The Accidental Virgin

by Valerie Frankel

“And I want to personally approve any stock offerings, options, transfers, and loans made by this company in perpetuity.”

  Janice and Fiona looked at each other and frowned. This was news. Could it mean that Stanley planned to dismantle the options ladder? Was this a sell-out deal? Couldn’t be. Each of The Women nodded, staring right into the other’s face, giving away none of her feelings (but, possibly, a lot of the store).

  “One more thing,” said Stanley. “This won’t go down, especially not the loan, unless Stacy Temple has dinner with me tonight.”

  Stacy, face aflame, gasped. Fiona said, “That would fall under the quid pro quo statute of sexual harassment law, Stanley.”

  “I suppose you could convince a judge to see it that way,” he agreed.

  “Very well, then,” said Fiona. “Stacy, you’re having dinner with Stanley. And do whatever he wants or you’re fired.”

  Stanley suggested Aromantique, a cozy French spot a few blocks away. Stacy agreed, and went back to work for a few hours while Stanley and Fiona toasted each other in her office. At around six, Stacy and Stanley walked to the restaurant. He didn’t seem drunk, despite his afternoon champagne. In fact, he seemed stone-cold sober. The maitre d’ greeted them at the door of the restaurant with kisses, and directed them to a formally set table — bottle of wine, a glorious bouquet of Casablanca lilies, a basket of warm bread.

  “This is lovely,” said Stacy, placing the napkin in her lap. Across the table, Stanley looked pleased and subdued. Perhaps she had been wrong about him. Especially now that she was inclined to give any potential de-revirginator the benefit of the doubt, she gave it to Stanley. The whole porn impresario thing, she decided, it was just a business persona. The braggadocio about his Harvard days, that was coming from a deeply insecure place. His ruthless climb to the top of his profession, this had made him a lonely, sad man desperately in need of human connection and, simply, a friendly face across a table, some benign conversation. And the effort he’d gone to tonight, the table, the flowers, the “everything has been arranged” from the maitre d’ — Stacy was flattered. She wasn’t sure about his plans for thongs.com, but, from where she sat, candlelight playing across Stanley’s fine nose and chin, Stacy was ready to be taken over. For one night. She couldn’t see herself long term with a pornmeister. She couldn’t see herself in the morning with him (must go to his place so she could sneak out after he fell asleep, she thought).

  She went with a direct opening statement, saying, “Before we begin, you should know the truth. I’m in a bit of a pickle. In four days…”

  He interrupted her. “Isn’t it the other way around?” he asked. “You need a bit of a pickle in you. Fiona told me that you’re trolling for tube steak. And I’m available. Maybe.”

  “Fiona said…?” Stacy asked.

  “She reads your e-mail,” he explained. Stacy and Charlie had been corresponding copiously about her travails.

  “I’m sure Fiona has been thoroughly entertained,” said Stacy. That bitch! At least Stacy wouldn’t have to spell out her predicament to Stanley. He knew it already. And he was going to help. But what had he just said? “Did I hear ‘maybe’?”

  “Start with an apology,” he said. “Last time we went out, you made some belittling crack, got up and left me alone at Café Dante midway through a double espresso. That’s only six ounces of fluid. It doesn’t take too much of your time to sit with a man and wait until he’s finished a six-ounce drink. You were rude, Stacy. I was embarrassed. The barista gave me a second double on the house because he pitied me. You hurt my feelings. And I really like you. You’re smart; you’ve got great tits. If you want a piece of me, you have to apologize for the way you treated me.”

  “I’m sorry, Stanley,” she said. “I wasn’t aware that you…I didn’t know you had feelings to hurt.”

  He seemed satisfied, and said, “Relief is washing over me.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “We can make a fresh start now.”

  “Why don’t we?”

  “Let’s toast.”

  They toasted and drank. Stacy sipped prettily. Stanley gulped down the entire glass of Ravelwood Merlot, seemingly without tasting a drop. Good thing it cost $40 a bottle. Wouldn’t want to spend less on wine without tasting it.

  “You must be thirsty,” she said.

