Love by the Book

by Melissa Pimentel

  “I’m glad you find it so funny!” I said. “I’ll have you know that I’ve made some serious scientific inroads!”

  He let out a fresh peal of laughter. “Have you indeed? I’d love to be enlightened about your findings.”

  I thought for a minute. “Well, everyone loves a chase.”

  “Jesus, woman, it took you five months of scientific study to figure that out? You should have just read that Wyatt poem. How does it go again?

  ‘Yet may I by no means my wearied mind

  Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore

  Fainting I follow.’”

  “Ah,” I said, “but don’t forget how it ends:

  ‘Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,

  And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.’”

  I felt very smug.

  “You see?” he said, looking suddenly furious. “What’s a woman who can recite bloody Wyatt doing taking advice from a bunch of idiots like this?” He grabbed the guide from me and brandished it in the air like a sword.

  I grabbed the book back from him. “I told you, it’s for science!”

  “I can’t imagine you’ll be appearing in the fucking Lancet anytime soon.”

  I shrugged. “I just find it interesting, okay?” I said, trying (and failing) not to sound defensive. “Isn’t that why most people do things?”

  “Most people don’t go about selling their soul and acting like a twat just for interest’s sake. It’s self-sabotage.” He looked at me evenly, and for a moment I felt myself fixed in place by his sharp green eyes like a wriggling little amoeba under a microscope. I looked away.

  “Look, Dr. Ruth, thanks very much for the armchair analysis but I’m sure you’ll understand my reluctance to take advice from a misanthropic, disheveled, clearly deranged manager of an unsuccessful bookshop, regardless of the number of cardigans you own. Now can I pay for this book or what?”

  He smiled to himself, which was unnerving, and took my money without comment. As I was hurrying out the door, he called out to me: “Just don’t let the bastards grind you down! And read a real book next time, for chrissakes!”

  “Thanks for the wisdom, Yoda.” I slammed the door behind me.

  • • •

  I took myself home via the liquor store, still muttering too-late comebacks for the bookseller on the way.

  After a month of 1950s dating and celibacy, it was a relief (though not necessarily a surprise) to find that getting laid was one of Belle’s top priorities. Unlike most of the guides I’ve followed so far, she doesn’t assume everyone’s in it for love: there’s an entire section on navigating the murky waters of Friends with Benefits.

  I was hoping that Belle would at last be able to unlock the key to successful casual sex for me. Turns out her strategy was pretty simple: have lots of sex, casually.

  I was filled with righteous indignation. Wasn’t that what I had been doing with Adrian all those months ago? Wasn’t that exactly what I’d been trying to do all along? Thanks for nothing, Belle.

  I went out on the balcony for a calming cigarette and started mulling things over. I guess things with Adrian hadn’t been that casual. I thought of the texts asking how his day went, the prompts to make plans to see him, those godforsaken eggs . . . Belle’s first point of advice when it came to Friends with Benefits was to avoid getting attached. The fact that I was still thinking about him months down the line proved that I’d fallen at the first hurdle.

  His good-bye party was next weekend: it was my last chance to show him that I really was a goddess of casual sex, a no-strings-attached good-time girl. With Belle’s help, I was going to fill that man with regret if it was the last thing I did.

  I ground out my cigarette and marched back inside: I had some serious planning to do.

  September 6

  The party was tomorrow, so it was all about final preparations.

  Over the past few days, Belle had become my own personal Maharishi. Where she led, I would happily follow.

  I’d groomed and preened myself into oblivion: I’d gone to hot yoga every morning to maximize flexibility, had pretty much every hair waxed off of my body, finally used the body scrub Cathryn had bought me for Christmas last year and meticulously combed my wardrobe for the perfect Belle-approved outfit (not-too-short skirt, moderate heels). I spent an entire week’s pay in Agent Provocateur despite breaking out in hives in the plush changing room (apparently I’m allergic to velour). I had my first-ever manicure and pedicure, enduring the horror on the poor Korean girl’s face as she shaved the dead skin off my feet.

