The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating

by Carole Radziwill

  21

  When Claire finally got laid, it was a disaster, of sorts. Not completely, but of sorts.

  It wasn’t at gunpoint; it wasn’t particularly sweet. There was grunting in place of banter, there were tequila and cigarettes. The whole thing went down fast. It was messy, and in Claire’s postmarital bed, and with only one shoe. But it was over. She went to the movie premiere at the Ziegfeld Theatre on Fifty-Fourth because Richard asked her to. He asked because he wanted Claire to meet the subject of Charlie’s incomprehensible, unfinished book.

  It was the season’s holiday blockbuster, opening wide the next month on Thanksgiving Day. The New Guy was a rom-com starring Olivia Wilde as Tracy Dow, an improbably stunning single mother, and Jack Huxley as Matt Ryan, a gorgeous but emotionally unavailable man. Tracy is betrothed to the town rogue, Eric Stone—played by newcomer Bradley Hess, his first feature film. Eric Stone is considered a catch—good-looking with money. He behaves well when Tracy’s around but behind her back screws every lonely woman in town.

  Matt Ryan is a new mechanic in town. He’s handsome but guarded; strong and silent. There’s heartbreak in his past, which was obviously written into the story to give Jack Huxley’s irresistible wounded look ample time on the big screen.

  Tracy, of course, falls for him as Eric reveals his brutish nature, and they have an encounter. She thinks it’s one thing, Matt Ryan thinks it’s another. There’s a comedy of errors—miscues, starts, and stutters. Matt advances, Tracy demurs. He retreats, she takes a chance, he blows it. In the end, of course, Jack Huxley gets the girl.

  The story was predictable. Claire expected it to be. But the close-ups were breathtaking. Wilde and Huxley were aesthetically stunning, including one long, beautiful scene of them on a motorcycle winding through colorful New England fall trees. Huxley looked so natural on the bike. Claire wondered if he owned one.

  After the premiere there was a cocktail reception, and the drinks came fast and strong. Richard drank scotch while Claire sipped a lemon drop from a tall, skinny glass. The room was visibly restless. Jack Huxley was late.

  In his place, Bradley Hess worked the crowd. Disappointment was thick, but Hess was undeterred. He posed with Olivia for the press, he consorted with the cast. He seized his moment, working every photo op in the room. There were a hundred cameras waiting for Jack and they were twitchy, shooting at everything.

  Claire was standing with Richard and the movie’s producer, Frank Mennant, at the moment the actual star did enter the room. The sudden flutter of hearts was palpable; you could feel the collective jolt. People magazine had just declared him the sexiest man alive. This, Claire thought, might be interesting. He headed toward them, and every eye in the place followed. What had been anxious and anticipatory chatter moments before exploded into a quiet roar of murmurs. Skin prickled and hairlines went taut.

  “Jack,” Frank said. He interrupted their conversation to greet his prize. The room tipped toward them like the list of a boat that was taking on water. Jack Huxley transformed their bit of floor into a stage.

  Frank turned slightly toward Claire. “You’ve met Richard already, of course, and this is my dear friend Claire Byrne,” he said. “Claire, Jack Huxley.” As he spoke, Frank’s mouth crept into a slow smile that put Claire in mind of a cartoon villain. Here is a movie star. Here is a woman. Now, if she suits him, he will have her.

  “This is a pleasure,” Jack Huxley said—theatrically; was there any other way? Here were the movie star lashes, the leading-man gaze in the same close-up shot she’d just seen on-screen.

  He held her eyes and kissed her hand, and Claire thought of Red Riding Hood’s wolf. The well-tailored suit, the healthy tan, the white teeth and thick hair and just slightly ruddy hue to his cheek, all the better to screw her with. Oh brother, she thought, but couldn’t stop herself from blushing. She said, “Thank you.”

  Claire had seen this before, if on a slightly smaller scale. She’d been married to the most-important-man-in-the-room. Women were lined up and presented for these men like drumsticks at a medieval banquet. Sure, Jack Huxley was handsome. Okay, beautiful, exquisite even. Still.

  Frank excused himself, gesturing vaguely to some matter across the room. “I need to catch up with someone,” he said, and then he left. Richard followed him to the bar.

