Is There Still Sex in the City?

by Candace Bushnell

  Kitty found herself getting more and more depressed. She was trying to figure out if there was any way she could leave the dinner before the birthday cake was served. She could claim a sudden stomach bug or other vague illness, maybe even cry that something had happened to her dog—when suddenly the door opened and a posse of young twentysomething guys came through the door.

  This sudden injection of male hormones was like heroin hitting the mainframe. The atmosphere immediately changed. It became lively. The middle-aged folks sat up a little straighter, their conversation became more pointed and jovial and even louder.

  It was as if the adults were suddenly vying for the attention of the young men.

  Kitty quickly surmised that the shorter cute one was Alison’s now twenty-three-year-old son, Mason, whom she hadn’t seen since he was about twelve. The other guys were Mason’s friends. Not wanting to interrupt the parents, they bade their goodbyes and said they were going to hang out downstairs in the finished basement.

  The adults moved into the living room. The talk turned to vacations, a meaningless pursuit that Kitty could no longer afford. She kept glancing toward the open door, wondering how to make her escape. It was during one of these glances that she spotted Mason and two of his buddies slithering by on their way into the kitchen.

  Kitty cleared her throat and laughed politely. She put down her espresso in its ungainly cup and stood up. She’d made it halfway to the door when the host noticed. He must have once been handsome or hottish. But he wasn’t now.

  “Kitty,” he demanded, with an inappropriate note of male authority she hadn’t heard from him before, as if now that she were single, he somehow had dominion over her. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Bathroom,” Kitty said.

  She headed toward it but kept right on going when she realized she could get to the kitchen with no one in the living room being the wiser.

  She went for it.

  “Hey,” Mason said.

  “Sorry,” Kitty said. “I was just looking for some water.”

  The hottest one—the tall one with the swooping dark hair—smiled at her politely and, looking her right in the eye, said, “I’ll help you.”

  He opened the refrigerator, removed a Fiji water, and handed it to her.

  Kitty paused. “What I’d really like is a shot of tequila,” she said.

  There was dead silence, and then the guys laughed like they genuinely thought she was funny.

  Mason said, “You’re the only fun one of my mom’s friends.”

  And suddenly, Kitty began to feel better.

  Why else would she agree to go downstairs?

  The Unexpected Cub Pounce

  And downstairs is where she went, down to the old rec room, which was exactly what she used to do back when she was a teenager.

  These kids, of course, weren’t teens. They were young adults. And the wreck room wasn’t some beat-up couch with an old Ping-Pong table. It was three thousand square feet with a Ping-Pong table, screening room, and wet bar. There was music and beer. Two other girls had arrived. Kitty knew their mothers. One of them got Kitty a beer.

  Kitty took the beer and went over to talk to Mason and his friend. They were smoking something and Kitty asked what it was and it was a vaporizer. When they offered it to her, she thought about how she had to get upstairs and she pictured the scene: the safe middle-aged faces she’d known forever. She took the vape.

  Mason’s friend kept talking to her. He touched her forearm a couple of times, but she was sure it must be a mistake and she had mistaken it. She reminded herself that she had to get back upstairs. “I’ve got to go,” she said vaguely, looking around for Mason. “I’ve got to say goodbye.”

  And she would have, if Mason’s friend hadn’t talked her into a game of Ping-Pong and another puff on the vape.

  And then, somehow, somewhere along the vast walk from Ping-Pong table to staircase, the guy tried to kiss her.

  In fact, he did kiss her. His hands were suddenly on her face and his lips felt fat and young and he was actually making out with her and she was making out with him back!

  But then she remembered where she was and what she was doing. If someone found out, there would be no explaining it to Alison. And there would be repercussions.

  She pushed the guy away. He looked disappointed but let her go. She went quickly upstairs and into the bathroom, where she smoothed her hair and checked her watch. A half hour had passed! Surely someone would have noted her absence.

  But as she slunk back into the living room, she soon discovered that no one had noticed at all. They were too intent on discussing the latest political transgression in Washington.

  Meanwhile, Kitty kept going over the cub pounce in her head. The kiss had made her second-guess her desire for only older men.

  What was happening to her?

  Kitty got up to go, and when she did, the young people magically appeared from downstairs. It turned out they had to go, too.

  Indeed, it turned out that what they really needed Kitty for was a ride. To a nightclub.

  Like so many millennials, these kids had forgotten something. In this case, getting their driver’s license.

  And here’s the problem with inexperienced cubbing: can you imagine what would have happened if Kitty had continued to make out with the cub and then it turned out he was only using her as someone to drive him around?

  Alison would have been furious. And Kitty’s social life as she knew it would have definitely gone kaput.

  We can all learn a few things from Kitty’s experience.

  A woman is vulnerable to a UCP (unexpected cub pounce) if she: (a) is recently sectionorced or separated from her partner, (b) hasn’t had much male attention in the last few years, or (c) does something she normally doesn’t do or hasn’t done for a long time, i.e. vaping.

