I Like You Just the Way I Am

by Jenny Mollen

  Not only was this logistically problematic, but it also complicated our afternoon rendezvous. From the stairwell, we peered into the hallway and waited for Gerty, Alan, and their two boys to disappear into the same elevator we’d just gotten out of. Once the coast was clear, we ran to our room and locked the door.

  After a long and thorough shower, I started flat-ironing my hair and shooting minibar bottles of Grey Goose like I was going to prom.

  “Do whores prefer eyeliner or just mascara with a pinch of shadow?”

  “Maybe a smoky eye,” Jason said, using the only makeup buzzword he knew.

  Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door. I tossed the iron in the sink and threw myself onto the bed. Jason opened the door to a three-foot-tall Filipina chomping gum and twirling her hair. Eva looked nothing like her photos online. In fact, she kind of resembled one of those little island pygmies from Gulliver’s Travels.

  “Eva?” he exclaimed, trying to mask his discomfort.

  “Hi, guys,” she purred as she walked over to a chair and sat down.

  My mind froze momentarily as my eyes struggled to process the image before me.

  “Why is everybody so giggly?” she asked.

  Mainly because you didn’t mention that you were a garden gnome in your profile, I thought.

  Further nervous laughter ensued until finally Jason cut to the chase. “So, should we talk business?”

  I took this to mean he was willing to look past the munchkin factor and proceed as planned.

  “I’m gonna need three hundred dollars before talking shop,” Eva announced, still chomping on her gum. “That covers my bills and my door fee.” According to Eva, the kind of “party” we were going to have was entirely up to us. In other words, whatever was going to happen hinged upon how much more cash we were willing to fork over.

  I really didn’t get why Bilbo Baggins was being such a shady little bastard. But Jason handed over three hundred bucks.

  “What can you do for three hundred more?” he asked.

  Eva laughed. “Can you hold on for a sec?” We waited patiently while she called her manicurist and pushed her nail appointment back an hour.

  “Yeah, there’s something going on with the gel,” she was saying. “I think it’s lifting. Also, the little Swarovski crystal fell off. You said that was gonna stay on. I miss my blingy pinkie!” she whined.

  Once she hung up, Jason notified me that he needed to run down to the ATM for more cash. “I’ll be right back,” he said, darting out of the room with purpose.

  Alone with Eva, I was even less comfortable. She sat in her chair, laughing and text-messaging friends. I offered her a drink, which she declined kind of disdainfully, as if I’d proffered a bottle labeled DATE RAPE. (I hadn’t thought of it before, but one drug-laden cocktail and I could have easily scored my whole three hundred bucks back.) Once she was done with her texting, she turned to me and, naturally, started telling me about her family.

  “My father left when I was very young,” she said. (Shocker.) “And my mother raised me all alone.”

  I felt like I was in an Oliver Stone retelling of Rumpelstiltskin. Thankfully, my husband burst back into the room just before she asked me to start spinning the bedsheets into gold.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Eva laid out the game plan.

  “Okay, so, I’m gonna go down on him, and you can sit on his face. Cool?”

  I was jarred by how fast she got down to business. “Um … okay.” I gulped.

  Just as she started to pull off her rip-away outfit, my husband stopped her. “Wait!” he said. “I couldn’t get any more money out!”

  “What?” Eva’s eyes turned dark. She was a shark and we were her prey.

  “I’m already maxed out at the ATM for the day,” he explained pathetically.

  The shark looked angry.

  “Do you accept cashier’s checks?” I tried.

  “No,” she said, putting her top on and getting back on her phone.

  “They don’t have enough money. Just pull around front. I’m coming down.”

  I was so embarrassed. Apologizing profusely, I walked Eva out, thanked her for her time, and promised we’d get in touch once we figured out the cash situation. As soon as the door was locked and Eva was gone, I let out a huge cry of frustration.

  “Babe! You totally embarrassed me in front of the whore! Now she thinks we can’t afford her.”

