The Accidental Virgin
Page 5
She was quite certain that she’d never ask for that. “Last night, a man said no to me.”
Tom reeled back, nearly fell off his stool, in shock. “He’s gay.”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“So he’s a fag,” he said. “But at least you tried. That’s a step in the right direction for all women. If I may be so bold as to take a woman’s sexual empowerment to a higher, political level —”
“You may.”
“Women would rule the world if they had more casual sex.”
“Sounds like an excellent dissertation topic,” said Stacy.
“If women were willing to sleep with men just because they wanted to — not worrying about whether the guy would respect her, or if he’s up to her standards or had enough money — they’d be in complete control of men, and would therefore rule the Earth.
“Plus,” added Tom, “they’d be happier. My mom sleeps with a different guy every month. She gets more action than half of my friends at college. I hope I have as much fun when I’m forty-nine.”
Stacy didn’t believe Janice was having fun. In fact, she was quite positive her boss was lonely and depressed. But Tom’s poor insight about his mom wasn’t Stacy’s business. For all she knew, Janice shielded her children from her pain. Maybe that was the right and proper thing to do. In any case, Stacy wouldn’t correct Tom on his misunderstanding of Janice. Her only aim, on that Tuesday in July, was to take full advantage of the situation, and of this boy. His theories about women asking for sex sounded swell in thin air. She wondered how deeply she’d embarrass him if she thickened it.
“Are all college men as concerned with a woman’s rightful place in the universe?” she asked.
“Gender equality is pretty high on my fix-it list,” he said.
As he plucked another white plate (octopus and scallion hand roll) from the conveyor belt, Stacy said, “I don’t meet too many men who love sushi.”
“I love it. I could eat fish every day,” he said and winked at her.
“Casual sex and raw fish for everyone,” said Stacy, interpreting the gospel of Tom.
“Amen to that,” he said, holding aloft a neat package of rice, tentacle and seaweed before shoveling it into his mouth. Stacy watched him chew, his lips slightly parted. Sex for sex’s sake. That’s what she was thinking herself into. God knows, she’d done it plenty of times before without qualms. It was a worthy task, a mundane yet noble act. She would have no guilt or hesitation. Stacy still had thirty minutes left on her hour off, and could stretch it by another fifteen if she had to. Best not to think about his dim bulb of a brain, intolerance or piggy table manners, she thought. Focus on his splendid availability.
“You are cute, Tom,” she announced. “And I couldn’t agree more that women should have as much casual sex as possible. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, women should grab, with both hands, any opportunity presented to her.”
He paused and then swallowed hard. “You agree with me?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes. And, dare I repeat myself, I find you very attractive.”
“The feminists on campus don’t agree,” he said. “They think my theories are offensive. And some women” — he glanced at Stacy — “think my commitment to equality between the sexes is just a rap I use to get laid.”
Did she need to hit this boy on the head with a maki roll? Stacy put her hand on Tom’s forearm. “I want you, Tom. I want you so badly it hurts. I am in physical pain from the gigantic amount of desire that I feel for you, Tom, at this moment in time.”
He stared at Stacy’s heart-shaped face in shock (and, it seemed, horror), before yelling “Check, please!” to the woman taking drink orders. To Stacy he said, “Let’s go to my place,” and gulped down the last of his carafe of sake.
“Your mother’s place downtown?” she asked, calculating the traveling time of going all the way to the Village and back.
“I’m staying at the Regalton Hotel,” he said.
Stacy paid the bill (careful to keep the receipt), and they walked the three blocks to East 44th Street.
The Regalton Hotel opened in 1992, the same year Bill Clinton became president. In Democratic spirit, the lobby was generously lit with amber-hued torch sconces that made anyone look stylish, slim and sepia. Legend had it that a certain superstar singer, in her club-crawling, pre-pregnancy days, would regularly burst through the unmarked black leather doors with two or three Latin men, disappear into the mirrored elevators and hit the stop button between floors. Hotel management would discreetly cordon off the occupied elevator and direct hotel guests to the unoccupied ones. After an hour or so, the elevator car would arrive in the lobby, ejecting the men into a funnel of flattering light with coupons for a free meal at the hotel’s four-star French restaurant, the Velveteen Lapin. The pop star, meanwhile, would return to her penthouse suite alone, until she emerged from the mirrored elevators herself in the early hours of the morning — rested, scrubbed and ready to run ten miles around the Central Park Reservoir, flanked by bodyguards and trainers (one of whom became the father of her daughter).
