How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel

by Sorgen, Monique

  I’m torn between feeling proud of myself, and bad for Lacey. But there’s no good way to tell a friend that when you come on too strong it makes you look desperate, and guys don’t find that attractive.

  I also kind of feel bad for these guys who got all this pressure to come show up at a bar, only to be stood up by me. Then again, I had no way of predicting how the night was gonna go, and as far as I’m concerned, it couldn’t have gone better!

  “So did Marty do anything to pressure you into sleeping with him?”

  “Not really. And who cares about that! The worst part is how much he’s been calling me today!” Good, I was right to trust him. He was on the up and up, and Lacey’s only regret is that he still likes her the next day.

  She goes into detail, “What happened is that after enough guys asked me where you were, I was like, ‘Yeah! Where is she?’ So I go ask Marty—cuz he was buying me drinks to make me feel better after each of the guys who basically rejected me—and he’s all, ‘Do you think I have nothing better to do than keep an eye on you and your friend all night?’ And I’m thinking, ‘Oh my God, he’s being a dick, too!’ But then he wasn’t being a dick, he was just joking, which I figured out when he said, ‘She left 15 minutes ago, with that guy she met.’ So you see? It turns out he was paying attention to me.”

  Even in the retelling of the story, Lacey is so relieved by this, that I start to wonder if she actually likes this guy, but for some reason, doesn’t want to admit it to me. My suspicions are quelled by what she says next.

  “So then he says, ‘It’s just rejection, you get used to it.’ And I’m like, what?! Maybe some lame-o, weirdo like him gets used to it! But that’s never happened to me before. So of course he agrees with me that I shouldn’t be getting rejected by these guys, and he’s like, ‘You’re so great, Lacey, blah-blah-blah. Those guys are idiots, blah-blah-blah. They don’t know how lucky they’d be.’ And I’m all, ‘Why are you so nice to me, when I’m so annoyed by you?’ I mean, seriously, why is he so annoying to me? He could be a great guy!”

  “He is a great guy, Lacey.”

  “I know! You know what else he said?” I shake my head, no. “He said, ‘Why doesn’t anybody in this place just wanna love the one they’re with?’ He is so sympathetic to what I was feeling. It was like he read my mind!”

  “Or maybe, more specifically, he was trying to tell you about what he was feeling. You know, send you a hint to stop chasing down those other guys, when he’s standing right there ‘with’ you.”

  “Well, whatever. He got what he wanted.” She pauses for a moment to relive her decision making process in her head, “But that’s not why I slept with him. I did it because I wanted to!”

  “Good. That’s the only reason you should ever sleep with anybody.”

  “Yeah! And he didn’t even want to sleep with me at that point.”

  “He didn’t? What happened?”

  “He said I was too drunk.” I was totally right to trust him. “But I made him do it anyway,” she continues, “because I couldn’t handle anymore rejection last night.” We really need to do something about her self-esteem. And the stupidest part is that a guy like Marty is exactly what would cure her insecurity.

  Thinking I could get her to give him a chance, I ask, “So was Marty as good in bed as you’d hoped he’d be?”

  “Who knows. I was so drunk I would’ve enjoyed having sex with a cucumber tied to a chair!”

  I laugh while trying to avoid conjuring the image of that in my head. Thankfully, our taxi driver still doesn’t appear to speak English.

  Then Lacey concedes, “Although I did watch the video playback, and it looked like it was probably the best sex I’ve ever had.”

  “You taped it?”

  “Always!--But secretely." This is a revelation that even I can’t justify about my dear, twisted friend.

  “That way," she goes on, "if a guy dumps me, I can refer to it when I’m trying to remember how stupid he looks in the throes of passion.” Again, if you take a second to stop being mad at her, you will realize that she has a good point.

  “What about you? What happened with that guy?”

  I practically explode with my story, “He was amazing, Lacey! So amazing that despite any stupid errand my boss is making me do, this day has already gone down in history as the best birthday of my life. John is perfect! He’s everything I hoped I’d find at my party and more.” Then, realizing there is one little thing I should probably inform her of sooner than later, I add, “And I hope you don’t mind, I told him he could call me later to join us wherever we are.” I already know she’s not gonna like this.

  She scrunches up her face, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “I know it sort of intrudes on our night, and I wouldn’t normally invite a guy, but I figured since it’s my birthday, you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Sure, as long as you don’t think it’ll be too uncomfortable,” she says, a little more understandingly than I expected.

  “You mean for you?” I clarify.

  “No, for you,” she says, as if her reasons were obvious.

  “Why would it be uncomfortable for me? You’re my best friend, and he’s a great guy. I have no doubts that you guys will get along fine.”

  “I know, me too. That’s not what I meant. It’s just that—“ she stops short, and changes direction, “where did you guys go last night, anyway?”

  I don’t mind that she doesn’t explain whatever weird justification is making her think it would be uncomfortable for me to have John here, because I’m too excited to tell her more about my night.

  “Well first, he took me to his favorite place in the city—so I already know where to find him if he’s ever—“ I don’t get to finish my sentence because her text message chime interrupts me, and rather than ignoring it long enough to let me say, “—down in the dumps, I’ll know where to go find him to cheer him up,” Lacey takes out her phone and says:

  “Sorry, I’ve got to respond to this.”

