The Art of Undressing

by Stephanie Lehmann

  Finally the batter was beautifully smooth and silky. I tasted it. Yum. The best taste.

  Emma was still in her room. Now Jessica Simpson was playing. Would she like to lick the bowl, or would she think she was too old for that? I didn’t feel like being rejected again, but on the other hand, what was one more rebuff? I went to her door. “Would you like to lick the bowl?”

  After a moment: “No. Thanks.”

  Well. At least there was a “thanks.” That was progress.

  As I washed up the bowls, I wondered who was going to eat these. I could take some home, but Coco wouldn’t touch the carbs and I didn’t want to give them to Jack, who didn’t deserve them, though if I got him fat maybe my mom wouldn’t be able to stand having sex with him anymore.

  Maybe my father would come home, and we could eat one while sitting at the kitchen table across from each other.

  But I didn’t really want that. It would ruin the cupcakes.

  I went to the living room and stretched out on the sofa. The warm, sweet smell filled the apartment. Ummm. I had to make sure I didn’t doze off, or they’d burn.

  Time to make the frosting, anyway.

  I used a very simple recipe that was just butter, vanilla, and confectioners’ sugar. Just as I was done mixing, Emma emerged. She stood at the door to the kitchen, as if it wasn’t hers. She was wearing a T-shirt that said LABEL WHORE. Her mother’s daughter.

  “You want to help me frost?”

  “Okay.”

  At least she didn’t hate me enough to turn down the fun of frosting.

  “Here’s a knife. Let’s do it at the table.”

  We sat down across from each other and started spreading. It was just the right texture. Not so soft it wouldn’t hold its shape, but not so stiff it would tear the cake. This was our most communal moment ever. I didn’t want to ruin it, so I stayed quiet.

  She licked her finger. “Mmmm.”

  I licked mine. “Mmmm.”

  I was tempted to say something about our father. Ask her what it was like to live with him. Say something about how he was hardly ever around. Mention how I knew what it was like to feel shut out by him. But I made myself stay quiet. For one thing, I sensed that I wanted to go there more because I’d get pleasure out of putting him down, not so much because I thought it would help her feel better. For another thing, she might not take to me being critical of the guy. She might just get defensive, and then we’d be at odds. Had to make sure I didn’t lay my trips on her.

  “So,” she said, “there’s this boy . . .”

  I stayed quiet, hoping she’d continue.

  “In my class . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I hate him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s always saying mean things to me.”

  “Like?”

  “Like saying I look like Kelly Osbourne.”

  She did look vaguely like Kelly Osbourne. But skinny. “You don’t look like Kelly Osbourne.”

  “He says I do.”

  “If you do, you look like a skinny version. And she does have very pretty features. So maybe it’s his way of complimenting you. You know. Boys are idiots. They can’t say what they feel.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  We frosted some more. I thought of Tom. How he’d been so open about his love and affection for his mom—without being too disgusting about it. Maybe not all boys were idiots. Then she said, “This other boy . . . Eugene . . . I think he looks like Nick Lachey.”

  “He’s cute.”

  “Yeah.” She dipped her knife in the bowl and slopped out a big glob. “Whoops. Too much.” She put some back. “So anyway, I don’t know.” She sighed.

  “You like him?”

  “He’s okay.”

  That had to mean she was madly in love.

  “Is he nice to you?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m alive.”

  “So . . . are you going to do anything about it?”

  “About what?”

  “Why don’t you bring him a cupcake?”

  “It’ll probably get mushed when I take it to school.”

  “He won’t care. Shall we put some sprinkles on top?”

  “Do we have some?”

  “Yep.” I pulled the little bottle out of the grocery bag.

  “Oh, can I do it?”

  “Sure.”

  I let her shake them out all over the tops. When she was done, we admired them. It was like they were smiling up at us. How could you not feel cheered up? “They’re beautiful,” she said.

  “Shall we?” I asked.

