The Art of Undressing

by Stephanie Lehmann

  So I sat up straight and started to pull my dress up over my head—too quickly, I could hear Coco complain. But my impulse was to rush through this as if he wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, there was not too much give to the material, and I was having trouble getting it up past my shoulders, and it was squishing flat up against my face. I couldn’t get the stupid thing off! I felt my own hot air against the cloth, which was right against my nose and almost suffocating me.

  “Ummm . . . Ginger?”

  “What?” I said through the dress. I could hear myself breathing. See my mother shaking her head in despair.

  “Maybe we should stop.”

  “What?” I kept the dress there for an extra moment, despite the indignity, because it seemed better than looking him in the face.

  “I think we should stop.”

  I pulled the dress back down. “You want to stop?”

  “Yeah. I just think . . . we should slow down.”

  I adjusted the dress around my waist as casually as I could.

  “Not,” he said, “because I don’t want to. I just think we should take our time.”

  “Okay,” I said, in the most casual, I’m-not-feeling-rejected way I could.

  “I guess maybe I’m old-fashioned, but cuddling, you know, it doesn’t always need to end up in sex. I mean, I just generally like to wait until I really know someone, and, you know, I know it’s going to be meaningful and special.”

  Special? He sounded like such a girl! From a century ago! “It’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You aren’t upset, are you?”

  “No, of course not. It’s nice you feel that way.”

  Except, he hadn’t waited for it to be “special” with Tara, had he? I could still hear her taunt. Who needs a vibrator if you’ve got the real thing? But maybe she’d been lying. I would’ve asked him, but I didn’t want to bring her up. It was more important to gather any shred of pride I could pretend I had.

  “So . . . maybe you should head home,” I managed to say, “before it gets too late?” I said it like a question, so that he could feel free to suggest the concept of staying overnight.

  “Yeah,” he said, “better get on that subway. Get some sleep.”

  I walked him to the door, hugging my arms around my waist.

  “You aren’t mad at me,” he said, “are you?”

  “No. Of course not. Why would I be?”

  “Just checking.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I shut the door. Went to my bedroom. Took everything off, got under the covers naked, arranged my head on the pillow, and told myself I had not made a fool of myself by throwing myself at him like a slut. That is, showing him I desired him.

  chapter thirty-four

  “ l et me get this straight. You’re upset because he said you were moving too fast?”

  Ralph and I were walking to the deli. I’d been hoping to spend some time alone with Tom during lunch, but Jean Paul made him and some of the other guys set up tables in the dining room for the banquet the next day, so there was no chance.

  “Yes.”

  “And he wanted to cuddle?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, Ginger? Women want to cuddle, okay? That is the ultimate goal of all women. To find a man who will cuddle.”

  “So you don’t think I should be annoyed? Or feel rejected?”

  “I think you should have your head examined. Don’t you realize that you have found a treasure? Thank your lucky stars!”

  “You don’t think it means he just wants to be friends?” I couldn’t bear to bring up his alleged carnal relations with Tara. With little or no waiting period. Extremely doubtful that it had been special or meaningful.

  But what if it had been? That thought was even worse.

  “Ginger. I hate to tell you. But even friends don’t kiss and cuddle. Do we kiss and cuddle? No. We do not kiss and cuddle.”

  “You know what else?” I volunteered, feeling encouraged. “He said women with implants are bizarre.”

  “Either he’s a really good liar, or you’ve found yourself the perfect guy.”

  After school, Tom and I found each other in the lobby and took the elevator down. His blue eyes were beaming at me. “I had a nice time last night,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  “Too bad I have to work tonight. There’s a private party at the restaurant for the Association of Women Chefs. Maybe you want to drop by?”

  “Oh, thanks for the invitation.” I almost told him I had to work too, but instead I used Tara as an excuse. “I don’t think she’d want me crashing.” I didn’t want to explain my work consisted of selling vibrators after my mother’s strip class.

