“I won’t be a bridesmaid?” asked Stacy.
“Nor a bride.” She sniffed.
Chapter Six
Wednesday, predawn
The outstretched arms on Stacy Temple’s Josie and the Pussycats clock pointed to 3 A.M. Her thoughts crawled from the gory events of the past two days to the salacious. (Stacy sat alone on a large turtle-shaped conference table in the middle of a dimly lit room. Suddenly, beams from above reveal naked men in cages surrounding the table. Somehow it is made known to Stacy that the imprisoned men have been locked inside for nearly a year — fed, watered, exercised, but deprived of physical contact of any kind while being forced to watch pornography for ten hours a day. Stacy was the first flesh-and-blood woman any of these twelve clones of Tony McGuinty had seen in months and months. They were practically frothing from every orifice at the very sight of her in a white lace thong and camisole set. With the slam of metal doors, the cages sprang open. The men emerged and rushed Stacy, a look of depraved starvation in their eyes, gigantic erections in their hands.)
The ravaging of Stacy’s sleepy-time hours continued. Masturbation was not as soporific as she would have liked. Stacy remembered reading once that the worst thing for insomnia was watching the clock as the minutes of your life ticked by, unused. Her torture acute, Stacy sat upright in bed and threw back the covers. She wandered into her living room and turned on the computer. Might as well check e-mail. She signed on.
Hurray, she thought, when she saw that Gigi from swerve.com had written back. After the past couple of days, Stacy would welcome absolution from the woman who, unknowingly, had started Stacy on this quest. She opened the note and read.
“Dear Stacy, Thanks for offering me the work, but I’m on contract with swerve, and can’t write content of a sexual nature for any other electronic media. If you have connections in the print publishing world, though, I’m trying to get a book proposal together, and would appreciate any help or direction. Thanks.”
That’s it? Stacy wondered. She scrolled down to see if there was an attachment or an addendum or a postscript. Nothing. How inexorably frustrating. Stacy had put herself out there and received zilch from Gigi in return (the same treatment she’d been getting from her growing list of disastrous dates).
Stacy checked her other e-mails. Charlie had sent her a blank note, except for a hypertext link to a URL at swerve.com. Stacy clicked on link. An article popped onto her screen, by Gigi XXX. This one was called, “Pity the Accidental Celibate.”
Her heart clinched. She read the copy, clutching her chest. It started:
“Intentional celibacy, as it’s been explained to me by women I once called ‘friends,’ is goal oriented. The goal itself is worthy (self-knowledge). I questioned, in a previous column, if avoiding sex will teach you anything that you don’t already know. I got an avalanche of feedback from the ever-expanding fleet of nonsexual-by-choice readers. Ninety-nine percent of them believe that I am talking out of my asshole, and said as much in their letters.
“At least I’m doing something inventive with my ass (quite a few things, actually — watch this space for painfully detailed anal sex coverage). From where I s(h)it, a column that incites people to ascribe superhuman powers to my rectum deserves a Pulitzer. I invite every reader who sent in a pissed-off e-mail to come to our offices in New York City, get on her knees and behold my miraculous chatty ass. I may shoot some video and post it on swerve.com so all can appreciate the wondrous feat.
“One e-mail, though, wasn’t angry. Seeking clarity, the reader wanted to know if accidentally going a year without sex made celibacy less worthy of scorn. I guess she woke up one day and realized she hadn’t been naked with a man in a very long time, and she wanted me to tell her it was okay, like I’m some kind of absolving high sex priestess with magic powers (well, I do have that loquacious anus…). I get the impression this woman is a socially phobic workaholic without many friends and loved ones with whom she can discuss the shortcomings and disappointments of her life.”
Despite the scalding slap, Stacy forced herself to read on. “To this woman,” Gigi wrote, “and all others who’ve let sex fall off the barren landscape of their lives, whose existence is passionless — and has been for so long that they can’t even remember why passion once meant something to them — I have a message. I’m going to type in all caps now (which I hate doing, but it seems warranted): THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. We are all responsible for what happens (or doesn’t happen) to us. If this woman cared about lust and passion and — okay, I’ll go there — love, she would have at least tried to get laid. (For the record, those who have actively tried — made real yeowoman’s efforts — to get a piece and did not…on second thought, even the most hideously unattractive woman can find someone to pork her. Pickiness is a form of rationalized avoidance.)
