To print this page, select "Print" from the File menu of your browser salon.com > Health & Body Dec. 9, 1999 URL: http://www.salon.com/health/sex/urge/chan/1999/12/09/nancy42 Occupational hazard Hot wax and bad news don't mix. - - - - - - - - - - - - By Tracy Quan Dec. 9, 1999 Sunday, October 17 Since Friday night, I have been wrapped up in my Reformed Boyfriend's weekend embrace -- secretly seething over my meeting with Barry Horowitz: Wouldn't it be funny if your boyfriend wanted you for your nonexistent family money? Last night, while Matt and I were making love, Barry's comment echoed in my brain ... Nonexistent money! "What's wrong?" Matt asked, pulling back. "Did I ... uh, hurt you, honey?" I was tempted to plead a sudden headache -- but a girl should save something for marriage. "My nipples," I whispered. "They're kind of sensitive tonight." Matt would rather believe he's committed an infraction -- large or small -- than live with a lingering mystery. As Matt tried to rectify the alleged offense to my nipples, I willed Barry's awful words out of my mind. This morning, I have managed to escape for smoked salmon brunch with Jasmine at Park Bistro. Sunday evening At brunch, Jasmine pumped me for details of my meeting with Barry Horowitz. "He's the most obnoxious, inappropriate jerk I have ever encountered!" I told her. But I was too embarrassed to admit that Horowitz had wounded my vanity (and wrecked this weekend's sex) with a throwaway line -- about my boyfriend. "Inappropriate?" she asked, snapping her menu shut. "Did he come onto you?" "That's not the point!" I said. "I will not be represented by a psychotic lawyer who regards my personal life as a hilarious joke. I'm not giving anyone a $5,000 retainer to insult me!" Jasmine waved my arguments aside. "You're talking about the man who's been my lawyer since I was a child offender," she said. "I know Barry's a voyeur. He's also a jerk. Do you expect a good criminal lawyer to have the personality of a maitre d'? He deals with prosecutors and psychos -- that's his job! Don't you get it?" I contemplated this in sullen silence. Who else would be able to find me a lawyer at this point? Not my so-called best friend, Allison -- she's the reason I need one! Not my boyfriend. Maybe Milton, but "Criminal Lawyer" might strike him as a sordid request. Better to use his money to handle my legal costs while keeping these messy problems to myself. Even though I'm ahead of the game -- sitting on the pile of cash Milt gave me -- I do care what he thinks of me. I don't want to be seen as an aging street urchin on the verge of New York Post infamy! I'd like to remain somewhat genteel -- sexy not seedy -- in Milt's eyes ... "You know," Jasmine continued, "Barry saved me from myself. When I was a teenager, he said: 'You have no concept of the future.' I was, like, incredibly willful." Was? "If he weren't so obnoxious, I wouldn't have listened. He scared the hell out of me! And," she added grandly, "we have Barry Horowitz to thank for the woman I have ultimately become." "Oh my God," I mumbled into my double espresso. What would she have "become" if the obnoxious Horowitz had not put the fear of prison into her? The self-satisfied gleam in her eyes was softened by nostalgia. "Barry persuaded me to stop dealing. I wanted to keep expanding my business. He said if I kept selling drugs I would eventually come up against the glassine ceiling, and what a boring future I would have as a corpse. He's an excellent judge of character." I shuddered at the thought of Jasmine's chestnut locks covered in blood rather than golden-brown highlights. "If you really want to be a dealer, it's still a man's world," she said, in a "case closed" no-nonsense tone. She didn't want to entertain any regrets. "Well, I'm glad you became one of the girls," I said, reaching for her hand. "Barry did the right thing. You were in terrible danger! I'm glad you explained ... about Barry." My sentimental reaction caused her to look away. "So," she abruptly concluded, "if you don't want Barry to represent you, you're a short-sighted bimbo who deserves to be up on federal charges!" After a pause she added, "I hate this weekend crowd -- and where are my goddamn french fries?" Wednesday, October 20 Yesterday's mishaps began with my appointment at Claudia's. Claudia was disappointed when I abstained from a total bikini waxing -- it's her specialty, after all. "Could we leave my hair