  “Did you like the film?” Jack Huxley asked Claire. Just like that they were alone and familiar. Jack Huxley knows everyone, everything. Richard watched from across the room, bemused. Claire became anxious. Why had he left her? Why was everyone staring?

  “It’ll do great, I’m sure. It’s a perfect holiday flick.” Oh my God, Claire thought. Perfect holiday flick?

  Jack smiled, amused. “How do you know Frank?” he asked.

  “He’s an old friend. Old, old friend,” Claire said. Frank had known Charlie since he was an Ivy League blowhard with no prospects. “How do you know him?” Jack Huxley and this was the best she could come up with?

  “We used to date. Bad breakup, but we’re good now.”

  Claire relaxed a bit. Mr. Huxley liked to play.

  Out of nowhere, someone put a drink in Jack’s hand, and then put one in Claire’s.

  “Claire,” he said. “What are you doing with this seamy crowd? You’re not an actress.”

  “How do you know I’m not an actress?”

  “Because you’re not acting.”

  “Well, I’m in a very high-end but obscure line of work. You wouldn’t have heard of me.”

  “Here. Give me your drink.”

  Puzzled, Claire handed him the drink she’d been given—she wasn’t even clear what it was. Jack replaced it with a small glass.

  “Blue agave tequila. It’s smooth, not like what you drank in college on spring break. I shared a bottle with the crew after the premiere of my first film—I was Man in Elevator. I got my first speaking role the next day, so I have a shot after every premiere. I’m superstitious.”

  Claire clinked her small glass with his, braced herself, and drank it down. He was right; it was smooth. No bite at all. A fuzzy little warmth traced a path from her lips down to her ankles.

  “So,” she said. “Did you forget to have one after Danger and Darkness?”

  “So you’re one of the eight people who saw it!” Jack Huxley put another small glass in Claire’s hand.

  “Now, what’s this obscure line of work you’re in?” Claire had just drunk enough to think, What the hell.

  “Sex toys,” she said. Charlie would have been proud. “I design them.” Richard, she thought, looked concerned, though she couldn’t quite make him out.

  “Really?” Jack Huxley said. “That’s interesting. What sorts of toys?”

  Claire took another drink and lost more inhibition. “Penetrators, mostly, for men. Anal penetration is an art and in most heterosexual relationships men get the shaft, pun intended, because most straight women are unschooled. They think of toys as something to stimulate the clitoris and vagina, which is very shortsighted.”

  “How about that,” Jack Huxley said, smiling. Claire was enjoying the audience. She went on. “Heterosexuals are actually very ignorant about male sexuality. Most design around sexual aids only considers the vagina. There’s a wide range of possibility.”

  The actor was still smiling. “Take it easy on those,” he said as Claire downed her second tequila. “They sneak up.”

  Because of Charlie, Claire was overeducated in theory, underequipped in the field. She didn’t recognize certain mating tics, signals, signs. She no more knew whether this man, the movie star, wanted to sleep with her than whether he was signaling her to steal third. Had she been clearheaded and aware, perhaps the night would have gone differently.

  Instead she found herself drinking a third shot of tequila, and then a fourth. In hindsight she should have left the building with Richard somewhere between her second and her third tequila. That would have been the smart move. Instead, she insisted on talk. It was what they did, after all, in t
he movies. There was repartee, a natural progression. Conversation and small glasses of booze.

  Then a notable thing occurred some time between when the movie star entered the room and the dark hours of morning. Claire lost her virginity as a widow.

  Let’s watch it out of order, because the middle part is best. Here’s the scene: Claire faceup on her bed in her apartment, eyes glued to the ceiling, skirt hiked up to her hips. Her legs are pried apart like a wishbone. Her stockings have slouched and her garter’s askew. A bottle of tequila is on the nightstand alongside her antique hand mirror.

  She was struggling with a headache. She was struggling to know what happened. Where was she, how did she get here, what did she do, and who with? Jack Huxley had been wearing a dark suit, she remembers that clearly, but it wasn’t the one that was crumpled on her chair across the room. Jack Huxley from the magazines in waiting rooms, the man her dead husband was writing a book about, the object of human desire, of Hollywood, the rogue nephew of Aldous, was in a dark suit at one point and they were talking. And now a different man was on top of her.