  “Definitely.”

  Emma and I each picked a cupcake, took simultaneous bites, swallowed in unison, and smiled at each other. “They taste,” I said, “as good as they look.”

  “All I need is a nice, tall cold glass of milk.”

  “Coming right up.”

  As I went to the refrigerator, I felt a warm glow inside. We were bonding! She was accepting me! She was actually going to let me be there for her! It felt so good in a nice, wholesome, deep-down-in-your-gut way. I poured us each a tall glass. This had to be how people in helping professions felt all the time. Nurses. Social workers. Even strippers. There was no denying they made men feel quite happy to be alive, even if it was a very temporary and superficial kind of happy. I knew that had always given my mom a deep sense of satisfaction in her work. I brought the two glasses of milk to the table. That deep satisfaction feeling was part of the reason I liked to make pastries. But even that had its downside, considering they’re unhealthy. Jean Paul had us adding butter and cream and salt to our food like there was no tomorrow. I picked up my cupcake. If people realized how lethal the ingredients were, they’d never indulge in restaurant food again. I took another lovely bite.

  chapter fifteen

  “ m ake sure your boning knife is nice and sharp. Cut the flap of skin between the thigh and the body. And hold one leg in each hand.” Jean Paul demonstrated the proper way to bone a chicken. We had our own birds, and followed his lead. “Bend the leg backwards until you hear the bone pop out of the socket.”

  I’ve heard that butchers are the happiest people, and I could understand why. Carving through the flesh. Knife against bone. Finding just the right spot between the joints where the pieces gave in. Pop those legs off.

  “Now we will do the breast. Place the bird on its back, breasts facing you.”

  Ralph and I exchanged glances. This was sexy in an S and M sort of way. Dividing that soft, cold little chicken body up into neat little pieces.

  “Slice through the skin and the meat just to the side of the breastbone. Using short, sharp strokes, cut close to the bone, using your fingers to pull the flesh away from the carcass . . .”

  After we’d massacred our chickens, Jean Paul took aside most of the other students to give them a chance to make chicken picatta. He told me to slice carrots. Very challenging. As I got out my cleaver, I watched Tom and Tara stand next to each other pounding breasts. He was laughing about something she’d said. What was going on here? This wasn’t right. Tom laughing with Tara. Me stuck with a crate of carrots. I wasn’t sure what to do. If Tom was attracted to her, no way he could be attracted to me. Tara and I were different as sugar and pepper. Nothing I could do about that. Losing battle.

  And Jean Paul? Why was he still so down on me? Seemed like he was purposely keeping me from the more creative projects and relegating me to grunt work. Was it because of my scholarship? Was that what was going on? If he really knew me, he’d realize I had lots of potential. I had to make him see that.

  At lunch, I went up to the school office. Robert Kingsley happened to be walking out just as I was walking in.

  “Hi, Ginger.”

  “Hi.” I had to accept the fact that the guy knew my name.

  “How’s your sister?”

  “Good, thanks.” Also had to accept the fact that she was the one he was attracted to.

  Jean Paul was talking to
the secretary. I sat on a chair by her desk and waited while they quibbled over a huge order of produce that had failed to arrive that morning. Not a smart move on my part to attempt to speak to him when he was in a bad mood, but I was determined to make contact. Maybe he thought I’d come to this school impulsively. On a lark. He could have no idea that I already knew that this was going to be my life. If I could make him understand that . . .

  But how could I, without sounding too sappy? It’s not like I was about to go into anything too personal. It was more important that he didn’t know anything too personal.

  Finally, he was done talking with the secretary. I realized he was about to leave the room even though he knew I was sitting there waiting for him. I stood, but I didn’t know what to call him. Chef? Jean Paul? Neither seemed right, so I didn’t call him anything. “Excuse me. Do you have a minute?” I trembled. “I’d like to speak to you.”

  He reluctantly turned towards me. “Yes?”

