claudia is a principled kinda gal, the type who sends money to the ASPCA, uses the correct spoon for dessert and handwashes all her lingerie. She writes thank-you notes. She pays her electricity bill on time. Her apartment, while not tidy, is always scrupulously, hospital clean.
Claudia is one of my more frank, loquacious and downright refreshing female friends. She eschews the false posturing and tut-tutting that’s so prevalent in sex talk nowadays. She also has a profound streak of showmanship, which dovetails nicely with my chosen profession. We try to meet weekly at Starbuck’s a deliberately reactionary choice of venue. Claudia hates bowing to political correctness.
Over her nonfat, double decaf latti, she’ll expound on her latest encounters. With Claudia there’s never any shortage of dates, but rarely La Grande Passion. She has a series of reasons why this is so: they’re too young, too ill-read, too ambivalent, too short, too tall, too uptight, too easygoing. Unsuspecting males have always been attracted to her gift of gab; like a politician, Claudia can sniff out some common ground with every individual she encounters, and often engages in some deep debate whether in the middle of a crowded party or a tjte-`-tjte in some dark bar.
Another reason it’s interesting to talk to Claudia is that she likes sex quite a lot. She likes to have a steady partner, however it’s too dangerous to have multiple partners in this day and age, she says languidly. And so, she gravitates toward Mr. Too-Sweet; suspecting that she’ll want to dump him, she chooses someone who’ll give her the least amount of trouble. After all, she says, “I’m just dating him. It doesn’t mean I have to marry him.” Claudia is nothing if not brutally honest.
Where do Claudia’s principles end, apart from patronizing Starbucks? I’ll tell you where: in bed. She’s one of these women, like myself, who, from the moment she feels that warm tingling wetness between her legs, loses all grasp of reason and ethical behavior.
People well, women talk a lot about how a man’s sex drive devours their capacity for reasoned thought. The aphorisms run along the lines of “the prick has no conscience”; “he thinks with his dick”; “an erection is due to all the blood draining from the brain.” (This latter gem of physiological wisdom seems to have actually gained the stature of an urban myth.)
But really, women are no better. The difference is merely in the timing. Our corresponding members being more deeply recessed, it won’t be in the middle of a bar that we’ll lose our heads and want to shag the cute blonde with the nicely shaped buttocks although, of course, that has been known to happen too. No, it’ll be in the heat of the moment, when there’s no condom, no birth control, and no hope of a relationship; amidst all the intertwined tongues, the tights around the ankles, the skirts up over the hips, that we’ll think, “oh why not? Just this one time …”
“Listen, I’ll just cut to the chase,” said Claudia, glancing at her watch. “John and I were in his bedroom on Saturday night. We hadn’t had sex before. We’d only gone out three times, but that night, I don’t know. Maybe it was the holidays, maybe it was the oysters. I’d thought to myself, well, we’ll just make out. We’ll roll around on the bed, we’ll touch one another, and then I’ll go home. I didn’t have any condoms, and neither did he. He was on top of me, naked, and I’d kept my tights on some stupid attempt at a sheath. But it just made it worse.”
I nodded sympathetically.
“He put his hand between my legs and that warm rush just … I don’t know … enveloped me. I found myself counting the days in the calendar: When was my last period? How safe was I? Could I get away with it just this once? Could he just put himself inside me, just so I could feel him, just for one second? ‘Come on,’ I said to him, ‘let’s do it. Just this once. I think I’m safe. I almost know that I am.’ I was practically begging him. You know, where was my brain?”
I knew where her brain was: in that same purgatory with all the other brains, coaxed there by just the right stroke on the clitoris or the skillful grasp of hardness. Welcome to the land of drugged, forgetful euphoria, where nothing matters except to get there, get happy and get off.
In the end, she said, John rolled off her and said he couldn’t risk it. They had to make do with oral sex not such a bad compromise, but one that “always makes me yearn for the real thing, anyway,” sighed Claudia.
I said, “We’ve all done it. Except now no one admits it.”
“Women are just as bad as men about sex,” she said. She sighed and fingered a lock of hair. “Even worse when we hit thirty, that sexual peak and all. We’re all irresponsible in the face of a great orgasm. It’s worse than heroin. You’ll do or say just about anything to get off.”