“Let’s say this woman does care about passion, but that she’s suppressed the drive to unite with another person (I don’t care if it’s for a night, a week or a lifetime). Then she’s far worse off than my erstwhile friends who are purposefully chucking the greatest thing on earth for the hooey they call ‘self-awareness.’ This woman, this sad, deluded shrew, has divorced her life from both cock and consciousness (Cock and Consciousness, I like that; might make a good title for a Jane Austen spoof novel). The accidentally-on-purpose revirgin should seek help. Professional help. She shouldn’t have turned to me. I have no patience for people who are afraid of their emotions, who have a pathological aversion to risk. I’m an incurable romantic. I believe life isn’t worth living if you’re not in love or trying to find it. Plus, I’m a clinically diagnosed sexaholic. I’m also a bitch.”
Never, in all her life, thought Stacy, as she read the last words of Gigi’s character assassination, had she been served up and fed to the dogs like that. Stacy was a sweet person. She didn’t deserve to be destroyed by a woman she’d offered to hire (for a job that didn’t exist, but Gigi couldn’t know that). Questioning Stacy’s entire existence because she’d had a busy year? The insult! The injury! The gall! The bladder! It was easy for Gigi to savage Stacy, using a pseudonym and a picture that obscured her face. Stacy vowed she’d never read another word issued from the keyboard of that pusillanimous hack.
Stacy called up the e-mail she received from Gigi and fired back a response.
“Dear Gigi, I got your note. Too bad about the free-lancing restrictions. I do, actually, have dozens and dozens of contacts in book publishing. But it’s dicey, giving out phone numbers and names to unknown writers who haven’t proven themselves in print. I’m sure you understand. Best of luck to you in your venture, Stacy.”
After hitting SEND NOW and cackling softly, Stacy got dressed. In her fit of fury, she’d never be able to sleep now. She slipped on a pair of orange pedal pushers, a lavender eyelet blouse and her pink mules. She loved those mules with the rose on top. And they were going to carry her out of this chamber of torment and into the city at night. She was hungry. Affrontery gave her an appetite.
Outside at 4 A.M., she was alone on the street, as if SoHo had taken off on vacation without inviting her. The sun was a couple of hours from rising; the dark of morning shimmered with humidity and heat. A sheen of perspiration coated her brow. She was torn between self-consciousness about the sweat and the hope that her pheromones would bring all eligible men out of the shadows. Maybe a small band of out-of-work male models would emerge from an alley and ask for directions or spare change.
Even in the wee hours in downtown Manhattan, that was an unlikely tableau. Stacy headed straight for her favorite diner on the corner. As soon as she got there, though, she realized she’d come unprepared. No book, magazine, or New York Post. She had only the laminated menu to occupy her eyes. She read the selection of American and Greek fare, admiring the menu’s spot art of Hellenic columns, the acropolis and dancing gyro sandwiches. When she finished with that, she tried to lift herself out of the miasma of confusion. Was she deluded? Had she cut herself off from the world of sex
and love because she feared taking risks? Were Gigi’s ugly accusations even worth contemplating? She hated writers. They’d exploit anything and anyone for their own egomania, never taking other people’s feelings into account. Gigi and her talking asshole. Stacy would dearly like to tear her a new one.
A tired-looking waiter approached. He seemed completely unmoved by Stacy’s beauty and grace. No kissy-kissy sounds from him. One would think that would be a relief for Stacy. One would. As she imagined what would be a sexier way to say “cheeseburger and onion rings,” she looked around the stillness of the diner.
The booths were all empty. Save one. On the opposite end of the diner, a newspaper page was being turned. The ruffling sound and flickering movement drew her eye. The reader, obscured by the paper, wasn’t in the least bit curious about the flaming redhead who, despite apparent sobriety at 4:30 A.M. on a Wednesday, had ordered a huge meal that in no culture of the world would be described as light. The mystery of her. Her unaccountability. The reader’s lack of curiosity intrigued her. She studied the hands holding the paper. Was it a man or a woman? She couldn’t tell.