  I hadn’t seen Coco since she got back from Vegas that morning. When I got home, I was all ready to congratulate the new bride and chide her for not calling. I found her in her bedroom, lying down in the dark.

  “Mom?”

  “We didn’t do it.”

  “What?”

  “I called it off.”

  I sat down on the edge of her bed. “Why?”

  “The morning Jack and I were supposed to go to the chapel . . . I was sitting at a slot machine feeding it coins. I was in this hypnotic stupor. I had to ask myself why I didn’t feel more excited. The thing came up with three cherries. And I knew. I don’t want to be married. I guess I just can’t stand the idea of being tied down to one person.”

  “I don’t get it.” It depressed me to hear her say that. I was one person. Of course, she didn’t mean me.

  “I don’t get it either.”

  “Well. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  She sat up and opened her arms for a hug. I moved over and gave her one.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Ready.” We lifted the trunk. Carried it down the stairs. Outside, it was raining. The city was drab and gray. This was the time of year I hated most, when fall turned into winter and there were months of bad weather to look forward to.

  When we settled into a cab, I asked her, “So how did Jack take it?”

  “He ripped off all the buttons on my dress.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “I’m an idiot, right? Now I don’t even get my face-lift.”

  “Well, ya know, Mom? Being happy”—I nudged her in the arm—“that’s the best face-lift of all.”

  “Ain’t it the truth, huh?”

  I was so surprised at this development, it didn’t even click for me until the cab pulled up right up in front of L’Etoile that this was our destination. The private party Tom was talking about was the same party Coco was hired to work! Now I knew why Tara had been so “good” about “not telling Tom” about my mother’s “chosen profession.” She’d engineered this whole thing to try to humiliate me. And she was going to succeed.

  “Mom,” I said, as I followed her out of the cab, “do we have to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  The driver popped the trunk. “I know the people who own this restaurant. People from my school work here.”

  She laughed. “Still ashamed of your old mom?”

  “Mom, please! That’s not the thing—”

  “Good, then would you help me get this trunk inside?”

  A voice inside told me to bolt. At worst, a few vibrators would go unsold. Still, I helped her carry the trunk in as if my fate had already been sealed. There was a sign up front: WELCOME TO THE ASSOCIATION OF WOMEN CHEFS! Underneath was a photo of about fifty women all lined up and smiling, wearing chef’s hats. My future colleagues. Wonderful. The atmosphere was on the raucous side. The chefs had already been well fed and lots of wine had been poured. Excitement was in the air as the waiters moved tables aside to make space for my mother up front. Mr. Glass, a blondish man with reddish skin, wearing tan pants and a white polo shirt, came to greet Coco. “What a treat this is! What a novelty! Thank you for coming!”

  “My pleasure!”


  “My daughter planned this event . . .” He seemed nervous. “I just wanted to make sure . . . you aren’t expecting my guests to, uh, actually take their clothes off, are you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, my students are usually pretty modest, but I always put on a good show.”

  There was lots of giggling and smiling and staring at my mom as she took her place in the front of the room. In fact, seeing as many women chefs are gay, this was bound to be an appreciative audience.

  I could see Tom, along with four other line cooks, all men, closing down their stations as I set up my table. Every vibrator I set up on the table was like a stake pounded into my heart. Please don’t see me! But Tara would make sure he would. I took a quick look around and saw her standing by the swinging door to the kitchen with a smug smile on her face.

  Everyone quieted down as Coco started up. Since the room was large, I felt relatively invisible in the back, and everyone was focused on Coco while I set up my display. Soon after she began, I saw Tom and the other line cooks go to the back kitchen. Maybe Tom would leave. He had to be tired. Thinking of his bed in Astoria.

  No. There he was. Leaning up against the wall next to Tara at the swinging door along with the other cooks. Of course. They weren’t going to miss this. Tom had this grin on his face. A grin I’d never seen before. Like he was really looking forward to the performance, and it was gonna be a lot more entertaining than 42nd Street.

