скачать книгу бесплатно
“Well, if he’s gonna pull that stuff, I’m glad you’re here. You, I can count on. Once I did a date with Eileen, and she practically had her tongue up my snatch! That girl’s a degenerate at the best of times.”
“I’m sure Eileen was just trying to be helpful—”
“Gratuitous muff-diving is not helpful! Why does any girl do that when it’s not being requested?”
Jasmine’s cell phone interrupted, giving her the last word.
What can you learn about a girl from the way her phone rings? Not, um, how often it rings—I mean the ring she has chosen to announce her callers. Allison’s phone is playing a lot of Brahms lately, because she read on some website that he practically lived in a brothel. (Well, his name was Johannes.) Jasmine’s phone goes off like a smoke detector.
“Allison’s postponing our lunch,” she told me. “She has a customer.”
“You’re kidding. She was so…”
“…psyched about our meeting!” Jasmine agreed. “But she’s practicing some fiscal responsibility for a change. Putting business before boyfriend was never Allison’s default setting.”
It’s Jasmine’s, though. And I sometimes wonder, What’s it like to be Jasmine’s boyfriend? She must have had more than one. She positions herself as such an authority on relationships, but I know very little about her love life. And she claims she has never “shacked up” with a man for longer than a weekend.
“So what about this guy?” Jasmine was saying. “This boyfriend of hers. Sounds like he might be trouble.”
“She says they’re in love.”
“The L-Word. On the second date? Whatever! As long as the guy goes first.”
“God. Allie wouldn’t use the L-Word first—would she?”
“It’s possible,” Jasmine said. “If she did, we’ll find out. Look, is this guy some kind of bedroom freak? Did she tell you anything?”
“Just—there’s something she’s not ready to do! I’m kind of worried.”
The thing that has no name!
Is Lucho pressuring Allie to quit the business? Even though she’s a spokesperson for the Trollops’ Council? Or maybe he’s going to the other extreme and trying to have a threesome with one of us? Does he want to hide in the closet while she turns tricks? That’s the problem with telling a guy you’re in this business. If he doesn’t want you to quit, he thinks you’re a one-woman fantasy fulfillment center. In fact, if a boyfriend knows you’re hooking, it doesn’t matter whether he accepts or rejects it. Either way, he’ll cause trouble and make impossible demands.
It’s the wrinkle, not the war, of the sexes. Allie joined the hookers’ movement thinking she could eradicate this wrinkle, but you can’t reconfigure the male animal with a manifesto.
THURSDAY, 3/22/01
Well!
I don’t know if Lucho qualifies as a bedroom freak, but he’s making some very unsettling requests. Creating a bit of a lifestyle crisis for Allison.
Today, over thin-crust pizzas at Petaluma—veal salad for Jasmine—Allie came clean about the source of their first quarrel. Which made no sense at all to Jasmine.
“Isn’t he from Brazil?” she asked. “Personally, I thank the Brazilians for teaching us how to wax! As far as I’m concerned, less is more! He should be glad you’re taking an interest in his cultural heritage.”
I had to agree. When I think back to how things were before pubic hair got Brazilianized! It was like being preliterate. Memories of underdevelopment can be elusive—especially in matters of style. I can hardly believe we were once so naive about our lower parts. These days, even if you let your hair grow, it won’t look simple and carefree—instead, it’s like you’re taking a stand, refusing to wax. It now seems quite natural to be hairless.
But Lucho has other opinions.
“He’s from Colombia, not Brazil,” Allie explained. “Bikini waxing isn’t part of Lucho’s heritage! He lived in Paris for ten years—”
“Paris!” Jasmine interjected. “No fucking wonder! I bet they’re still doing the ‘natural’ look. Well, now he’s in Manhattan. This is Brazilian territory!”
“—and his mom’s Lebanese. She met his dad when they were studying in Geneva, and they moved to Bogot?before he was born. His dad is a fifth-generation Colombian. There is nothing…Brazilian about Lucho, but he does speak some Portuguese,” Allie added. A dreamy expression took over. “I’ve never known a man like Lucho. He makes love to me in five different languages and he’s totally supportive of everything I want to do!” She paused. “Well, everything but the waxing. Would you grow your pubic hair back for a man?”
I was at a loss for words. Matt would never take the liberty of tampering with my pubic hair. He might make suggestions about redecorating the apartment, but redecorating my pussy would be out of the question. Like trying to redesign my essence.
