“I have a question.” It was the bride-to-be. “If the clitoris is all about pleasure, why does it seem like men are the ones who want sex all the time?”
All heads turned to Coco. “Men have an easier time accessing it. Women have too much bullshit getting in the way. We worry about making him happy. We worry about taking too long. Is he bored? Is it that time of the month? Will he be too disgusted at the sight of my period? Get over it! Guys love that stuff!”
My mother, the sex therapist. Since she’d been practically “born” having orgasms (claimed she could remember masturbating when she was three) she had little sympathy or even comprehension for women who couldn’t. For her, sex didn’t seem to be connected to emotions. She was like a guy that way. “Anyway,” she went on, “that’s why things like the creams are important, because it gets the mind to relax.” She segued into the task at hand, selling the products. “So like, here. This is great. The weekender kit.” She held up a little carrying case that had all sorts of little samples nestled in it. “I love this. You plan a little trip to get away from it all. Or a honeymoon?” She nodded at the bride. “You take this with you. It’s so cute and fun. I love samples, don’t you? A little of everything. It’s all edible too. Pleasure balm. Flavored condoms. Flavored lube. Massage oils . . .”
Snake oil, I thought. Because if the relationship was a mess, no amount of goop was gonna fix it. But she was a good saleswoman—that was for sure.
“So. Now. The vibrators!”
Ah yes. The main event. Everyone sat up a little straighter. She launched into her “lecture” that I’d actually helped her put together. “The first vibrators were manufactured at the turn of the century when . . . ta da . . . electricity was invented! So you all have Thomas Edison to thank. After the light bulb, they were one of the first appliances. Why? Because they were used by doctors to treat hysteria. In those days, women weren’t supposed to enjoy sex or have orgasms, so it’s no wonder they were all hysterical. They would go to their doctors for a weekly appointment, and she’d lie down and he’d give her a hand job. Not bad, huh? So all these doctors were really happy when vibrators were invented. It made their jobs a helluva lot easier!
“Try them out, ladies. Pass them around. Turn them on. Let them vibrate on your fingers. Some are more intense, some are less. This one has a remote. Twelve-foot range. You can sit on the couch watching TV with your boyfriend and let him turn it on and off . . .”
Everyone was talking at once as they picked up the vibrators, played with them, passed them around.
“I like the glove.”
“Maybe for my sister . . .”
“The lipstick one is so cute.”
“No one would even know . . .”
“Teacher,” someone said, “we have a question. Can you explain this?”
The woman had picked up the Rabbit. The most intimidating one of all.
“Okay. Yes. That, ladies, is the king of the dual-action vibrators! It’s known as the Rabbit because of that little guy on the side with the bunny ears. Those ears tickle your clit. They feel like two tiny little tongues darting around. Then you have the twirling shaft for penetration. And another special feature is that belt of pearls you see around the shaft. You see, when it rotates, they tumble around in there, and it adds stimulation to the lips of your vagina so you’re getting it three ways! This is really the closest you’re gonna get to the real thing. Actually, this is better than the real thing. But some people find it overwhelming, especially if you’re just starting out. That’s usually something people work up to.”
“Once you’ve mastered that,” someone said to the bride, “you won’t need your husband!”
Everyone cracked up.
That’s when Tara raised her hand. “Do you think you really need any of this if you’re involved in a good relationship?”
Coco looked at her like she was speaking Swahili. “Excuse me?”
“You know. If two people really love each other. It’s just so . . . mechanical. What about, you know, love, and romance?”
“Romance,” Coco said, “is what men use to get you to go to bed with them.”
“That’s rather bitter,” Tara said. “Don’t you think?”
I listened with interest.
“Women use it too,” Coco said with disdain. “Because they feel guilty about sex. If they’re ‘in love,’ then it’s okay.”
I’d never heard Coco say she was in love with a man.
“So you think love and commitment are totally separate from sex?”
“Hey, listen, if you need that to help you have sex with a guy, fine. But you can have sex without it. You can have sex without him! Men are really quite expendable, and look at all these choices you have!”
“But don’t you think it’s more meaningful to do it with an actual person? Rather than one of these appliances?”
I liked it that Tara was being provocative instead of eating everything up. But I also wanted Coco to chew her up and spit her out on the bride’s parquet floor.
“Why does it have to be either/or?” Coco said. “These are great to use with your guy. Let him stimulate you with it. Or use it in front of him. Or do it on him. They love watching you do yourself. And it takes the pressure off him if you’ve already gone a few rounds.”
Coco grinned. I smirked. Tara was silenced.
“I couldn’t,” said one woman. “In front of him? No way.”
“Okay, you know what?” Coco said. “You have to get over that.”
I had to smile to myself—I knew Coco would get her for that.
“I can’t,” she said, looking miffed. “It would be too embarrassing!”
“Let me tell you girls, because I know how it is from being on the other side.”
Uh-oh. Please, I was thinking, please don’t go there . . .
“I worked for years as a stripper. And let me tell you. Women are out of touch with what their men want!”