  I took Belle’s quiz to identify my man-hunting style and was pleased when I scored a seven, meaning I was a “Scary Bitch.” I was officially deemed “not marriage material,” a moniker I seriously considered getting tattooed somewhere on my person (and probably would have if I hadn’t spent all of my money on a black lace thong and a push-up bra the day before).

  There was one thing that worried me, though. According to Belle, if a Scary Bitch had a single thing left unticked on her sexual to-do list, it was her own fault.

  I thought of Lucy putting Tristan in Aunt Dorothy’s Cupboard, of the shock I felt when Sleepy Eyes tried to . . . defile me, of all the Torture Garden parties I’d never been to—or even heard of—until recently. For all my big talk, I was a prude.

  There could be a veritable cornucopia of sexual predilections I’d missed out on all these years. Hell, I didn’t even have cable television until I was twenty-three! I suddenly remembered my high school years, when all of my friends would discuss David Duchovny’s infamous turn in the Red Shoe Diaries and I would just have to nod along, oblivious to what they were talking about.

  God, I was so naive.

  But no more! I had a reputation to live up to, and a brief window to seduce the man of my occasional dreams. I was a Scary Bitch and no one was going to tell me otherwise.

  I pulled out my laptop and started Googling, hoping my firewall could withstand the inevitable pop-ups to come.

  By the time Lucy arrived home, I’d smoked sixteen cigarettes and inadvertently learned the evolution of pornography over the past twenty years. The Duchovny Red Shoe YouTube clips led me to Jenna Jameson’s early work and to Sasha Grey, and then on to the murky world of YouPorn. (For the record, amateur porn is just as unsexy as you’d imagine. Some things are best left to the professionals.) And then I struck gold: Tumblr gifs of every single sexual peccadillo dreamed up by man or woman. From foot fetishes to granny porn to Furries ferreting away at each other in their giant animal costumes: I’d seen it all. And, unfortunately, I could never unsee it.

  “Did you know about this?!” I shouted at Lucy as she dropped her keys on the side table.

  “Know about what?”

  I pointed to my laptop screen, where a man dressed as a giant baby was being paddled by three women in Bavarian costume.

  “THIS!”

  Lucy squinted at the screen and then looked at me with her big blue eyes. “Well, I did see something similar at a party last week, though I think the girls were wearing French maid costumes.”

  I let out a howl of agony. How was it that sweet, innocent-looking Lucy was more sexually enlightened than me?

  Lucy wrinkled her nose and took a closer look at the screen. “Anyway, why on earth are you looking at that?” She grabbed hold of my laptop and started clicking through the twenty-some tabs I had open. Her cheeks turned pinker and pinker with each click. “Lo, what is—oh my GOD!” She had clicked on a particularly disturbing gif and shut the laptop decisively. “Babe, I know I should respect your privacy and all, but do you want to have a chat about all this? Are you having some sort of mental episode?”

  I grabbed the laptop back from her. “No! I’m just trying to educate myself so I can be prepared for Adrian’s party tomorrow night.”

  “Christ, what sor
t of party is he throwing?” She grasped my hand tightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, Lauren. Don’t let that sick bastard pressure you into—” she gestured toward the laptop—“God knows what.”

  I shook off her hand. “It’s just a normal party. It’s at some warehouse in Tottenham. But it’s my last chance to prove to him that he was a fool to break it off with me. And to do that, I need to be a sexual dynamo.”

  I explained Belle’s approach and my worries about being a prude. “I mean, look at you! All into the S&M scene and everything! You even knew about men dressing up as babies and being paddled! It’s like everyone took some sort of advanced course on kinkiness and I was sick that day and missed it!”

  “You’re being mental. Being good in bed doesn’t mean you have to dress up in a weird polystyrene costume or be some type of contortionist. Being adventurous is fun, and obviously Tristan has his little preferences, but really the best sex we have is when it’s just the two of us in bed on a lazy Sunday. Just normal, really.”

  I felt mildly soothed by Lucy’s words, but I still Googled a few more things after she went to bed. I would be a sexual dynamo tomorrow if it killed me. Which, from the look of some of the positions I’d discovered, it might.

