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“Only the important things.” I giggled and pulled my skirt down to hide my transparent white panties.
“Don’t do that,” he protested. “Daria wouldn’t want you to cover up your pussy like that, would she?”
“Daria taught me how to eat pussy,” I remarked in a friendly voice. “She teaches by example.”
His eyes twinkled as I slipped into his crude routine.
“Does she?” he replied gamely. “So she did teach you something. Daria likes to have her snatch licked, doesn’t she?”
“Only if you know what you’re doing,” I told him. “And she tells me you have a well-trained tongue.”
(Daria and I didn’t know each other that well. In fact, we worked together just a few times before I bought her book. But her clients like to think we were lovers. Before she moved on, Daria planted this cute idea in their minds—and called during her honeymoon to remind me. She was a conscientious call girl, even in retirement.)
Soon I was standing in front of Bob in my panties and heels, bent over with my skirt at my feet and my smooth rump in his face.
“What a gorgeous ass,” he sighed. I could hear him unzipping his pants.
“Are you playing with your cock?” I murmured, pulling my panties clearly to one side. I tilted my pussy to give him a better view.
There was a hungry moan as he held back from coming too fast.
“Let’s go in the bedroom,” he suggested.
“Good idea,” I agreed, glancing at the clock on the VCR. “Where we can relax…and I can try out your tongue.”
This wouldn’t work if Bob knew how long I’ve been in the business. He needs me to be Sabrina: naive, dirty-mouthed, willing to do all the work, very much in control, excited by my “new” career. A tall, complicated order. Especially when you’re really new.
I teased him and sat over his face, demanding that he lick my ass.
“Your tongue…” I was cooing again. “I could get addicted to that tongue!”
I changed positions and slipped a condom onto his erection. “Are you going to fuck me today?” I was kneeling on the bed, poised to suck his cock. I ran a fingertip over his dark chest, flicking the gold chain to one side; Bob’s generation still believes you can’t be too rich or too tan.
“Oh, my god. Sabrina—you’re such a hot little girl!” His erection was impressive. I placed it in my mouth and gave some attention to the head, then worked my way toward the base. “Not yet, not yet,” he moaned, pressing his cock upward. Only with a condom could I give him the following treat; I felt an unexpected throb as I pulled him into my throat. He exhaled loudly, turning rapidly to jelly—my signal to pull away, grab a tissue, and shift gears.
As I tidied up, I turned off my slutty act but continued to play bubbly Sabrina. My boyfriend never sees this part of me. Guys like Matt don’t mate with bubbly chicks. It’s true, I do seem unambitious, compared to the women in Matt’s daily life—his boss, his up-and-coming female colleagues. But unambitious is permissible (in a girl) if you’re not too bubbly, and if you’re respectable. My fake job isn’t a power gig—nor is it glamorous—but it has nothing to do with my looks. And Matt wouldn’t want to be seen as a guy who marries a girl for her looks! (Though of course he wouldn’t have fallen for a girl who wasn’t pretty.) That stack of volumes on my bedroom floor by dead white novelists from Thackeray to Mrs. Gaskell to Henry James, interspersed with stuff by live brown ones implies that I’m serious at the core. Matt never reads fiction that was written before 1960 but wants to marry a girl who does.
Whereas Matt finds my reading tastes respectable, Bob’s impressed that I read anything at all. Bob’s the kind of self-made guy who could marry a woman who doesn’t even read. He made all his money in real estate speculation.
“You’re a very nice girl,” Bob assured me in a deliberate, fatherly tone. “A wonderful young lady.” He was sliding some hundreds under the tissue box on my bedside table.
I was touched by his desire to validate the fluffy dirty-mouthed girl he sees three times a year. I suddenly wondered if Matt, upon meeting such a bimbette, would bother to say something corny, something kind. Would he know that it makes a difference? Would he care? I don’t want to go there, I guess; anyway, Matt belongs to a different part of my life.
As I closed the door I could hear Bob stepping into the elevator, and I wondered: What happens to the bubbly “Sabrina” when Nancy marries Matt? Must I burn the bimbette to save the woman?
FRIDAY AFTERNOON. 2/11/00
Etienne is back from a short trip to Paris. “Realizing this is intolerably short notice,” he began in a wheedling voice. “I hope you still remember who I am? What a week! Could we perhaps…this evening? Allow me to forget this gruesome week…”
After almost ten years—he’s one of my oldest customers, by which I mean longest—he still employs these coy icebreakers.
“Be here no later than six!” I cautioned him.
