There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  “The piece is called Chode. Go as big as you can.”

  Scott scrutinizes both penises. “What do you think the ideal size penis is?” he asks me out of the blue.

  “Excuse me?” I ask him back, shocked by the question.

  Scott looks up from the penises. “The ideal. Women say size doesn’t matter, but of course it does. So what’s the ideal?”

  “I don’t know.” I stammer. “What’s the ideal breast size?”

  “Thirty-six C,” he answers without hesitation.

  I look down at my boobs. How the Hell did he know that? I look up to see Scott smirking at me. “If you guess my weight, I’m leaving,” I warn him.

  “One hundred and two. Soaking wet,” he lies, shooting me a teasing smile.

  That was definitely flirting. I’m sure of it.

  “Take these,” Scott says, handing me the two penises.

  I am clearly not thrilled to be holding these. As he backs away from me, I say to him “I don’t see why you can’t just—”

  “Smile!” Scott says to me brightly. Then he lifts up his digital camera and snaps.

  “Oh, you did NOT just take a picture of me holding penises.”

  Scott turns the camera around to see the shot. “Well, I don’t have kids, and it’s important to get a good shot for Christmas cards.” He shows me the picture—a candid of me talking to him, and holding a penis in each hand. “Look at it as a composition. Which is better?”

  I look at the digital shot and concede, “The smaller of the two.”

  Scott nods. (I’m getting better at this whole art thing.)

  He takes the slightly smaller of the two penises from me, grabs a small can of bright red paint from a corner, flips open the top, gets a brush from another section of his studio, and begins placing and painting the centerpiece of his work.

  I can’t get that other penis out of my hands fast enough. I practically throw it back onto the shelf. “Yuck.”

  Scott laughs. “You’re acting like you’re holding a snake. Wait … forget I said that.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Too easy, even for you.”

  I walk over to my glass of wine on his kitchen counter and take a sip.

  It’s Saturday night, and we are in his loft downtown. I always like being here: it feels like a completely different world, even though it’s just in another part of the city. The loft itself is basically a giant room—sort of like an apartment with no walls. (Except for the bathroom—obviously he has walls for a bathroom. He’s not that eclectic and bohemian.) The apartment, and the building, could not even vaguely be described as a starving-artist-looking kind of place: the living room/bedroom/art space is gigantic, with amenities like polished hardwood floors, high-end lighting fixtures, and floor-to-ceiling windows with amazing views of the city lights.

  Scott has divided the mammoth space to make a distinct area for each part of his life. When you first walk in, you’ll notice his installations, and other artwork: they take up what would normally be a living room.

  To the left of the “living room” is his “bedroom.” Which in this case is just a mattress thrown on the floor with a nightstand on each side of the bed: to the left of his bed is an electric blue nightstand resembling a clown’s head, and to the right of the bed is a bright canary-yellow nightstand that he’s had since he was four years old. A bright red dresser rests against the wall, with a pile of clean laundry lying on top, waiting to be folded. (Or, in Scott’s case, waiting to be leafed through and thrown on.)

  The living space to the right looks like a fraternity boy’s idea of a bachelor pad. A four-thousand-dollar red leather sofa, a glass coffee table with a shelf in the middle to display coffee table books (or in his case postcards from all the cities he’s traveled to), and a monstrously large sixty-five-inch plasma TV mounted on his brick wall.

  The kitchen takes up the back of his cavernous apartment. It is ultra modern, with black granite countertops, stainless steel Sub-Zero appliances, and checkerboard black-and-white linoleum flooring. It’s very pretty—my idea of a perfect kitchen. And right now, it is the perfect backdrop for enjoying my glass of wine. I take a sip as I watch Scott continue to paint his penis. “So, have you heard from Nic?” he asks me.

  “She sent a few e-mails,” I tell him.

  “How’s it going?”

  I laugh. “Well, let’s see. The e-mail she sent me yesterday began with: ‘Greetings from the newlywed, the nearly dead, and the overfed!’ ”

  Scott laughs. “Yeah, she doesn’t seem like the cruise ship type.”