  September 7

  This morning, I went for a run and spent the rest of the day meticulously constructing myself in Belle’s image and fighting off occasional flashes of panic and self-doubt, managing to quell them by smoking at least thirty-eight cigarettes over the course of the afternoon.

  And so it was that I started the night of Adrian’s party the way I did most parties: by downing three vodkas at home while getting ready and then getting very lost on the way. Tottenham was unexplored territory for me, and as I wandered around street after street of knock-off fried chicken places and discount tile emporiums, I felt secure in the knowledge that I hadn’t missed much.

  Three buses and a long walk later, I found the address Adrian had texted me, but I wasn’t entirely sure I’d found the party. I walked around the shuttered warehouse for ten minutes trying to find an entrance before sending Adrian a nervous text asking if I was in the right place. The nights had started to get shorter and it was dark by 8:00 p.m., so the area was cloaked in darkness, presumably hiding all manner of scary people and things. I stood in the silent parking lot and felt a swell of panic rise. I smoked a cigarette and stared at the peeling Sedco Building Supplies sign to calm myself.

  I’d give it five more minutes and then I’d forget the whole ridiculous seduction plan and go find Lucy in the pub back in Old Street. My eyes misted over briefly, thinking of a warm spot in the Eagle: civilization.

  Suddenly, a rumbling mechanized noise ripped through the air and I watched in horror as an enormous chunk of the building appeared to rise up and disappear into itself, leaving a black hole in its place. I braced myself to run, quietly cursing Belle for her insistence that I wear moderate heels rather than Converse.

  Out of the black hole, a monstrously tall figure appeared in silhouette.

  “CUNNINGHAM! What the fuck are you doing just standing there? Come and give me a bon voyage kiss!”

  I nearly collapsed with relief as Adrian, wearing a towering Uncle Sam hat, emerged from the shadows.

  “You scared the fucking bejeezus out of me!”

  “Well, why didn’t you just come in rather than lurking around out here?” Adrian came over and put his arm around me. “Nice skirt, by the way. You look like a sexy estate agent.”

  I shoved him away, despite the fact that my stomach had somersaulted when he’d touched me. “I couldn’t find the fucking door! What the hell are we doing here, anyway?” We went through the gaping hole, which I now realized was a garage door.

  “A friend of mine lives here. Converted the whole thing herself. Wait until you see the inside: it’s mental.”

  He took my hand and led me down a dark corridor to an enormous corrugated iron door. “After you, my dear,” he said, sweeping into a deep bow.

  “Careful of your hat,” I said as I pushed the door open.

  He wasn’t kidding when he said the place was mental. The door led to a cavernous living space, all exposed brickwork and vaulted ceilings. The space was divided by a series of stone archways, each being supported by a gaggle of artsy-looking hipsters sipping from old jam jars. The floor was covered with Pashtun rugs and minimalist furniture.

  “Jesus,” I mumbled.

  “Amazing, right? She made the table and chairs herself,” Adrian said, pointing to a gorgeous wooden table and leather-backed chairs. “And that sofa.” He gestured toward a low couch covered in a stiff blue material. “That one’s made entirely of reclaimed materials. The base is old milk crates and she wove the cover out of IKEA bags.”

  “Sounds like she’s really something.”

  He nodded dreamily. “She’s incredible.”

  My heart sank. Whoever this chick was, she’d obviously made quite the impression on Adrian. My only hope was that she was ugly.

  “My pet, have you found her?” I heard the voice before I saw the face, but I knew immediately that I was fucked: she was French. And as every non-French woman knows, in the romantic game of Texas Hold’em, there is one hand that trumps them all: the French Woman.

  And then she was in front of us, all coltish legs and kohl eyeliner. She looked like she’d just rolled out of bed after the best sex of her life. I glanced over at Adrian’s adoring face: maybe she had.

  Adrian clasped her wrist like she was the last lifesaver on the Titanic. “Lauren, this is the amazing Emmanuelle.” He presented her to me like she was a finely wrapped gift. “Emmanuelle, this is my friend Lauren.”

