The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters With the Human Race

by Sara Barron

  On this particular Saturday, however, as though in response to my beef-drunk wish the night before, Brian’s behavior toward me appeared suddenly to shift. He was notably more chatty and attentive. He asked, “So, how are you?” He checked in with me on six different occasions to see how my wine and soup and water were going. He told me he liked the shirt I had on.

  “Really?” I asked. “I think it has this sort of, like, widening effect on my back.”

  “No,” he said. “Your back looks really narrow.”

  12:00 P.M.: I went to the bathroom to urinate for the final time, then returned to the bar to pay my bill. When I did, Brian sauntered over.

  “Listen,” he said. “You’re, like, always around but we never get the chance to talk. I’m off at three. Would you like to get a drink? Around three thirty, say?”

  I had, prior to this moment, known true and visceral joy. I had held newborn babes in my arms. I had caught wind of divorces I’d predicted years before. I had known true and visceral joy. But nothing could compete with this, the adrenaline rush of someone so attractive asking me to get a drink.

  “YES!” I answered. And then, “I’D LOVE TO!” And then, “WHY AM I TALKING SO LOUD?”

  Brian laughed. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “I THINK, YES, I AM NERVOUS!” I said. “ALSO, I THINK I AM THINKING OF WHAT SHIRT TO WEAR! SOMETHING MORE SLIMMING FOR MY BACK!”

  Brian reiterated that my back looked lovely as it was and suggested a local wine bar. I told him that sounded great, and that I’d see him at three thirty.

  3:30 P.M.: Brian and I met up for drinks, struggled to drum up conversation, settled eventually on a back-and-forth about the perils of waiting tables. We additionally discussed my encyclopedic knowledge of seasons one and two of 30 Rock.

  5:00 P.M.: As the wine flowed, I noticed a marked absence of flirtation. Of any impending flirtation. There was not so much as a hint of physical interest from Brian, in me.

  5:01 P.M.: I wondered why this was, why he would ask me out for drinks, if not for the impending intercourse. Did he want to be friends? Was he of the homosexual persuasion? Did he want to be friends because he was of the homosexual persuasion?

  5:30 P.M.: Brian offered to walk me home. I accepted the offer, and wondered if this was perhaps a sign that there would be a good-bye kiss. I wondered if, to Brian’s credit, he was simply averse to in-restaurant, hand-on-knee flirting.

  5:40 P.M.: We arrived at my front door. Brian did not move in for the good-bye kiss. He did, though, say, “Why don’t we head upstairs. We could, um, watch a little 30 Rock.”

  5:41 P.M.: I was delighted by the question. I told Brian, “That’d be really fun!”

  5:42 P.M.: I considered how quirky I was, having 30 Rock used on me as part of a seduction.

  5:43 P.M.: I invited him upstairs.

  6:45 P.M.: After two episodes of 30 Rock, nothing physical had occurred between Brian and me. More to the point, I got the sense that nothing physical was going to occur. Brian had spent the previous hour sitting on the opposite side of the sofa. Sofa-wise, he was as far from me as he could get.

  6:46 P.M.: Yet again, I wondered why this was. Why a person would invite himself upstairs if not for the impending intercourse. The potential explanations reemerged, although this time I added the possibility that Brian had genital herpes. I considered that impending intercourse might therefore require an uncomfortable conversation. I wondered if, as a result of all this, Brian liked to take things slow.

  8:00 P.M.: Five episodes of 30 Rock, and still: NOTHING. Still: Brian and I had stayed glued to our opposite sides of the sofa.

  8:01 P.M.: I added to the list of potential explanations the idea that Brian had been anally raped at some point and, therefore, had only recently arrived at a place of emotional readiness where intercourse was concerned. I wondered whether he had chosen me as the partner for said intercourse because I projected the necessary warmth and vulnerability for him to feel sexually relaxed.

  8:05 P.M.: Brian stood up and excused himself to the bathroom.

  8:06 P.M.: I used my moment alone to text my friend Deirdre. She’d been a helpful listener the night before, and I wondered if, in this instance, she might do the same again.

  “Im w/a hot waiter!!!!” I texted. “Weve been @ my apt 4ever. NOTHING IS HAPPENING. WHY NOT? Does he JUST want 2 watch TV?”