  “No,” I agree. “Apparently, earlier in the week, she met a crew member with the name tag ‘Charon.’ Which she found either really funny or really depressing…”

  Scott laughs again. “Charon? Like the ferryman who gets paid to take people down the River Styx and into Hades?”

  I’m visibly impressed. “Well, look at you. I had no idea who Charon was. And apparently no one else on the boat did either, because she made a ‘Boat to Hell’ joke that just withered on the vine and died.”

  Scott smiles at my story as he continues to paint. “She’ll be home soon. How’s Mel?”

  “Oh, God,” I exclaim. “On a rampage. Don’t get me started.”

  Scott looks up from his work and makes eye contact with me just long enough to let me know to continue.

  “She’s a complete nut job,” I declare, shaking my head. “We got her stuff out last night, which was great. But then she woke up this morning after all of two hours of sleep to research the newest ways to meet men. It’s like she’s on a mission with this; she even wants to start online dating. And, get this, she wants me to do it too.”

  I wait for a reaction from Scott. I’m curious about what he thinks of online dating. And, more important, what he thinks about me online dating. But he seems so focused on his work, I’m not sure if he even heard me.

  After several silent seconds, I ask him, “So what do you think?”

  “Of what?” Scott asks while brushing his penis.

  “Of online dating. You didn’t say anything.”

  “You’re telling me a story,” Scott says, as he pulls open a nearby bottle of blue paint. “There’s nothing for me to say. I’m listening.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Let me rephrase: what do you think of online dating?”

  Scott considers my question for a moment. “I’m not a fan. But it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what she thinks.”

  “Do you think I need to get online?” I ask him.

  Please say “No.” Please make it sound like that’s the most ridiculous idea you’ve ever heard. Tell me something—anything—to hint to me that I don’t need to go out looking because you’re right here.

  Scott looks up at me and locks his eyes with mine. It’s one of those moments that always make me yearn for him to lean in and kiss me. A moment where I nervously keep staring, because I don’t want to break away first and look like I’m not interested.

  Scott shrugs. “If you want.”

  If I want? What kind of an opinion is that?

  But before I can get him to elaborate, his buzzer to get in the building goes off. Scott turns to it, a bit confused. “Hold that thought.”

  Scott walks to his front door, and presses the button on his intercom. “Speak to me.”

  “It’s Britney!” I hear a girl’s voice cheerfully yell on the other end. “I thought you could use some food!”

  Scott quickly shoots me a nervous glance (or was that my imagination?) then presses the buzzer to let her into the building.

  He turns to look at me. We make eye contact again. He says nothing.

  “Should I go?” I finally ask him. “Give you guys time alone?”

  “What? No,” Scott says, still by the door. Scott puts his hand on the doorknob, then stands there a moment, clearly debating his next move.

  “Can you excuse me for a sec?” Scott says, opening the door and heading out.

  I start to shout aft
er him, “I really can go if you…”

  “No. I’ll be right back,” Scott yells from the hallway.

  And then there’s nothing but silence.

  I look around his cavernous space. Twiddle my thumbs. Step up on my tiptoes. Bring myself down on the balls of my feet. Take a nervous drink of wine.

  Man, it’s quiet. I’ve never noticed how quiet it is here. You’d think in a giant building of artists, there’d be a lot of noise on a Saturday night. But no. Just … awkward silence.

  I slowly tiptoe across the room and toward his open front door. I’m not hearing anything from the hallway. Which probably means he’s not unhappy to see her. Or it means he’s kicking her out before she can see me.

  I lean my ear toward the hallway, trying to pick up on any recon.

  Still silence.

  Maybe she doesn’t even know I’m here.

  Or maybe she does know I’m here and came by to have a pissing contest, let me know he’s her man now, and that he won’t be making any more midnight phone calls to the likes of me.

  That little blond bimbo bitch! I’ll bet that is what she’s trying to do! She’s just a controlling, manipulative little heifer who wants to eliminate his female friends one by one so she can …

  “I can go,” I hear Britney say from down the hall. “I have friends waiting for me at Library Bar anyway.”