  “Come on, baby, put on the shoes,” he said. It was Bradley Hess. It was the romantic rival, the jerk in the movie, the supporting actor, not the star. Bradley Hess’ jacket was on her chair. What? Fuck!

  He had one of Claire’s shoes in each hand, not the ones she’d been wearing, but two different shoes from her closet. They were both red but mismatched. Between thrust and parry, to-and-fro, he tried to shove them onto Claire’s feet, one at a time. It made her motion sick. Songs about shoes rushed through her head—“Red Shoes,” “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Goody Two Shoes.”

  RULE #8: Make sure you’re having sex with the right guy.

  “C’mon, honey. Put on the shoes.”

  Hess was handsome enough in his own right, and in any other universe, coming around like this in a bed, not yet clear on everything but clear enough to know you are having sex with Brad Hess, would not have been unpleasant. But where had he come from? Brad Hess was not Jack. As her widow cherry popped, Claire attempted to piece it together. Jack, yes. They were talking, he’d left early. Claire drank tequila, a lot of it. Oh my God, quite a bit. He said to go slow, and she didn’t. Why not? She used bawdy language. She remembered saying ass-fuck.

  Jack Huxley left and Brad Hess stayed. Now he was here in Claire’s apartment, stripped bare to his socks. Charlie would never have left on socks; God knows Jack Huxley wouldn’t. Here, however, was the actor who plays Eric Stone in The New Guy with his socks on; the hardwood floors in Claire’s rooms were cold. Behind him, her television was on Channel 1079 and it was costing her fourteen dollars an hour. He succeeded in getting one shoe on her foot.

  Claire became absorbed in the images on the screen, two women and a man. One woman, a blonde, was on top of the man, bouncing up and down without expression. Claire wondered if she was happy or sad. The other woman rubbed the blonde’s back, squeezed her breasts as they bounced, reached her hand around to where the man’s penis went in and out. The blonde threw her head back and let out a high-pitched noise. Huxley said something to her, before he left. What did he say?

  “Come on, baby.”

  Right: Bradley, the shoes. He got the other shoe on, finally. He quickened his pace for a few moments, then stopped. His face contorted, he breathed in sharply, then let his breath back out slow. He was still for a few moments and then he dismounted and moved to Claire’s living room. Left alone, Claire surveyed the wreckage. In addition to the tequila, an ashtray on Claire’s dresser held the remains of a joint.

  Minutes later, from the living room, music pierced Claire’s four-in-the-morning air. Singing—big, booming, operatic singing. She recognized the song. She got up to peek out her bedroom door, and Brad Hess was sitting naked on her tiger-print couch, bellowing out “Jesus Christ Superstar” like Pavarotti. On the coffee table sat Charlie in his urn, silent and condemning—or else laughing his late ass off.

  “‘Jesus Christ, Superstar.’”

  Claire lit up the half-smoked joint, choked inhaling, and tried to process the scene.

  Brad Hess looked over at her. “I’m classically trained.”

  She felt dizzy, but in a nice way. It could have been worse. There was a handsome naked man sitting upright in her living room, with good posture, feet shoulder-width apart, chest taut, singing show tunes. He had a water glass in his hand.

  Oh my God, Claire thought. What just happened?

  She felt relief to have it over.

  “I liked your movie,” she offered weakly.

  “I know, baby. You told me like a hundred times last night. Fuck, you were wasted, weren’t you?”

  For better or worse, it was the beginning, for Claire, of actors.

  22

  Claire went not to Lowenstein with her news, but to Spence. He had the radio on low. He was trimming a primrose in a small pot on his lap.

  “Okay. Well, I met a man at a movie premiere last night, an actor. The star, actually. Well, I met the star and then also the supporting guy, who I guess isn’t a star but is still in the movie.”

  “Yes.”

  “So we flirted, a little, afterward, after the premiere at the reception. And then we had sex.”