Damn. Okay. Now Tara was going to know everything. By tomorrow, this would be all over the school. The crowd got very quiet. Tara stared at my mother with her eyebrows raised. Oh yes, she was all ready to be disapproving. They all waited with bated breath for her to go on. And go on she did. “You wanna know why men cheat?” This was one of her favorite rants. “Because women are all obsessed with how they feel. They always want to analyze it, and talk about it. Men don’t want to talk about feelings, okay?”
She said the word “feelings” with this really snide voice.
“They’re sick of hearing about how you feel. And they don’t want to hear about what you got at the mall that day either.” There were some glances exchanged and giggles of recognition. “Talk about your feelings and your shopping with your girlfriends, okay? Not him. He just wants your pussy. That’s right. That’s what he’s interested in. Unless he’s gay. And whether he’s gay or not, all he wants is someone to suck on his dick. That . . . right there . . . is the secret to men, ladies. It’s simple!”
Now Tara had an evil grin. She had a whole arsenal to use against me. Guess what, I could hear her in the locker room. Ginger’s mother is a stripper. What a mouth on that ho!
I would be snubbed right along with my mother. Even though, god knows, I would’ve loved to raise my hand and go, Okay, so then Mom, if it’s so simple, if men just want someone to suck them, then why have all your relationships with men sucked?
“Don’t be afraid,” Coco commanded the class, “of trying new things!” She picked up the Rabbit and turned it on. It rotated like a slightly lopsided sausage on a skewer. The crowd hung on her every word. “Don’t judge him if he wants to do something you think is gross or disgusting or kinky. Don’t get all hung up about it! You need variety to keep it fresh, right, ladies?”
I was almost mauled by the throng as they gathered around me to buy. I couldn’t take their credit cards fast enough! They were asking me for advice, asking Coco, buying buying buying. I dreaded the moment when Tara would approach me. She waited un
til almost everyone else was gone. Was she going to taunt me immediately? Or wait until school so she could do it in front of everyone there.
She was holding the Rabbit. “Look at this. Makes you go all mushy inside, doesn’t it?”
“Cash or credit?”
“How absolutely amazing that your mother used to be a stripper. And now she sells vibrators!” Tara could barely contain her glee. “Who would ever have guessed it?”
“Look, Tara. I know this is amusing for you. But I would really appreciate it if you would be discreet.”
“I’ll bet.”
“And I’ll be discreet about the vibrator you’ve chosen.”
“Oh,” she said, turning it on and off. “I don’t need one of these. I’ve got the real thing. Tom just took a job working at my father’s restaurant. One nice thing about guys in their twenties. They don’t need batteries!” She laughed, or should I say cackled, and handed the Rabbit back to me.
chapter seventeen
e mma actually got up from the couch when I came in the door, and then (gasp) turned off the TV. I decided to play it as if I came to see her. As it happened, I had stopped at the grocery store on my way over and bought more baking supplies.
“How did Eugene like the cupcake?” I asked, taking the groceries to the kitchen. She followed me in.
“He ate it in like one bite. And then he didn’t even thank me.”
“Typical.”
“I have a picture of him. Would you like to see?”
“Yeah!”
“It’s in here.” She headed into her room.
I paused, unsure if she wanted me to go in there with her.
She turned and looked at me. “Are you coming?”
Her room was a disaster area. Clothes all over the floor. Makeup and jewelry and belts and purses and knickknacks everywhere. Walls plastered with Britney and Justin and Ashton. Buried in all the chaos was a matching pink flower power theme on the blanket and curtains and rugs. Leah had ordered it all from Pottery Barn. The “perfect room” for the “perfect daughter.” Leah had been so happy to pick out the ultrafeminine design. “This is why it’s so fun to have a daughter,” she’d said.
Emma got Eugene’s photo from her journal. The boy was skinny, holding a skateboard, wearing a baseball cap. “He’s cute.”
“I think he looks like Ashton Kutcher. Don’t you?”
“Sort of. The hair-in-the-face part.”
“I love his eyes.” She carefully put it back in the journal, which she placed back in her desk. I thought of Ian. We hadn’t spoken since I’d kept him from eating my leg of lamb. Maybe he was missing me, regretting the breakup, waiting for me to call. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about me at all.
We went into the kitchen and made shortbread cookies using a special old recipe I’d gotten from my grandmother. I toasted some sliced almonds on a baking sheet. Pulsed them with confectioners’ sugar in a food processor. Added the flour and some orange zest. Then I let Emma cut up the cold butter into little pieces and we pulsed that in. The orange almond scent was mouthwatering.
When it was in the oven, I thought of all those shoes that were still in Leah’s closet. Should I start on them? No. I had a better idea.
“Would you like me to help you organize your room?”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Ugh. Daddy doesn’t even let the cleaning woman go in. He says it’s a waste of her time. He even makes me do my own laundry. Doesn’t that suck?”
I didn’t think it sucked, really, but I wasn’t about to side with him in front of her. “Let’s do it,” I said.
“Really? ’Cuz, I don’t know, it’s such a mess. I can’t deal with it.”
I could tell she was pleased with the idea. “I can deal with it. Come on.”