I reached in my knapsack and handed her a condom. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. At least you pay your taxes on time.”
on the other hand, maybe Linda would appreciate your honesty,” I heard
my mother say to one of my introverted friends over the holidays. I
regarded them with narrowed eyes. What was my childhood friend Kevin
doing consulting my mother about matters of the heart?
Since the advent of Unzipped, distinct developments have occurred in
my
social life. In one corner sit my more gabby, extroverted friends, who
have become even more talkative, more forthcoming and (one hopes) more
honest with me in the boxing ring of relationship talk. Staring stonily
opposite are the shy, more private buddies, who have evolved into virtual
human clams, regarding me with suspicion, wariness and all the openness
of J. Edgar Hoover. Naturally, theirs are the stories I covet.
Kevin had always fallen in the latter category. Moreover, he is what we
women refer to as “an evolved male,” which in some circles is also
nastily referred to as a SNAG (sensitive New Age guy) compassionate,
a feminist and best of all, not a game-player. “The Rules” would not
work with a guy like Kevin.
“I couldn’t help but overhearing …” I started, sidling up to them. They
were standing next to the Christmas tree, and Kevin was pointedly staring
at a piece of errant wrapping paper crumpled near his foot. We’d all just
gorged ourselves at the Christmas dinner except for Kevin, whom I noticed
was gloomily regarding the cranberry sauce, picking at a turkey wing, and was even more quiet than usual. Ever since Kevin and I were children, my mother had
always held a soft spot for him, and her belief in the power of talk
therapy had led her to prod him a little more vigorously than usual.
Now he glared at her, warning. “Peggy and I were just talking,” he said
to me. “Not about anything in particular.”
“Maybe if you get another woman’s point of view, it could help.” I
glanced at my mother, who was noncommittal. “Is it about Lydia?”
“Well,” he began. I could see him wavering. It must be bad, this problem; clearly the man
wanted to talk about his distress. “It’s Linda. Not Lydia.”
I examined my cuticles. “Well, Kevin, I’ve never met her,” I said
gently. “You’ve gone out with her for a
month now, and no one’s met her.” My mother moved away, mumbling
something about a tree decoration about to fall off.
“Well,” he said again, and stopped. I waited. The gears were shifting;
it was only a matter of time.
Finally he burst out. “This is the deal! I like Linda. Really, I do. I
like her more and more every time I go out with her. But I know it’s just
not, you know, it for me. She’s really sweet. She wanted to come here
with me tonight, I could tell. But I just couldn’t. I don’t want her to get
the wrong idea.”
“Which would be …”
“Which would be that we have a future. We don’t. You know that New
Yorker cartoon? The one that everyone keeps throwing around nowadays?
‘She may not be Ms. Right, but she’s Ms. Right Now’?”
I sighed. “Yes, it does seem to be bandied about a lot lately.”
“Well, I feel guilty. I mean, I’m 31 years old, for Christ’s
sake.
What’s the matter with me? Linda’s great. She’s sweet; she’s fun; she’s
good-looking. I think … well, I know that she’s really into me. Maybe
I’m an asshole for letting her get in so deep. Am I an asshole?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “Did you say you’d marry her?”
He snorted. “No.”
“Have you made any plans for the future? Travel? Significant family
events?”
“No.”
“Purchases? Have you bought her anything?”
“I bought her a magazine once. Does that count?”
I considered. “You’re OK there. If it were a book, you might be in a
gray area.” He still looked disgruntled, and I sputtered, “She’s a big girl. Why do you have to be Mr. Goody Two
Shoes and decide what’s best for her and what isn’t?”
“It’s more complicated than that and you know it,” he said. “It doesn’t
matter that I haven’t actually promised her anything. Just spending the
night at her house, meeting her roommates, just the actual time that has
passed since we started dating … all of it kind of comprises a, well, a
relationship.”
“Have you had, you know, that talk yet? The Where-Is-This-Going talk?”
“It’s coming. I can feel it. And I really, really do like her; I don’t
want to end it yet. Is that selfish of me?”
I considered. “Yes. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“I just know it’s not going to be … you know, love for me. Maybe it
would be okay if I was 22 or something. But now, the stakes are
higher. Our friends are getting married, having children. Do we really
have the right to pursue these little dalliances?”