And then the newspaper was folded and placed neatly on the booth. A man. Quite handsome, in fact. Late 20s. Rakishly disheveled, he wore a T-shirt from Ed’s Gym (she couldn’t get a look at his pants or shoes from her location). His black hair stuck out in thick clumps. His eyes were brooding and blue — her favorite combination. She watched him sip his drink, full lips encircling the straw in a tiny O. As he drank, he looked up at Stacy. She immediately turned away, blushing.
When she’d dared to look up again, the man was staring at her openly. She stared back. His skin was preternaturally white. A night owl, she thought. Possibly a vampire. She could easily picture this man naked, exiting a cage or a coffin at sundown. Stacy imagined his mouth clasped to her jugular. Picturing it would be as far as she’d get with him, though. She’d never initiate conversation with a stranger (not her style; Stacy always let men come to her — at least she had before this week).
Back to this man in a cage. Naked, save for a black satin cape. And a bat perched on his shoulder. Did bats perch? Stacy redrew it to hang by its feet from the top bars of Vampire Boy’s cage, red eyes gleaming in the darkness.
The waiter in the dirty apron interrupted her thoughts. “Cheeseburger and onion rings,” he said as he dropped plates on Stacy’s table. She felt self-conscious about her choice of food. The brooding prince of darkness might think her bulimic. The aroma of grease and red meat enticed her to eat lustily anyway. She consumed the 1,000 calories, including untold grams of fat, in less that five minutes (a new world record?). Her belly full, Stacy relaxed. She knew she could sleep now. In fact, she felt dangerously close to falling asleep right in the booth. If she hurried back, she could get a couple hours in before having to go to work. And, frankly, the way the Vampire was staring at her was unnerving, especially with her drastically increased blood sugar levels.
She stood, dropping a ten on the table. At the same moment, the young man rose from his booth, too. He left a five next to his empty glass. They reached the diner door together. Wordlessly, he held it open and waved her through, escorting her out into the Manhattan night.
His footsteps fell into place behind her. She didn’t like the sound of that. Stacy turned left at the corner. Five paces to her rear, the Vampire turned left. Dear God, he was following her. Did he think casual eye contact was code for “do me now”? A spark of fear shot from her heart to her heels. She picked up the pace and gained some ground on him; he was a half block back when she reached her building. Stacy slipped inside and closed the front door. The reassuring click of the lock flooded her with relief. As she waited for the elevator, she chided herself for going outside alone at such an hour. But Christ, she thought, even rapists and muggers have to sleep sometime.
The elevator bell rang. She stepped in. She thought she heard the front door open, and began to push the elevator buttons impatiently. Finally, the metal doors started to close. With a few inches to go, a man’s arm shot between the doors and pried them apart. Stacy’s breath caught when she saw who it was: the coffee-shop Vampire. He’d managed to pick the building door’s lock, and now had her cornered in the elevator. This was not the metal cage of her fantasies. He had no right. The doors shut with a clang. The elevator gave a bounce and lifted the pair upward.
Stacy tried to remember the one-hour on-site self-defense course thongs.com sponsored in the conference room. Back in the cash-flooded days (late 1998), Fiona frequently had organized expensive treats and trips for her staff (a weekend at the Taj in Atlantic City, three reserved tables to see Aimee Mann at Joe’s Pub, the summer house for employee use in Sag Harbor). The self-defense course was taught by a black belt in karate named Raja who was Fiona’s personal trainer/sex slave (from the way she described it) for a couple months. Janice told Stacy that, for the 60-minute demonstration of elbow butchery, kidney punches and ear boxing, Fiona paid him $1,500. The boss invited any staffer to organize a seminar of her own for the same money. Stacy wondered what special skill she could teach the group. Finally, she offered to escort the staff on a lunchtime tour of the antique-purse district in the east 20s. Fiona didn’t bite.