I have to meet Matt at seven, but didn’t tell him that, of course. Never let a guy feel he’s being rushed. And never let him know why! Just in case he does feel rushed.
“Bien sûr,” he purred agreeably. Etienne has lived on East Sixty-seventh Street for more than three decades, but his accent remains strangely intact. One of his many style decisions.
SATURDAY. 2/12/00
Etienne arrived last night, carrying a chocolate-brown umbrella with an engraved brass handle in the shape of a swan’s head.
“Very handsome,” I told him. “Did you find it in Paris?”
“It keeps me dry,” he said with a humorous shrug. “My children gave it to me for Christmas.”
Etienne’s son is an eye surgeon, and his two daughters are teachers. I think he once told me that the oldest daughter is married to a guy at Salomon.
Lying on the couch with my bare feet nestled in Etienne’s lap, I smiled as he traced gentle lines on my calves with his fingertips. “Do you know what your most interesting feature is?” he asked dreamily. “I am always curious to know what a woman will designate as her most important feature. Women are so often at odds with their paramours.”
I gazed down at my legs. Sometimes, when I’m with Matt, I get paranoid about my thighs. But never when I’m with a customer. At work, a pragmatic self-appreciation kicks in: I instantly feel, oh, 10 to 30 percent more attractive as soon as I have an appointment lined up. It’s an engine that switches on by itself. You answer the phone, make the appointment, look in the mirror, and you see what the client will be getting. It’s hard to be so objective with a boyfriend. And lovely to be appreciated by a succession of men over fifty.
I was wearing my new zebra-print thong and nothing else—so I couldn’t hide the effect this was having on my nipples. A familiar tingle caused my thighs to turn in slightly. Etienne ran a considerate fingertip over my right breast and smiled. Now, I thought, smiling back, here he comes, as predictable as a clock. Sensing my body’s pliant mood, he moved closer. His lips made a dangerous beeline for mine, but I dodged him gracefully and I slid away from his kiss.
“Let’s continue this biology lesson in the bedroom!” I giggled, grabbing his hand.
“You are a foul-tempered devil,” he muttered. “Why do you welcome my kisses here,” he said, tapping the front of my panties, “but not here?” He touched a finger to the corner of my mouth.
“One of life’s mysteries,” I murmured, slipping out of my panties.
“You never answered,” he said, placing his mouth against one breast. His tongue was warm, not too demanding, and my nipple couldn’t help but encourage him. “If you had to choose just one important feature?”
“I’d pick two,” I said, knowing how much my vanity pleases Etienne. “My face and my breasts.” I couldn’t exactly repeat my secret answer: “If only I didn’t rely on them so much! My face has made me rather lazy about exercise, and my tummy always threatens to betray me. I should go to the gym more often, but I seem to be getting away with it because you keep calling.”
He smiled and cupped one breast, then ran his hand over my abdomen. “No quarrel with your assessment—but for me, it’s your skin.”
“Really?” How, after a decade of seeing me, does this man come up with such charming new material? He’s a born flirt, the genuine article.
“The texture is what I find so…compelling.” And then, as my flattered smile registered on Etienne, his intrusive mouth sought another off-limits kiss.
“Darling,” I breathed, maneuvering my neck to evade him, “my pussy is getting so impatient…” I tactfully directed his face toward my open thighs. Almost six-thirty. How time flies when you’re being hustled by a veteran john!
When I emerged from my building—just a few moments after Etienne’s departure—Matt was waiting in a cab, delighted that, for once, I was ready on time.
Elspeth’s buffet was in full swing when we arrived at her apartment. My cousin Miranda was standing next to a giant brioche, halfheartedly fending off a sandy-haired, somewhat beefy-looking guy I’ve seen many times before. He’s at all of Elspeth’s parties and I think he must be one of her junior lawyers, but I can never remember his name. Miranda has a permanent tan from growing up in Trinidad, and her mother, like my dad, is half-Indian.
“Fascinating,” the sandy-haired guy was saying. “I had no idea such a unique mixture of beauty was actually possible. Your father’s Chinese?”
Miranda smiled oddly and pulled me toward her.
“Meet my cousin Nancy,” she told him. “This is…um…Christopher. I’ll be back!” she added, pulling me in yet another direction. “Let’s get Nancy a drink.”
“Well, I guess Matt can keep him busy,” I said. “How’s everything?”
“Oh, fine, now that you’re here! All these men keep hitting on me!” she complained. “I thought you’d never arrive. And that…Christopher. He keeps talking about how exotic I am. You know, I feel like an object,” she said in a low bitter voice.