“This is the problem with being a sensitive, New Agey kind of guy.”
“It must be nice to be so opinionated,” Kevin said, sounding genuinely
annoyed. “But I don’t want it to be right for just me. I want it to be right
for everybody, period.”
“Okay, Plato,” I said. “But this isn’t an ideal world. It’s, well,
life.”
I thought about if I were Lydia or Linda would I want to be told
that I was Ms. Right Now? “Actually, no, I don’t think you should say
anything,” I said. “When she wants to see it, she will. Until then,
ignorance is bliss.”
Kevin rubbed his hand over his face and smiled meanly. “That’s what
your mother said. How’s Julian, by the way?”
“so,” I said, fiddling with my tea cup. “Everything at work is going
well, huh?”
“Great,” Julian responded brightly. “You sure you don’t want another bite
of this crème brûlée? I’m going to finish it.”
“I’m not a dessert person. Go ahead.” I watched him. “Good, huh?”
“Not really. Overbaked, like scrambled eggs.”
“Really? But you’re going to eat it anyway?”
“Sure.” He scooped up the last mouthful. “Check, please,” he called.
“So you didn’t like it. You ate it anyway, I see.” I tapped my spoon on
the table. “I don’t mean that in a bad way.”
“Uh, I guess,” he said uncertainly. We’d only been going out for a few
weeks, and we’d had a few conversations like these, those
getting-to-know-you stabs in the dark. Now I could see him mentally
wrestling, trying to see what road I was leading him down. “I probably
didn’t need the calories. But I do bad things sometimes.”
I stopped tapping the spoon and looked at him. “Like what kinds of things?”
“Dessert?” he asked hopefully. “I don’t hold much expectations for a good crème brûlée.”
I nodded, thinking. “I think we need to have a talk.”
I’d been rehearsing this conversation in my head for some time now, ever since Julian and I had begun sleeping together fairly regularly.
The first time we’d been together, it seemed fine, if a little awkward.
True, I’d gone down on him, and he hadn’t reciprocated. Okay, that’s fine.
It’s the first time, right? Anything can be forgiven the first time. You’re
nervous, you’re clumsy, you don’t know what the other person expects. We’d
been tired that first night; we’d been groping for over two hours,
negotiating this panty here, this bra there. That first time, it’d be
lucky if one of you got off, incredible if it were both, and a virtual
miracle if it was simultaneous.
But the second time, still no reciprocation. Yes, he seemed willing,
eager even, to be with me in this compromising state of affairs, jeans
around our ankles and T-shirts thrown by the side of the bed. I watched him
watch me with a certain awe — perhaps it was shock — as if he couldn’t
really believe he was with me, there, naked, in my bed.
Maybe it was inexperience.
He had let it slip that I was the most aggressive woman he’d ever been with. Aggressive? Julian didn’t know the meaning of the word. The
third time, I asked him to go down on me. ( Honesty, communication,
openness, blah, blah, blah: all that stuff that’s conducive to a healthy
relationship.) And while he acquiesced, was it just me or did I sense a
certain reluctance? As I lay there on my back, I made a mental note to look
up the definitions of “aggressive” and “assertive.” Maybe Julian meant the
latter?
I started to ask him, “Julian, when you said aggressive, didn’t you
really mean …” How sexy, what timing. I’d had semantic discussions before
in bed, but never like this.
The truth of the matter is, as time went on, I simply did not think that
he was sexually attracted to me. Sure, it happens, but it had never
happened to me before, and I did not like it one bit. I knew he enjoyed
being with me; I knew in a general sense that I was an attractive person.
We liked going out for dinner, seeing movies, curling up on my sofa, and
maybe that would have to be enough. I wondered, would it be okay if Julian
never wanted to rip my clothes off and make mad passionate love to me on
the living room rug?
There almost always is one person in a couple who is more sexually motivated
than the other. And why should it always be the guy? I’d thought my libido
was no stronger than the average Jo, but maybe I was misinformed. Maybe I
was a nymphomaniac. A sex-starved, aggressive harridan, who would stop at
nothing to achieve her next orgasm, who cared nothing for the sweet, gentle
kind man who perhaps wasn’t as concerned as he should be about getting her off but still loved
her inside…
As I sat watching Julian eat his overbaked brûlée, the thought briefly
flitted through my mind that it would be too forward of me to stroke his
thigh under the table. He wouldn’t like it. I watched the waiter set down
the check. He probably thought we were this romantic couple,
the dessert just a prelude to going home and making mad love all
night long.