  I try not to seem disappointed that I was interrupted and ignored after listening to her entire story about how she’s going to actively pass up an awesome guy because he’s too nice, or too complimentary of her, or too good in bed, or whatever her stupid reason is.

  “Is it Marty?” I ask, trying to seem casual about my own need for attention right now.

  “Um, no. It’s—“ Lacey trails off, distracted as she finishes her text. She doesn’t put away her phone.

  Nonetheless, I try to start in with my story again, “So anyway, John takes me to—“

  Lacey’s text chimes again, and she goes back to texting with this mystery person, and not listening to me, as we arrive at my office building, pay the taxi, and go inside. Fine, I’ll use this time while she’s ignoring me to think positive, happy thoughts about last night. I can enjoy my memories, even if she doesn’t care about them.

  As we enter the building, I ask, “Who is that?”

  “Oh, um, it’s work.” She stutters, unconvincingly.

  We get in the elevator and start to go up to the fourth floor.

  “Work?” I ask incredulously, “on a Saturday night, when you don’t have an event? What are you hiding from me, Lacey?”

  She blushes, and tries to suppress an uncomfortable smile that is bursting through her cheeks, clearly revealing that she is trying to cover up her lies, “It’s work. Why wouldn’t I have important work stuff on a Saturday night? You do.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, as the elevator door opens on my darkened office reception area, “but that’s only because my boss is an asshole.”

  The lights come on, and everyone I know yells, “Surprise!” Including my boss. Crap.

  Chapter 9

  I’m pretty sure I look surprised right now, but not in the good way. Henry doesn’t really look surprised in the good way either. Everyone else just looks uncomfortable. My co-workers, the journalists, producers, and event planners I work with, our clients, my frien
ds, my parents. Even Darien Campbell is here. I wonder if that means she didn’t really finish her book.

  This is the part of the surprise party where everyone gets to relax, say hello, and figure out if I really fell for the surprise or not, but it’s pretty clear at this point that I had no idea this was coming, and nobody knows what to say. Everyone waits silently for me—or Henry—to break the ice. And the longer it takes, the more the awkward tension grows in the room.

  I just figured out who Lacey was texting with as we got closer and closer to the office. It was my boss. The very person who set me up to get here, and who I so stupidly insulted as my way of prematurely saying “Thank you for planning my birthday party.” Man, do I suck.

  In my defense though, this is why surprise parties are a bad idea! Everyone you know doesn’t call you on your birthday (hi, mom and dad!), and those who do are either unavailable to hang out, coincidentally out of town, or asking you for favors and to run errands for them on your own birthday—which needlessly pisses you off. And all that just so they can jump out of a dark room and yell “Surprise!” Is it worth it, I ask you? And is it fair that this surprise has just cost me my boss’s favor, and maybe even my job?

  “I should fire you for those disloyal comments you just made,” Henry finally announces, once he overcomes his general embarrassment at putting himself out for me, only to be backstabbed by my opening remarks.

  “I’m so sorry, Henry. I didn’t mean it. I was just expressing my displeasure at being here on a Saturday night that also happens to be the biggest birthday I’ve had so far in my life.” Aren’t they all? Okay, so that wasn’t the smoothest thing I’ve ever said. But I’m not done, “I feel really stupid, but I had no way of knowing what a lovely surprise you were planning for me under the guise of extra weekend work.”

  “You make a decent point, Samantha. It is your birthday. But I wouldn’t have planned all this, if I didn’t think you were a bit more of a fan of mine than that.”

  “I am,” I plead, “I… I just wasn’t a fan of this one task on this one day. Coming here, today. That’s all I was referring to. I think you’re a great boss. And I enjoy the work. And I appreciate that you don’t usually ask me to go to the office on Saturday to do messenger work… Although, now that this has happened, I would gladly do more weekend messenger work, so long as it means I get to keep this job.” This is in front of all my colleagues, friends, and family, mind you. I am groveling for my job, in front of everyone I know. It doesn’t get much more embarrassing than this.

  I wait patiently for his response. We all wait patiently, as no one is sure anymore if we are going to have a party or go home and cry. I start to assess my contacts in the room, and strategize in my mind about who I should approach first regarding hooking me up with my next position. Unfortunately, it keeps coming back to the same thing: they all heard my major gaffe. Hiring me, or even recommending me after that, would be a direct affront to my boss. It would jeopardize their relationship with him. It would be like passive-aggressively saying, “I don’t care that Samantha called you an asshole in front of everyone, because she was right. You are an asshole.” Who would want to make him think that? He’s a powerful guy, and most of the people here need him on their side in one way or another. No, they’re not gonna help me. It wouldn’t be wise. And I wouldn’t do it if I were them either.

  So, I am completely beholden to what my boss decides in this moment. My entire career depends on his ability to feel empathy for me, which frankly, I’ve never found to be his strong suit.

  Once the tension in the room has grown to a level that is almost unbearable, Henry finally gives in to breaking it.