  “I just want you to know. I’m determined to do well. And this is what I really want to do. And I’m very eager to learn everything you have to teach. And I just . . . want you to know that.”

  He shrugged. “It’s your money.”

  The secretary, a chubby woman in a flower print dress who’d obviously been indulging in too many student lunches, was eavesdropping.

  “Yes. And I’m paying tuition that is very high, even if I did get some scholarship money. Does that have something to do with the way you’re treating me?”

  “I know nothing about scholarships! I treat you the same as everyone else.”

  “Do you?”

  “Okay. You ask me? I will tell you, Ginger Levine. You may be able to learn zee craft of cooking. But will you ever have zee subtlety, zee finesse, zee refinement to perform zee art of cooking? Zat is zee question.” He looked at me with disdain and walked out of the room.

  Refined. Yeah. My mother was not refined—I knew that. So maybe I wasn’t refined either. Maybe I came off like she did and didn’t realize it. I’d grown up with her, after all. Well, maybe I didn’t want to be refined. Refined wasn’t far off from uptight.

  But could I make refined pastries? Pastries that looked refined?

  The secretary took pity on me. “Don’t take it personally. He enjoys torturing his students.”

  “Thanks.” I frowned. “Then I must be giving him a lot of pleasure.”

  chapter sixteen

  i t was the usual pandemonium at the bachelorette party where my mom was doing her “How to Have Sex Like a Pro” class. We were now into October, but Sunny was still in Greece, so I was still helping sell vibrators. The party was being held in the huge loft of the bride-to-be’s best friend, who’d spotted Coco’s ad in Time Out. About twenty women were yakking and giggling and barely able to keep their mouths shut while they waited for Coco to do her spiel and I really wished I’d brought my earplugs.

  When you get a room full of women talking about sex toys, I’ve found they inevitably become hysterically giddy and loud. Put them in front of some Chippendale’s dancers, they turn into hyenas on speed. I’m not saying men don’t get rowdy, like at topless mud-wrestling bars, especially if they’re drunk frat boy types out to prove what “men” they really are. (And, in the process, show what boys they really are.) But in general, you look at male strip club clientele: They’re fairly quiet. Much more likely to be looking at the women in a kind of dumbstruck awe than screaming their brains out.

  We were all set up and ready to begin. Last-minute guests were still arriving. The partyers were all in a tizzy at the sight of the rainbow cavalcade of penile representations displayed on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

  “Oh, my god!”

  “Look at that one!”

  “It’s so big!”

  “It’s so intimidating!”

  “I better have a drink.”

  There was wine and cheese on a sideboard, but everyone was so riveted by the display barely a cracker was crunched.

  “How do you pick one?” was the inevitable question from a typically overwhelmed customer.

  “Why are there so many kinds?” asked another.

  “We’ll get to that, don’t worry!” Coco said, trying to calm everyone down. “We’ll go over everything.”

  Since the room was crowded, I’d stationed myself in a small kitchen where the wall had been cut away to make a pass-through. I sat on a stool semiremoved from the action and watched, ready to take the money at the end. The host’s black cat was trying to knock over the silicone dildos, which could’ve caused a disastrous domino effect. I made eye contact with Coco and signaled she’d better do something about it, because I wasn’t about to set everything up again with everyone sitting there watching. “Can someone get the cat?” she asked. “Thanks. Those are a little big for her. Ouch. Okay. Maybe we should start. First, I want to give you all a little basic sex ed. I’m assuming everyone knows where her clitoris is. Does everyone know what it’s attached to?”

  A latecomer was ringing the doorbell. I almost went to let her in, but the woman who was hosting got up. I heard her leading the woman in and offering her a glass of wine.

  “Are you kidding? I want to be sober for this!”

  The voice sounded familiar. I craned my neck through the pass-through to see. As the late person came into view, my stomach almost collapsed into my lower intestine. It was Tara. Tara Glass! I felt like Humphrey Bogart must’ve felt when Ingrid Bergman walked into his bar. “Of all the vibrator parties in the world . . .” I wanted to disappear into thin air. But Coco needed me. I was trapped.

