“Fifty-seven e-mails!” said Stacy. She scrolled down the long queue of incoming. All but five — spam, work stuff, Mom, and one from Gigi XXX at swerve.com — were from match.com subscribers (she’d practically forgotten about posting her ad). She had hit the virtual bar scene like gangbusters. How encouraging! There has to be someone halfway decent in a pool of 52 hopefuls.
But first, she read the e-mail from Gigi. It said:
“Stacy, judging from the tone of your last e-mail, I must have offended you in some way. Please know that I regularly respond to reader mail in my column, and it’s my job to be as provocative as possible. That’s what makes the column fun. I didn’t mean to insult you. But if, by any chance, something I wrote has hurt you, I suggest you examine that deeper. Thanks and sorry, Gigi XXX.”
Still not using her real name, that chicken shit, thought Stacy. And how dare she suggest that anything she grinds out like sausage meat could be of real emotional value to anyone? Stacy was only too glad to turn her attention away from Gigi and back to her bulging pack of cyber suitors.
She scanned the messages, instantly deleting those with unappealing screen names (for example, HOTNHORNY might be a sure thing, but a girl had to have some standards; HOLDENC might have homicidal tendencies; DARKSTAR had to be stoner — not necessarily a bad thing, but she was in a hurry; ZYGOTE wasn’t looking for a date, he was looking for a womb). She whittled the list down to 20 on the first pass, still highly encouraged by her crop. Next hurdle: photo and profile analysis. She methodically checked the ad of each e-mailer. If he was older than 40 or younger than 30, she automatically deleted. If he described his body type as “average,” “large” or “a few extra pounds,” she deleted (since she had options, she’d stick with “athletic” and “slim/slender” only). She trashed the men who made less than $100,000, figuring that since she had the opportunity to discriminate, she might as well be traditional.
This weeding-out process was exactly why web matchmaking had so little potential for finding true love. It was too methodical. No kismet. No spotting the man of one’s dreams across a crowded room. A listing of one’s credentials, combined with a grainy photo and a self-consciously written profile, lead to making a paper judgment. If love could be inspired by how someone looked on paper (or, more accurately, on screen), it would be miraculous. Besides, there was the smack of desperation to overcome. Having to advertise for dates, with language like, “Your mother would approve” was almost too hard a sell to bear. On the other hand, people were busy in this city. No one had time to go to parties. Bars were depressing. Harassing friends for blind dates and fix-ups was humiliating. Dating services were expensive. That left work contacts, friends who turned into something more and Cupid’s wobbly arrow. Why dismiss on-line dating out of hand? It could work. On its homepage, match.com claimed to be responsible for thousands of marriages.
Her match.com shortlist:
ADMAN was a 34-year-old advertising executive who lived in the West Village (geographically fortuitous). His photo was blurry, but he seemed well within the range of male attractiveness. He claimed he was “athletic,” made over $100,000, was looking for someone who laughed at Woody Allen movies. Stacy loved Woody Allen. It was destiny!
RICHARDMcD, a 39-year-old architect from the Upper East Side, enjoyed running, hiking, baseball, football, basketball and hockey. He had season tickets to the Mets, Jets, Knicks and Rangers. His income was “unspecified,” but since he had to be in great shape, Stacy forgave him his secrecy. His head shot showed an abundance of red hair just like hers (they had so much in common!), a Hugh Grant-ish smile, and bright, sparkly blue eyes.
BULLWINKLE was a veterinarian, 37, who loved animals, plants, anything living. He had just exited a long relationship. Being alone (but not lonely) wasn’t his style, and he’d like to explore the city and its many wonders with an intelligent and caring woman who was shorter than five foot seven. He was slim/slender, and his headshot was passable.
SNAP was Stacy’s number-one choice. He was 35, “athletic,” six feet tall, had a full head of beautiful brown hair, described his occupation as “other” (he didn’t elaborate, but Stacy got the feeling he was wealthy beyond all reason, despite the fact that he listed his income as “unspecified”). He enjoyed theater, film, classical music (he played the violin and performed professionally “when there’s time”), had published two novels (“of little consequence, but so much fun to write”). On the issue of why such a fine catch was single, he explained it thusly: “Proper channels haven’t yielded my ideal mate, so I thought I’d try this. My best friend met his wife on match.com, and she’s a wonderful woman. I should be so lucky.”