But would Vampire Boy? Stacy recalled Raja’s instructions on how to break a masher’s nose: Using the meat of the palm, jab sharply in an uppercut motion, driving the nasal cartilage into the attacker’s brain. She could do it. She could do it.
She could never do it. If threatened, she could muster slapping and scratching. But the sound of bones slamming into spongy gray matter — that was a squish you’d never forget. Still, she kept her fingers curled into her palm, wrist bent at a 90 degree angle, ready to flatten Vampire Boy’s (admittedly very cute and buttonlike) nose.
VB (which, under different circumstances, would be her cute nickname for him) kept his eyes upward, watching the floor numbers blink and flicker as the car banged along. Typical of rapists and thugs, thought Stacy, that he was pretending to ignore her. Raja had said something like that in his lesson. They try to lull you into a false sense of safety, only to catch you unawares.
Stacy was all too aware of him. Especially the way he shifted from one leg to the other (quite fetching legs for a criminal, long and lean under faded jeans).
The number four blinked. Her floor, at last. When the doors opened, she walked out. Vampire exited the elevator behind her. Watching him over her shoulder, Stacy increased her clip and sprinted for her apartment, fumbling for her keys in her oversize tote.
The man kept coming closer and closer. Holy shit, she thought desperately. He might be a real live masher! She stopped groping inside her bag for the keys, squared off her feet, gripped her right wrist with her left hand to increase torque, and readied herself to deliver a pop.
Seeing her posture, Vampire stopped suddenly. She was an intimidating presence, she thought smugly. He looked at her for only a half second — with puzzlement, it seemed — and then he took a ring of keys out of his pants pocket. Smooth as chocolate, he opened the door to 4C, glanced again at Stacy in her action stance, and disappeared inside the apartment — presumably his own.
She always wondered who lived in that unit. He never showed his face during daylight hours.
Stacy’s heart slowed to jack-rabbit speed. She finally managed to get inside her apartment. The sun was up. It was almost 6 A.M. She lay down on her bed, more wide awake than ever. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath short and her legs were shaking. Fear wasn’t sex, but it was an incredible simulation.
Chapter Seven
Wednesday morning
On no sleep, heels were out of the question. Stacy chose flip-flops, rubber spanking the soles of her feet with each step. She wouldn’t stop at the greasy deli that Wednesday morning. She was in no mood for winks, smooch sounds, or cocked unibrows. She didn’t want breakfast of any kind (having consumed a cheeseburger only hours before), nor did she long for the smallest sliver of conversation with strangers or f
amiliars alike. Stacy wanted one thing and one thing only (okay, two things, counting a steady flow — ideally an intravenous drip — of coffee): to lock herself in her office and lay her head on the plush wrist pad she used to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome. As she walked, she pictured that narrow industrial gray pillow the perfect width to support one tired cheek. She’d take a nap. A demi-nap. No one would notice. And even if they did, she thought, who cared? She’d lost countless hours of sleep to work. Just this once, she’d lose a couple of hours of work to sleep.
Sadly (achingly), when Stacy arrived at her small office at thongs.com, someone was already there, frantically typing on her computer, showing a complete disregard for her privacy and the sanctity of her workstation. The culprit was Janice, her boss, the woman who, theoretically, owned the office and the computer. Owned Stacy. And she had the right to do anything she wanted.
“Reading my e-mails?” she asked.
Janice, not looking away from the screen, said, “My iMac is cranky today. I need yours for just a few more minutes.”
Stacy sat down on the hard, armless metal chair across from her desk. She had to remove a huge pile of folders and samples first, and the exertion of lifting and dropping the dross exhausted her. Just as she was seated, leaning her head back against the smoked glass wall and closing her eyes, Janice said, “Stacy, what do you think of this one? Pull up that chair and help me.”
Stacy assumed she was being asked to vet some bustier design or status report. But as she dragged her chair closer to the computer screen, Stacy beheld the head and torso of a man, fiftyish, tan and toothy. Kind eyes, but a weird, leering smile.
The Accidental Virgin Page 7