“Not a chance,” Jasmine said. “My clients like it this way. And it’s cleaner. This guy has some nerve!”
“He says I’m the love of his life! Why does he want me to change?”
“Maybe he’s just experiencing culture shock,” I suggested.
“This is what happens when you start messing around with someone from the Upper West Side.” Jasmine stabbed a piece of pink veal with her fork. “If he prefers going down on some unwaxed bohemian, let him stay on the West Side! He knew you were an Upper East Sider before you even met. What does he expect? Of course you’re gonna wax!”
Allie began nibbling the pointy end of a pizza slice. Her eyes widened with dismay as Jasmine continued.
“This is not culture shock. It’s the ultimate clash of civilizations!”
“But I want this relationship to work!” said Allie. “And you’re being totally divisive. Escalation is not the way to resolve—”
“You’re from two different worlds,” Jasmine insisted. “And he’s trying to impose his values on you. I did not invent these divisions.”
“I don’t think this has anything to do with him living on the Upper West Side.” Allie flashed a worried look at me. “Does it?”
“Actually,” I told her, “Jasmine’s got a point. The only client who ever complained about my waxing was that divorced rabbi. What’s his name? On West End Avenue. He looks like a guitarstrumming priest from the sixties…”
“I met him last year,” said Jasmine. “Melvin. I call him the day before I get my pussy waxed and he’s, like, in a cab before the call ends.”
“Well, I can’t see Lucho only on the days before I wax!” Allie pointed out. “He’s not a client! Isn’t compromise essential to intimacy? Maybe I should try to meet him halfway.”
“But you’re already halfway,” I said.
Allie retains, at all times, a small fuzzy triangle above her labia…I prefer a complete waxing, so I can watch my hair growing back to a uniform softness. I relish the dark silky hairs that emerge every six weeks. It’s a psychic treat to feel like a proud little twelve-year-old, surveying her womanly evidence. Further proof that being a teenager is way more fun when you’re a grown-up.…By comparison, Allie’s blond topiary is not extreme. More of a hedge than a bush, perhaps, but still. Why isn’t that enough?
“Lucho says”—Allie took a nervous sip of Chardonnay—“he says I should stop removing it from my inner thighs and let it peek out of my panties. I’m just not ready for that! I’ve been waxing since I was sixteen!”
“Does he want to take pictures?” I wondered.
“Of course not!” She blushed. “He says it’s about oral sex. And my lower lips ‘were meant to be like a wild forest, not a suburban lawn.’ Removing too much pubic hair makes it hard for him to ‘experience my scent.’ Well, that’s what he said last night.”
“Well,” Jasmine conceded. “He’s telling you something very important.”
“He is?”
“And he’s paying tribute! That’s a good thing.”
“Paying tribute?”
“When a man isn’t paying, he’d better be paying tribute. This guy”—Jasmine, looking inspired, raised an index finger—“this guy is paying tribute to your pheromones. Love is the grand total sum of all the brain chemicals and pheromones and whatever else coming together in the great big ledger book of human experience. The sense of smell is connected to the tastebuds,” she continued. “So it’s all one package.”
“You mean…” Allie was unconvinced. “The way to a man’s heart is through…?”
“His nostrils? Maybe! He can’t get enough of your natural scent. But here’s the thing. When you’re dating a guy, you go out with him just twice a week—to keep things fresh. Men always want what they can’t have. Well, the same thing applies! This guy already knows he likes your natural scent, and he wants more. From your point of view, that’s all that’s needed. You’ve won the first round! You don’t have to satisfy his appetite, you just have to recognize it. It’s like The Rules for Sweat Glands. Always leave them wanting more!”
Jasmine’s biology lecture was interrupted by my chiming phone. Trish, calling from her gym to confirm a repeat performance with Colin. He’s coming into town with his wife! For his next session, he’s booking a room at the Mayflower on Central Park West—a safe distance from the Waldorf, where they’ll be staying.
And way off the beaten path where Matt’s concerned. Thank god! When I entered this business, I never thought I’d see the day when a three-star hotel trumps a five-star.
Marriage changes everything.