  “At least have dinner with us,” Scott tells her. “Seema would love to see you.”

  I quickly (and silently) run back to my spot near his work as the two of them continue walking down the hall.

  I can still hear the two of them talking, and Britney continuing to apologize. “But I don’t want her to think I’m some weird possessive girl who just shows up unannounced like some bunny boiler.”

  “She’s not going to think you’re weird. She loves you. Just come in,” Scott says.

  He pushes his open door wider and walks in with Britney. Beautiful, blond, ridiculously happy to be alive Britney. Jesus Christ, where does he find women like this? She carries in two white plastic bags filled with white paper cartons, and Scott carries in a BevMo! bag.

  “Seema, you remember Britney,” Scott says, as he closes the door and walks across the room to his kitchen.

  “Hi,” I say, forcing my face to light up. “Good to see you again.”

  “Hey girl!” Britney says to me brightly, walking up to me and giving me a big hug. “Sorry to intrude. I know you guys are working, so I thought I’d bring over some food. You know how he forgets to eat when he’s working.”

  “Yeah. It takes a special kind of stupid to forget to eat,” I say without thinking.

  Great. She’s bringing him food, and I’m calling him stupid.

  Scott places the BevMo! bag on the counter, then opens his kitchen cabinet to get some plates. Britney puts the white bags on another part of his kitchen counter, and I smile awkwardly as I sniff the food. “That smells great,” I say. “Thai?”

  “No, it’s this great little Japanese place we found on Third,” the perky little bitch tells me as she opens the correct drawer to retrieve his cutlery. “They have sushi, of course, but also a bunch of other interesting cooked dishes.” She turns to Scott. “Oh, baby, I brought you this beer I think you’ll like. It’s an IPA with double hops.”

  Scott opens the bag, and pulls out a six-pack of bottled beer. “Oh, this looks cool. Do you guys want one?”

  Yuck. I hate the kind of beer he drinks. “I’ll stick with the great wine you got me. Thanks.”

  Yup. While you were out shopping for him, he was out shopping for me!

  Okay, even I know I’m being petty.

  “I’ll take one,” Britney says happily to Scott, completely oblivious to any verbal strategic maneuvering on my part.

  “You got it,” Scott says to Britney, pulling two pint glasses from a cabinet as Britney effortlessly moves around him to grab a bottle opener out of a different drawer. (How many times has she been here that she knows where the bottle opener and the utensils are kept, and that she can flawlessly choreograph her way around him in his kitchen?)

  Britney pops the top off the first beer as she insists, “I’m gonna have one beer and a little food, and then I’ll go.”

  “I told you, you don’t have to go,” Scott reiterates to her.

  “No. You’re working,” Britney says. “Besides, I’m meeting Roger and Roger for drinks. It’s kind of a work thing.”

  “Roger and Roger?” I ask.

  “Yeah, they’re the co-owners of the gallery that carries most of my pieces,” Britney tells me.

  “Roger and Roger … Wait, is your stuff at R and R Gallery?” I ask her, surprised.

  Britney nods, then turns her face away from me almost demurely.

  “Wow,” I say, impressed and hating myself for it. “That’s a good gallery.”

  Scott takes the bottle of red he bought for me at Trader Joe’s, and refills my glass. “Her pieces rock,” he brags. “Britney has a show coming up there in six weeks. You must go.”

  “Oh, it’s a group thing,” she says humbly to me as she pours her beer into one of the pint glasses. “I’ll only have five pieces in the show. I’m not like Scott or anything.”

  “She’s being modest,” Scott says proudly as he opens a carton filled with tempura. “Her pieces are insane. Vibrant, energetic. I wish I had that kind of talent.”

  “My God!” Britney guffaws as she hands him a pint of perfectly poured beer. “You are so much more talented than I am!” She slaps him on the arm playfully. “Mr. ‘I’ve had my stuff on display at a museum!’ ”

  Mr. what??? What is he? Five?

  “You’re young. You will,” Scott insists, as he chuckles at the pretend smack on the arm.