It was no use, Julian and me, and I knew it. Perhaps if I were
the man in this relationship, perhaps if I were a different person
altogether, it would be negotiable. But I couldn’t compartmentalize this
aspect of the relationship. Sex is too important to me, and I was feeling
too terrible.
the old man with watery blue eyes in the Tipperary pub looked at me curiously. “You wouldn’t be a feminist, would you now?”
I said, “Only strictly speaking.”
“Good,” he grunted. “Lovely girl. I was afraid you might be one of those I hear about. Just the other day, me friend Joe holds the door open for a young lass and her swain. She walks through, and then she turns to him and says ‘You’re a sexist pig.’ ‘Twas shocking, it was.”
It was shocking — so shocking, in fact, that I didn’t believe it. It sounded like an urban myth, like those stories about Pop Rocks perforating stomachs, car headlights signaling gang violence and Jamie Lee Curtis being a certified hermaphrodite.
But almost as hard to believe as the Irish lass’ Andrea Dworkin imitation was the act that supposedly inspired it. Who the hell holds doors open for women anymore? Could it be that Ireland was still so quaint they held on to this charming little act of gender deference? Hell, I’m moving. Count me in to that vast pool of immigrants flooding onto the Dun Laoghaire shores.
Lately, I’ve been feeling like something has gone terribly wrong in the dating etiquette department. Somehow, when American mothers and fathers instruct their sons in how to treat women fairly, decently and equitably, plain old politeness is getting tossed out with the bathwater.
“I went on a great date the other night,” Harriet told me. “He picked me up at my door. He held the door open for me. He walked me home. Oh, he was an OK guy, but I’ll definitely go out with him again. The experience was so … unique.”
Ah yes, the hoary old chestnut of feminism. I’d be the first to insist that doors should be held open for all and sundry. I’d even go so far as to say that after an evening out, friends should see their pal safely to the door, whether male, female or Jamie Lee Curtis. But where is it written that equality knocks out chivalry, in some weird ethical paper-scissors-rock game?
The other night, I struggled out of my date’s car with two heavy Christmas shopping bags. “Clod” (not his real name) watched me lug them into the restaurant. Once seated, Clod ordered himself a glass of wine. The waiter then asked me if I’d like anything. When the bill came, we looked it over, decided how much each of us owed and put down the correct amount. Clod later dropped me off on the corner of my street, asked if we could get together next week and sped off into the night.
Uh, OK. On paper, Clod didn’t do anything wrong. He was soft-spoken, well-intentioned, treated me with utter equality — and left me feeling completely unimpressed.
We girls have made a big stink out of being treated well, and rightly so, but somewhere along the line the message got garbled. “When I was in my 20s, it was okay to be the Good Old Guy when I was on a date,” I said to my friend Matt, “but now, I’m really tired of it.” Matt looked at me incredulously — a feminist saying she wanted to be treated like a girl? In Matt’s mind, “old world chivalry” was synonomous with “demeaning.” The recipients of said chivalry might get insulted; they might get mad. That was the message he’d gotten, growing up in in Berkeley in the ’60s and ’70s.
Well, news flash. Being treated equally doesn’t mean being treated like a soccer buddy. If you boys really, really want to impress a woman, try this novel approach. If you ask her out for a drink, offer to pick her up. Insist on paying for the check, no matter how vociferously she protests. (If she’s asked you out, let her pay if she wants. Make sure you pay the next time. Cheapness is not sexy.) Hold the door open for her. The more gallant among you will help her on with her coat. And always, always make sure she’s safely home.
An extreme example of this is my friend Kaitlin’s description of being the sole woman in a crowded elevator in Argentina. She’s crammed way in the back, and no one’s so much as glanced her way, but BING, when the elevator arrives at her floor, the men part like the Red Sea. Nobody moves until she’s sailed out the doors and is on her way.
