The Art of Undressing
Page 9
It was even darker in there. Front and center was a squarish stage. A woman with very tan skin and long blond hair danced to a Michael Jackson song. She wore a sheer white, fur-collared robe that went just past her hips, and sheer white stockings that went up to her thighs with two big bows on the top. Silver stilettos. Dress-up stuff like my mom had loads of at home. My eye was pulled by another neon sign. It said CHAMPAGNE LOUNGE. A tipsy neon glass was next to it. No one was sitting at the tables and chairs over there. On the other side of the room was a bar. Four or five pretty women wearing long evening gowns sat on high chairs, their legs crossed under tall round tables. They were smoking and looking very serious and glum. In front of the bar area was a cushiony bench with more pretty women sitting all in a row. They looked bored too. In their evening gowns. Beautiful. Waiting.
A couple more men in black tuxedos stood in the room. I felt their eyes on me. “Who are they?” I asked my mom.
“Bouncers. Touch and bust.”
“What?”
“If anyone makes trouble, they get rid of ’em.”
Well, they didn’t have to worry about me. I was not going to make trouble.
Only about four male customers were in there. They sat in comfy leather chairs next to low-to-the-ground, shiny-top tables, drinking and staring at the woman dancing. I wondered why the men were separate from the women, and why there were so many more women than men.
The room seemed vast, as if it went on forever, maybe because it was so empty. There was a row of chairs around the stage, and another area behind that, and then another area in the back, in the shadows, though I didn’t know why anyone would want to sit so far away from the stage. Not one person was sitting near where that woman was dancing, and I felt bad for her having to perform for so few people. “Why is it so empty?” Was business bad? Would Mom lose her job?
“It’s early,” she said. “Come on.”
I tried to catch a last glimpse of the dancer. She must’ve taken her little robe off, because now she was just wearing a G-string and her breasts were there for all to see. They weren’t so big as my mom’s. I myself had nothing up top and was not even quite registering the thought that breasts would happen to me. This woman’s were so tanned, and she had these delicate, pink little nipples. Not like my mom, who was light-skinned but had darker nipples.
Back in the dressing room, at least ten more dancers were getting ready to perform. “Look at your baby,” one of the women said. “She’s so cute!”
“She looks just like you!” another one said.
“She’s learning young,” said another. That made them laugh. Which really made me mad. Were they laughing at me? Suddenly I wished I was home watching TV. It was so bright with all those bulbs around the mirror, and loud with all their yakking. Makeup everywhere. Vast amounts of pencils and lipsticks and pots of gels and little plastic cases that clicked shut and boxes of pink tissues and white cotton balls and Q-tips and tubes in piles, as if they’d washed up on a beach after a huge storm.
All the women were in different stages of being undressed or wearing full-length evening gowns and it seemed to me like this was the place where everything was happening, this was where the fun was. Even though music was blaring in the showroom out there, it was louder in here because of all the chatter.
My mom sat me down in the corner and got undressed. I’d seen her naked a zillion times. She liked to walk around the apartment without clothes. But other women’s naked bodies had been a mystery. I was fascinated by how each one of them was different. And my eyes kept pulling in all the variations. So I gaped. And no one seemed to mind, either. No one said “Stop staring.” It was nice to get to look at where you didn’t usually get to look.
The evening became a blur of body parts. Straight hips, round hips, big breasts, small. Light nipples, dark nipples. Long waists and short ones. Calves and thighs made smooth with sheer stockings. G-strings in every color pulled up around hips like huge stretchy rubber bands. That little piece of cloth covering the little triangle area up front so neatly. The string disappearing back into the butt. Didn’t that bother them? Probably not as much as those shoes. I heard complaints about those all night. Groans of relief when they slipped them off. Stretch the toes. Rub the soles. One black woman, one Asian woman, many blondes. At first, I couldn’t tell all the blondes apart. Some had foreign accents. They were all nice to me.