  * * *

  It was getting late, and the surprise party was set to start within the hour. On our way downstairs, I convinced my husband to stay another night in Vegas. My ulterior motive, of course, being Operation: Find a Whore. Still reeling from the Hervé Villechaize debacle, I decided to take an alternate approach. I walked up to the youngest concierge I could find and gave it to him straight.

  “Dude! I’m having the worst hooker luck! Can you help?”

  He looked me in the eye the way drug dealers do when they’re trying to assess whether or not you’re an undercover cop, then handed me a pamphlet.

  Seated in a festive ballroom, waiting to shout “Surprise!”, my husband and I perused pictures of the “merchandise.” I felt like one of those super rich guys in Hostel 2 who murders for sport. The pamphlet gave me hope. Finally, I thought. Real professionals.

  The next day we hung poolside with Gert, Alan, and their boys. At one o’clock, I feigned exhaustion and scurried up to the room, with Jason close behind. This time around, I dressed a bit more casual (no eyeliner). At two on the dot, just as our whore was due to arrive, we heard Gert and Alan’s boys running down the hall with their nanny. For a brief moment, I panicked.

  “Babe, get those two into their room! The whore is going to be here any minute.”

  I pressed my face firmly against the peephole to see if I could collect any more data, but the entire frame went dark. Knock, knock, knock. Those kids! Without thinking, I flung open the door and reached out to grab the little culprits. Instead of baby swim trunks, however, I got a face full of silicone.

  “Hi! I’m Keisha.”

  It took me a second to process what was going on. Did Gerty and Alan hire a new nanny? Did the boys morph into a giant whore on their walk down the hall? Seeing the shock on my face, my husband stepped in.

  Keisha was an Amazonian-looking blonde with tanning-bed skin and extentions down to her ass. She wore a low-cut neon blue dress that expertly showed off her implants, which were securely fastened to opposite sides of her chest. Her stomach was tiny and her limbs were long. She had big blue eyes and wore frosted pink lipstick. She looked like a Barbie come to life, aside from the fact that her tits hated each other.

  “Welcome!” Jason said broadly, still in Fantasy Island mode.

  “Where did the boys go?” I asked.

  “Oh, they are so cute!” she said. “They’re looking out the window in the hall with their sitter. I rode the elevator up with them.”

  “You didn’t tell them—?” I started, and then revised my question. “They didn’t see you come in here, did they?”

  “No! I am really discreet. I usually just get away with saying I’m somebody’s cousin.” She glanced down at her Swarovski-encrusted manicure, apparently the universal symbol of whores everywhere.

  The birthday present was going to happen this time, if only because I couldn’t stomach another night in Vegas. I pulled myself together and tried to be as clear as possible.

  “Seriously, Jason is so hard to shop for. So I want you to go down on him for six hundred bucks.”

  “Great,” she said cheerily. Finally the Red Shoe Diaries version of our Vegas weekend was about to commence. “Just so you know, I don’t do girls, so any pleasure you get is gonna be from your husband,” Keisha cautioned.

  I nodded my head, secretly resenting Keisha for not wanting to ravage me. I was in way better shape than Jason, and on top of that, I was waxed like a dolphin.

  Slightly less intrigued now, bordering on bored, I listened as Keisha wal
ked us through an extensive list of potential upsets: wife gets hurt and wants to stop; husband can’t get erect; wife and husband can’t focus because they are too aware of the other’s emotions; and so on and so forth.

  With sweaty palms, clearly a by-product of all the newly discovered potential for failure, my husband undressed and sat on the bed. Keisha instructed me to do the same. The buxom beauty climbed up on my husband, fastened a condom over his semi-erect penis, and went to work. Instantly, my excitement returned. This was the easiest sex I’d ever had! Happy birthday to everyone!

  Jason, however, seemed less thrilled. His body was frozen and his eyes bulged out of his head, locked on me like a math teacher during a Calculus final. I started to worry.

  “Do you want to go down on him a bit too?” Keisha suggested.

  “Hmm … I think you got it covered,” I said, opening a bag of Kettle Chips from the minibar and plopping back down beside them.

  “Honey, why don’t you get involved.” Jason said sternly.

