by Babe Walker
Of course I’d purchased a few things to make “his” place more of “our” place. The usual suspects: a free-radical-neutralizing filtration system for the faucet, a proper spinach rinser, and all new silverware, dishes, pots, pans, etc. (for decoration only, of course). I was learning to accept that New York Babe was a little bit more “eclectic” than LA Babe. Upon first glance, I’d thought that Charlie’s brownstone-lined street was going to be a little too Carrie Bradshaw for my tastes, but I was actually loving it.
On a chilly Monday morning, I woke up after Charlie left for work and made myself a cup of tea, spiked it with a touch of scotch, wrapped myself in a few throws, and sat on the windowsill and wrote for about an hour. I’d started a blog that I posted on a couple times a week in order to share my thoughts, feelings, and emotions with the world. I finished an article about how hair color directly correlates to confidence level and sent some very productive emails. Then I went back to sleep for about an hour, got up again, took a taxi to Aqua on Franklin in TriBeCa (underwater spin class . . . life-changing), grabbed a delicious turmeric juice and dandelion kale salad from Organic Avenue on Hudson, and then returned to Charlie’s place on Jane, where I showered, stretched, moisturized, and meditated.
By 3:30 I was ready to shop. Shopping in LA is easy, but the shopping scenario in NYC is truly tough to beat. I think the city planned it that way to make up for the horrible fucking winters, which are not cute. I dropped in at Jeffrey, McQueen, Marni, Moschino, Theyskens’ Theory, A.P.C., Margiela, and Helmut Lang. I’d been shopping regularly, but on this particular day I went a little overboard. Five pairs of Margiela sneakers (all for Charlie), ten gray Helmut Lang sweaters, an insane suede shearling Marni coat, and a Moschino blazer that reinvigorated my love for blazers, which is saying a lot. The fact that I was buying so much for the cold weather made me realize just how comfortable I was feeling. I was actually starting to picture myself having a life with Charlie here in New York.
I stopped to rest my tired legs and drink an americano at Soho House, where I sat in an obscenely huge leather chair and thought about my old friend, the universe. I wondered if someone (or something) up there knew all along that I was destined to end up with the same boy with whom I shared my first kiss. Then I noticed my waiter looked kind of like Robert, and I kindly asked him to stay away from me. I wondered what Robert was doing for about two seconds before re-exiling him from my thoughts. I was happy with Charlie and I was determined to keep it that way. He wasn’t a fantasy lover like Robert. Yet.
We actually hadn’t had a chance to do more than cuddle and make out, thanks to Charlie’s hectic work schedule. In fact, he’d been going back to work for a few hours after dinner or out of town on business almost every night since we’d gotten to New York. But I was sure we’d get physical eventually and that it would be great. Charlie treated me well. He respected me, he thought I was funny, and he wore a lot of Paul Smith and owned more Moncler down jackets than anyone I’d ever met.
On the way home I stopped to pick up some pasta at Barbuto so that Charlie would have something to eat for dinner. He put in such crazy hours at the office, and my schedule was so loose, that I liked to have some food ready for him when he got home. I mean, there was no way in hell I was going to cook, because that would be a disaster, but he deserved to have a nice meal at the end of the day.
When Charlie walked in the door later that evening, there was an unusual fire behind his eyes. They were bluer than normal. He dropped his Valextra briefcase to the floor, took off his jacket, and began unbuttoning his shirt while staring right into my eyes.
“You look beautiful,” Charlie said softly from across the room.
His chest was so smooth, his face was ruddy from the cold, and his hair was ruffled and windblown. It was hard to resist him. He closed the distance between us and kissed me so passionately and so fully that I melted inside. Then he picked me up like I was a fucking feather and carried me into the bedroom. I knew what this was. We were finally about to fuck, and I couldn’t have been more excited.
Charlie threw me onto the bed and curled up alongside my body, spooning me. Actually, he spooned the fuck out of me. I wasn’t exactly clear on his plan. Did he want me from behind? Were we just going to spoon really, really passionately for a few hours? Whatever, it felt good. He pushed my hair away and kissed the back of my neck. Then he took my sweater off and pressed up against me, cupping my breasts and kissing my earlobe. His skin felt cold against the warmth of my naked back. I wanted him inside of me. I arched my back, pressing my ass into his crotch. I turned around to face him. As we were making out, he slipped my underwear off in one slow motion.
