and we went out to get a drink.

  •

  On Wednesday at noon, Sara and I picked up two copies of the paper and went to the Met Life building. There was only one letter about me in “The Mail”:

  Why don’t you print a photo of Ariel Steiner so if I ever see her on the street, I can run away?

  NAME WITHHELD UPON REQUEST

  This time I didn’t get upset. I actually smiled. I had enemies all over the city, but none of them ever seemed to stop reading me. And how intimidated could I be by a guy who didn’t have enough balls to let the paper print his name?

  When I got back to work there were four messages on my machine about “Dyke Hands.” Corinne: “The whole office is asking me how you were, and I’m telling them ‘the best of my life.’ ” Jake: “I hate to admit it, but it turned me on.” Zach: “My friends want to know if you’re a bulldagger. Dad told me you had a boyfriend, though. Are you bi? It’s cool if you are. I just want to know.” And my dad: “Please call me as soon as possible.”

  “I only read it this week because I thought it was going to be about Jake,” he said when I got him on the phone. “But it sure wasn’t. What’s going on?”

  I had to set him straight. “It was fiction,” I said. “The character is based on someone real, but she’s just a friend. We didn’t—I mean—it’s not—”

  “Oh, thank God,” he said and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  •

  That night I went over to Jake’s. As soon as I walked in he pulled me right into bed and dove for my muff. I guess he hadn’t been kidding when he’d said the column turned him on. He’d been going at it for about five minutes when I reached down and shifted his head a little. Suddenly he jerked his face up and scowled at me. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Moving your head.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that it might be just a tad unromantic?”

  “How are you supposed to learn what I like if I don’t show you?”

  “There’s a difference between saying what you like and traffic-copping me.”

  He put on his boxers. “Where you going? To the living room? Like you always do? To watch TV?”

  “I’m not watching TV,” he said and went into the living room. I put on my underwear and T-shirt and followed him in. We sat on the couch.

  “Did you go off the Paxil?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yesterday.”

  “Are you sure that was a good idea?”

  “Leave me alone,” he said. That pretty much answered my question.

  He opened a bag of pot that was sitting on the coffee table and started to roll a joint. As he lit it, a piece of ash fell off the end and scalded my thigh.

  “Ow!” I screamed. “Did you do that on purpose?”

  “No,” he said. “It was an accident. I’m sorry.”

  “You treat me like shit and we’ve only been going out like a week. Most guys take months.”

  “I don’t treat you like shit.”

  “Yes, you do. I wish you’d go back on the drugs.”

  “How can you be so insensitive to my illness?”

  “Because it’s driving me crazy!”

  “Jesus! We’re fighting like an old couple.”

  “Are you aware that when you say things like ‘We’re an old couple’ it doesn’t make me feel very—”

  “Are you aware that when you direct me in bed it doesn’t make me feel very good either?”

  In the John Hughes movie of my life, that would have been the moment where Molly Ringwald Me told off Andrew McCarthy Jake and stormed out of the apartment, finally realizing we had no future. In my moment of sudden enlightenment and empowerment, Andrew Jake would become so transfixed by Molly Me’s feistiness that he’d chase me down the street, grab my arm passionately, and say Andrew’s last line in Pretty in Pink: “I believed in you. I always believed in you. I just didn’t believe in me.” Then he would bend to kiss me and his eyes would be all crinkly and warm like Andrew’s, and we would kiss an incredible, nonhalitotic kiss under a hot blue rain as “If You Leave” swelled up in the background.

  But I knew my life wasn’t a movie. I saw myself leaving the apartment and I saw myself sleeping alone again. I saw the victory being a hollow one that in the end didn’t make me feel independent and powerful but instead made me lonelier than before.

  We sat there silently for a few minutes and then he put his hand on my knee. I wanted us to stop fighting. I wanted him to like me again.

  I put my hand on his crotch and he kissed me. It got superhot superfast, the way it always does when you’re hating each other, and before long I was lying on top of him. “Should I get a condom?” he asked.

  We hadn’t gone all the way yet, and I had a feeling it would be a mistake to do it now, but I nodded anyway. He went into his room and came back with one, got on top of me, heaved up and down silently for a few minutes, then came. He knotted the condom, put it on the table next to the pot bag, sat up, and lit a cigarette.

/>   I went into the bathroom, ran the tap water, sat down on the edge of the toilet, and started to cry. I didn’t want to be crying. That was what you did when you were going out with a dick, and Jake wasn’t a dick. He was just troubled. I had to be understanding. Relationships were about compromise. I had to think long-haul. I tore off a piece of toilet paper, wiped my face with it, and went back into the living room.

  •

  Over the next few days we fought every time we got together. He would snap at me about something small, I’d snap back, and then a second later he’d hug me and say, “I don’t want to lose you,” or, “Please don’t be mad at me,” and I’d find myself forgiving him.

  I knew I wasn’t happy, but I was afraid my dad would be disappointed if we broke up. I wanted him to see I could be good at monogamy. I wanted him to see that despite my mistakes I could learn how to be a Relationship Girl.

  But my dad wasn’t the only reason I was afraid to cut Jake loose. I had this huge, lurking fear that if I broke up with Jake, no one else would want to be my boyfriend. I’d just go back to jerking off jerks and writing about it, till eventually I died—wide, notorious, and alone. Jake was mean, hard to be around, and mercurial, but at least he was sticking. Having a boyfriend was much more important to me than having a good one.

  The only possible upside to the tormented coupling was that it would have made terrific copy. But I was too afraid to ask Jake to reconsider his vetting, because I thought it might make him dump me. So that week, instead of writing about my awful, real, heterosexual relationship, I wrote about my fantastic, fictitious, lesbian one. And the next week I wrote the first-blow-job story after all.