Surveying my basket filled with feather-light pink, purple, black, and emerald green lingerie, I swell in new sensuality. Yes, this has been my destiny, a secret life as a sexual ingénue, one denied me by Nancy Michaels’s upbringing. From this day forward, I will be Genie with the hard body and purple lace-up, keyhole panties. (Doesn’t sound like much coverage, does it?) I may even shave places heretofore declared unshavable.
Though no daisies. Or holiday bells, either.
As I saunter to the counter, I try to keep in mind that, naturally, this transformation will not take place overnight. But if I work out every day and smooth my skin with baby oil, perhaps darken it with some spray-on tan, by August 20 I bet I’ll look like ... no. Not her.
Karolina Kurkova is pouting at me from a display above the register, her thighs so hard you could bend steel on them.
Okay, so maybe it might take a bit longer than a couple of months. Still, I’ll get there, I really will.
And won’t that be rich when Hugh returns from England to start the new semester with his new fiancée and he bumps into me on campus, barely recognizing my highlighted hair, my taut triceps, and my sculpted figure.
He’ll have to ask himself who is this beautiful, sexy woman with the keyhole panty? Could this be the warm-hearted Genie Michaels whom I sponged off for four years while I wrote my bestselling sap fest? No, this couldn’t be the woman who never turned me on, because this vision of sexuality could turn granite on.
“My God, what a mistake I’ve made!” he’ll cry, as he runs at breakneck speed to break up with said fiancée, who will plead and beg but who, upon seeing the New Me, will have to admit I am too fabulous for any mortal man to resist.
Eventually, he’ll win me back with a real diamond and a fervent pledge to spend every day of his life making up for the hurt he inflicted. And we really will be married. In a church, not the backyard. Maybe even in England like my mother wants. There will be six bridesmaids and shower gifts I won’t have to return or donate to charity.And best of all, Hugh will be so madly in love with me he’ll never think of looking at another woman and will spend all his free time berating himself for having strayed in the first place.
“That’ll be one hundred sixty-five dollars,” the girl at the register says.
One hundred and sixty-five dollars. Yes. There’d better be an English countryside wedding for that kind of money. I pull out my Visa and, with a slightly tremulous hand, submit it.
In a weak attempt to distract me from this astronomical bill, she observes, “That’s a beautiful ring. Engagement?”
“It is!” With each lie, I grow more comfortable exclaiming this. “Getting married August twentieth.”
“No way! Me, too.” She thrusts out her hand, on which sits a smaller diamond, though one that probably cost more than $24.95. “I can’t believe it’s the same day.What a coincidence.”
Patty claims there’s no such thing as coincidence; everything is destined by God, I think.
“Where’s your ceremony going to be?” Hoping, praying, that it will be at All Saints Episcopal Church and I’m off the hook as far as a church wedding is concerned.
“St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church. My boyfriend’s from Cyprus.”
Patty would call this a sign from God. But do I see it?
No.
My divine insight has been obscured by the dazzling temptations of the Great Whore of Babylon. Also known as the Victoria’s Secret 30 Percent Off Table.
Next stop after Victoria’s Secret is the porn section of Barnes & Noble.
Yes, yes, I know there’s not really a porn section since very few books on erotica have actual pictures. Those you’re supposed to invent in your mind.That’s what makes them literature.
Actually, erotica is not where I want to be.That’s not going to help me become a more sexually skilled woman.What I need is a manual of some sort, a book that tells me what to do and how to do it with easy-to-follow instructions. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’m doomed to a life of sexual sluggery.
Look. I have all the underwear. Not much point in spending one hundred and sixty-five dollars on flutter thongs if I’m just going to lie there on the bed, arms frozen to my sides in sexual paralysis. No! I need to take action. Practice with bananas and all that.
Normally, I’m a bit shy about lingering in the Sexuality section. You never know whom you’re going to meet and then, of course, there’s the issue of appearing to be a failure. What’s so wrong with her that she has to consult a book? is what I fear people are asking themselves as they walk by to Gardening or Home Improvement or other perfectly normal sections.