4 Lingerie Liberal (#ulink_01b156ad-1caf-5b65-afba-7e2e0f3457f2)
FRIDAY, 3/23/01
This morning my fingers were engaged in a painstaking task—removing tiny green rosemary leaves from a stalk containing too many black ones—when both phones started ringing at once. The domestic landline I share with Matt and my cell phone (shared with no one), vying for attention. I grabbed the phone on my kitchen wall.
“Nancy! What’s up? Those bibs are adorable! I can’t wait to break them in.”
One of Elspeth’s newborns could be heard wailing in the background.
“My au pair started yesterday. She’s a godsend. Fabulous. And I finally had a chance to open all the presents! What are you doing?” she inquired.
“Making a rosemary marinade. And I have garlic all over my hands!”
It was nice, for once, to have an easy answer for my sister-in-law.
“We have to talk about your friend Allison.”
“We—um—we do?”
“You’re obviously uncomfortable about inviting her to Jason’s birthday party.”
“I don’t think—”
“Nancy, it’s the kiss of death. You can’t let this happen.”
“What are you talking about?”
The garlic on my hands was now overwhelming.
“During the first year of my marriage, I made the same mis
take. You’re alienating yourself from your single girlfriends. It’s a normal feeling. But you have a great relationship with Matt and there’s no reason for you to act so insecure! Besides, I’d like to meet Allison.”
“I don’t think any of this is relevant,” I said, rather stiffly.
“I think it is. And I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through.”
Been there? Elspeth has no idea where I’ve been!
“I am not going through what you think I’m going through.”
I instantly regretted the coldness in my voice. Then realized there was nothing to regret. Elspeth was barreling ahead, determined to liberate and reform.
“I know exactly what you’re going through. Matt already told me how uptight you’re getting about Allison. I just want you to know—this is a phase and it’s not a healthy one! Single women are not the enemy! They can make married life more interesting. And acting paranoid about single women makes you less attractive to your husband. I found that out on my own, and I’m giving you the benefit of my experience.” After a heavy silence, she continued. “You missed out on having a sister.”
She’s trying to be…my big sister?
I am a big sister. With two brothers! As an eldest sister herself, she should know that this is just not done.
“I always wanted a sister,” said Elspeth. “We need to communicate more! Besides,” she added, “all my girlfriends are married or engaged, and Chris is such a catch! I hate to see a guy like Chris at loose ends.”
The distant wailing resumed. Would Elspeth’s maternal instinct please override the sisterly one? But her fabulous new au pair wasn’t going to let that happen.
“What about…” I hate to do this to my twenty-something cousin, but she doesn’t have to know it was my idea. “What about Miranda?” I suggested. “I know she isn’t dating anyone special.”
“Your cousin? Isn’t she a little immature for Chris?”
“Chris would be perfect for her! She needs to start dating above Fourteenth Street.”
“Good point.…Hey,” she said, “aren’t you—? Don’t you have a French class on Friday mornings?”
Elspeth has an unnerving habit of starting a new topic just when I think I’m getting a handle on the previous one.
“I—um—I don’t always go at the same time. My instructor switched days this week.”
“Oh. I thought it was a class. It’s one-on-one?”
“I have to go!” I gasped. Riffing desperately, I added, “Someone’s at my door—I’ll call you back.”
I hung up fast and counted to ten. Gazing in horror at the kitchen wall, I discovered that I had a bad case of garlic phone. You can’t tell your phone to chew a handful of raw parsley, so I attacked the handset with a succession of cleaning potions and hoped for the best.
As I returned to my marinade, I could feel the mantle of frumpiness enveloping my deltoids. Settling upon my shoulders like a ghost. Elspeth has no idea what my life is really about, but something she said managed to hit home: couple-centric paranoia isn’t pretty. And makes single women look soooo much more attractive to a guy. Especially your own!
Of course, there are plenty of other good solid reasons to keep Allie far away from Elspeth and Jason. I’m doing the right thing.
But still. I don’t trust my best friend the way I used to. Because she’s not married! And I trust Trisha—whom I’ve known for just a few months—because she is.
Married hookers instinctively trust each other. We speak the same code, tell the same lies, fear a common peril. I can’t help feeling that an unmarried hooker—especially one like Allie—hasn’t got enough to lose.
Does that make her the enemy of my marriage?
SATURDAY, 3/24/01
Matt told Elspeth how uptight I’m getting? Paranoia “makes you less attractive” to your husband?
It’s all starting to get to me!