  “The clitoris has thousands and thousands of nerve endings . . .”

  Tara had so far not taken a look around the room. She was too busy settling in and listening to the lecture. I moved my stool back and tried to make myself small, but apart from actually sitting down on the floor to literally hide myself there was nothing much I could do. It was futile anyway, since she would see me at the end. Unless I just fled and left Coco to deal with everything herself.

  “Except for pleasure, the clitoris has no function whatsoever. Nothing else on the human body is like that. So it’s all about you having fun.”

  Of course, Coco the saleswoman didn’t really care if they were enjoying their bodies. She just wanted them to buy the equipment after her spiel was over. Which irked me. I mean, did they really need to buy something in order to enjoy their bodies? Did they really need the appliances? Sometimes I suspected mine was taking the place of relating to a real live guy. Like Tom. I’d been shy around him after our day in the park, and he’d been shy with me too. But instead of suggesting we get together, I expressed my affections to my vibrator—while thinking about him—because it was easier. Less risky. Your vibrator never rejects you.

  Meanwhile, I’d noticed Tara becoming more and more chummy with him. I had to do something. Maybe ask him to visit the restaurant supply store, like we’d talked about.

  “Okay, the G-spot you’ve all heard so much about.”

  I saw Tara look around quickly, but she almost immediately focused back on my mom. Still didn’t see me.

  “How many of you know where your G-spot is?” Only a few raised their hands. (FYI, Tara was not one of them.) “Your G-spot has a million nerve endings. How, you may ask, can women stand giving birth if there are all these nerve endings there? Well, it’s on the bottom third. The top two thirds don’t have nerve endings, so that’s how you can have a baby without dying of pain. It must be true, because, as my daughter back there will tell you, I have a very low pain threshold.”

  Coco nodded towards me. Everyone looked. No way to hide! Sure enough, Tara was now looking at me with her jaw hanging open.

  “If you had nerve endings up there,” Coco concluded, “you would probably die.”

  Tara mouthed the words, “That’s your mom?”

  “So once you know where it is, you can get your guy in the right position to get to it. His penis can go in different dir
ections inside of you, so it’s getting it to go the right way.”

  I gave Tara a fake smile without showing any teeth, then stared at Coco as if she was lecturing on the threat of global warming.

  “So if you look at dogs, and the way doggie style works, you’ll see that’s the best way your guy can make contact with your G-spot. That’s not uncomfortable for the female dog, that’s hitting the spot. So find it for yourself, figure out your body, then you can maneuver him to go the right way. He’ll be glad because you’re happy, and he’ll think it’s because he’s such a good lay!”

  Everyone laughed.

  Coco started demonstrating some of the different novelty items, like the waterproof vibrating glove with massagers on each finger. “Wear this, ladies, you’ll have him in the palm of your hand.”

  The small lipstick-shaped vibrator.

  “So you can get through customs at the airport!”

  The Allstar. A hefty vibe inspired, perhaps, by a basketball player? Coco held the thing with its thick shaft for penetration up to her chest like it was an Oscar. “I want to thank the academy!”

  She was cracking them up.

  The Hitachi Magic Wand. “These have been around for decades. They last decades. And lots of women love the head on this one. It’s sort of like a tennis ball.” She waved it like a racket. “Tennis, anyone?”

  Tara was laughing louder than anyone.

  “These edible massage creams . . .” Coco picked one up, unscrewed the top, passed it around. “They have a great texture. Delicious. Vanilla cream, raspberry cream, and cool mint, which has a tingle . . . You each get a sample in your goody bag, by the way. . . .”

  “Is it safe?” someone asked. “Because then it gets inside you.”

  “Sure, and it’s kosher, too, so your rabbi won’t have a problem.”

  More laughter.