Example 3: “How many people have you been to bed with?”
No client has ever asked. Sometimes they ask how long I have been working, but whether they attempt to deduce the number of my past lovers based on the answer is unknown. Given that my working practices have been sometimes sporadic, it’s unlikely they would reach an accurate total.
Non-clients always ask. If I think the man has a good sense of humor, I tell him a number that is roughly accurate. Or at least within the same order of magnitude. I don’t know the real answer myself. For geeky men with extremely good senses of humor, I offer the total in scientific notation or hexadecimal.
If I think he does not have a good sense of humor, I try to change the subject or turn the question back on him.
Why does it matter? Quantity is no guarantee of quality. Frequency definitely isn’t. But a low total is not indicative of personality either. A high number of ex-lovers could just as easily say “I’m good at hostessing, and the lack of stalkers implies my selective powers are decent” as it does the more common interpretation of “I’m a big wet girlslut with a drinking problem.” Men-and women-who have been shocked by my answer were often heard to mumble, “But you look like such a nice girl!”
I am nice. Very nice indeed.
At the age of seventeen someone split with me because he was my third partner and this was an unacceptably high number to him. The next man, number 4, claimed the number of my previous lovers was unacceptably low. There’s no pleasing some people.
The last time I had a lover with more former partners than me (that I knew of) was at the age of nineteen.
Example 4: “We only have a quarter of an hour. May I come in your mouth?”
In a normal situation, this might meet with a grimace at best and a restraint order at worst. At work, though, typical responses range from “Go on then!” to “Okay, but I would rather you came on my face.” dimanche, le 4 avril
A year or two ago it became apparent how neatly I’ve left the first flush of youth behind. The Maginot Line was, of all things, music. Watching videos after a prolonged absence from popular culture, I noticed to my horror that those who are not old enough to remember Lionel Richie the first time around consider him some sort of Grand Pooh-Bah of soft rock. Lionel was everywhere, sporting mini-dreads, bling, and cred. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Did no one else have their early memories of music television inexorably scarred by the sight of Mr. Richie crooning earnestly to his own clay head? Sometimes I fear for the younger generation, truly.
Which reminds me that my mother’s birthday is looming and I really must remember to make her that Neil Sedaka Tzedakah box I’m always promising-or is it threatening? — to craft.
WAX
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English weax; akin to Old High German wahs, Lithuanian vaskas
Function: transitive verb, intransitive verb, noun
1: a substance secreted by bees and used for constructing the honeycomb, composed of a mixture of esters, cerotic acid, and hydrocarbons
2: any of various substances resembling beeswax: any of numerous substances that differ from fats in being less greasy, harder, and more brittle and in containing principally compounds of high molecular weight (as fatty acids, alcohols, and saturated hydrocarbons), or a solid substance of mineral origin consisting of hydrocarbons of high molecular weight
3: something likened to wax as soft, impressionable, or readily molded
4: to treat or rub with wax, usually for polishing or stiffening
5: the process of removing body hair in the most painful, yet somehow satisfying, way possible
6: to follow the object of your affection around the room in an attempt to get them to take notice of you
I stood by the paper towel dispenser, blotting sweat off my neck until the 10-Pence Bet came into view. He was setting up a bench-press-cum-torture-device. When he turned away to slide a weight off the rack, I slid in behind him.
“Work in sets with you?” Gym-speak for asking if you can alternate on the weights. Never regarded as an overt come-on: people who are waxing you are more likely to stand off to the side and watch.
It was a ludicrous request, of course. I couldn’t have spotted the weight he could probably lift with his little toe. “You lifting?” he asked. Soft voice, nice.
“Maybe the bar plus twenty,” I said. Damn, I actually sound like I know what I’m talking about.
He nodded. We went through three sets each. I stood on the opposite side of the bar as he pressed out his reps, watching the long-sleeved shirt strain at his chest. On my sets I tried hard to look cool and serious, not the giggling feeble creature I play when N’s in the gym. We finished on the bench and moved off to other sides of the gym. Play it cool, girl, I thought. Don’t follow him around the room. Don’t wax.
Half an hour later I walked through to the aerobic area. He was on a rowing machine, had been for a few minutes-the sweat was just starting to trickle past his hairline. I sat on one a few seats away and strapped my feet in.
“Hard workout day for you then?” he asked.
I smiled. “Just cooling down.” I rowed through five minutes, watching his reflection surreptitiously in the glass opposite us. His sweat was really starting to pour. He had taken off the long-sleeved top. I finished and walked out the door behind him, caught a glance of his back squeezing together at the end of each stroke. The droplets sliding down the crevice of his spine.
I was alone in the hall leading to the changing rooms. Wait a few minutes, I thought. He’ll come out and you can say something.
Don’t. He’ll know you waited.
Coward.
Tart.
What would I say, anyway? “Oh, to be the person who gets to lick that sweat off you,” then walk away? The door cracked. I didn’t wait to see who it was. I ducked in the ladies’ faster than a greased goose. mardi, le 6 avril
N and I went out for Italian and beer. We sat outside waiting for the food. It was a mild evening, I was a little tired from a long session of working out frustrations in the gym, and the drink went straight to my head. We talked about the coming month, what he was doing with work, a bit about women he was interested in. I confessed that I’d been doing a little Internet snooping on the Boy.
We must be in sync-N, who has been so good about not obsessing on his own ex, revealed that he’d been doing the same. “So did you find anything?” I asked first. Nothing, he said. Maybe she was married. Maybe she moved. I thought it was too soon. She was an impulsive girl, a bit dappy, but settling down already would beggar belief even for her. He asked if I had found anything.
“A little,” I said. “Enough.” He’s moved, he’s probably single. Nothing earth-shattering. We sipped at our drinks. The food came. The first course was bigger than we expected, he finished mine off. The second course came, I just had a salad. I suppose I feel I’ve violated the Boy’s privacy by looking, but couldn’t stop myself.
“Mutual inability to let go,” N said.
“Yes.” We sat in silence a bit longer, chewing, waving off the ubiquitous fresh-ground-pepper boys with their porn-sized grinders.
“So, meet any nice girls with big tits lately?” he asked suddenly. I laughed so hard I almost choked on a mouthful of arugula. mercredi,
CHILD
Etymology: from Old English cild, akin to Gothic kilthei (womb), Sanskrit jathara (belly).
Function: noun
1: a young person of either sex between infancy and youth
2: one strongly influenced by another or by a place or state of affairs
3: a product or result
4: anyone born in a year I had a double-digit birthday in
“Guess what,” N smirked.
“What.” I was in no mood for guessing games.
“I’ve been talking to your little friend,” he said.
“Which little friend?” N meant 10-Pence Bet. “So what do you know?” I asked.