he said, as if this were a good thing. "Englishwomen don't like it. Well, maybe they would like it, but they think that men are only after the one thing." Maybe it was the champagne, but Peter seemed to be getting what the English call "stroppy.”
“Englishwomen suffer from this half-baked feminism. They think they're really open about sex, but then—aha—they find out they have the same hang-ups their mothers did.”
“Well, maybe there's a reason for that," I ventured. "Maybe if you'd stop talking—”
Peter cut me off. "Women here think that any adventure in the bedroom is only for male pleasure!”
he said triumphantly.
The chatty Englishman problem continued to plague me to the nightclub China White, where I attempted to take refuge in one of the private Moroccan-style rooms with my friend Sophie, who worked in documentaries and lived in Notting Hill. I had just settled against the cushions with a bottle of vodka when I looked up and noticed a tall, dark-haired, shockingly good-looking man. Although these kinds of things supposedly don't happen in London, the man came over and sat down next to me. And then—so much for "English reserve"—I swear to God, he immediately launched into a conversation about sex.
"Everybody thinks if s the man's fault that women don't have orgasms. Why can't they just have them like ... like men?" he demanded.
"Actually, they can," I said, wondering if perhaps this was a come-on, and if so, what I should do about it.
"Oh yes. They're always saying they can, but then you're in bed with a woman, and she's just lying there like she's doing you a favor....”
"Now, where I come from, we sort of got over that in the sixties," I was saying, when suddenly Sophie jumped in.
"Oh please/' she snapped. "Don't listen to him. The first thing an Englishman does in bed is to try to flip you over. Because That’s how they're used to having sex. And they all say Englishwomen can't give good blow jobs. But if s only because they're used to getting them ... from boys!”
Sophie and the good-looking, dark-haired man sat glaring at each other. I wouldn't have minded this, but I was sitting between them, and I really wasn't in a mood to get clocked by a wayward punch. Luckily, at that moment The Fox poked his head in.
"Ooooh. Hello, Simon," he said, as his eyes narrowed. "Haven't seen you for a while.”
"Right. Well, I'm ... I'm having a baby," Simon said.
"Good for you. Then maybe you can stop chatting up my date!" The Fox grabbed my arm and pulled me out of there. "Listen," he said. "I spend most of my life with people who know fuck-all about fuck-all and deserve to be kicked to death. Most people are complete scum. Most people need someone to explain to them that their very existence is a nuisance!”
The Fox continued in this vein until we reached his house, where he insisted that I stay up with him until six in the morning, listening to obscure American cowboy music. And talking about it. At this point, I realized I needed to sleep. I also realized that the only way to get The Fox to stop talking was to drug him. Yes, I'm very sorry to say that I actually tried to slip Xanaxes into The Fox's glass of wine. Unfortunately, it all got mixed up, and I ended up passing out instead.
When I woke up the next afternoon, there was a note at the bottom of the bed: "Darling, never mind Shakespeare, I'm in love. Still crazy after all these hours. Love, The Fox. P.S. I didn't touch you." Englishmen are just ... so ... sweet!
I spent the next few days going to lunches and dinners and nightclubs. The thing That’s kind of weird about London is that even though people say they have jobs, no one ever seems to get any work done. I mean, how can they, when lunch begins at noon and goes until four o'clock? And usually involves several cocktails and a couple of bottles of wine? And then that Miranda person snuck into The Fox's apartment and really did steal all the lightbulbs. So when I had to get dressed to go out at night, I had to do it by feel.
And then there was no hot water.
And then I remembered that I was actually supposed to be doing something, like working, so I called my friend Claire.
Claire is an interior decorator—has been for five years, ever since her second husband ran off with her best friend. Claire is the only truly single girl I know in London. Meaning she hasn't had a real boyfriend for three years. Which pretty much makes her an honorary New York woman in my book. But unlike most New York women, Claire has already been married twice. And she's only thirty-seven. Did she really have that much to complain about? "Let me put it this way," she said. "I haven't had sex with anyone new in over a year. I've only had sex with old boyfriends. Which everyone knows doesn't count." We agreed to meet at Shoo House, one of these private clubs where people go in lieu of restaurants and bars.
I looked around at the clumps of men and women, all of whom seemed to be in their late twenties and thirties, and all of whom seemed to be dressed in varying shades of gray or black clothes that looked like they'd been plucked out of the dirty-clothes hamper. Right away, I realized I just wasn't getting the clothes bit right—I was wearing a Dolce & Gabbana coat with a cranberry fur collar. Everyone was drinking and laughing, but it didn't look like people were trying to pick each other up. "God," I said. "I feel like a desperate single woman.”
Claire looked around wildly. "Stop it. Don't ever say that. Women in London are not desperate. People don't understand things like that here. They'll think we're serious. We don't have men because we don't want to.”
"We don't?" I said.
"No." She took in what I was wearing. "And take that off," she said. "Everyone is going to think that you're a prostitute. Only prostitutes wear designer clothes. With fur.”
Okay. "Cocktail?" I asked.
"You know me," Claire said. "Oh, by the way. I've decided to become a housewife. But without the husband or kids. Did I tell you about this fabulous floor waxer I just bought? Secondhand, but it's lovely. I don't think you can get things like floor waxers anymore.”
At the bar, we ran into Hamish and Giles, two Notting Hill media types whom Claire knew. Hamish had a sweet face like a baby and was in a dither over his romantic life: He was trying to decide whether or not to marry his girlfriend.
Meanwhile, Giles said that he might have to swear off casual sex because he kept running into women he'd slept with, and things were getting "complicated." Ah. Casual sex. Now we were getting somewhere.
Or so I thought.
"The worst thing about casual sex is the cats," Giles said. "All these single women have cats!”
“Can we talk about my girlfriend?" Hamish asked. "I don't know what to do. She's threatening to leave ...”
"Cats are the ultimate put-off," Giles said. Obviously, he'd had the girlfriend discussion a few too many times. "Once I was thinking about seeing a woman, and Hamish said, 'Giles, don't be ridiculous. She has a cat.' If s not the cats, so much, but the way they talk about the cats. 'Ooooh, look at little PooPoo.' Ifs disgusting." Giles took a sip of vodka. "I haven't mastered the relationship thing. But I'd prefer to have a girlfriend. In London, we don't have dates. We just go out together. And in London, a snog is a down payment on a shag. Once you get down to snogging, you know you're in. In New York, that isn't true.”
I agreed, pointing out that in New York, it was entirely possible to kiss someone and then say, "See ya," and never see him again. And if you did see him again, it was considered good form to pretend that the snog never happened. This rule also applies if you have gone further than the snog and have actually shagged.