It became like a game, back in that dressing room, to see the next body undressed, and the next, and the next. As if someone was constantly removing a blindfold. Lo and behold, the world was filled with pretty women’s bodies. Each one a little different. But in the end, the same too.
My mom pulled a long, slinky pink and gold glittery halter-top dress out of her bag. It was quite thin and stretchy, and she stepped into it easily—pulled the top up around her neck, and boom, she was in. I looked down at what I was wearing. It was my favorite dress. Short-sleeved, navy blue with a row of white daisies across the front. Suddenly it seemed very plain.
When it was my mom’s turn to go out and dance, she told me to stay there. She looked so beautiful, with her hair all swept up. She was prettier than the finalists on the Miss America pageant! “I want to go with you.”
“You can’t.”
“I want to see!”
“Sit,” she told me, as if I was a dog in training. “And stay put.”
She went out to the front. And I sat there in the corner and listened in on the women.
“His breath smelled like vomit. What a jerk.”
“At least he wanted you. I’m not making anything out there!”
My mom came in every once in a while to redo her makeup. I asked her again, “Can’t I go out there?”
I saw the blonde with the long curly hair exchange glances with my mom. Was she laughing at me?
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You just can’t.”
“I want to see the dancing!” Plus lots of these women smoked and the air was giving me a headache.
“No, and don’t argue. Why don’t you go to sleep? It’s late.”
There was a little cot, but there were three women sitting on it smoking. They started to move over for me.
“I don’t want to sleep.”
“Suit yourself.”
My mom went back out. One of the other blondes motioned for me to move to the cot. “Come on, hon. You might as well make yourself comfortable.”
She patted the spot next to her and I moved to it. I sat upright and watched the women coming and going, putting on makeup, cussing and swearing, laughing at the jerks, commenting on some regular who’d just arrived. “He’s asking for you, Angel.” Angel was the one black woman. “He wants you to wear your red dress.”
“He loves that damn dress.”
Angel rubbed baby oil all over her legs and chest before putting it on.
I realized those women who were sitting out there before, in the evening gowns, were there to sit with the men. To keep the men company. The men just hadn’t arrived yet.
“He only paid me fifty bucks. I wasted an hour on him, listened to him complain about his wife for one fucking hour, and the jerk gives me fifty bucks! No wonder his wife won’t have sex with him.”
Did men pay their wives to have sex? Then someone should tell him to pay her more.
Every time someone left the dressing room, I caught a look into the other room. Was that a naked body? On that man’s lap? His clothes were on. He wasn’t even touching her. So what was she doing? Was that allowed out in public? Was that my mom? No. She wouldn’t do that. Only the others must be doing that. It was so frustrating. I couldn’t get a good look. But I could tell it was getting more crowded out there. And as it got more crowded out there, fewer women were hanging out in the dressing room. Now the party was out there and I was stuck in the back. But I didn’t dare venture out. At some point, my head started to get heavy. I lay down on the cot. Still, I tried to keep my eyes open, I didn’t wan
t to miss anything, and the dancers were still coming in and out to fix their makeup, have a smoke. Without really meaning to, I fell asleep.
My mom took me back to the apartment sometime during the night, so when I woke up in the morning, I found myself in my own bed. But all the sights and sounds were still spinning in my head. Belly buttons on flat stomachs. Nipples like bull’s-eyes. That tipsy neon champagne glass. The empty seats that had not stayed empty.
I went to Coco. In those days, when she didn’t stay in Queens, she slept in the living room on a fold-out sofa. She liked to sleep late; I knew that well. Always had to be quiet, and if I wanted to watch TV, I did it in Grandma’s bedroom, eating cereal on Grandma’s bed. Coco usually got up at one or two or even three in the afternoon. But this morning, I couldn’t wait.
“Mom?”
“I’m sleeping.”
“Mom?”
“What, for god’s sake?”
“Are you taking me to work with you tonight?”
“I’m trying to sleep!”
“Because I don’t want to go.”