Stacy had long thought that the lobby — all black walls set off by bright red-, orange- and yellow-framed mirrors, plush black velvet settees with purple and blue pillows and black inches-deep carpeting that leveled high heels — would be the perfect place to meet a lover for a clandestine lunch hour. And here she was, doing exactly that. How tickled she was. How pleased. Not only would she rid herself of the threat of revirginization, but she’d be doing it in style.
Tom led her to an elevator on the left. Once the doors closed, the ghostly black light bounced off the mirrored walls. Brave Tom put his hands on Stacy’s shoulders and leaned in for what would be her first kiss in nearly a year. Tom was a tall boy, and Stacy, in her heels, was the ideal number of feet and inches to tilt her neck only slightly to greet his lips.
Her heart, her pulse. The dampening of the space between her upper lip and her nose. Stacy hadn’t felt these corporal changes — the excitement — in so long, the effect was uncomfortable, like she’d had one bite too much to eat. As Tom’s mouth approached, like a black hole closing in on a small, uncharted planet, Stacy shut her eyes. She couldn’t watch. It could be a sloppy, wet assault. It could go horribly, horribly wrong. The nanoseconds passed like microseconds, and then contact. She was being kissed by a man. His lips were squashed dryly against her own, and she felt the great relief of a thousand pounds of pressure breaking through a dam of matchsticks.
Stacy emitted a sound, a groan that she wished she could hurry back into her throat. Tom said, “You have a gorgeous ass,” and moved his hands from the safety of her shoulders to said bottom. She wriggled a bit from his grip, momentarily unconvinced that she knew him well enough to be groped in this brutish fashion.
Saved by the ding. The elevator doors opened, and Tom detached his lips from her face and his hands from her hips. She opened her eyes and looked at her new acquaintance, who was smiling sweetly at her as if she’d given him the toy he’d always wanted at Christmas. He was harmless, she realized. Nothing to fear. She could see this through. She was a sophisticated, self-actualized woman with a problem that had a clear and present solution. Courage would not be needed, she reasoned. Determination would be enough.
They walked down the long, dark hallway hand in hand. Tom floated at her side. Despite a 20-year-old’s unlimited capacity to fantasize, Stacy was positive that he couldn’t have imagined a midday screw would be the result of accompanying his mother to her office. She glanced at her watch. They had a comfortable 25 minutes before Janice and Fiona sent out a search-and-rescue squad.
Tom said, “This is my suite.” He waved his plastic key at the lock and the black door popped open. Tom put his hand on her back to steer her into the room. The stench kept her in the hallway. Tom noticed it too, and apologized. “It didn’t smell like this when I left this morning.”
She breathed through her mouth and they walked in. On the floor, Stacy step
ped over the remains of last night’s room service (hamburgers and taco salad, she guessed). On the tables, full ashtrays overflowed with cigar and cigarette butts. Half-empty beer bottles everywhere. On the room’s three couches lay the bodies of six young men, some sleeping upright with their feet on the table, all shirtless or in clothing stained with sweat, ketchup, and ash.
“Some friends staying over?” she asked.
Tom said, “I thought they’d be gone by now. And that housekeeping would have cleaned up. Maybe we should go. Can we take a cab to your place?”
Stacy rechecked her watch. Not nearly enough time. Fiona would spit bile if she were that late. Just thinking of work and her boss started to squelch her confidence. Tom, embarrassed by the mess, seemed to perceive her distraction. He had a cute pout.
“Is there a bedroom?” she asked.
He nodded. “I’m not sure what we’ll find in there.”
They picked their way toward the back of the suite. Stacy had to step over slices of pickle and mushed french fries on the carpet. Tom peeked into the bedroom and quickly closed the door.