  She gave me a slow, lazy smile. “Lauren! The American! I’ve heard so much about you.” She enveloped me in the arms of her enormous feathered coat.

  I gave Adrian a suspicious sidelong look. “You have?”

  “Of course! Adrian has been talking about you nonstop since he arrived. You are very welcome here. Let me get you a drink—would you prefer Aperol or Campari?”

  “Um, do you have any bourbon?” I had a feeling I’d need something a little stronger to get through the evening.

  “Ah, so very American! I do love that. I’ll see what I can find for you.” She dashed off in a blur of feathers and tousled hair. Adrian looked like he was going to be sick with longing as he watched her go.

  So, this was my competition. I was clearly screwed. Or, more accurately, I was clearly not going to be screwed.

  Adrian started singing Emmanuelle’s many praises as soon as she was out of sight, and I did my best to tune them out. I tried to look at him with clear eyes: why exactly was I trying so hard to get this goon to want me? I took in his glasses and his ridiculous hat and tried to conjure up disgust, or at least indifference. Just look at the puppyish way he was gazing at the empty space Emmanuelle had just occupied while telling me about her latest community art project: pathetic! He was just some washed-up nerdy try-hard. She could have him, I thought. He wasn’t even good in bed.

  An image of him pressing me against the wall of my balcony flitted through my mind.

  Okay, fine. He was good in bed. But he was still an asshole. Good riddance.

  Emmanuelle reappeared holding a tumbler full of promising-looking brown liquid in one hand and balancing a ludicrously long cigarette holder in the other. She handed me the glass and took a deep drag, blowing the smoke into perfect white rings.

  I thanked her for the whisky and admitted that I’d never been able to manage a single smoke ring.

  “It’s simple. I’ll teach you.” She held out the cigarette holder so I could take a puff. I nearly choked when I inhaled: she was smoking Marlboro Reds. “Now,” she said, “watch my mouth. Put your lips together and push your tongue against your teeth. Blow.”

  I coughed up an inelegant spurt
of smoke and Adrian let out a snicker.

  “Sorry. I guess I just don’t have the touch.”

  “Nonsense. Try again.”

  She took another long drag on the cigarette and then offered it to me. A few more of these lessons and I’d be using an iron lung by the end of the night.

  “Now blow.” She shaped her mouth into a cupid’s bow and blew another series of perfect rings. “Gently.”

  I tried again, and let out a yelp of delight when a little white circle emerged from my mouth and into the air.

  “Perfect!” She put her arm around my waist and whispered in my ear, “I knew your mouth could do great things.”

  I glanced over at Adrian, who looked like he was about to spontaneously combust from this display. Suddenly, Belle’s voice was in my head: if the guy you want takes a shine to another woman, there’s an easy solution: take them both home.

  And so it was that I decided to embark upon my first threesome.

  I excused myself and went outside for a cigarette and a pep talk. “You can do this,” I thought to myself. “You are a woman of the world! An extremely hot Frenchwoman is totally hitting on you! You can have sex with her! Or do whatever having sex with a woman entails! You can also have sex with Adrian! At the same time! . . . Somehow.” I thought of the practical logistics and tried to remember what I’d seen on Tumblr the day before. I consoled myself with the thought that lots of people had threesomes all the time, and they all seemed to get along swimmingly. Besides, I was pretty good at Tetris; I’d probably excel at this.

  I slipped back into the room and threaded my arm through Emmanuelle’s. “So, will you give me a guided tour of this amazing apartment of yours?”

  “Of course!” Emmanuelle took my hand and led on. Adrian followed behind us, eyebrow raised quizzically in my direction.

  I had to give it to her, the apartment was incredible and she seemed to know exclusively extremely beautiful foreign people. Everywhere I looked, an exotic person was dripping off a perfectly formed design piece or an artfully reconditioned lighting fixture, having hushed conversations with each other about I could only imagine what. What did gorgeous foreign artsy people talk about? Monaco? Existentialism? And, as Adrian wouldn’t stop pointing out as Emmanuelle led me around, she had made almost everything by hand. She kept demurring as she ran her fingers lightly across the small of my back.