Of course such behavior is silly; of course it’s a time waster. So are table manners. But in this day and age of voice mail, automated tellers, irate drivers and Internet flamers, what an oasis.
ah, the holidays. The air is nippy, Christmas trees twinkle merrily behind frost-covered windows. Beautifully wrapped presents are exchanged, drinks are raised in salute of Baby New Year. Eggnog flows freely, arteries are clogged so tightly that Extra Strength Liquid Plumr couldn’t shift ‘em. And then, there’s that event of all seasonal events: the Office Christmas Party.
What other time of year were you so profoundly aware of your dating — or non-dating — status? Those in relationships breathe a heavy sigh of relief, and us singles, well, I have one word: Beware. Beware of what a single person might do in the holiday season. Pour a few toddies down our throats and soon you’ll see us in some dark corner deep in conversation, the beer goggles firmly in place, with the Office Toad, convinced that the wart on the side of their face really is a rather charming mole. This is the time of year when all us singles feel a little more desperate than usual, a bit more ferocious toward our partnered pals, a little louder in our protestations that we love our freedom.
True, office Christmas parties ain’t what they used to be. Gone are the cheesy excesses of the ’50s OCP, the type depicted in Billy Wilder’s “The Apartment,” where secretaries dance on table tops with their lampshade-sporting bosses, martinis in one hand and cigarettes in the other. Gone, too, is the plain old expectation of ribald behavior that virtually defined the Office Christmas Party. The silver lining is that since the corporate world has stifled all such overt acts of impropriety, it’s a real thrill when someone makes a complete ass of themselves.
But, I am happy (I guess) to report, all excess has not vanished from the OCP. I recently attended a holiday bash thrown by a restaurant for which I used to work. My former colleagues were all beautiful people, totally free of ambition, untethered by the constraints of corporate mentality, who all drank and smoke and took Ecstasy all year round, not just during the trying holiday season. And it was clear from the moment I walked in that this party had not been smothered by ’90s conformity. The hordes of drunk men and women downing champagne and Manhattans had me turning to the mineral water. I was trying to engage in chitchat with a more lucid bunch when I felt someone come up behind me, nuzzle my neck, grasp my breasts and purr in my ear “I am so glad to see you!”
“Hey,” I said. I wondered if it was one of the cleaning guys that I used to feel sorry for. I looked down at the two hands covering my chest. It was Renee, whom I’d heard had just broken up with her boyfriend of four years, and was having a hard time adjusting. She kissed me again on the neck and flitted off to the bar in search of more champagne.
Everywhere — in corners, behind tables, on the dance floor, outside behind bushes — couples were locked head-to-head in deep drunken embraces or conversations. Mini-pizzas and crostini offered about on trays went ignored. The music pulsed and the lights were turned down even further as the mob of party animals swayed and groped.
What is it about entering a crowd delirious with excess that makes you feel stone-cold sober, and eager to stay that way? It’s like a train — you either have to get on quickly and slide down into oblivion or stand back. I was trying to explain my mineral water to Louisa as we sat with the smokers outside when Renee glided back and climbed on Louisa’s lap. “Can I kiss you?” she asked me. I leaned over aiming for her cheek when she turned her lips to me and gave me a full-blown smack with attempted tongue action.
“Jesus, Renee.” I glanced over at my former boss, who looked startled, then shrugged. “Employee bonding,” I called. Turning to Renee, I said, “I’m cutting you off.”
“Come on. Kiss me.”
“No.”
“You know you want to.” Well, she was right there. I did want to kiss somebody, just not her, and preferably not a female. I recognized that old OCP feeling, that yearning for bodily contact; it came up every year at every holiday party if I wasn’t dating someone exclusively. And now it appeared that I didn’t even have to be tipsy to feel that way.
“I don’t have to be Ms. Right,” Renee continued. “How ’bout just Ms. Right Now?” She climbed off Louisa’s lap and drifted toward the bar, blowing us a kiss.
“It’s so p.c. for girls to do that nowadays,” Louisa remarked. “Imagine if some guy had done that to you, Courtney. Nobody even batted an eye. Christmas parties sure have changed.”
“You think?” I asked. I didn’t agree. Yes, the OCP had undergone various mutations, but every year it was basically the same thing: a time to let your hair down in front of your coworkers sans the Monday morning regret. This is the kind of stuff we singles wait for all year.