neat but natural?" I asked anxiously. "I'm kind of sensitive today." As I stepped out of my panties, Claudia philosophized -- and empathized -- about the delicate science of intimate grooming. "I know what you mean," she cooed. "Sometimes, I feel too vulnerable for a complete bikini. When your mind talks to your body, you listen." She smeared hot wax on my inner thigh. "Next time, try taking Motrin 20 minutes before you come in," she suggested, pulling briskly. Then, an application of the hot green wax just to the right side of my lower lips. "You know who I saw last week?" she added. I exhaled slowly, to reduce the sensation. "That girl you sent here in the summer ... the blond from California. She was asking about you and Matt -- she said you might be getting married." I sat up, horrified -- how did April find out my boyfriend's name? "April?" I demanded. "Why didn't you warn me?" "Honey! You're -- you're all glued together now!" Claudia had dropped her wooden applicator on the floor. She bent over to retrieve it, then stood, shakily readjusting her spectacles. I looked down at my thighs and tried to open them. "Nancy, what's going on?" she asked me. "Warn you about what? I thought you two were good friends." I was staring at Claudia in despair, wondering if she had seen April's picture in the Post or -- worse yet -- the National Enquirer. No, it wasn't that, it was worse: Claudia was simply April's vehicle -- April knew a lot more about me than I had ever known about her, more than I realized. And now she was warning me -- blackmail at a vicious remove! Looking down at my thighs, I discovered that I was now joined to myself, and the aftermath was ... excruciating. As I left, Claudia told me, with an embarrassed look on her face, "I'm sorry -- I don't know what I got in the middle of, but April knows you have an appointment here today." I flinched, as my panties rubbed against the tender spot on my right lip, and sighed. "Please don't tell anyone about this," I begged her. "I'll -- I'll explain it to you sometime, but please ... don't ruin my life, Claudia!" I looked around on the street as I left Claudia's but April was nowhere to be seen. I realized I had told Claudia way too much. What else, I wondered, had April said to her? God, how did April find out my boyfriend's name? "Getting married -- might be." Or not, if April gets to him first, spilling all my secrets. Well, what else could that possibly mean? On my way home, I picked up some cortisone cream and some aloe vera gel, hoping to get my agonized equipment back into some kind of working order. Then, as I turned the corner, I saw a tall, skirted figure with short blond hair coming out of my building. If not for Claudia's blundering revelation, I would never have recognized her. Without the puffed-up mane, hair pared down to her face, she looked a lot harder. In other circumstances, April's attempt at the pixie look would be a tragic mistake. Praying she had not seen me, I numbly crossed the street. A speeding bike messenger screamed, "Watch out!" causing me to freeze. One inch closer and we would have collided -- badly. As he sailed away with a grateful wave, I knew it was too late. Everyone on the sidewalk, including April, had noticed. "There you are!" she said, rushing toward me. "Wow, you almost got hit by that bike, huh?" Her voice was forceful and sugary. I was still trembling from my near-encounter with what might have been. "Jesus Christ!" I screamed. "What do you want from me?" "Hey," she said, in a low, belligerent voice. "Calm down, OK? I have every fucking RIGHT to be here. How come your friend Allison's not returning my calls?" Her eyes were colder and meaner than I had ever known them to be. "She wanted to --" give you back your money I almost said. Then I remembered Barry's theory: Wired. April was probably wired in July and could easily be wired now. My panties were bruising the sore spot between my lip and my thigh. I squeezed my eyes shut in pain, anxious to get upstairs and lie down with my legs open. It was the only position I could imagine being comfortable in. "I'm ... oh, God," I moaned. "I'm having the worst period of my life, April. You startled me!" I knew I couldn't risk taking her upstairs to my apartment -- but she showed no sign of moving from where she stood. salon.com | Dec. 9, 1999   - - - - - - - - - - - - About the writer Tracy Quan is a writer and working girl living in New York.