  Coco skipped a lot of the stuff, like hygiene, and cut to the chase. Yes, this was going to be more like a showcase for her skills. Lots of these women were from out of town, and this was like a girl’s night out.

  “You aren’t a cheerleader,” she said. “Don’t dance to the beat. This is not choreographed. You make it up as you go along. The focus is on you and your body.”

  Indeed, the focus of the entire room was on Coco and her body. I slid against the wall down to the floor and sat cross-legged on the rug.

  From the floor, I could see Tom watching my mother. Ogling my mother, to put it more accurately. I tried to tell myself not to feel anything, not to take it seriously, not to take any of this to heart.

  “You aren’t just going to rip everything off and fling it in his face, right? No. There’s an art to undressing, ladies. The first thing is your top. Take it off slowly. Finger the button. Look into his eyes.”

  Tom was fascinated. Evidently, I’d neglected to treat him to the most favorite tourist attraction of all: small-town boy goes to the big city and sees his first stripper.

  “Then, just as you’re about to take it off, turn your back to him. Look at him over your shoulder. Slowly let the shirt . . . drop . . . to the . . . floor.”

  Now she was wearing just a short skirt and a slinky black demibra. The women chefs were spellbound.

  “Shoot him a look over your shoulder as if you’re saying ‘Want me to take off more? You might get what you want. If you’re good.’ ”

  The guy standing next to Tom screamed, “I’m good I’m very good!” What a jerk. At least Tom wouldn’t do anything like that.

  But then Tom jostled the guy next to him. “Whoo-hoo!” Leaned over and said, if my lipreading was any good, something like “Wow, look at the size of those!” Put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. That’s when my heart broke. I could almost feel it sear right down the middle.

  Was this the same man who only the night before had told me Pamela Anderson was bizarre? Yes. Indeed. It was also the same man who wasn’t interested in making love with me. Why should I be surprised? Compared to a hot dish like my mom, I was a side order of wilted lettuce salad.

  “The skirt. Undo the zipper. Take your time. Wiggle your hips. Let it drop. Casually step out . . . and stroll away. Don’t laugh, though. Ya gotta be dead serious, or you’ll break the spell.”

  I’d certainly botched that. As far as I was concerned, sex was a comedy routine with me as the punch line.

  “Now you’re down to your bra and your G-string.”

  The whole crowd was getting rowdy, not just Tom. The women chefs were going wild. My mom was loving it. Soaking it in. “He’s dying,” she said dramatically. “He’s drooling. He’s about to explode.”

  Or, in my case, he’s about to explain why he just wants to cuddle . . .

  “He has got to get a look at your tits. But you turn around, so your back is to him. Let one strap fall. Then the other. Now unhook your bra. Hold it out to the side. Drop it on the floor. Give ’im a look. ‘Whoops! Silly me. It fell.’ ”

  Tom was mesmerized. A big dumb grin on his face.

  “Cross your arms over your chest. Now you turn and face him. Open your arms. Voila!”

  She proudly displayed herself. Everyone was hollering, Tom right along with them. “Take it off!” he yelled out. “Take it all off!”

  How could he?

  “Now, ladies, it’s time to pop your G-string!”

  Hold on. Was she going to strip completely? That wasn’t part of the script. All this zeal from the crowd was goading her forward. Did she think she was back at the Pussycat Lounge?

  “Play with it a little first. Pull the elastic off your hips, pull it up, pull it out. Feel it in your butt-crack, in your pussy, and let him think about how you’re feeling that. If you want, sink to your knees, relax your butt down on the floor, and bring your knees to the side, like a mermaid. Then, roll back and bring your legs up in a V, like this. That way you can give him a good look at your crotch. It’ll drive him wild.”

  The guy next to Tom was beating his chest, fancying himself a Tarzan. At least Tom wasn’t doing that. Oh, hold on, now he was.

  “Stand up gracefully. Turn. Let him look at your ass. Bend all the way over with your legs straight and your back flat. That’s right, you’re gonna give him a nice straight-on view of your butt.”