“No good,” he said.
Stacy pushed him away and opened the door. On the bed, ass up on navy blue sheets, sprawled a naked young man. To his right, partially covered by the bed-clothes, lay a young woman. Her well-sprayed hair and makeup smears made her look like Whorey the Clown. She wore bulky jewelry on her wrists and ankles. Or was it…scratch the jewelry. Make that Velcro bondage straps. The lump at her left moved. Another college boy, groggily aroused. Make that groggily arose. He moaned, “My head,” softly. The sound of his pain stirred his bedmates. Stacy quietly closed the door.
“Bathroom?” she asked. Dogged, Stacy clung to hope, but the thin edge of opportunity was barely wide enough to stand on. In mules, she teetered wildly. If the bathroom weren’t sparkling clean, she resolved, she’d have to give up.
Tom pointed to the door opposite a small galley station. She ventured forth. The chrome on the sink shone cleanly. It reflected the red wink of her pedicure. The tub was dry, unused, white, circle-shaped and large enough to bathe a baby bison.
Removing her shoes, Stacy stepped into the tub. She said, “Lock that door,” to Tom and waved him in.
He kicked off his sneakers and jumped over the edge of the tub, nearly slipping in his socks. He grabbed Stacy around the waist and pressed her against his chest, kissing her hard on the face and neck. Without warning, he parted her lips with his tongue and began a full-out lingual assault. After two minutes of this oral frenzy, Tom unceremoniously unzipped his jeans and let them drop to his ankles.
“No hurry,” she said, twinges of nervousness and What - am - I - doing? surfacing. Yet Tom’s stomach was smooth, flat and golden as a beach.
“You’re the one who’s constantly checking her watch,” he said as he lifted her dress and pulled at her panties.
She checked the time again. Fifteen minutes. She glanced at the tent of Tom’s boxers. The absence of romance here had to count in her favor, she reasoned. She should be proud of her brazenness. It would make a charming little story in three or four months, the squashed food in the carpet, the bats and balls on Tom’s boxers, the light grit of Ajax on the tub floor. But right now, as she let Tom spin her around and she braced herself against the tile wall with her hands, Stacy was hard-pressed (literally), to find a single amusing aspect to this. And then, the rattle of the bathroom doorknob.
Tom, breathing heavily, shouted, “Get lost!” at whomever was now knocking loudly. He reached between her legs and touched her. She couldn’t deny the thrill. Male hands on her body. Her skin nearly jumped. She positioned her feet shoulder width, ready for Tom to do his part for gender equality.
But nothing happened. Again, he fumbled about, making her all the more prepared. But seconds ticked by without Tom making his point. Tom cursed a bit under his breath. The knocking of the door was now a rhythmic pounding. Stacy asked politely, “Is anything wrong?”
“Uhh. I’m…this has never happened to me before.”
Stacy’s quickened blood screeched to a halt. The phrase every man dreads to hear: “Is it in yet?” The phrase that kills a woman: “This has never happened to me before.” Stacy turned around. They both stared mournfully at what might have been.
“I want you too much,” he said desperately. “But this rushing. I’m hung over. It’s that idiot.” He gestured at the pounding of the bathroom door. “You have to give me another chance!” But the sight of Tom as he tried and failed to restore his pride and the sight of herself, panties stretched between her knees, her dress pushed up around her waist. She was not this desperate.
Stacy righted her clothes, stepped out of the tub and put on her shoes. She smiled (a gesture of infinite generosity, she thought) and said, “I’ve got to get back to work.”
She opened the bathroom door. A nearly naked young man was relieving himself in the mini-sink above the mini-bar. Stacy walked past him quickly. Tom pulled up his jeans and gave chase. “Please, Stacy, meet me tonight. I won’t let you down. You’ve got to say yes,” he pleaded.
“I’ve had all the female empowerment I can stand for one day,” she said, and left.