  Feeling the pressure from both my husband and the woman I imagined was the only hooker on the planet who didn’t find me irresistible, I obliged. I grabbed my husband’s cock with conviction and performed my signature hand job–blow job combo trick for Keisha’s benefit. She complimented me on my skills, which almost made me forgive her for not trying to eat my pussy.

  “Good job, Jenny! You’re really deep-throating that thing!”

  “See, baby? I am kind of good at this,” I said. Jason’s dick went limp in my gloating mouth.

  “Stay focused!” Keisha said, smacking me on the head, causing me to choke. Coughing up saliva and potato chip remnants, I sputtered, “Does anyone else kind of feel like Jason’s a giant baby and we’re putting a weird sex diaper on him?”

  “Just you, Jen,” Jason said. He sat up and put his underwear back on. The moment had passed.

  “Wait, we’re done?”

  “For now,” he sighed.

  We spent the next half hour lying in bed with Keisha, listening to stories about her crazy life. She told us about the guy who makes her and a friend come over, call a male prostitute, then order him to suck the male prostitute’s dick. Then there was the innocent-looking couple from Washington that wanted Keisha to go home and take a laxative so she could come back later and shit on the husband while the wife took photos.

  The thing that struck me the most was how casual and seemingly well-adjusted Keisha was. She was articulate, gregarious, and, were it not for the torpedo boobs, the type of girl who totally could be your cousin (if your cousin was a prostitute).

  As our time came to a close, Keisha apologized. She told us to call her if we wanted to try again later that evening. We nodded solemnly, and she made one final attempt at lightening the mood by saying, “See, your husband must really love you. He couldn’t even stay excited by the idea of another woman.”

  I smiled and gave her one of those hugs I save for people who I want to make regret not fucking me. With that, we bid her farewell.

  On the plane ride home, I texted Keisha to thank her. I secretly hoped she would write back, saying that she regretted not fucking me, but sadly, she didn’t. Whatever it was she did do for that six hundred bucks totally worked. For me, anyway. Just sitting next to my husband was somehow more arousing. Even though the actual act was relatively boring and a financial bust, the reliving of it grew hotter and hotter in my mind. When you are in a relationship, it’s often easy to lose sight of the fact that other women want to suck your man’s dick (even if they’re doing it for money). When you witness it with your own eyes, it really helps you appreciate what you have. It’s kind of like seeing an old sweater look super cute on one of your girlfriends and realizing you love it again. Not that I’d ever stopped loving my husband; I’d just already owned him for five fashion seasons.

  “What a sweet whore,” I said, staring down at the flickering lights of Las Vegas.

  Jason laughed and grabbed my leg. Something was rekindled between us. Or perhaps something blossomed that had never been there before.

  I kissed him passionately, then bashed my forehead against his. “So,” I asked, “any idea what you’re getting me for my birthday?”

  7.

  Hand Jobs: The Fine Art of Getting a Mani-Pedi Next to Your Husband’s Ex (Who Hates You)

  So remember when I said that Jason’s ex went back into the past? Well, she kind of did for a while. Then, without warning, she was thrust back into my present. I know what you’re thinking: I was probably the one to “thrust” her there. But this time it was sheer coincidence and I was merely an innocent—albeit well-manicured—bystander.

  Two years had passed, and Baz and I were officially acquaintances who rarely spoke yet held each other in high regard. That was, until I decided it would be a great idea to write a blog post for Playboy.com about the time I hid in my agent Sarah’s trunk in order to have a look at her. During our short-lived tryst, I guess I failed to mention any of the previous capers I’d pulled to orchestrate/will our “chance meeting” into existence. I was too caught up in the moment to harp on things of the past. Once Baz and I were together, it was always about the future. Unless, of course, she was telling me stories about dating my husband, in which case, it was about the past. I understand that reading about herself on the Web under a picture of a scary woman drenched in blood wielding a knife with the words OBSESSED EX scrawled underneath was probably a bit of a shock. But the essay was never meant to be hurtful. I came clean about hiding in a trunk to see Baz in an attempt to help other crazy women feel less ashamed for hiding in trunks of their own. I was trying to do something good for humanity, not piss off a girl I spent years trying to woo.