The terrible twenties! She really believes she doesn’t want all this attention. Even though she’s wearing a cropped cashmere sweater and the tightest Dolce & Gabbana pants I’ve seen in weeks.
“Your outfit’s kind of sexy,” I pointed out, as she steered me toward the champagne. “And your belly-button ring is a definite draw.”
“Not that kind of object!” she said. “He keeps harping on how exotic I look just because—just because I’m half-Chinese.” And she still has that trace of a Trinidad accent, which suburban New Yorkers like Christopher don’t expect a Chinese-looking girl to have. I don’t have that accent, because I left at the age of two.
“He meant it as a compliment,” I said. “Be nice to him, he’s trying to be poetic and charming. And don’t take it so personally! To him, you are exotic.”
“Well, I’m sick of everyone asking me where I’m from,” she told me. “Especially men.”
“Then go back to Trinidad where everybody will know exactly where you’re from. And you won’t be exotic anymore. But you’d hate having to deal with Trinidadian men. Can you imagine?”
In this, we’re viscerally united. Neither of us has ever had a boyfriend from the islands. Though she still has the accent, she really can’t go back. Miranda clinked her champagne glass against mine and gave me a rueful smile.
“I suppose that’s right. Look, here he comes. Mr. Exotic himself.”
“You just resent him because he’s not wearing one of those strange little goatees. He’s a nice guy! Let him take you out to dinner sometime.”
“Oh, he’s not my type,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at me as if I were one of our great-aunts. Except that she would never actually roll her eyes in that way at any of our great-aunts. It would have to be done on the sly.
Christopher and Matt were heading toward us, led by Elspeth, who was dressed in party Manolos, black satin capris, and a transparent silk T-shirt. Elspeth is one of those A-cup gals who can maintain her respectability in a see-through blouse. Her short auburn hair topped off a smooth, pretty line that ended at her pointy toes. An audible “Nancy!” startled a few guests. That brittle voice takes some getting used to—it doesn’t really go with her pixielike features. “Miranda!” Much air-kissing. “Being engaged to my little brother really agrees with her!” she exclaimed. “You look different tonight. Isn’t she radiant!” she said to Matt and Miranda. “I swear to god, you’re glowing, Nancy.”
That’s because, while rushing Etienne through his session, I felt obliged to throw in a real orgasm. A man won’t think of you as a pleasure-pinching hooker if you take a little time out for an orgasm. If, just minutes ago, he felt the tremors of your clitoris against his tongue, it’s a cinch to get him off, then send him out early, feeling pleased with himself.
I glanced around at all the high-heeled guests and felt a twinge of ambivalence. Should I have worn sluttish stilts instead of flats? Nobody would guess that less than one hour ago I was lying in bed with my thighs wrapped around the face of a gray-haired man, conjuring up degrading fantasies (with Matt in the lead role) so I could get my orgasm over with, already. Not with all these women gliding around on their party stilts while I stand here in my shiny good-girl flats. Deep cover.
“Men are dogs,” Elspeth was saying. “Jason promised to be here no later than six! To help! Yeah, right. He’s stuck in a meeting and he totally forgot. Did you get my e-mail?” she asked. “About the fabric dyes?”
“I haven’t had a chance to log on all day,” I explained. “I was, um, trying to get this project finished and I got sort of caught up—overwhelmed by it.”
“And listen, there’s this website that—don’t knock it till you try it—helps you organize your wedding. I wish this had been around five years ago, when I got married. Take it from me, the Day will go more smoothly if you break it down into components. They have a private chat list for anxious brides. Lucy, my colorist, says they discuss everything.” She cast a meaningful glance at Matt, to indicate the Girls Only quality of the list.
“Really? Like, first-night jitters?” Matt said, with a mischievous smirk.
“No.” Elspeth pretended to be annoyed. “Lingerie and bouquets. So, Nancy: this project that keeps you so busy. What’s the latest? Are you almost done?”
Miranda turned away from Christopher and leaned in to hear more. I felt a quiver of insecurity in my solar plexus, which I tried to quell with champagne, then managed to make a few nonremarks about my fake job. Matt, Elspeth, my family, his family—they all think of me as a part-time slacker who does copyediting for extra money. Miranda is so clearly a girl with an allowance that any relative of hers can be tarred with the same brush, so Matt assumes that my work supplements a modest income from my parents.