And don’t forget: December 31 is just around the corner.
harriet, perched atop a ladder, daintily dabbed a spot of cornflower blue on her ceiling. “What do you think?” she called down to me.
“Looks good,” I said. I was sprawled out on the sofa, lending moral support, flipping through Harriet’s latest issue of The Nation. I hadn’t looked up. There are few activities in this world that I despise more than house-painting, and I wasn’t going to be roped into it. “I think The Nation could do with a humor column,” I said. “It’s so deadly serious nowadays.”
“So stop reading it.”
“I can’t. It’s telling me how to think. Cocktail parties are coming up. I need to be able to defend my knee-jerk liberal opinions.” The phone started to ring, somewhere, muffled under dropcloths. “Shall I get that?”
“You know, the colors always look completely different than the swatches. I don’t think this shade is right.”
I counted off another ring, then another. “I suppose I could go back to the store, but I’ve already opened the whole can ” Harriet continued. Ring. Ring. I looked up at her; she was frowning at her ceiling, deep in thought.
“I think your machine is unplugged,” I observed. “I’ll just go ahead and ” I said, as I started to root around.
“DON’T TOUCH THAT PHONE,” she shrieked.
“Jesus, Harriet. Okay, okay.” The ringing stopped, and we stared at one another in silence.
She climbed down the ladder, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I’m sorry, but it’s just… well, I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”
“Well, I got that impression.”
“I’m too angry to talk about it.”
“Okay.” I said. I returned to Katha Pollitt. “It’s just … ” She plopped herself down on the canvas-covered floor, and lay down. “I can’t take it anymore. You know I broke up with Alan?” Seeing my look of confusion, she repeated, “Alan. Alan. You know. I was sleeping with him. It was a nothing. Not a relationship. You couldn’t even call what I did breaking up, since we weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend anyway.”
“Oh, yes.” I’d only met Alan once, at a party; Harriet very clearly had kept him away from our circle of friends. I remembered him in pieces: a fuzzy thrift store sweater, a pair of blue eyes behind thick glasses. His intense stare. Her avoidance of his gaze. His hand, reaching out for hers when he thought no one was looking, and her gentle brushing away of it. “You haven’t mentioned him recently.”
“I’m just so angry. Three weeks ago, I had the little talk. ‘It’s really not working out this way. You want more than I’m prepared to give. You’re sweet, but I don’t want to be in this kind of thing.’ You know, the usual, blah, blah, blah, let’s-just-be-friends stuff.”
“Did you? Want to be friends, that is?”
“Well, of course, at the time I did,” she said, flustered. “Don’t you always? And he seemed to accept it. I thought he did. We saw each other once after that. But, he keeps calling. And calling. And leaving these messages, and he gets angrier and angrier. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t called me. Call me. Call me.’ As if that conversation we had didn’t even exist.”
I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t sound like you were very clear with him.”
“Yes, I was,” she insisted. “He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that I don’t want to go out with him. It’s starting to frighten me. And then I get so angry in return. I think, how dare he leave me that kind of message? Now I don’t want to be friends with him. He disgusts me, acting like this. I feel like he’s stalking me. “
Ah, the verb of the ’90s, I thought. Emotional terrorism. “Why don’t you just tell him again? Tell him you don’t want to be friends now. Tell him to leave you the fuck alone. But tell him something.” Harriet was silent. “Is there something else? Why can’t you tell him that?”
“I don’t know.” She started to cry. “I guess I feel guilty for some reason. I just don’t understand people that don’t understand the word no. All my women friends,” she said, sniffing, “when they hear that by some guy, they head for the hills. But guys, I don’t know what it is. A pride thing? It seems more and more that you have to hit them over the head with it.”
I suspected the answer was somewhere in the middle. Alan probably was a little dense in this matter of rejection. And Harriet, for whatever reason, had possibly been obscure, indicating in some little way a downcast turn of her eyes, a questioning inflection in her voice that she was not firm about her decision.
I pawed around for a tissue, and found the phone. It was an ordinary Princess phone; beige, bulky, looking curiously disinterested in all these emotional entanglements. I handed her my sweatshirt, indicating that she should wipe her nose, as it began to ring again. Once, twice, three times.
Then it stopped.