“I want you so bad, Charlie.”
And with that he began kissing my chest and stomach as he descended to my lady parts and began performing magical, ecstasy-inducing oral sex. Charlie knew what he was doing in the oral department. I’ve been with guys whom I’d consider gifted, but this was on a whole different level. I’m talking about multiple orgasms. Writhing, screaming, begging for mercy, and physical joy to the point of literal confusion.
My body was doing things that it had never done before. I undulated on the bed as his tongue took me to places unknown and unimagined. When it was finally over, I was exhausted.
“Charlie. You are so good at that it’s disgusting.”
“I love to do it, darling. You seem to be having fun.”
“Oh, I am. But what about you?”
“What about me?”
Weird response, I thought.
“Charlie, it’s not fair for me to have all the fun.”
Charlie looked at me and smiled so sweetly.
“Babe, I appreciate your concern for me, but I’m fine. I love making you feel great.”
This was very nice, but I needed to give Charlie the same amount of pleasure he’d given me. So I decided to take charge of the situation. I straddled him and started kissing down his neck and chest, prepping him for the blow job of a lifetime. Not to sound like a whore or anything, but I give amazing head. We’re going to fuck like the world is ending and probably fall in love and get married and have two children via surrogate and adopt a third one from Africa, I thought as I kissed and licked my way down his chest and abs. Then I pulled down his briefs, revealing a two-inch, uncircumcised, erect midget penis surrounded by a mass of reddish-brown pubic hair. It had the width of a normal dick but was missing about six inches of length.
A shudder racked my entire body. Abort! Abort! my brain screamed.
“Oh . . . wow,” I said, in an utter state of shock.
“I know. I’m so hard,” Charlie moaned.
“Let’s just make love!” I said a little too loudly, kissing my way back up Charlie’s chest and lying next to him.
“Mmm. Okay,” Charlie whispered huskily.
Before I knew it, he was on top of me, looking into my eyes and positioning his pelvis. He thrusted his hips forward and started moving them around rhythmically. It was weird, because he was acting like we were boning, but I felt nothing. Some humping was happening, some groaning was also happening, but I couldn’t tell if his dick was inside of me or not. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to play along, thinking that with the right encouragement his dick could be a grower.
“Oh, Charlie. Yes, yes. Fuck me hard, Charlie,” I cried out, silently begging God to let Charlie’s dick be the Chia Pet of dicks.
“Yes, Babe. Yes! God, you’re so sexy,” Charlie carried on, his face buried in my hair, moaning in ecstasy as if all was right with the world. But nothing was right. After forty-five minutes of trying every position possible, mixed with a certain type of Kegel clenching to make my vagina more shallow, I still had yet to feel Charlie’s dick inside of me. Finally, I gave him permission to come, which he did, screaming my name and collapsing next to me, kissing my shoulder.
“You, Babe Walker, are sex personified,” he whispered. “Keep doing that to me and I’ll have no choice but to fall in love with you.�
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Babe Walker on Male Anatomy
(with commentary)
I feel like it’s important to note the types of penises I’m okay with and those on which I’m unclear:
Monster
Everyone loves a big dick, but a monster cock (over 10 inches) is terrifying in more ways than one. For example, The Greek. The fact that Cal and I only fucked once ended up being a blessing in disguise. Firstly, there’s the issue of how a penis of that magnitude is even going to fit in a vagina/butt. Secondly, if said Monster does manage to get all the way in, there’s the issue of stretching, and I’m not trying to have my lady parts look like I just birthed an eleven-pound baby after two years of fucking the same person. Unless you’re content with doing at least 1,000 Kegels a day, the Godzilla penis is best suited for voyeuristic purposes, as opposed to regular sexual practices.