  “Okay, down to business,” he said, putting his glass down. The sommelier shuffled over to refill his glass and departed. “I’ve been thinking about meeting you like this for months. I wanted the setting, the wine, the food, all of it, to be perfect. I have a very clear vision of this night, and I want to stick to the script as much as possible.”

  She nodded apprehensively. “Why don’t you tell me how you’d like the evening to go and we’ll see if we can approximate it.” Stacy was nothing if not accommodating.

  He smiled smartly. “No, you misunderstand me. I have practiced this night in my head hundreds of times. I want it to go exactly as I’ve imagined it. We’re up to page two.”

  Reaching across the table, Stanley handed Stacy a thin manuscript with a laminated cover. The top sheet read “My Date with Stacy.” Almost too afraid to look, she turned to the first page and read. Right there, in 12-point Geneva, was an exact description of the two of them entering this very restaurant, sitting at this very table, Casablanca lilies, warm bread, Ravelwood. The short bracketed paragraph that read: “Stanley explains how the night will unfold, and Stacy complies happily. She is radiant with purpose, knowing that she will fulfill the enduring hopes Stanley has harbored about her since she wounded him so deeply the last time they met. Jumping at her chance to set things right, Stacy agrees to play her part in his fantasy, TO THE LETTER.”

  She turned the page. It was a script, with her lines highlighted in yellow. She read her first line to herself, and then looked at Stanley, astonished.

  He smiled and whispered, “It’s just a game.”

  She put the manuscript down on her plate. “I want a guarantee that my stock options won’t be affected by the partnership with smut.com.” Stanley agreed readily.

  Not yet registering Stanley’s potentially dangerous obsession, and how stepping into the role he’d written for her might take his fixation to new heights, Stacy opened the scene. Reading with emotion (Hmm, this might be kind of fun, she thought), Stacy began: “I can’t believe I’m on a date with you, Stanley Bombicci. You are the handsomest, richest, most impressive man I’ve ever met — or ever will meet. I can’t believe how lucky I am to be seen with you.”

  Stanley didn’t need a script. His part was committed to memory. “How right you are, Stacy,” he said. “But don’t put yourself down. You are a beautiful woman, and I want to make you happy.”

  “The only way you can make me happy,” read Stacy, “is by letting me make you happy. I’ll do anything you want. Just ask.”

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, Stanley, I beg you to make sick and twisted sexual demands of me. Only then will I find joy and satisfaction in life.” She looked up from the page. “I don’t actually have to do anything, right?”

  “You’re deviating from the script,” he admonished.

  She read, “Tonight, with you, I want to do something that I’ve never done before.”

  “What’s that, Stacy?” he asked.

  She was supposed to say, “anal sex,” but Stacy had done that a couple times with Brian. She asked, “Does it matter if the script is factually inaccurate?”

  “Just read it, please.”

  “I’m not going to have anal sex with you,” she said.

  “You don’t have to. I just want you to offer.”

  “I’d rather not ask for something I don’t want.”

  Stanley drained another glass of wine. The sommelier refilled it and made tracks. “Will you please just read the script?” begged Stanley.

  “A great actor can improvise. Maybe I could dangle some other enticement. I’ve never had a threesome. Or — I know this
will surprise you, but I’ve never done it outdoors. Not quite sure how I’ve missed doing something so elemental in the cannon of sexual experience, but the idea of sand or dirt or bugs? Ecch.”

  Stanley looked like he was about to cry. “Let’s pick up on line twenty-four of page three.”

  She scanned down to the designated spot. “Okay,” she said. “I say, ‘I want to feel your ramrod-hard oak trunk crammed inside my tight and squishy’…Squishy? Who would describe their own ass as squishy? Hmmmm, I’m going to skip ahead to this part, line thirteen on page five.”

  “But you’re bypassing the paragraph that starts, ‘Moisten my rim’ at the bottom of page four. I love that paragraph.”

  “Oh, I can’t read the word ‘moisten’ and then eat dinner. I’m sure you can grant me some small omissions,” said Stacy.