  “You seem remorseful, Samantha, and I believe that you didn’t really mean it.” The room lets out a communal sigh of relief. It’s looking good for me, until he continues, “But since it’s your birthday, I’m going to base my decision about your job security on whether or not you really can fix any problem.” I can. I think. I hope. What ridiculously impossible problem is he going to suggest?

  “So,” he goes on, “did you meet the love of your life, last night?”

  All eyes on me. I smile victoriously. The room begins to relax.

  “If you stick around long enough, you might just meet him tonight!” I win!

  “See everyone!” Henry announces to my co-workers, “this is the kind of go-getter attitude that puts you in a power position. I really wanted to fire Samantha right now, but I can’t because she’s just too good at what she does.”

  Since these are most of the same people I called yesterday to set me up, they actually know what we’re talking about, and pretty much none of them can believe it. Several people chime in to ask if I met their guy, the one they sent. Other people chime in to ask how it’s possible, since their guy reported that I didn’t show up, and according to their source, “They couldn’t find a single person in the whole bar who was wearing purple.”

  “I was there,” I reply to the room, “but the purple dress turned out to be more on the pink side, and the guy I met was random.” They all react by seemingly discussing amongst themselves who they sent, how great of a single guy he is, and how they wished they could find a great girl for him. This conversation gets the party started. Most of my unexpected guests get into it amongst themselves, while some of them take the opportunity to rush me to ask privately about this guy I met, starting, of course, with my parents.

  My mom and dad want to know all about him. What do his parents do? Where is he from? Which political party does he belong to? What’s his last name?

  “I don’t know. Seattle. What does it matter? Hollister,” I try to rattle off answers as quickly as they ask them.

  “Oh, so he’s probably of English descent,” my father assesses. “The English usually have manners, so his parents probably raised him right.”

  “That’s a lot to deduce, just from a last name, Dad,” I say, ready to move on to the other friends who are crowding around to ask me about John Hollister, and wish me a happy birthday.

  I still feel a little anxious, like there’s something I’m forgetting to do, but when Darien Campbell comes over to say hi, I remember that I don’t have to go to the Chronicle after all. She hasn’t finished her book. She’s in town for her grandmother’s 80th birthday, which is a brunch being held tomorrow. And several of the people who would have reviewed her upcoming, not-yet-existent book, are in this room as we speak, so again, no need to go anywhere to get it to them, if it did exist, which it doesn’t. I can relax. As can Lacey, for that matter, who knew all along that she wouldn’t have to buy me an expensive birthday dinner. Now I’m wondering why she bothered mentioning that the restaurant we would go to should be inexpensive?

  “I was trying to keep it real,” she explains, when I get around to asking her about it later, “for the surprise.” She’s right, I probably would’ve figured out something was up if she could suddenly afford to take me somewhere nice.

  Overall, the party is a good time. There’s a nice buffet of finger foods, a bartender with a decent selection of wine, beer, and cocktails, and as the night goes on, some people even get up the nerve to dance.

  I find out that it’s my parents who paid for it all, which is a relief, since I don’t want to be indebted to my boss any more than absolutely necessary. My parents are good people, but they probably realized that they wouldn’t have been invited to my party if I had planned it myself. Not because I don’t love them, only because I can allow myself to get a little wilder when they’re not around, and birthday parties still seem like an appropriate time to get buckwild. Especially this last one before I’m expected to become a responsible grown up for the rest of my life.

  As the party goes on though, I’m finding that I’m not going buckwild. In fact, I’m having a hard time enjoying myself at all. My reason for this is not only incredibly bad, but also completely humiliating. It’s because my phone isn’t vibrating in my purse. John hasn’t called me yet. Here I am bragging a
bout how awesome I am at getting everything I want. Meanwhile, I ignored all these nice people’s eligible bachelors for this man, and he doesn’t even have the decency to show up on my birthday?

  Granted, I did see him this morning, so I shouldn’t get so greedy. And it’s not like he promised me he would call, he just said, “if” he finishes his stuff. And it’s kind of my own fault that I’m feeling this pressure right now, since I didn’t have to announce so confidently to everyone I know that he was coming, when we never really set that in stone…

  Once or twice I feel a ghost-vibration coming from my phone, but when I check it, I find out that only my wishful thinking and prospective insanity remain. The more he doesn’t call, the more I can’t focus on catching up with the people who love me—or in some cases, have to act like they like me because it’s their job to be on good terms with me.

  Lacey must’ve caught me checking my phone and looking disappointed as I put it away because she comes over to ask if I’m okay.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I half-lie and half-hope.

  “He hasn’t called yet?” She can see right through my veneer of a positive attitude.

  I keep it going anyway, “Well, at least if he doesn’t come, he won’t have to meet my parents so soon.” I laugh weakly, “I had no idea they would be here when I invited him to join along with us, but good luck convincing him of that!”

  “Yeah, that’s the whole problem with your parents planning your party in the first place. My first thought when they told me their idea was, ‘But if you guys plan her surprise party, there won’t be anybody there for her to have birthday sex with!’ But don’t worry, I didn’t say it out loud.” I laugh.

  “It’s okay. I already had birthday sex.”