  And she’s young, too. Perfect. How young? 27? 15? What?

  Britney turns to me. “Seema, tell Scott how talented he is.”

  Oh, am I still in the room? Thanks for noticing.

  “You are incredibly talented,” I say to Scott in all sincerity.

  Scott makes a show of dropping his jaw at me. Then he practically rolls his eyes at me and turns to Britney. “Seema hates my stuff.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, shocked that he thinks such a thing.

  Scott turns back to me, and smiles an amused smile. “So true,” he counters with a light tone. Then he turns to Britney. “I told you how we met, right?”

  She giggles, as though he’s the wittiest man she’s ever met. “Oh my God, that was Seema? The one who hated your Conformity piece?”

  “I never said I hated it,” I say quickly.

  Scott laughs good-naturedly. “No, you just said it was thoroughly unoriginal.”

  I’m not laughing. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Yes, you did!” Scott says, still smiling at me warmly, as if he doesn’t hold it against me at all.

  I don’t know how to take that. What am I supposed to say?

  Britney’s phone beeps a text. She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Okay, they’re at the bar now. You guys wanna meet up there later?”

  Yeah, I’ll bet it’s us guys she wants meeting her later.

  “We’d love to, but we can’t,” Scott tells her apologetically. “Seema saw my pieces before they were stolen. She’s the only one who can help me re-create them exactly, and I only have her for tonight, so I gotta finish at least two pieces before the night’s over.”

  “No worries,” Britney says. “I’ll be back around two.”

  And with that, she kisses him good-bye.

  It’s a hot, passionate kiss, with tongue and the tiniest bit of moaning. And if I was a more suspicious woman, I would say it was more for my benefit than his.

  Can I officially hate her yet?

  Twenty-seven

  Melissa

  Next on my carefully cultivated list of ways to meet men (a list that I am about to rip into a million pieces I might add) is a Scotch tasting. I’ve never had Scotch before, and frankly I’m a li
ttle intimidated by the idea of it. But the author of one of the lists seemed to feel very strongly that because Scotch is considered a man’s drink, more men will attend a tasting than women. And I seem to feel that after the day I’ve had, I could use a drink.

  Man-wise, this looks promising. As I walk up to the line of people waiting to check in, I see there has to be about eight men for every woman here. The men range in age from early twenties to late sixties, but many of the guys here seem to be my age, and most don’t have wedding rings on. (Although today I have learned that this is not necessarily indicative of anything other than an intense dislike of jewelry.)

  The Scotch company has rented a stage at a local studio in Hollywood in order to teach potential customers the ins and outs of a good Scotch. So, even if the evening is a total bust, I still get to lurk around the studio lot for a bit in the hopes of spotting George Clooney.

  I arrive at 8:30 that evening, wait in line for a few minutes, then get to the door of Sound Stage Nine. I give my name to the perky girl at the front desk. She checks my name and I.D., then reminds me that the tasting and lecture is set to begin promptly at nine. She hands me a coin for a free drink at the bar, and I head inside.

  Nice. Where have these tastings been hiding? The studio has been decorated to look like a sleek, sexy nightclub, complete with mood lighting and loungey overstuffed chairs. I walk up to one of the three bars in the room and look at the drinks menu. I have a choice of a Scotch and ginger ale; a glass of twelve-year-old Scotch, served straight up, over rocks, or with a splash of water; or what looks like a Scotch mojito, mixing the Scotch with mint, sugar, and ice cubes. Since I will be getting straight-up Scotch in the next room later, I go with the mojito.

  As the bartender pours the ingredients into a cocktail shaker, I glance around the room to peruse my selection of men for the evening.

  I check out a rocker type who looks paler than a sick person and who wears skinny black jeans and a funky black T-shirt. He has tattoos running up and down his arms. No. I don’t mean to be judgmental; people can do whatever they want to their bodies. But there is something unsightly to me about a giant Marilyn Monroe plastered on someone’s arm. Rocker guy smiles at me when he notices me looking at him, and I realize he’s fifty if he’s a day. I immediately avert my eyes.