  “This isn’t going the way —”

  “I like this part, about how I long to ‘let you fuck my mouth until it overflows with the jism of the gods.’ Let’s keep that in. Although I question the use of the word ‘gods.’ Am I to be orally raped by more than one godlike person, or just you? And if it’s just you, it should be ‘jism of a god’ — the singular. Meaning you, with all your divine ejaculations. It’s very Roman, actually, with ‘gods,’ though.”

  Stanley said, “I like it the way I’ve written it. You aren’t getting the idea of a script, Stacy. One line leads to the next. You can’t just pull out a particular line and read it solo. It doesn’t flow. The words sound clunky.”

  “You said it, not me.” She sampled her wine. “Can we order soon? I think I could do it from the top, with feeling, if I weren’t so hungry. As you know, I am famished” — Stacy quickly flipped through the script pages and then stopped to read a line from page 7 — “ ‘famished for your meat in every orifice of my body.’ ” She giggled demurely. “But before we get to that, I’d love to try the coque au vin.”

  In a flash of cufflinks, Stanley grabbed the manuscript out of Stacy’s hands. “You’ve completely killed the romance of the moment! None of it will sound sincere now. When I wrote this, I meant it from the heart. These are words of love, Stacy, and you’ve sullied them.”

  “ ‘Slither my tongue around your man root’ are words of love?” she asked, genuinely curious.

  He answered by throwing his wine in Stacy’s face and screaming, “You’ve ruined everything!” as he ran out of the restaurant.

  While sopping up the mess, Stacy was grateful that the wine stains were on the same blouse as Taylor’s makeup smears (just one article of clothing sacrificed for two botched sexual pursuits). She could not have offended Stanley more; writing was the greatest vanity of all. Stacy did feel relieved that she would not be going home with a pervert. Disappointed, also. But not too.

  Chapter Ten

  Wednesday night

  The coque au vin was delicious. For an appetizer, she’d had the terrine, and, for dessert, a soufflé. As part of his elaborate arrangements, Stanley had left his credit card imprint with the maitre d’. A lovely man, very grandpere-like. He saw no harm in letting Stacy sign her name in Stanley’s absence. Stuffed and a little buzzed, Stacy took a cab home. That’s when the pinch of anxiety started, and turned into a punch by the time she got to SoHo. What if humiliating and insulting Stanley put a glitch in his plans for thongs.com? The idea seemed ludicrous. One didn’t make million-dollar decisions on the success of a romantic dinner. Stanley had a business plan, and wouldn’t bother with thongs.com unless there was a potential for profits.

  It couldn’t be possible that he’d made the partnership deal just as an excuse to see Stacy again. She had a healthy self-image, but she was positive no one would risk all that dough for a date with her. Then again, Stanley did seem to be nursing an obsession. Was it worth $4,000,000 (how much stock he was to buy), to hear Stacy murmur the words “man root”? The more she thought about Stanley, the odder he seemed. People did play out scenarios in their heads, writing fantasy dialogue, giving themselves all the best lines. But no one (sane) would type out the words and expect the sentient being on the other side of the table to read them (at least, not for free, not on a second date). What’s more, now that the one-act play “My Date with Stacy” had closed on opening night, would Stanley be inspired to write a sequel called “The Night I Tortured and Murdered Stacy”? Would that script include her begging for her life (along the lines of, “I am worthless, pathetic and powerless, but I still long to see the light of another day, especially if allowed to buff your hardwood in the morning, afternoon, and evening”)? Stanley said it was just a game. How dangerous a game? she wondered. To distract herself, Stacy took out her Palm III and deleted Stanley’s name from her To Do list. The list grew more anemic by the day. She needed a new cache of candidates.

  The cab let her off right outside her apartment building. Stacy managed to relax once she was safely within the double front doors. As she waited for the elevator, she pictured Stanley’s blotchy and knotted face right before he ran out on her. The image made her weary. Her sleepless night was catching up with her. Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders like an iron cloak. She could barely stand up to wait for the elevator doors. Finally, they clanged open.