She didn’t respond.
“When is Grandma getting back?”
I didn’t like how some of the women laughed at me. I didn’t like how they all knew stuff I didn’t, but no one was about to explain anything. I didn’t like it at all.
Coco’s eyes were closed. “Mom?”
“We’ll see,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if she didn’t know when Grandma was coming back, or if I was going with her again. “We’ll see what?”
“Ginger!” Now she was angry. “Go away!”
She put a pillow over her head. I went back out into the living room. One thing was for sure. If she made me go again, I was gonna find out exactly what she was doing out there in that room in the front.
But she didn’t take me again. And I was relieved. I didn’t really want to know.
chapter fourteen
i prepared myself for the smell before opening the closet. Impossible to identify, but you could bottle it and sell it as a perfume: Leah.
The walk-in was absolutely packed with stuff. Mind-boggling. Would Emma want any of it? The Ralph Lauren skirt suits. The Polo sweaters in assorted colors, all with that pretentious horse insignia. The Lacostes with the annoying alligators. What about the dresses? Donna Karan, Yves Saint Laurent, Oscar de la Renta. The collection was worth a small fortune. In the world of Leah’s closet, Ann Taylor and Banana Republic—two more stores I never went to—were the downscale brands.
Her big weakness was shopping at Barneys. Once she’d taken me to the restaurant there. I had the best calamari in my life. Deep-fried with a light breading and just the right taste of lemon. Really good. The clothes? I’d rather hit a thrift store in the village. Urban Outfitters if I feel like being scalped. Why spend thirty dollars on a T-shirt just because it had some cute slogan on the chest? Once Coco got a T-shirt there with an orange half right on each boob, and underneath it said SQUEEZE ME. I imagined perverted men on the street grabbing my breasts. It made Coco laugh, though.
It seemed wrong to be giving away Leah’s expensive clothes. One day, Emma might want some of this. Should I tell my father to put it all into storage so she could look at it later? He wasn’t around to ask. Seemed like he was hardly ever home, and poor Emma had to hang out by herself. There was a housekeeper who straightened up and bought groceries, but she was only there sporadically and didn’t seem very friendly. No wonder my father had asked me to come around. It was time to make contact.
Emma was in her room with the door shut and the new Coldplay album blasting. I’d ask her if she wanted to look through some of this stuff with me. Truth was, I wouldn’t mind the company. This wasn’t exactly cheering me up.
I knocked on the door. “Emma?”
No answer.
“Emma!”
“What?”
“Can you come out here a sec?”
“I’m busy!”
“I just want to ask you something . . . !”
She turned the music up.
I started folding and stacking. Undoubtedly some broke but ambitious newcomer to the city would pounce on this stuff when she saw it hanging on a rack at the Salvation Army. Or maybe a homeless woman. I’d love to see someone sitting on the sidewalk begging in the eggplant Eileen Fisher full-length linen skirt.
My father had told me I could take something. Leah would’ve encouraged it. That day at Barneys, she’d tried to get me to buy a blue-jean jacket. Maybe she figured since it was blue jeans, I might go for it. There was leather on the collar and the cuffs. It cost eight hundred dollars. That was almost my rent for the month. It was really cute. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
But maybe . . . if I found something basic among these things . . . something I’d get some use out of. It would be nice to have something of Leah’s. I held up a Tommy Hilfiger white cashmere V-neck top. Would I use it? Without dripping food on it? White clothes scared me. Into the garbage bag.
I opened a drawer built into the wall. A jumble of belts. An orgy of leather, alligator skin, and metal chains. I got a Hefty bag and dumped them all in at once in a clump. Should I start on the shoes? There had to be a hundred pairs. How many pumps did a person need? Most of them looked unworn, and they all looked almost exactly alike.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. All these clothes! I just didn’t get it. Somehow I had missed the boat. The boat that all women board in eager droves without thinking twice. Clothes, makeup, shoes, accessories. I just couldn’t get interested. Didn’t want to do myself up like that. What was wrong with me?
