Sex
Episode 10: Thighs wide shut
Hillary Clinton fund-raiser leads to a close encounter with a client.
August 12, 1999
Saturday July 24
This morning, while my eyes were about to open, I felt Matt breathing against my neck. I was getting very turned on when –
“What’s that bruise?” he inquired, touching my hip gently.
“Oh, ” I mumbled, “It’s a long story. Allison …”
“Allison?”
“… accidentally pushed me. I bumped into a table.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember!” I shot back, turning away.
Regretting the outburst, I sat up. My thighs were damp and I was frustrated but he was already out of bed, heading for the shower. Was he trying to trick me into talking — by exploiting my craving for an orgasm?
Later, he interrupted my coffee ritual, caressing my neck — a portion of me that is strictly off-limits at work. The clients I come with — I still won’t let them kiss my neck. It’s more intimate than any other kissing: He has no idea how special this is. I felt Matt toying with my face, my breasts … I was ready to make up.
“I thought you said Allison had moved out of New York.”
“She came back for a visit.”
A bossy tone took over as he reached into my bathrobe. “When was that?”
“Why are you so curious about Allison? You’re asking a lot of questions!” I pulled back and violently closed my robe.
“Hey, calm down, ” he said, “It’s you I’m after — not your blond girlfriend.”
All of this was forgotten when we arrived in East Hampton, late for the BBQ fundraiser — billed as a “friendly grilling” in Hillary Clinton’s honor. Matt’s boss, Pam, is such a Hillary fan it’s scary. She even looks like her — a richer, thinner version: the first lady on cocaine. Matt says she’s a far better schemer, too.
We ended up at a table sipping sugary caipirinhas with Matt’s older sister, Elspeth, an abrasive but pretty assistant prosecutor, and her husband Jason, a mergers and acquisitions lawyer.
Inevitably, talk turned to “Eyes Wide Shut.”
“Ridiculous,” Elspeth announced, “What woman asks her husband after nine years of marriage and a kid — ‘do you ever think about fucking other women?’ Come on, nobody’s husband gets that much attention after nine years.”
“You’re focusing on the weak spot as usual,” Jason replied. “That was a device to get the story moving. Kubrick explores Freudian undercurrents — Freud’s not literal. What is it Nicole Kidman says? ‘You men haven’t a clue’ — most men haven’t.”
“Except for you,” Elspeth said sweetly, rolling her eyes. “Matt probably went for the orgy scenes — all those masked hookers in high heels. Sorry, Nancy,” she snickered, “but men are dogs.”
“Dogs?” Matt protested. “What would you call Nicole Kidman’s character? You’ve got a private fantasy life — just like hers — that Jason never sees. That’s Kubrick’s point. The difference is, she admits it.”
“Busted by my own brother. There’s no justice. How about you, Nancy?”
“Nancy’s got the corniest video collection I’ve ever seen,” boasted Matt, putting his arm around me. “‘Splash’ … ‘Pretty Woman’ … ‘Gigi.’ She’s the last romantic. Covers her eyes when they start doing urban angst.”
I bristled — “I’ve got my own take on urban angst” — silently remembering how Matt held me when Daryl Hannah’s secret identity was tragically revealed in “Splash” … Would he be holding me like this if my secrets were exposed? I gave him a resentful look, which pleased Elspeth. Then, I felt guilty about letting Matt’s big sister score a point at his expense.
When the conversation segued to JFK Jr’s funeral, Elspeth launched into an attack on John-John’s unremarkable track record as a prosecutor. I spotted a familiar balding head — a guy with a lazy smile and a short, graying beard nodding amiably at our hostess. He was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt with a black background. Spooky! Naturally, he’s donating to Hillary — not Rudy. I tried to avoid him — isn’t that what professionals are supposed to do? — but we bumped into each other at the dessert table.
“You look amazing — as usual,” he said in a discreet but relaxed voice.
For a moment I wished that Spooky were less of a rich hippie and more of a stuffed shirt — a suburban john who goes into hiding when he spots a hooker at a party. But Spooky’s an equal opportunity flirt — too evolved for all that. I was flattered but nervous, due to Matt’s early morning interrogation.
“Thanks,” I said, stiffly. “I’m here with my boyfriend — you?”
“My daughter Larissa is somewhere around. She’s interning for Pam this summer. Are you a friend of the family?” he asked, clearly turned on by the whole idea.
“Uh, my girlfriend is,” I half-lied, temporarily recasting Elspeth as my dearest friend.
(I don’t want Spooky to know that my boyfriend works for Pam, too!)
“Call me on Tuesday, would you? And give this to your date,” he said with a sly wink.
He had insisted on serving me a piece of lemon meringue pie — which I didn’t dare give Matt, in case he had spotted Spooky’s gallant bit of mischief. Elspeth, like everyone else, recognized Spooky. “Are you friends?” she asked.
“Not really,” I said, devouring the pie — more interested than ever in keeping my mouth quietly occupied.
Matt played it cool until we were alone in the car. “R________ was really taking an interest in you,” he said. “Elspeth’s a great observer of body language. She says you guys had quite a rapport –”
“Oh, Elspeth,” I huffed, “a prurient married person.” He was starting to sound as snide as his sister.
“So how do you know him?”
“He was chatting me up at another benefit,” I said. “I was working. Remember that catering gig I told you about? He was surprised to see me here … He asked why I wasn’t wearing my uniform.”
An unfair but necessary embellishment — ultra-hip Spooky would never say such an awful thing.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not running around in a uniform anymore,” Matt said.
“But I liked it,” I protested. “I was meeting people. Copy-editing is a bore — I’m never around other human beings. You wouldn’t understand — you work in an office.”
Matt seems to accept the story that I float from one slacker gig to another, catering one month, proofreading the next. A stack of novels by dead white men — and ladies — on my bedroom floor implies that while I’m a slacker, I’m respectable. Since Matt never bothers to read anything written before 1960, he’s pretty gullible. Still, as we pulled into the B&B Elspeth had recommended, he gave me a strange, doubting look that made me squirm.
Bassett House is surprisingly claustrophobic. I can’t return my messages without being overheard — by Matt, the owners, or Elspeth who is right next door. Milt called and left two messages. His voice sounds oddly desperate — not like him at all. “I’m sitting in my car, waiting for you to call back. It’s urgent. I’m leaving for Tokyo Monday morning and I have to see you Sunday night. It’s not what you think.”
Tracy Quan is the author of "Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl." More Tracy Quan.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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