  Inside the car, Vampire Boy, the raven-haired creature of the night from 4C, stood with his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. He saw her and froze. She stood motionless, staring, as well. They looked at each other, silent and still. They must have stayed like that — Stacy outside the box; Vampire Boy inside — for a few moments, because the elevator’s automatic doors closed, and in so doing, broke the spell. Stacy leaned backward, resting against the lobby wall. She quickly took out her compact and checked her makeup. She saw the B above the elevator light up, and knew the car had gone to the basement. Vampire Boy had obviously intended to get out in the lobby. He’d be back up to the lobby in a second. She readied a warm smile, smoothed her stained blouse, and waited. But when the elevator doors opened to her, the car was empty.

  While riding to four, Stacy took a few deep breaths. How had he locked her in his eyes like that? she wondered. And where had he gone? Had he transfigured himself into a bat and flown away? Vampire Boy had undeniable, tangible powers. At her floor, Stacy walked by apartment 4C — the cave of Vampire Boy — and wondered what he did in there during the day. Did he lurk in the dark, or sleep in a coffin? Maybe she should leave a note. Just a little invitation to come over for some casual, no-strings-attached blood sucking. She’d be rid of her problem (and become undead, to boot). She fished inside her purse for her pink notepad. She scribbled:

  I’m the redhead in 4A. We just stared at each other for a lifetime in the lobby. If you’d like to meet, return this note with a date, a time and a place. Or just stop by.

  Stacy

  She slipped the sheet of paper under his door.

  “Something ventured,” she said to herself as she entered her own apartment. It was just as she’d left it, coherently cluttered. Her friends and parents usually used phrases describing natural or man-made disasters (“a hurricane hit”; “a bomb went off”) to describe her nonconformist interior decorating. Regardless of how many tchotchkes were piled on shelves, or how many purses lay about (dozens hung on a hook on a geranium red wall), Stacy never left dishes in the sink or dirty clothes on the floor. It was a clean mess.

  On the side table with the tasseled silk tablecloth, under the shaded lamp, between the beaded picture frame and her silver incense tray (with matching silver oblong box for rods and cones), sat her ultra-slim portable telephone, painted red, pink, and lilac with nail polish (some sleepless nights were too, too long). She picked it up and listened for the stuttering dial tone that meant she had voice mail. Two messages. One from Mom (bitching about Dad and his compulsive mulching), and one from Charlie, waiting impatiently for the lesbian report.

  She returned the call. To Charlie. Stacy was surprised when he picked up. Usually, at this time of night, he was either out trolling or in entertaining an ex - girlfr
iend/current four - night stand (aka soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend). Charlie had the knack for not offending any exes in a permanent way. They were angry or hurt at first, but their feelings toward him were never irreparably damaged. Keeping people on his side was one of Charlie’s special skills.

  She said, “I’m home.”

  He said, “Give.”

  “My story has a sad ending.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, muffling the line. When he came back: “I have company. Can we have lunch tomorrow, and you can tell me every microscopic detail in person?”

  Stacy frowned, not sure if her jealousy was for Charlie and his constant flow of sex partners, or for the girl he was presently entertaining. “Who’s over?” she asked.

  “You remember that publicist from the Chemical Attraction screening? Staci?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “No, her name is Staci.”

  “The way you say it, I’m guessing it’s Staci with an ‘i.’ ”

  He said, “It may very well be.”

  She said, “For her sake, I hope it’s an evil ‘i.’ ”

  “I’ve never dated a Staci before,” he said. “So this time, when I call out your name during sex, she won’t get suspicious. Tomorrow.” And he hung up.

  She stared at the dead phone. He would rather fool around with a publicist than listen to her story about sex with a woman. How could he stand to wait? She was losing him. Maybe he actually cared about this Staci. Maybe he was falling in love with her. What would that mean to their friendship? It would leave her with lunch plans, she thought. Okay, then, Stacy would take a lunch. She’d see how far she could get with that.

  She spent 10 minutes hatching a plot for tomorrow’s afternoon delight. Then she turned on her iBook (property of thongs.com, to be returned when she left the company; as if she had any intention of giving it back; they would have to come to her house, break in, and confiscate it). She logged on to AOL

  “You’ve got mail,” said the computer voice. Her mailbox was jam-packed.