Husband Material
I consider dicks in the 7.5- to 10-inch range to be the kind of dicks you marry, have three kids with, grow to hate, divorce, and then become great friends with once the alimony’s been paid and you’re both a little older and wiser. Robert’s was 8 inches. Obviously.
Boyfriend Dicks
Dicks 5 to 7 inches leave no lasting impression on me whatsoever, but can be great for a casual dating scenario. Packing a regular-size penis is fine, but I will probably cheat on a 5-incher within six months, and a 7-incher within two years. Sue me.
Makeout Dicks
Anything below 5 inches is what I like to call a “Makeout Dick,” which means you go on a date with a guy, kiss at the end, feel his boner, gauge that it’s not really your style, and never talk to him again. You can date a makeout dick for a few weeks, but it’s best not to get up close and personal with the package, lest you come face-to-face with the unsavory realization that his wiener will never satisfy your needs.
Non-Dicks
This makes me sad, but there are some guys out there sporting 1 to 2 inches, or what I will now be referring to as a “Deen” (Dean + peen). The signs are there from the start, but you will want to ignore them because it’s just too crazy to imagine that God would curse a grown man with a baby’s penis. But it’s real and it happens. Case in point: Monsieur Charlie.
The whole situation was torturous. Charlie was perfect in every way except for his lack of dick. I was so traumatized by the thought of facing his Deen again that I avoided having sex with him for a whole month. One week I said my vagina was sore from spin class. The next week I told him that my new spiritual guide, Courtney Love, told me not to have sex for fourteen days because resisting sexual urges gives you “a natural high.” This was obviously a lie. The week after that, I had my period. Another lie. I haven’t had my period since I was twenty-two.
To make matters worse, Charlie didn’t seem to care that we weren’t boning. He was happy as a clam. He was in and out of town due to work, and when he was home he was totally content to go down on me for hours and expect nothing in return. But I felt so bad about the state of his private parts that I eventually opted to fuck him. Once a week. With no blow jobs or hand jobs, because I couldn’t bear the thought of touching the Deen with anything other than my vag.
As bleak as the whole “Charlie’s penis” situation was, there was no getting around the fact he was actually an amazing lesbian/boyfriend. All the little things he did for me were adding up and making me realize how much he truly cared. One night I had a horrible nightmare that I was a piece of arugula and Thalia was trying to eat me with a giant fork. I woke up screaming her name. Charlie obviously knew about the Thalia situation and stayed up all night with me, rubbing my back and letting me cry it out. He told me that the stuff with my stalker had brought us together, in a way. He had a calming energy about him. I couldn’t give that up at this point, no matter how tiny he was.
Another night, after being gone for a week on a business trip, Charlie presented me with four different Cartier Love bracelets so I could choose which one I liked best, and didn’t even bat a lash when I decided to keep them all. He also didn’t enable me to be the kind of Babe who was unmotivated and drank smoothies all day. Far from it. I admired how passionate Charlie was about his work, and it gave me drive to seek out the same kind of fulfillment. I started to realize that I kind of wanted a job.
On the other hand, I found myself reveling in the safety of domesticity. I even began cooking a few times a week. We had his parents over for dinner when they were in town. We’d stay in and watch movies. He loved to watch Real Housewives with me, calling them “crazy, inspiring bitches.” So basically Charlie just got me. And I got him. I wanted to do nice things for him, like make him dinner sometimes, and go out to eat at non-sushi restaurants, and watch the boring History Channel shows that he was obsessed with.
My feelings for Charlie became clear to me during a conversation I had while on a shopping spree at Babeland, a serendipitously named sex shop on the Lower East Side.
“Can I live the rest of my life with someone who can’t actually penetrate me?” I asked the salesgirl (who looked like Jennifer Aniston if Jennifer Aniston had a ton of facial piercings, jet-black hair, and had never gotten a nose job) as she rang up the price on several vibrators and a strap-on that I’d decided to purchase.
“Lots of ladies give up penetration for someone they love,” she said nonchalantly.
“Is it love, though?” I asked, inspecting a massive black dildo. “I mean, I care deeply for Charlie, and I know Charlie’s head over heels for me, but I don’t know if I’m the kind of girl who can be in love with someone who can’t really give it to me hard.”