Well, this was his lucky day. Stacy responded to his original e-mail (short and sweet — he’d written, “Have you met your match yet?”): “Dear SNAP, I haven’t met my match yet, but if you’re available tomorrow night, I may have only one more day to wait. Warmest regards, Fluffy.” The tantalizing part about it: Despite the odds, SNAP could turn out to be the love of Stacy’s life. When you’ve never seen or spoken to someone, you can project anything on him, even your boldest fantasy.
To the others on her shortlist, Stacy sent terse responses attempting to move out of virtual mode and into direct contact, believing that prolonged e-mail exchanges would be awkward. Since she gave such great phone, she’d very much appreciate it if he would send her his number. She’d send hers, but a girl can’t be too careful, etc.
It was nearly midnight when she sent her last e-mail of the night. She was beyond tired. As she walked from her desk in the living room toward the bedroom in back, Stacy noticed a sheet of pink paper on the floor by her front door. On closer inspection, she saw that it was her note to Vampire Boy next door. He’d written her a response on the back. It read:
I knocked but you didn’t answer. Sorry I stared at you like that. The surprise of seeing you stumped me for words. I’ll be hard at work thinking of some clever things to say to you next time I see you. I’ll be in town all weekend. If you’re free at all, we can get together and I can try them on you.
He hadn’t signed off with a name.
She washed her face, brushed her teeth and got in bed. Her reserves of men overflowing again, Stacy was able to drift effortlessly to sleep. She had peaceful dreams for fluffy clouds.
Chapter Eleven
Thursday morning
The sun was singing. Birds were shining. Stacy rose smiling in her bed, stretched sleepiness out of her bones, and jumped into the shower. She had a lunch date, a hot prospect in the apartment next door, and a flurry of e-mail interest, all of which added up to imminent relief from her pending revirginization. Peace and joy in July. She couldn’t ask for more.
She dressed for the 90 degree heat in a freshly pressed eggshell linen dress, tea length and sleeveless. Not the sexiest item in her wardrobe, but one of the coolest and cleanest. With her hair in a bun, a single-strand gold necklace and bracelet, and off-white sling-backs, Stacy knew she was the picture of understated elegance. This was exactly the kind of Grace Kelly look that Charlie was a sucker for. She was locked, loaded, (bare) armed, and dangerous.
The walk to the subway was more like a skip. The ride, a float. She leered at handsome straphangers. Some leered back. Of course they did. She was in fine form. She was glowing. She was in demand. The spell she was under, this precious and rare mood, was almost like being in love.
Bursting with confidence, Stacy had no problem going into the greasy deli and ordering her suicide on a roll (“give me butter, and lots of it,” she said to the unibrow grill operator, who was too shocked by her attitude shift from squirrel to panther that he didn’t muster a single kissy sound). After making one quick stop (for a necessary lunchtime seduction prop), she sailed up the elevator of her building, ready (and willing) to face off with Janice in the endless debate over cotton panels for the Meshwear 2001 panty collection. Usually, these hotly battled conflicts made her age one year per minute of discussion. Today, she woul
d shock them all. On this morning, she would give in. Forget cotton panels! Who needed them? Who cared about hygiene? Shouldn’t the women of America be free to breathe?
Stacy rounded the corner to her office, her feet light, shoes tappy. She could practically hear “It’s Not Unusual” by Tom Jones pounding along as she walked.
The beat stopped suddenly when Stacy found Fiona Chardonnay at her desk, literally breathing fire. Smoke poured out of her mouth in long streams. Stacy blinked a few times before realizing that Fiona was holding a cup of very hot coffee in her hands, under her chin.
“Exactly what did you do to Stanley Bombicci last night?” asked Fiona tartly. “He sent me an e-mail demanding significant changes in the agreement, and threatened to readjust the interest rates on the loan.”
“We had a romantic dinner,” said Stacy, her natural high taking a direct turn south. “Then we went to his apartment and made sweet, sweet love all night long.”