  Spence put down his plant. “Well, this sounds like a welcome turn of events. This is what you’ve been talking about, isn’t it? You’ve been tormented with this idea of virginity hanging over you.”

  Claire smiled weakly but didn’t answer.

  “Who did you have sex with?”

  “The actor.”

  “The actor you were flirting with.”

  “No, no. I didn’t. Well, I mean, I did.”

  Spence looked puzzled.

  Claire took a deep breath.

  “I flirted with the star. And then I had sex with the not-star. It gets … blurry.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think I blacked out. I’m pretty certain I did. Actually, I did. And when I woke up it was like I was in the middle of a scene. One minute we’re in a room of pretty people, dressed and bantering, and I’m flirting with Jack Huxley—”

  Spence put his hands together atop his lap and made no attempt to respond. He’d earlier that morning had dental work, Claire knew, and was putting great effort into the movement around his mouth; it was still partially numb. He moved his hand there, unconsciously, several times in the course of a minute, and to her it appeared that he was trying not to laugh. She fidgeted in her seat. She looked around at the walls and windows.

  “So, yeah. Jack Huxley. It was the premiere of his movie. And there was tequila. And he kept, well, someone kept giving me little glasses of tequila. And then the next thing I know we’re on my bed flanked by, well, marijuana … and more tequila, and he’s shoving my feet into these shoes. Only it’s not Jack’s suit jacket on the chair, it’s a different one, and then it’s actually Bradley Hess shoving my feet into the shoes. I can’t even piece it together very well.”

  Spence picked up the primrose again. “Well, the substances are a concern, but let’s shelve that for now. This is directly tied to what we’re working on. You want intimacy, but you also want sex. You fear you’re incapable of blending the two—you’ve been told this, in fact, by your late husband, who stood behind research. So, how do you feel about last night?”

  “I’m not incapable of blending the two. Charlie was. Charlie said it wasn’t possible.”

  “Do you think it’s possible?” Spence uncrossed his legs.

  Claire thought he seemed smug. “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Okay, so you’re ambivalent.”

  “I kept thinking how absurd it was. I mean, he’s an actor, it seemed unreal. From what I can recall, it felt like we were just doing a scene on my bed. A disastrous one—I never would have written it.”

  Evan Spence did not take a note and did not look down; he just looked at Claire and waited. Was he captivated or bored?

  “I was trying not to laugh. He wanted me to p
ut on these shoes … and then later, he sat naked in my living room, on my tiger-print sofa, and started singing.”

  “What was he singing?”

  “‘Superstar,’ you know, from the musical. He has a very nice voice. I wasn’t expecting that … but I couldn’t stop thinking about my neighbors across the hall, waking up at four in the morning to a bellowing Brad Hess. The entire transaction, from the premiere party to the sex to the singing and his exit was seven hours. It was completely unplanned. I went to the premiere to be introduced to Huxley and ended up screwing his costar. That’s fucked up. Maybe I need a sex therapist.”

  “You might be getting ahead of yourself.”

  “My dead husband had a pathological obsession with sex. Can you get it from a partner?”

  “Obsession is not a communicable disease.”

  “Then it’s learned behavior. His, and now mine.”

  Spence tilted his head slightly, narrowed his eyes, continued the conversation. “Charlie affirmed all of your internal doubts about yourself and your relationships with men, and then he left before you had a chance to dispute him or prove otherwise. He made it okay for you to be this way. You made it okay for him, as well. You said he had one or maybe two other girlfriends?”

  “Sure. For comedy’s sake, let’s call them ‘girlfriends’ and let’s say ‘one or two.’”

  “Perhaps he hadn’t found anyone who would accept this in him until you. Someone who would let him remain emotionally withdrawn but still be loyal. You looked at Charlie and saw yourself, and the two of you were attracted to that in each other. Now that he’s gone, the trouble’s been where to restart.”

  “That’s all I want to know.”

  “You’ve recognized that you want to have intimacy, both emotional and physical.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a promiscuous phase.”

  “Having a sexual encounter does not equate with promiscuity.”

  “He doesn’t know my number; it will be awkward if we meet again. He’s probably done this a thousand different times.”

  “Is Jack Huxley aware that your husband was writing a book about him?”