  8:07 P.M.: Deirdre wrote back right away.

  “OMG,” she wrote. “Your RIDIC. OBVI he is shy! He wnts YOU 2 make a move!”

  But no, I thought. It cannot be.

  Picture, if you will, George Clooney and Tiny Tim seated on a couch. Picture both of them knowing someone must bite the bullet, and make the first move. Would there be a question as to whose confidence was operating at a higher level? And, therefore, upon whose shoulders such responsibility must rest? No. There would not. It would rest upon George. So would it rest upon Brian.

  8:09 P.M.: Brian returned from the bathroom.

  “Shall we watch one more episode of 30 Rock?” he asked.

  I nodded yes. I said, “I do believe we should.”

  8:20 P.M.: During this, our final 30 Rock, Brian became a bit more fidgety than he’d been before. I thought, Oh, okay. Now here we finally go. Because the behavior, I thought, indicated that something was finally en route. Maybe the moves to get the desired intercourse going. Maybe just the explanation as to why Brian liked to take things slow. Maybe the fidgeting would reach a fever pitch and he would say, “Listen. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been weird. And this is, well, a little hard to talk about.” And he’d take a deep breath. “See, the thing is, I’ve been taking these antidepressants. And they’re affecting my ability to”—and he would motion toward his penis—“and it’s making me nervous about”—and he would point back and forth between us—“with anyone new.”

  Brian would ask if I understood what he meant, and I would say, “Of course I understand what you mean. And, for what it’s worth, I think penetration’s overrated.”

  Then Brian and I would make out for a while, and then I’d skip Vicki and Don’s Halloween party so that Brian and I could cuddle. We’d cuddle for an hour at which point Brian would say, “Sara, look at me and listen: I am your boyfriend now.”

  8:32 P.M.: The 30 Rock episode finished.

  8:33 P.M.: Brian’s fidgeting reached, if not a fever pitch, then a higher pitch. I hoped to urge him on.

  “So,” I said.

  “So,” he said.

  “Soooo,” I said.

  “Sooooo,” he said.

  Come on, I thought.

  “So. Well,” he said. “I have this thing I want to ask. Or … I don’t know. Maybe it’s more, like, a thing I want to tell you. And then a thing I want to ask.”

  “Great,” I said. “Go on.”

  “Well …” he said.

  “Welllllll …” I said.

  “So,” he said. “The thing is that I dabble. As a prostitute.”

  8:33 P.M.: My first response to this information was a crushing wave of disappointment. Something told me that if Brian dabbled as a prostitute, he probably wasn’t in my apartment to have sex with me for free.

  My second response to this information was an overriding curiosity. For if Brian wasn’t here to have sex with me for free, was he, perchance, here to have sex with me for money? Provided that was the case, I was actually more intrigued than I was offended. I was on the verge of asking Brian if he’d accept payment in installments, but he cut me off before I had the chance.

  “I’ve done it a handful of times,” he said, “and I would like to do it more.”

  “Right,” I said. “Of course.”

  “But the thing is, it’s hard to drum up business as a dude. It’s like, there is a market out there, but it’s hard to break into, you know?”

  I told him that I did not know.

  “And I see how you are at the restaurant,” he continued. “You’re sharp about how you spend money. You read a lot; I k
now you’re smart. And you’re a lone wolf too, you know? Not afraid to be alone. And then I started thinking about it, and I was like, ‘Oh my god! Right! Yes.’ That’s just what I need in a manager.”

  “Manager.” I repeated the word. “Your pimp.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re perfect.”

  “I’m perfect,” I repeated. “To pimp.”

  8:37 P.M.: I considered Brian’s assessment. I considered why it was wrong.

  1. Pinching pennies isn’t demonstrative of being “good” with money, necessarily. In my case, it’s demonstrative of being bad with money—that is, I pinch pennies because I am penniless, and I am penniless because I live alone.

  2. My literature of choice varies from “easy” to “beach.”

  3. I’m not unafraid to be alone, I’ve just been forced to be alone. These are different things entirely.

  8:38 P.M.: I thanked Brian for his offer, but explained that I was less qualified than I may have appeared.