  As Coco spoke, she bent. The women were all standing there with their mouths hanging open. I didn’t even dare look at Tom. Was she gonna do it? Was she gonna moon everyone? The crowd went wild, egging her on.

  “And let it . . . ,” she said, the room . . . suddenly . . . absolutely . . . silent . . . , “fall to your feet.”

  The G-string fell to her ankles. There was her round little butt.

  “Step out of it. Spread your feet and take a look at him through your legs.” She bent over. “Peekaboo!”

  Everyone cheered. Clapped. Tom put two fingers in his mouth and whistled again. Coco turned around, flipped her mane of hair back, took a deep bow, stark naked, then broke character and laughed while she put her G-string and bra back on. All in a day’s work.

  I had to escape.

  I got up off the floor and tried to get to the door, to the street; Tara was too fast. She was pulling Tom by the hand, intent on heading me off.

  “Ginger!” she hollered. “Where are you going? Aren’t you helping your mother sell the sex toys?”

  Tom was looking puzzled, to say the least. Tara was babbling on. “Can you believe that’s her mother? They look like sisters, don’t you think? I can’t imagine what it would be like to have such a sexy mom . . .”

  I wasn’t going to rise to her bait. No need to fall into her trap. Just proceed out the door.

  But then Tom chuckled and said, “Wow, Ginger. When you said your mom was a dancer, I had no idea!”

  “Exotic dancer,” Tara screeched with glee. “Isn’t it cool? Her mom used to work in strip clubs!”

  “She’s great,” he said.

  “You certainly looked,” I couldn’t resist saying, “like you were enjoying yourself.”

  “Well . . .” Perceiving he was heading for trouble, he shut his mouth.

  “He is a red-blooded guy,” Tara added helpfully.

  “She’s obviously very talented,” Tom said, attempting to be magnanimous.

  “I didn’t think you were an implant man.”

  “Lighten up, Ginger,” Tara said. “He’s trying to give her a compliment.”

  “And thank you for making it possibl
e!”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Tom held his hand out to me: “Ginger . . . ,” and tried to touch my arm, but I shook him off.

  “Ginger!” It was Coco. “Honey, I need you! Aren’t you gonna give me some help over here?”

  I headed for the front door. Tom followed me. “Come on. Don’t be mad. I was just going along with the crowd. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “You were into it!” It was pouring outside. I went out into it. “Don’t try to pretend you weren’t!” The rain came down in hard mean splats. I so badly wanted him to tell me that he’d just been faking to fit in, and he saw nothing attractive about my mother or her talents.

  “Of course I was into it,” he said, following me out the door. “She’s a professional!”

  “How nice for you to benefit from her services!” I ducked my head and ran to wave down a cab.

  “Hey, come on, what do you expect?” A cab pulled up. I was already soaked.

  “Nothing. I don’t expect anything at all.” I grabbed the cold, wet door handle knowing I expected too much. As Tara had just said, he was a red-blooded guy. You couldn’t stop a force of nature. Before getting in the cab, I turned to face him.

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  “What?”

  We were both getting drenched. “Did you have sex with Tara?”

  He looked down at his shoes. And then back at me. A little boy, caught. His hand in the cookie jar.

  I got into the cab. There was a puddle on the floor. I looked up at Tom. “I hope it was a meaningful experience.” I slammed the door shut.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  Unfortunately, the only place I could think of was home.

  chapter thirty-five

  w hen I arrived at school the next morning and saw Tom in the lobby, I was all set to deliberately look away from him. But I didn’t have the chance, because he deliberately looked away from me. Then Kingsley strode past and avoided my gaze. Then Jean Paul told me to get my butt in the kitchen to make a cheese platter. Granted, everyone was tense because of the banquet that night and the world was not revolving around my troubles. But from the moment I got there, I wished I wasn’t. Even Ralph was in a bad mood. I complained to him on my way to the walk-in. “I’m really glad I spent all those thousands of dollars to have the opportunity to slice Swiss cheese for the investors.”