My answer to that is Hello, have you met my parents, Don and Nancy Michaels? Todd once told me that in his estimation our parents have had sex exactly four times: on their wedding night; on the night they conceived him; and then, a prudent fifteen months later so Todd and I would be born exactly two years apart, on the night they conceived me; and lastly, after the Schiffmans’ Halloween party where they got drunk (no surprise there!) and conceived Lucy. Lucy “our spooky accident,” my father calls her. Also, “our freaky mistake.”
The point is that I did not grow up in a family where physical affection was often displayed.There was my father’s good-bye kiss to my mother each morning and their Christmas smooches under the mistletoe (my father wearing the most gawdawful bright green plaid pants). But that was pretty much it as far as displays of hot, unbridled passion were concerned.
Nor did we ever discuss sex in the Michaels house. Never. While my friends’ mothers were taking their teenage daughters to the OB/GYN to get outfitted with all sorts of protection, the only prophylactic my parents made available to me was the threat of a one-way ticket to St. Mary’s Episcopal School for Girls.
Which all adds up to me, Genie Michaels, repressed woman in the high-waisted floral underwear. A woman so unsexy that the man she was dating for four years couldn’t bring himself to bear spending a lifetime of unsexy nights with her.Well, I’m here to say that the old unsexy Genie Michaels is officially dead.
Because here in the Sexuality section, I have just found the book that’s going to change my sex life: The Good Girl’s Guide to Naughty Sex: A Step-by-Step Manual on How to Ride Him Hard and Get Put Away Wet.
Yes!
Quickly, I open the book to hide the cover. Oh, my.This does have illustrations.Wait.What is that? That can’t be ... no.
I scan the contents:
How Many Licks Does It Take to Get to the Heart of a Man? The Pen(is) Mightier Than the Word, Not: The Art of Talking Dirty Lock Me Up,Tie Me Down: Sex Tricks That Are Illegal in at Least
Three Southern States
Oooh. That sounds interesting. (And it’s an excellent civics primer.) I flip to this chapter and am told, right off, that extreme cleanliness is very important if I wish to undertake any of these activities. Perhaps this book is slightly over-the-top for me.
Even so, I’ll buy it. I have no choice. I need to know about those Southern states. At least, that’s going to be my explanation at checkout.
Then again, I don’t have to worry about what they’re thinking at checkout, do I? I’m engaged. I’m about to be married. I should be purchasing sexual technique books since, as my religious radio station reminds me often, a “healthy sex life is at the heart of a solid marriage relationship.”
Also, I will get Sensual Bathing and Orgasmic Massage: What You Don’t Know Could Be Ruining Your Love Life.
That covers all the bases, doesn’t it? Kind of a one-stop-shopping deal. Yup. And, of course, The Cosmo Kama Sutra because, after all, it’s Cosmo. And How to Blow Everything . . . Including His Mind. These books should set me up perfectly. But, hold on. I throw in Fouralarmsex, which until this moment I was not aware was one word.
Great. I can’t wait to get home and start reading, just as soon as I squeeze past this rather large man in black with the funny white collar and ... "Reverend Whitmore?”
“Genie?” Reverend Whitmore turns,
his thumb keeping the page he was reading in place. “Funny running into you here.”
Okay, who was the wise guy who positioned Spirituality across the aisle from Sexuality?
“Um ...” I discreetly hide the books in my Victoria’s Secret bag and take a chance the passing clerk doesn’t think I’m shoplifting. "Actually, doing some research.You know, for work.”
He puzzles his brows. “But don’t you work in Thoreau College Admissions?”
“Kids.” I give a what-can-you-do-with-them shrug. “Gotta know what they’re up to.”To prove my point I point to Fouralarmsex on the shelf. “This is what they’re into. Isn’t that sad? That and hooking up. I swear, no one builds real lasting monogamous relationships anymore. It’s all sex on the fly.”
But despite the tantalizing topic of Fouralarmsex and my moral consternation, Reverend Whitmore is not staring at the naked bodies on the cover. He has zoomed in on my ring.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Oh, no. Here goes. I’m about to lie to my minister, to the man who baptized me and led me through eight weeks of confirmation classes. “That depends on what you think it is.”