  “Well, I totally get it,” he said. “I mean, I hope you’re, like, flattered I asked.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “And I hope there aren’t any hard feelings,” he said.

  And I told him there weren’t. Since there weren’t. I mean, if Tiny Tim discovered George Clooney wasn’t interested in him romantically, you wouldn’t think, “Oh. Well, Clooney’s a dick.” No. You’d be like, “Oh. Well, Tiny Tim’s retarded for having thought he stood a chance.”

  8:45 P.M.: Brian said good-bye.

  8:48 P.M.: I watched one more episode of 30 Rock.

  9:11 P.M.: I rallied the energy to put on my costume, and go to the Halloween party. I did this with the help of an ice-cold shower. I hoped it would make the remainder of my night seem pleasant by comparison.

  9:35 P.M.: I put on a long-sleeve silver unitard and covered what remained of my exposed skin in silver face-paint. I was dressing as the Tin Man, of course. But sexy-like. For the hat part of my costume, I wore a silver funnel upside down.

  9:50 P.M.: I left for the party.

  10:20 P.M.: I arrived at the party.

  10:22 P.M.: I realized I knew no one at the party besides my old friend Vicki and her new boyfriend, Don.

  10:24 P.M.: I made my way toward Vicki and Don. Vicki was in sunglasses, a white beret, and leather mini-skirt, and Don was in a three-piece suit and what appeared to be a motorcycle helmet he’d shellacked with whole walnuts. Glued to this walnut-covered helmet were various small horns, the kind you blow on New Year’s Eve. They were purple, these horns, and to their bases Don had glued a dozen imitation, plastic diamonds.

  10:25 P.M.: I asked them both what they were dressed as.

  “Debbie Harry,” said Vicki.

  “A busted nut,” said Don. “It’s a tribute to Vicki’s vagina.”

  I had met Don two times prior to this Halloween party. On both occasions he had presented as overtly sexual, by which I mean:

  He had not been opposed to carrying on a conversation while vigorously massaging Vicki’s upper, inner thigh.

  He had not hesitated to ask me how up-to-date I was on his sex life.

  “Vicki and I fuck all the time,” he’d said. “Has she told you about it? About how good it is?”

  As it happened, Vicki had told me about how good it was. Vicki enjoyed speaking on the subject of Don’s insatiable appetite, of his unparalleled skill set. I never asked any follow-up questions, however, and that is because my attitudes toward the sex I have and the sex I hear about vary drastically: When I have it, I like it to be good. When I hear about it, I like it to be funny. There’s no such thing as TMI in my book unless, of course, you care to wax poetic on your partner’s magnificence. If he or she is amazing, great, but then leave out the step-by-step description. Just be, like, “Yeah. I mean, the sex is really good,” and I’ll be, like, “Really? I’m so glad!” And then, from there, we can move on to other more compelling issues.

  It is a time-honored and respected truth: that bad sex makes a good story. And good sex? Well, you’ve just had good sex. Don’t think you have a story.

  10:29 P.M.: I excused myself from my conversation with Vicki and Don. This was partly because Don had brought up the issue of vaginal tribute masks. It was also because the Ludacris song “Money Maker” had come on through the speakers and I wanted to dance to it in a liberated style.

  10:32 P.M.: I finished dancing in a liberated style to the Ludacris song “Money Maker.”

  10:33 P.M.: I began dancing in an equally liberated style to the song “Temperature” by Sean Paul.

  10:37 P.M.: I finished dancing in a liberated style to the song “Temperature” by Sean Paul and began dancing to the song “SOS” by Rihanna. My style of dancing was less liberated in this instance because I’d started getting tired.

  10:41 P.M.: From across the room, I saw Don coming toward me in his walnut helmet.

  “Oh. Hi, Don,” I said.

  “Hi, Sara,” he said. “I thought maybe we could finish our conversation from before.”

  I hadn’t realized our conversation from before had not already finished. Don had said, “It’s a tribute to Vicki’s vagina,” and I had said, “Oh. How nice. Time for me to hit the dance floor.”

  But now it seemed that Don had more to say.

  “I would like to tell you more about my mask,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “The walnuts represent a busted nut,” he said. “Because my sex life’s so amazing.”