  But unlike Kitty’s near-miss, not every cub pounce is unsuccessful. Indeed, for the uninitiated, a cub pounce can often lead to a full cub encounter, involving intercourse, or at least its possibility. And once again, in this new dating arena there are lessons to be learned. Just because a cub is young and willing, it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.

  Beware the Cub Romeo

  * * *

  Witness what happened to Tilda Tia when she went to a party at a club in Southampton. There were a whole bunch of young people at this party and she met one of them and he was tall, fairly attractive, and possibly rich. When the cub pounced, she went with it. It should have been over quickly, but the cub turned out to be excessively emotional, in that way that only twentysomethings can be. He insisted that he was madly in love with her and began texting her fifteen times a day to see what she was up to and whom she was with. Then he tried to leave a suitcase full of clothes in her bedroom. Then he invited her to meet his parents.

  Specifically at Sunday lunch. At an address Tilda Tia knew well having gone there many times for lunch before—­twenty-five years ago when she’d been friends with his parents before the cub was born.

  No. This was not going to happen. She was not going to date the son of her friends even if she hadn’t seen them for a while. She texted the cub: I’m breaking up with you right now.

  Unfortunately, the cub was a Romeo type, so this go-away technique only made him fall in love further and he went over to Tilda Tia’s and demanded that she give him another chance. They had a big confrontation and finally the only way she could get rid of him was by locking the door and throwing his cell phone out her second-story window.

  Meaning the cub nearly turned Tilda Tia into something she’d never been before: a character more crazy than anyone from The Real Housewives.

  Never Ever Go Back to a Cub’s House at Night—You Don’t Know What You’ll Find.

  This happened to Marilyn. She’d gotten used to her Netflix nights at home on Saturday evenings, absorbed in what app
eared to be more interesting narratives than her own. But as occasionally happens, some friends from Miami came to visit her in the Village and naturally they wanted to go out. Which meant that Marilyn was going to have to go out, too.

  This was a bummer. Marilyn, used to having all her time to herself, hadn’t bathed for three days. Hadn’t washed her hair for a week. Hadn’t bought new clothes for at least a year.

  But she had to make the effort.

  The friends from Miami wanted to hit all the famous Village hot spots. At first Marilyn felt bored and out of place and kind of self-conscious. But then her friends were doing shots of tequila and she did, too. They started playing darts. Marilyn went back to the bar for another round and struck up a conversation with the bartender. Mike was no older than twenty-five, but it turned out that he and Marilyn were actually from the same city in Australia. Then he asked her if she wanted to go out back.

  No one else was paying attention to her so Marilyn figured: Why not?

  The Australian then proceeded to kiss her next to the Dumpsters.

  Back inside, he gave her a free shot of tequila. Then he asked if she wanted to go to his house to smoke weed.

  At this point, Marilyn was drunk enough to agree that this sounded like a good idea.

  * * *

  The cub’s “house” turned out to be a seriously dilapidated Airstream trailer.

  Marilyn did her best to admire the patched linoleum floor, the depressing late-1970s design. There was a table set between built-in plastic benches covered with young-man detritus: a bong, a speaker, a cactus, various small tins, dirty coffee cups. Mike sat down and started rolling a spliff, pasting two papers together and expertly twirling them into a cone into which he shoveled a mixture of tobacco and weed.

  “What do you think of my crib?” he asked. “Cool, huh?”

  “Yes, very cool,” Marilyn said, wondering if she hung out with him if she’d have to start saying words like “crib,” too. “Where do you sleep?”

  “Over there,” Mike said, indicating a stained mattress leaning against the wall. As he licked the paper and made a nice twist at the tip, Marilyn realized she couldn’t do this. She could not have sex with a guy on a bare mattress in a dilapidated Airstream trailer from the 1970s.

  She had to draw the line.

  Mike, however, wasn’t happy about this. “Why?” he asked. “Is it because you don’t like me?”

  “I think you’re a really terrific guy. But”—she paused and then played the cub trump card—“I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  “You’re older than my mother,” Mike said.

  And with that, Marilyn walked back to town, thanking her lucky stars for getting out of there before she really had something to feel bad about.

  A Cautionary Tale: Always Check a Cub’s Credentials

  If you’re going to cub, you want to be smart about it. Because you’re older and wiser, you know that sometimes cubs do really dumb things.

  And sometimes, you can be the victim of a dumb cub. Or even worse: a cub con.

  This is what happened to Mia.

  Mia’s husband, Brian, was a multimillionaire hedge fund guy and Mia was his third wife. On her fiftieth birthday, Brian threw Mia a huge party under a tent with pink lights and a dance floor and a performance by a pop star. Then he gifted her with a diamond necklace and said he wouldn’t be the man he was today without her.

  A month later, he went to Vegas, met a twenty-one-year-old dancer and fell “in love.” Two months later, he set his dancer up in an apartment on the Upper East Side not far from where he and Mia lived. Four months later, his new love was pregnant.