“My word, little Genie Michaels is finally getting married. Seems like just yesterday you were a babe in my arms.” He pouts in sentiment. “You’ve grown up so fast.”
Why do people keep saying that? I’m thirty-six. I’ve been living on my own for fifteen years. I have an automatic bill-pay on my checking account. I have spider veins in my calves.
"Yes, well. We children will do that, grow up, you know.”
“Have you set a date? Because I have to tell you, the church’s Saturday calendar fills up very fast.”
"Er ...”
“And don’t forget it will be necessary for you to take my six-week pre-marriage counseling course, that is if you plan on an Episcopal ceremony. Then again, I’m sure you know all that from Lucy’s experience.”
Which Lucy described as “six hours of excruciatingly boring Q and A that would make even the sanest person in the world ponder the virtues of self-immolation.”
“I’m afraid we can’t. You see, my fiancé, Hugh”—I nearly choke on the words—“is British and he’s in England for an extension of his book tour.”
“Hopeful, Kansas. I read it. Such a powerful message of hope and redemption. He must be a wonderful, sensitive man. I do look forward to meeting him.”
“Oh, and I’m sure he looks forward to meeting you, too. Just that we don’t have much time. We plan on getting married August twentieth and he won’t be back until August fifteenth. I can’t imagine how we’ll fit in your classes.”
His forehead wrinkles even more. “Are you telling me someone else is performing the ceremony? I hate to think the church is losing a Michaels.”
“No, no. It’s just that I haven’t gotten around to asking. It’s all happened so fast.”
“I see.” He shoots a glance downward, what everyone does when I tell them our wedding borders on shotgun.
"That’s not it,” I say. "It’s ... complicated.”
“Yes.” His old fat fingers tap the binding of Biblical Families: Raising Honest Children in a Dishonest World.
I cannot stop staring at that word, dishonest.
“I have no idea what my calendar is for August twentieth, but for you, Genie, I’ll make room. For heaven’s sakes, it seems like I’ve been waiting a lifetime for this day. For a while, there, I figured I wouldn’t live to see it. But God is merciful and patient. What for us seems a lifetime, for Him is but a blink of the eye, and He seems to have blessed you with a wonderful life partner.”
We chuckle weakly. I think, if I don’t get out of here this conversation is going to last a lifetime.
"And don’t worry about the counseling sessions....”
Thank God! I’m off the hook for that one.
“I have worksheets you can send to Hugh. Even e-mail.”
“Worksheets?”
“It’s not ideal, but we’ll muddle through. Some of the questions are tricky. Brain benders, I like to call them.You know, what happens if one of you becomes paralyzed. What if one of your children is born severely retarded or dies. What if one of you falls in love with another person. How would you cope should one of your parents move in and need round-the-clock care.What if one of you loses his or her job and can’t find work.”
Boy, marriage is depressing.
He squeezes my shoulder and whispers, “You know, the kinds of issues married couples face after the honeymoon.” He taps the Sexuality bookshelf. "Ah, yes.Those were the glory days. I remember them vaguely,” he says, before waddling off.
I am so stunned by this statement that it takes a few seconds for me to realize that not only does he engage in sex but that he has also walked off with my Victoria’s Secret bag—thongs, orgasmic massage book, and all.
Chapter Fourteen
Reverend Whitmore cannot take my bag of thongs and sex manuals, especially since I haven’t even paid for them. If he leaves the store with them, he’ll be busted for misdemeanor theft and thrown in jail!
I can see it now: him waddling through the shoplifting sensor oblivious to the sixty dollars’ worth of stolen sex manuals in his possession. Alarms ringing. Security personnel closing in from every side. And there will be the good minister, flush-faced and baffled to find he is holding my hot pink bag of naughty undies along with How to Blow Everything ... Including His Mind.
"No!” I scream, dashing from the aisle, turning the corner, and running—smack!—into, of all people, Nick.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He grips my shoulder, laughing as if we’re playing a game of tag. “You all right?”