“I hear that. See this suction cup?” She pointed to the bottom of the dildo in my hands. “You can stick that thing anywhere with a smooth surface, like the wall in your shower or your coffee table, and just go to town.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, dude. It’s the best. My girlfriend and I use it all the time and we love it. Totally solves the whole penetration problem.”
“You know what? Ring it up.” I tossed the dildo over to her. “Charlie’s the one for me. The Ellen to my Portia. We talk about our feelings all the time, and there’s a lot of chic menswear involved. I can deal with never getting fucked by a real dick again.” I slid my Amex across the counter.
“Charlie sounds pretty rad,” she said, running my card and giving me the receipt to sign.
“Charlie is the best. I don’t even know why I’m questioning this relationship anymore. Who needs dicks anyway? Blow jobs and hand jobs are so overrated.”
“Exactly,” she agreed, handing me my shopping bag full of goodies.
“Thank you for being my sex shaman.”
“No problem. Good luck with your girl.”
“My girl?”
“Charlie . . . ?”
“Oh. No, Charlie’s my boyfriend. But I love him, and I respect his lifelong struggle of having a micro penis. God, this is great. I’m in love again!” And with that, I promptly returned to Charlie’s apartment and fucked the shit out of myself with the dildo I’d just bought.
fifteen
SO . . . BABE IS YOUR ACTUAL NAME?
It was 6:30 a.m. and I was propped up in bed watching Charlie pack for a three-week business trip to China.
“Are you sure you don’t want to meet me in Beijing? We can still get you a first-class ticket . . .” Charlie asked, folding a suit into his luggage.
“As much as I want to know what China smells like, the smog doesn’t sound very pore-conscious.”
I coughed to drive my point home.
“Plus, I have my second interview at Vogue tomorrow.”
Charlie zipped up his suitcase and came to sit on the edge of the bed next to me.
“It’s going to be very lonely at the Four Seasons without you,” he said huskily, kissing my collarbone and up my neck.
“I know,” I whispered, brushing back his hair. He kissed me on the lips.
“I have a surprise for you when I get back.”
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��What is it?” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I prayed that it would be state-of-the-art penis enlargement surgery, then felt horribly guilty, and then felt kind of turned on, then reminded myself to google penis enlargement surgeons.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He tugged the bedsheet down, exposing my breasts. A boyish smile spread across his face.
Suddenly his cell phone rang, interrupting our almost-sex moment.
“Damn. That must be the car service.” He answered the phone. “Hello? Yep, will do. Be down in two shakes.” He turned back to me. “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to table this discussion until I return.”
“Bummer.” I smiled.
“Indeed. Total bummer. I’ll miss you horribly.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
“You know I love you.”
“I know.”
“So . . . Babe is your actual name?” asked a pencil-skirt-wearing woman named Kate, staring at me over a pair of tortoiseshell Oliver Peoples glasses, which were delicately perched atop her kind-of-cute nose job.
“Well, my name’s technically Barbara, but as you can see by the way I present, that name doesn’t really work.” I smiled confidently. “People started calling me Babe the day I was born.”
Thanks to my ex-model-mom’s chic connections, I was in the final round of interviews for a position in Vogue’s new media department. Donna and I had been emailing for a while, and when I mentioned that I could see myself working in fashion, she decided to throw me a bone by setting up an interview for me with this “Kate” person. So far I felt like it was going well. I’d followed Donna’s instructions: neutral lip, buffed nails (no polish), straight hair, a good boot, and at least one Hermès accessory. I stayed engaged. I hadn’t yawned once, even when the HR woman in my first interview talked about “benefits” (unclear). I’d been maintaining strong eye contact and was selling myself to the best of my abilities. I still didn’t really know why I was actually applying for a job job, but I guess being settled down with Charlie made me feel like I should stabilize other areas of my life. And working for the top fashion magazine in the world, around a bunch of Adderall-popping psychos thinking about shoes twenty-four-seven, is about as stable as I can get without wanting to kill myself. Plus, I was back into paying attention to the universe, and I think it really wanted me to be a writer. So Vogue it was.