I began with the clothes on the floor. Sorting the clean things from the dirty ones. Folding. Putting them away in the drawers or throwing them in the hamper in her closet. The hamper had been empty because so many clothes had been piled in front of the closet, it was impossible to get to. This girl had a lot of clothes.
When the timer went off, Emma ran to the kitchen to check the shortbread.
“Make sure they’re golden brown around the edges,” I called after her.
Meanwhile, I checked under the bed to see if there were any more clothes down there. And pulled out a wad of underwear. The crotches were all stained with blood. Menstrual blood.
“They’re done!” Emma called out from the kitchen.
“Take ’em out!” I called back. Was she just sloppy? Or was she in dire need of supplies? Fathers couldn’t deal with those things, could they? I couldn’t imagine going to Ben for a supply of sanitary napkins. Or did the housekeeper take care of this? If so, she wasn’t doing a very good job. At least Coco had made everything very accessible. I remembered finding a box when I was about five years old and unwrapping a bunch of them because I thought they were mysterious little presents. Once they were unwrapped, they were still pretty mysterious. When Coco found the mess I’d made with the little white papers all over the bathroom rug she was annoyed at first, but then she explained everything. She’d gotten me using tampons before I even wanted to. The idea of sticking those things up inside me made me feel like I was deflowering myself. But she pushed me, saying I could not possibly want to walk around with a hunk of paper between my legs. At first I’d resisted, but once I got used to it I could never go back.
Now I had to decide. Confront Emma? Or ignore it? Would it embarrass her? Or be a relief?
Emma had transferred all the cookies to a plate and poured two glasses of milk. We settled in at the table. I decided I couldn’t pretend. She’d know they’d gotten into her hamper somehow. And, most likely, she needed me to interfere here, even if she was resistant to the idea.
“Emma,” I said, picking up a cookie but not actually bringing it to my mouth, “I noticed you had some underwear under the bed.”
Her cheeks blushed scarlet and she looked down at the tabletop. “Oh. Right . . .”
“I put them in the hamper.”
“Thanks.”
“So you’re getting your period?”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?” I still held my cookie in my hand. My hand was perspiring.
“A few months.”
“So it started when Leah was in the hospital?”
She nodded and picked up a cookie and broke off a piece.
“Does your dad know?”
She shook her head.
“Are you going to tell him?”
She made a face like she’d just smelled something bad.
“You should tell him,” I said, breaking my own cookie in half but still not eating it. “Don’t you think?”
She shuddered.
“Do you want me to tell him?”
She shrugged.
I have to say, the idea of telling him was not so attractive. It wasn’t like I was so close to him. But the guy had to know.
“You need some sanitary napkins.”
Saying it out loud made it sound so stupid. Sanitary. Like our blood was dirty. Full of germs. Jesus.
She threw her remaining piece of shortbread back on the plate.
“I’ll go to the drugstore and get you some.”
She looked up at me. “You would?”
“Sure.”
God, she looked relieved. I thought she was gonna cry. Or was it me?
“I’ll go right now if you want.”
She nodded. “Sure.” She said it casually, but there was an undertone of desperation. Maybe she was having a period right then. With toilet paper stuffed into her panties.
“Okay. I’ll go right now.” I took a bite of my shortbread. It was good, but could’ve used some dressing up with some fruit or jam or ice cream, I thought—and stood up. “Maybe you can start on cleaning off the top of your dresser while I’m gone. Do you think?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” She stood up. I could see it was really hard for her to look me in the face. Her gaze was fixed on the floor when she said, “Thanks, Ginger.”
“No problem.” I made an extra special effort to be really casual about it. And why not? It didn’t have to be a big deal. It certainly never had been at home. Coco left her tampons sitting around everywhere. You could often find one in the jar by the phone where we kept the pens. “I’ll be right back,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Don’t eat all the cookies!”
“I won’t!”
I went to the Duane Reade a few blocks away and picked out the smallest size tampons, some regular napkins for overnight, and some minipads. As I stood in line at the cash register, I couldn’t help but think how Emma had no idea what she was in for, and no mother to help her through it. Years of cramping, leaking, ill-timed periods that would start on the wrong day or be mysteriously late and sure, it’s a wonderful thing to be fertile and of course I wanted to give her as much positive reinforcement as possible. But. However. On the other hand. Getting your period was a pain in the butt. And it was for this kind of stuff that a daughter needed a mother. All Emma had, at the moment, it would seem, was me . . . poor thing. I thought affectionately of Coco. She could be annoying and problematic, but there was no doubt, she was there for me. I handed the boxes to the cashier and made a silent promise that I would do my best to be there for Emma. Even if I couldn’t possibly fill Leah’s shoes.
chapter eighteen
i couldn’t do anything right: spilled a saucepan of roux all over the stove, burned a tray of tart shells, even chopped my parsley wrong. “She cuts like a girl, this one,” yelled Jean Paul. “Chop chop chop. It will take you all night to get through the box. Vite! Vite! Time is money!”
I could chop as fast as anyone if not faster. Why didn’t he yell at the assorted bums standing around doing nothing?
I sucked it in, finished off my parsley, and went into the walk-in to organize the produce. My new philosophy: stay busy, stay out of his sight, stay out of his mind.
The Art of Undressing Page 11