  When the article ran, Baz and I were broken up on good terms. Out of respect for Jason, we stayed out of each other’s lives, save for the occasional text when either of us had work news or access to a killer sample sale. I assumed she’d read my story the way I naïvely assumed the entire world read my story. Also, because I texted her when it went up. She responded, saying that she would check it out and that she hoped I’d changed her name.

  It only occurred to me later that she never followed up with me. I attributed it to her being busy and/or intimidated by my incredible gift for writing, and that she shrugged the whole thing off.

  Ten months later, I was forced to infer that Baz had read the post. Also that she chose not to write back because she decided she fucking hated me.

  * * *

  Everything I know about developing healthy relationships with other women I learned from my mother, which may be why I thought it was a “fun” idea to write an article about Baz with absolutely no permission whatsoever—like a girly bonding thing. I was wrong. I told my mom as much when she came to L.A. to visit me with her husband, John.

  “Mom,” I said. “You’re the reason I can’t have normal relationships with women.”

  “No, I’m not!” she responded, giggling. “It’s because we’re so hot and all other women are jealous.” Moms really do know how to put things in perspective.

  After years of short-lived romances with weird guys she easily talked into piercing their ear cartilage, my mom finally found a guy she could live with without mentally castrating. She and her husband, John, made it to their eight-year wedding anniversary and drove up from San Diego for the weekend to flaunt their success. As a little midday treat, I thought it’d be fun to take them for mani-pedis. After breakfast, I offered up the plan, praying my mom wasn’t going to embarrass me by still being in her weird toe ring phase. John agreed to join but was only willing to get a manicure with “no buffing and absolutely no clear polish.”

  Around noon, we jumped in my car and drove to my favorite nail spot on Beverly Boulevard, Hand Jobs. It being my favorite nail spot has little to do with how well the girls do nails and more to do with the fact that it’s situated next door to the best coffeehouse in the city. The salon owner, a crazy Korean lady named Linda, is a total starfucker who speaks
to me only when I’m with Jason. Of course, she doesn’t actually call him Jason. Simply, “Amewica Piee!” I once caught her Googling images of him in the waxing room while chanting under her breath, “Amerwica Piee, Amerwica Piee,” like she was about to have an orgasm. The store is covered in framed posters of ’80s French manicured acrylics holding roses, and the bathroom always has an open Tupperware container half-filled with banana leaves and minced meat sitting near the sink.

  The easiest route from my house to the nail salon takes me straight past Baz’s apartment. And to be honest, even if it weren’t the easiest route, I probably would have driven by anyway, because I had tourists with me and Baz’s place was on my “Jenny’s Legends of Hollywood” tour. It’d been almost a year since I saw Baz face-to-face, and I hadn’t thought much about her in as long a time. (Except for a couple months earlier when I wrote that essay about hiding in a trunk to meet her. And, of course, when I’m taking anyone on my “Jenny’s Legends of Hollywood” tour.)

  As we drove down the hill at a cool 10 mph, I motioned to my left, pointing out Baz’s top-floor unit. My mom rolled down her window, trying to get a better look. Then, almost like the Jaws on the Universal Studios Tour, Baz appeared on the opposite corner, walking her dog.

  “Oh my God! That was Baz! Did you just see her?” I craned my neck to get another glimpse.

  “I saw her,” John said.

  “Where? I was looking at the apartment.” My mom spun around in her seat like she’d just missed a humpback whale breach.

  “Should I go around the block?”

  “No,” John answered before my mom could say yes.

  “You’re right. We can’t get greedy. That was an amazing sighting, and I have to tell you guys, it rarely happens for first-timers like yourselves. Consider it an anniversary mitzvah.”

  “It didn’t happen for me,” my mom pouted.

  “I’ll buy you an iced coffee,” John teased.

  As we pulled up to the salon, even from the outside, Hand Jobs looked packed. Linda stood at the entrance and squinted at me like she’d never seen me before in her life.