Actually, I’m not since, aside from being filled with heart-pounding anxiety, I have had the wind knocked out of me after impaling my solar plexus on his elbow.
“Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to.You sort of sideswiped me.” Never mind my agony or the fact that, in his dark navy carpenters’ union T-shirt, Nick is spellbinding. I have no time to talk—even if I could.
“Sorry,” I gasp, when I get my breath back. “Gotta run.”Wiggling from his grasp, I make it as far as the railing when I spy Reverend Whitmore on the floor below, pushing open the double front doors. Miraculously, he has passed the sensors without so much as a beep, despite my pink bag securely in his grasp.
Too late, I realize, letting out a long sigh. I am just not meant to enjoy good sex, that’s all. I should be a Puritan like my alleged ancestor, the famous John Howland. Except for the all-day praying on hard benches.That’s a bit much.
“Lose something?” Nick asks, joining me at the railing.
“A friend of mine walked off with all my stuff.”
“Can’t you catch up to her?”
"Him,” I say. "And, no, it’d be too embarrassing.”
“Right. Of course. Horribly embarrassing.”
We are silent, watching the customers perusing tables below. Nick is no doubt at a loss to understand what the crazy woman next to him is up to now and, frankly, I don’t have the energy to explain.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Not that I think carpenters don’t read,” I hasten to add, lest Nick peg me for a snob.
“Killing time.” He holds up a slim copy of Fear and Trembling, which I haven’t read since a college philosophy class and I’m not sure I really read it then. “I’ve just gotten to the good part where the spy is being double-crossed by his Russian lover who’s selling nuclear secrets to the Chinese. Typical Kierkegaard, violence on every page.”
“Gee. I’ll have to give him another try, now that I know there’s that much action. How’s the sex?”
“Not bad, though he’s kind of conflicted. I think Søren’s about to break off his engagement to the love of his life, Regine.”
Is Nick hinting he knows my secret? Or is this true? Damn. Where’s my reserve of Kierkegaard trivia when I need it? “Well, it’s hard to keep a good Danish existentialist down. At least, that’s the way the
song goes.”
He laughs. “You’re great, Genie. Very funny. I wish I were going for coffee with you instead of the person I’m supposed to meet. Anyway, I’m beginning to think she’s stood me up.”
She? What she would stand up Nick?
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee,” I offer cheerily. "Besides, I’m a good placeholder if she shows. First rule of being stood up—never be alone. Always pretend to be having the time of your life in case she arrives late.”
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely.The last thing you want is for her to find you looking forlorn and worried, milling around the remainders table and checking your watch.That’ll be a total turn-off. She needs to see you already in the company of another woman.”
He’s smiling now. "Meaning, you.”
“If you’re game. My recommendation is to grab a table by the window. That way, when she walks by, she’ll catch us in deep conversation and will curse herself for being tardy.You know what they say, ‘Those who dither, suffer.’ ”
"I thought it was ‘Those who procrastinate, mas—’ ”
"Shhh! Please. I’m a respectable woman. We’ll have none of that talk.”
“Sorry,” he says, feigning seriousness. “I forgot about your prior history as a virgin.”
“You can erase the memory of that conversation from your databanks, thank you very much,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him. “Now, do you want me to help or not?”
“How could I refuse?”And with that, he slides his arm around my waist and gives me a slight squeeze. “Is this too much?”
Not enough, I want to say, drinking in the smell of his clean shirt, the faint hint of soap. “Perfect. She’ll be seething with jealousy. ” We head toward the escalators, scanning for his date. “What’s she look like, anyway? I need to know so I can make a pass at you when she walks in.”
"Tall. Rail thin. White, white skin. Kind of scary, actually.”
“Sounds delightful. Do you always go out with skeletons?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, not with all the best women spoken for.” He lets go so I can step in front of him on the escalator. What am I doing with this make-a-pass business? I am playing with fire, is what I’m doing. And I better take care that I don’t get burnt.
The Sleeping Beauty Proposal Page 14