She wouldn’t blame herself. Her equipment had been operational. But the sting! An impotent 20-year-old. Who ever heard of such a thing? As she raced back to work, Stacy decided not to tell Charlie about the humiliating episode, even though she was sure he’d supply a comforting speech along the lines of “This happens to every guy” and “You’ve got the goods” and “He was way out of his league.” No need to seek reassurance. She would, instead, erase the entire seedy experience from her memory. She needed reliability. She needed a rock (no slam to Mr. Tom Softy). A good man was hard to find. But she knew exactly where to locate a perpetually hard one.
Chapter Five
Tuesday night
Stacy’s mental shift — from never thinking about sex to contemplating nothing but — was seismic (although, to be precise, her mind was locked on the pursuit of sex more so than the act itself). Her record so far: 0 for 2. First, a flat-out rejection from Jason, and then the crushing download of Tom’s floppy wares (his spirit was willing; the flesh was limp). Never in her life had she worked so hard for a little action. As a woman, Stacy was hardwired to blame herself when anything went wrong (consciously or not). She had to wonder: Is it me? Is this my destiny? Surely, at some point in the future, she would have sex again. She couldn’t imagine going another 50 years untouched. But the possibility was real: She could remain celibate for the next stretch of a decade. She could give Learning Annex seminars titled “Embrace Your Sexless Self Since No One Else Is.” Or “Advanced Masturbation Skills for the Sexually Handicapped.” Or “Celibate and Childless: Cursed or Careful?”
Needless to say, Stacy was useless in the afternoon meeting at thongs.com. As soon as she walked into the conference room to join the others and took a seat at the huge turtle-shaped table, Janice started in with the questions. She had to know everything that happened at lunch with her precious, darling boy. Stacy wondered if mother and son had a healthy relationship.
“We had sushi, and then took a short walk,” said Stacy safely.
“Where’d you go?” asked Janice.
“Around midtown.”
“Make any stops?”
“We just walked.”
“It’s a hundred degrees outside,” said Janice.
Stacy nodded. “We were hot.” No, not that. “We were warm.” Oh, dear. “We stepped in and out of stores for the air-conditioning.”
“So you did some shopping,” said Janice, a bit too excitedly. Stacy remembered with the thonk of cylinders in her brain that Janice had an impending birthday. A biggie. Make that a hugey.
Smiling slyly, Stacy said, “I shouldn’t say any more. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” If Tom forgot his mother’s 50th on Friday, it would now be on Stacy’s head. She jotted a note on her pad to call the hotel later and leave Tom a message.
Stacy hoped Taylor was referring to the lunch hour portion of the staff meeting and not her foiled encounter with Tom.
Fiona stood at the head of the Turtle. “Let’s get back to ideas for what to call the mesh line. I like Meshwear 2001. Anyone else?”
Silence at first, as always. Furious scratching of pens on paper. And then, the half dozen women in the room began shouting out suggestions.
“Mesh magic.”
“Mesh and match.”
“I’ll be meshing you.”
“A hole new look.”
“Monster mesh.”
“Mesh Pit.”
“Stacy?” asked Fiona impatiently. “We haven’t heard from you.”
“How about…” Stacy started, trying to snap her attention back to the matter at hand. “How about: What a fine mesh you’ve gotten me into?”
Nervous titters around the room, echoing off the walls. There she went again, words flying out of her mouth before her inner editor could stop them. She shrank in her leather chair. Fiona’s black helmet of hair seemed to expand with fury. Was it possible Stacy was purposefully pissing off her boss? she wondered. Was she like a wolf in a trap, gnawing off her own paw to save her soul, her life?
“Meshwear 2001 it is,” said Janice, attempting to snip the burning wick of the Fiona bomb. “Why go further when we have a clear winner? Let’s move on to design and production. Ladies? Ideas?”
The design team had a list to present. While the head of the department prattled on about metallics, Taylor, who had nothing to do with production issues whatsoever, scribbled excitedly on her pad. Stacy was impressed with her note taking (how resourceful of her). But then Taylor pushed her pad toward Stacy. “What a fine mesh we’re all in,” read the note. “I’ve been thinking about my options — jobwise, personally. We should go out sometime soon and talk. I like the way you think. I like you, too.”