Fiona stood. Her heels, pointy and lethal, sunk into the carpet. “What does his apartment look like?” she asked, as if she knew every inch of it.
Stacy scrambled. What would Stanley’s home look like? She was drawing a blank.
She must have said the word out loud. Fiona squinted at her. “Blank?” she repeated.
“Black,” said Stacy. “Lots of black. Furniture, countertops. Signed Erte posters, a six-foot-tall black marble sculpture of a female nude in the front hallway, a fridge full of champagne, caviar, pâté, apples, brie, whipped cream, baggies of hairy red pot, chocolate truffles.”
“That’s enough,” said Fiona. “You were under no obligation to this company to go home with that man, Stacy. And if it ever comes to it, I’ll deny in court that I asked you to go to dinner with him.”
“Why would it ever come to that?” asked Stacy. “Unless you tried to screw me over.”
“I would never do such a thing, Stacy,” she said. “You should know that much about me by now.”
Stacy knew nothing of the kind. Fiona had been generous with her, but Stacy had always wondered if she might have been wiser to refuse Fiona’s series of carefully offered bribes. Too late now, thought Stacy. If Fiona were plotting, there was little Stacy could do about it except pack up her things and walk out the door. That would be even more foolish, and premature.
Stacy said, “You’ve been reading my e-mails.”
“Call an escort service. That’s what I do,” said Fiona. “Or seduce some delivery man who doesn’t speak English.”
“Delivery man, no English. Got it.”
“Or just go to a bar,” said Fiona, draining her coffee and throwing the cup into the trash. “Only you could turn getting laid into a heroic quest.”
“I haven’t had a chance to get to a bar yet,” said Stacy. Somehow, picking up a man at a bar seemed even more desperate than advertising for one on line. Then again, she’d met Brian at a bar (when she was 28). With four extra years on her, she’d hoped to avoid bars this time around. At least on line you couldn’t take rejection personally. At a bar, there was no other way to take it.
“Tomorrow night, we are going out together,” said Fiona. “Put it in your Palm Pilot. I’ll expense it.”
Stacy said, “But my quest is over. Stanley and I —”
“Stanley’s apartment is an orgy of Swedish 1950s style. Eames everything. There isn’t a stick or stitch of black in all seven rooms.”
Stacy said, “He’s redecorated.”
“Since last week?” asked Fiona. “I was there on business. To finalize the deal.”
Stacy naturally assumed Fiona had slept with Stanley. Another step in his plan to corner Stacy? A revolting thought. “Friday night is wide open,” said Stacy.
“Good,” said Fiona. “We’ll get you all the sex you can handle.” Fiona smiled archly. “Now back to work. And don’t worry about Stanley.”
“You think it’s safe?” asked Stacy, mentally flipping through the pages of “The Night I Maimed and Disfigured Stacy Temple.”
Fiona said, “Of course it’s safe. He may give me a hard time, but he can’t back out at this point. The deal is secure.”
But that wasn’t Stacy’s concern. Fiona left her alone to contemplate the Harvard pornographer, which demolished her mood. Stacy snapped out of it by working. She focused on the dawning of a new age of corsetry, one created by thongs.com for the good of womankind. She was grateful to lose herself in a long list of assignments and phone calls. She heard from Janice that Taylor’s cramps were still acute. The faux lesbo would be absent today. Stacy could be thankful for that small gift. Time passed quickly.
Too quickly. She was late for her rendezvous with Charlie. She had to run, risking a sweat. He was also late, giving her a chance to gather herself. As she waited on the street in front of Genki Sushi, she did some simple math. Sixteen years ago, at age 16, Stacy had lost it, and, at last count, she’d had 16 lovers. One a year, not a bad average. To maintain it (and dispatch this revirginization business), she needed just one man. Just one. Surely, she could manage that. It was practically in the bag. As was her seduction aid for Charlie. Her purse dug into her shoulder with the extra weight. Where was he?
She looked at her watch again. Waiting for Charlie and standing alone on the street, Stacy felt a sharp drop in her confidence level. Or maybe it was the ill effects of the July heat (her linen dress had wrinkled miserably already). She took a deep breath and tried to focus. She recited a couple of aphorisms. A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. From a tiny acorn grows the mighty oak. Stacy closed her eyes and repeated the mantra, “I’m an acorn. I’m an acorn.”