  Mia and Brian had an airtight prenup: In case of sectionorce, Mia would get a lump sum of thirty million dollars. She would also get the house in the Hamptons and could keep all her jewelry, which was estimated to be worth at least five million dollars on its own.

  And because Brian was well-known in the financial world and had behaved in a manner that was, according to those who knew him, completely out of character, the sectionorce ended up in the gossip columns. Along with the particulars of the settlement.

  Mia escaped to the house in the Hamptons. Two sisters and a handful of friends rushed to her side. They came and went for the next few weeks, but then there was a lull and Mia was on her own.

  But not quite. Because Mia’s house had all the fixings—heated swimming pool, extensive gardens, and a tennis court—there were always people around.

  * * *

  * * *

  One afternoon when Mia was lying out by the pool, her sister called. As usual, the conversation centered on Brian and what a terrible man he’d turned out to be and how Mia should have somehow known this would happen. Meanwhile, two guys arrived on the property to check the air-conditioning units.

  When Mia hung up she noticed that one of them was standing just a few feet away. He was an unusually handsome kid with bright eyes and enticing lips. It briefly crossed Mia’s mind that he was too young and too cute to have already settled on a career fixing air conditioners.

  “We’re finished,” he said.

  “Terrific.” Mia gave him a polite smile.

  But instead of turning away, he hesitated as if he wanted to ask her something.

  “Yes?” Mia said.

  He suddenly held out his hand. “I’m Jess, by the way.”

  “Mia,” she said. She noticed that his palm felt soft and friendly.

  He smiled in a manner that Mia thought indicated he knew he was good-looking and was confident that his looks were a ticket to something better. “I couldn’t help overhearing a bit of your conversation. Are you married to—” He blurted out Brian’s name with reverence.

  Mia stiffened. Hearing Brian’s name come out of this kid’s mouth was like a slap. Her anger toward Brian and by extension anyone who knew him, including this kid, was freshly aroused along with her suspicions. Why on earth was this kid asking about Brian? Did he know him? Had Brian sent the kid here to spy on her?

  “I was,” she said coldly. “Why?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that he’s my idol.”

  At first, this didn’t make sense. Brian was someone’s idol? How could that be? But it could, easily, Mia thought. There was always some misguided kid ready to worship at the altar of money.

  Mia suddenly lost it. “My husband is a shithead,” she snapped.

  She immediately regretted saying it, because the kid, Jess, began apologizing profusely for mentioning Brian’s name.

  This was its own kind of agony. Jess was young and insecure, and it took her at least ten minutes to reassure him that it was okay, she was okay, and no, she wasn’t angry at him and he wasn’t going to lose his job.

  He finally left, exiting through a side gate located behind a strip of hedges where it was difficult to see who was coming or going.

  Mia went into the kitchen, passing one of the two live-in housekeepers who was on her way to the store. They briefly discussed the air conditioners, which reminded Mia of the conversation she’d had with the guy about Brian. As she poured herself more wine, she noticed that her hand was shaking in anger.

  “Mia?”

  Mia nearly dropped the glass as she turned to find that Jess had not only returned but was standing in the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot something. Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Do I look okay?” Mia said, glaring at him as she took a gulp of wine, hoping the alcohol would help her regain control. It didn’t. Instead, when Jess took a step forward and asked what Brian did to her, Mia, who had been telling the story over and over again to her friends by rote, told him the whole terrible tale with all the intimate details.

  It wasn’t until the housekeeper returned that Jess finally left, saying he or someone else would be back in a few days to make sure the air-conditioning unit was wo
rking properly.

  Mia spent those days drinking rosé and talking on the phone. Sometimes she went through a bottle by 6:00 p.m., at which time her head hurt and she could blessedly pass out for a few hours. And indeed, on the afternoon when Jess came back to check on the unit, Mia had gone through nearly a bottle.

  She was a little pissed and a little pissed off. She followed him out to the side of the house where the massive units were hidden behind cypress trees. She asked him why Brian was his idol and Jess explained that Brian gave money to a scholarship fund at his school to encourage kids like him to go into business.

  And now he had. He was also studying at Southampton College. And when he wasn’t working or in school, he was surfing. He told Mia she should take up surfing and she laughed and said she would think about it. And once again, Mia found herself shaking. This time, not with anger but with a sudden and unexpectedly strong desire for Jess.

  * * *

  Two days later Mia was at the liquor store buying a case of rosé when she ran into Jess in the parking lot. He asked if she was having a party and she said no, a few friends were coming over and they liked to drink.

  Out of an obligation to be nice she told herself, Mia invited him to stop by for a drink sometime.

  And maybe out of an obligation to be nice back, he put her number in his phone.

  The next evening, around 7:00 p.m., when Mia was lying in bed watching a reality show on Bravo, her phone buzzed.

  A text: Hey, it’s Jess.

  Mia’s mood immediately lifted. Hi Jess, she wrote back.

  You around? Want to hang?

  Sure, Mia wrote, not caring that she couldn’t even be bothered to be coy.