  I paused for moment. I said, “Well, congratulations. On your sex life.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Do you know about the color?”

  “The color?” I asked. “Of … your sex life?”

  “Ha! No!” Don laughed. “What I mean is, do you know about the color of Vicki’s vagina?”

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “The color of Vicki’s vagina,” he repeated. “Do you know more generally about the varying colors of all vaginas?”

  One of my central life philosophies is this: If a man appears crazy in private, run. But if a man appears crazy in public, stick it out. Have fun diving further in.

  “I don’t know about the varying vaginal colors,” I said. “Can you tell me more about them?”

  “Vaginas vary in color,” said Don. “Most are pink, some are blue. But the really special ones? They’re … violet.”

  I sighed, and braced for the inevitable.

  “And Vicki’s?” I prompted.

  Don closed his eyes. He took a breath.

  “Vicki’s vagina is violet,” he said. “Hers is … perfect. Hers is … very rare.”

  10:45 P.M.: I scanned the room for eye contact with fellow party guests. Come: bear witness, said my eyes. But the silver face paint was having a Botox-like effect insofar as it had dried and I could barely move my face.

  “Oil can?” I might’ve asked, but I knew no one there would answer.

  10:46 P.M.: “The horns,” Don went on, and pointed to the violet horns that he had glued to his walnut helmet, “are violet. And that is in tribute to Vicki’s vagina. And the diamonds … see the diamonds?” He pointed to the small glass balls glued to the rims of the horns. “They represent Vicki’s ejaculation, because now that she and I are making love, Vicki can ejaculate. She ejaculates all the time, and it’s always like a waterfall of diamonds. Hence the diamonds.”

  10:55 P.M.: Don and I sat in awkward silence. Why? Because. On those rare occasions wherein you have nothing nice to say about your friend’s violet vagina, you don’t say anything at all.

  10:56 P.M.: “Well, that’s it,” Don said finally. “I just thought that you should know.”

  “Yes, well, thank you,” I said. “Thanks for making sure I knew.”

  10:57 P.M.: Don migrated to the part of the dance floor where Vicki was standing.

  10:58 P.M.: Vicki and Don began dancing in a style that is best described as a rhythmless Lambada.

  10:59 P.M.: As they d
anced, I set to work on the why of it all. Why had Don cornered me? Why did he want me to be the holder of the key, the knower of the information? Or was I simply one of many? Was he simply making the rounds?

  “I want you to know, now you, now you, now you: My girlfriend’s vagina is violet. She ejaculates diamonds like a waterfall.”

  I mulled it all over, and it would’ve stayed a mystery for, like, ever, I guess. Except … well, no. It would not. Not as long as the needs of male pre-seniors stay as predictable as the circumstances of the women they seduce.

  I get it that you’re virile, I’d have said.

  Except I wasn’t in a mood to be that nice.

  11:15 P.M.: I said my good-byes.

  11:16 P.M.: I walked to the subway.

  SUNDAY, 12:45 A.M.: I was—still—on the subway. To be more specific about it, I was stuck on a subway platform in midtown Manhattan. This was especially annoying seeing as how it was a mere four miles between my Brooklyn apartment and the Brooklyn Halloween party. The commute in its entirety should’ve taken less than an hour, but then the trains started acting as though on a personal mission to make me suicidal. One of them went suddenly, inexplicably express, and they’d bypassed my stop in Brooklyn altogether, and I’d wound up in Manhattan.

  For the non–New Yorkers among you, this is the commuting equivalent of trying to get from Florida to Virginia and, through no fault of your own, winding up in Spain.

  12:50 A.M.: I fell into a blind rage.

  12:51 A.M.: I damned the Metropolitan Transportation Authority as well as women with superior vaginas.

  12:58 A.M.: I spotted, amid a handful of fellow commuters, renowned New York drag king Murray Hill.

  Murray Hill is a minor celebrity and downtown scenester: rotund, mustachioed, frequently outfitted in ’70s clothing. Suits, usually. Formal, usually. To cite my previously mentioned attractions to a certain type of dapper-butch lady, it’s a look I can quite get into—quite—and hoping Murray Hill might desire me as I did him, it seemed wise to abandon the foot-stomping of my aforementioned rage for a seductive sidestep toward him.