“You’re definitely nuts,” said Charlie, suddenly at her side. “And I’m late.”
“For a very important date,” she said. “You don’t know how important.”
In greeting, Charlie kissed the top of her red head. His blond hair was too long, his skin impossibly tan (Charlie was her most outdoorsy friend; her nickname for him was “The Woodsman”). Stacy elbowed him in the ribs; he patted her shoulders. Very platonic and playful, as always. The trick would be to alter the chemistry slightly, turning it erotic.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said, tilting her head at the sushi place. “It’s too nice a day to eat inside.”
“It’s ninety degrees with ninety-five percent humidity,” he said.
She reached in her purse and pulled out a bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild. She’d paid $100 for it — money well spent, she hoped.
“What’s this?” he asked. Charlie read the label and gasped. For his college semester abroad, he’d trained at the Cordon Bleu to become an enologist.
“Liquid picnic at Bryant Park?” she asked, batting her long lashes. “Or we can save this for another time.”
Charlie cradled the bottle in his hands as if it were a newborn babe. “No, no. The park sounds good.”
They walked to Bryant Park, the midtown rectangle of greenery attached to the rear of the New York Public Library. Along the way, Stacy primed the pump by telling Charlie about her misbegotten encounter with Taylor. He laughed. Not a good sign, she thought. Comedy just wasn’t sexy. Once in the park, they found a small spot in the shade among the lunchtime escapees. The man to their left had removed his suit jacket, shirt and tie and lay on a blanket, his dress shoes gleaming in the sun. A group of women to their right sat in a circle, trading bites of their sandwiches. Stacy lowered herself to the grass, not caring about stains on the Grace Kelly dress. She dipped into her tote for a corkscrew and two wineglasses wrapped in newspaper.
“Isn’t it illegal to drink in public?” asked Charlie as he poured.
“Why, yes,” she said, swirling her glass.
Charlie moaned when he took his first sip. Stacy’s heart pounded at the sound. He’d slept with nearly all of their female friends (now among the legion of his exes), and he’d received rave reviews. For the record, Stacy and Charlie had kissed once, barely, eons ago, back in college. It was a half lip mash at a
Phish concert in Burlington, Vermont, that they’d driven six hours to see (back in the days when coolness was defined by the lengths one would go to in search of entertainment). She told him to stop. It had felt wrong. About five minutes later, he’d begun snogging with a hippie blonde from the Upper Valley who said “aboat” for “about” and “ouwa” for “hour.” Stacy had found her vexing and un-washed. Her tie-dye was passé. Charlie couldn’t have cared less. The two started kissing at the beginning of a “Reba” jam, and didn’t come up for air until the final notes an hour later. All the while, Stacy twiddled her thumbs, annoyed and dumbfounded that one song could last an eternity, only it seemed longer due to the tonsil hockey sideshow.
On the drive back to New York, Charlie had said that the girl (name of Willow) wasn’t nearly as liberated as she appeared, because she wouldn’t blow him behind the Green Party tent. Stacy had said, “What do you expect from a fourteen-year-old?” He’d been so angry at her comment (she’d never understood exactly what had pissed him off so much), he refused to speak to her for the last three hours of the trip.
Eventually, they patched things up and their friendship progressed as usual — chaste, platonic, mildly flirtatious. They stayed out of each other’s romantic lives, but talked every day. The unspoken assumption — that sex could destroy their beautiful friendship — remained untested for ten years. But the decade — the century, the millennium — was drawing to a close. It was time, ready or not, to see what damage sex could do.
As they reclined on the grass in Bryant Part, the pair quickly consumed half the bottle. Stacy, a lightweight, was drunk. Charlie, a heavyweight, didn’t show a ripple in his square-shouldered steadiness. She’d intended to ply him with alcohol. But now, in the hazy glow of wine and heat waves, she saw the true brilliance of the plan: Even if he stayed sober, she, in her tipsiness, would find the guts to lunge.
The Accidental Virgin Page 11