I got back up and tried to stick my foot into one of Leah’s black pumps. Ferragamos. It had a two-inch heel, a rounded toe, and a little gold buckle on the top. Coco would scoff and call them frumpy, but they were all about good taste and respectability. Leah’s feet were smaller than mine, though, so I couldn’t even get my toes past the halfway point. When I was younger, my height and my big feet sometimes made me feel clunky. I’d get into funks that my body was failing me. I was female, yet my body refused to be feminine.
But if I was a female, wasn’t I defining what was feminine—not the other way around? Did the differences between the sexes have to be all exaggerated? That’s why I didn’t get why people needed to lay it on so thick with all these differences in their clothes. Because when you have a man and a woman undressed next to each other, you aren’t exactly going to mistake one for the other. So what was the big deal about making them appear so different? As if you’d forget once you’re undressed which one was which. As if you’d need to go, oh, yeah, you were wearing those six-inch heels, so you must be the woman.
I did like being different from men. It did make me feel special. I did like the fact that my body was different from a man’s body. And that there are two sexes, not one. Two that fit together. Exactly.
I looked at my father’s closet door. The forbidden door. Dare I open it? Yes. It was dark inside. I pulled the chain for an overhead light. A row of dark suit jackets hung on wood hangers. Below that were neatly folded slacks. Below that was a chrome shoe rack holding almost identical leather shoes with those things inside that help them keep their shape. Up above was a high shelf with tan canvas storage boxes going up to the ceiling. And the smell. Tweed. Leather. Shoe polish. It brought tears to my eyes. What would it be like living with a man? I really wanted to know. It would’ve been so fun to live with Ian. Just to know there was a guy to come home to, there for me, and me only.
I returned to Leah’s closet. Opened up a fresh garbage bag. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the shoes quite yet. So I pulled some silk sweaters with matching tops off their hangers and stuffed them in the bag. I just needed to find one man who didn’t expect me to have all this stuff. A man who would be attracted to me just the way I was. Was that asking for too much? Certainly, if I ever wanted to live in lavishness like this, I would need to dress better. No wealthy man would want me the way I was.
I thought of Tom’s gentle touch when he was putting on the Band-Aid and was overcome with a sudden urge to bake cupcakes. Vanilla cupcakes with vanilla frosting. I went to see what they had in the cupboard.
The cupboard was bare!
No vanilla. No confectioners’ sugar. No flour.
I went to Emma’s door and yelled above the music. “I’m going to the grocery store! But I’m going to be back!” For some reason, I really wanted her to know that. As if she would feel like I’d abandoned her if I just left. As if she cared whether I was there or not.
No answer for a moment. Then a stilted “Fine.”
I walked over to Third Avenue, found a Food Emporium and bought all my baking supplies. At the last second, I grabbed a little glass container of rainbow sprinkles.
When I got back, Emma was, presumably, still in her room, but there was no music playing. I knocked. “Emma?”
After a moment, with impatience: “What?”
“Do you want to help me bake some cupcakes?”
After a moment, with grouchiness: “No.”
I’d gotten disposable foil cupcake pans since there were no baking tins. I found a handheld mixer in the pantry and two bowls in the cabinet next to the stove. Measuring spoons, measuring cup, wooden spoon. I was all set.
I measured all the dry ingredients into one bowl. Then I microwaved the butter just enough to soften it. Added some vanilla. Started blending away. It was hypnotic. The buzzing sound. The circular motion to incorporate everything together. Round and round and round. It reminded me of my vibrator. Swirls of the yellow batter swelled up like plump rolls of fat falling into each other. Swirling, I knew, was the secret. Circles and swirls . . . around the clitoris. Teasing it. Coming close. Staying away. Circumnavigating. The direct approach just didn’t work. There had to be that element of evasiveness. Once you knew for sure you had it coming . . . well . . . then it was over.