Fortunately, most people think the doings of a copy editor are pretty boring. It’s easy to get them distracted from my supposed job: Just talk about it! The subject usually changes, quite rapidly, when I explain that my current “project” is a massive treatise on Eastern medicine that the author hopes to translate into German. It’s important to mention a language that is totally unsexy.
“How did you meet this guy?” Elspeth asked. “This—what is he, an acupuncturist? And a chiropractor? From where?” She wasn’t letting go of the subject as easily as I had hoped.
“Oh, ah, he’s a family friend of the translator,” I explained. “She’s going to translate the whole thing when I’m finished, and we’re having this terrible problem because a file got corrupted and he only made one backup.”
Christopher was trying to look interested and Matt was examining the wine bottles as Elspeth went on.
“And where did he train?” she said, looking directly at me.
I was stumped. Where did this fictional chiropractor learn how to be an acupuncturist? She was waiting for an answer.
“Uh, you mean his computer training or his medical training?” I did my best to appear confused. “His computer skills are negligible,” I added.
Elspeth glanced at Matt and began to say something. Then she stopped. I turned to the bar for another glass of champagne, horrified by my questionable performance. When I came back, Elspeth was having a rather quiet tête-à-tête with her brother. Matt looked up and came closer, to put his arm around my waist while Elspeth gave us both a long, thoughtful stare.
“So, what’s the publication date?” Elspeth demanded, in a cheery yet ominous voice.
“Well, I…” Leaning into Matt’s light embrace, I cleared my throat pensively. “The thing is, I made an agreement. I’ve signed a contract not to discuss—I’m not really allowed to disclose any of the details. I know it’s a bit silly—with a book like this—but it’s part of my arrangement with the translator.”
“Really? Is that a common practice?” Elspeth wanted to know.
Jesus Christ.
“I thought it was, but I really don’t know. Why?”
It bothered me that she had stopped asking where the chiropractor trained and was now on a new line of questioning altogether—just when I thought I might have a suitable answer for the last question. And this was all supposed to be so boring!
“I wonder if a contract of this sort is enforceable,” she said. “What are the limits? Did you show it to a lawyer? If you did, you’d have to tell your lawyer about the book. What if you told your doctor? Or your psychiatrist? Could a publisher call them to testify about what you leaked? What if there was a crime involved?”
“Elspeth had too much coffee this morning,” Matt sighed.
“Well, a contract like that raises important privilege issues that Nancy might not have considered.” She looked at me quizzically. “Not that you’re the kind of girl with any secrets to keep. Or are you?” she asked with a sharp, mischievous smile.
A tall blonde in a red scoop-necked blouse and a leather skirt caused Elspeth to break away. “Karen! You look great! I’d like you to meet my future sister-in-law, Nancy.”
I wondered if Karen was one of Elspeth’s law school buddies, a fellow prosecutor, perhaps. Increasingly, I find that the more provocative the outfit, the straighter the job. I almost wonder if a display of cleavage and flesh will make me blend in more.
“My brother’s a player,” Elspeth said proudly. She grabbed my hand to show Karen my three-carat diamond. “When he does something, he really does it.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Karen gushed. “We have to talk! I just heard about a fabulous two-bedroom—would you consider moving downtown? Tribeca?”
“Karen’s a real estate genius,” Elspeth chimed in. “Give them your card—I was telling Matt the other day, ‘You can’t expect Nancy to start a new life with you in that bachelor pad!’”
Elspeth’s husband appeared in the doorway carrying a huge briefcase. Jason’s the money in that marriage—an M&A lawyer. Elspeth, the assistant D.A., sees herself as the integrity. Naturally, he’s the polite one and she’s the loudmouth.
“Better late than never!” she rasped cheerfully. “Where were you?”
As he leaned forward for our perfunctory kiss on the cheek, we exchanged a brief look, that “Eye Contract” entered into by two people who might never have met if two other people weren’t related to each other. Restrained sympathy. A curious desire to understand the other person. Followed by relief because you don’t really have to.
When I turned around, Karen and Matt were trading business cards, and I could feel the walls of an unseen apartment closing in on me.
“Matt says you have a new e-mail address? Here’s mine. You’re going to love this place—it’s perfect for a young couple,” Karen told me.
“Oh, I’d love it if you two moved downtown,” Miranda said. “There’s so much happening! We can meet for lunch, Nancy, near the museum.” Miranda works at the New Museum of Contemporary Art, which is smack-dab in the middle of thronging hell! But she loves it because she has no memory of what SoHo was like when it was just a budding restaurant scene with a few nice shops.
