Jamie is rolling an orange in his hand, staring at it.
“Jamie,” Russ says, “we’re thinking of going over our OB assignment now. Don’t want to interrupt you, of course. Busy, eh?”
“Ha-ha,” Jamie says. “As if the rest of you could answer the questions without me.”
I look at my watch. “Crap, it’s already five past five! I’m supposed to meet my group.”
“You’re late for a group meeting?” Kimmy says, feigning shock. “My, oh, my, you two must have really been having fun.”
“You want fun, Kimmy? I’ll give you fun.” Jamie raises his eyebrows suggestively.
We’re going to have to work on his presentation. He obviously didn’t pay enough attention in IC. “Hey there’s Dorothy!” I say, waving at the Carry the Torch administrator across the field. “Yoo-hoo, Dorothy!” I call. “Let me introduce you.”
“You know what, Layla?” Jamie says, grabbing his bag. “I gotta go.”
And just like that, he takes off. What was that about? Apparently, we have to work on his communication as well as his presentation skills.
kimmy knows the drill
Tuesday, November 18, 11:20 p.m.
Another day, another blow job.
I’m getting cynical in my old age. It’s almost eleven-thirty, and Russ and I are lying on his bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, as though we have just made love and are now basking in the afterglow.
Wrong. We’re still not having sex. We kiss, we fondle and we oral, but that’s it.
These dates give a whole new meaning to foreplay, but I’m beginning to get a little annoyed. Yeah, yeah, he reciprocates the favor, but since I can’t come, I don’t get much pleasure. The thing I like about sex is the closeness. While you’re doing it, nothing else matters, nothing but the weight of his body, the smell of his neck, the feel of his skin.
My favorite part is now, listening to his heartbeat slowing down, my head nuzzled in his chest. He’s wearing a T-shirt but no pants, and I’m completely naked. Sometimes he plays with my ear. It’s the same spot that I like to play with and I think this must be a sign.
The Zoo is quiet, and there are a few noises outside, a car driving off, two friends laughing, but they’re in the distance. Any second now the phone is going to ring, furious and loud, demolishing the harmony, like a wineglass slipping out of your hand onto the tiled kitchen floor. Any second now. His clock says 11:29 p.m. and she always calls at eleven-thirty.
If I had any self-respect I’d make a furtive exit. I’d kiss him on the forehead, tell him we’ll speak soon, or something equally evasive, and let the phone ring when I’m long gone.
I don’t move. The thing is, I need to hear the phone. If a phone rings and I don’t hear it, did it really ring at all? Hearing the phone ring is my only way of monitoring the relationship. I wait for the day when the phone will stop ringing.
Ring.
I guess it’s not today.
Ring. Ring. Voice mail picks up.
Russ’s back tenses. Then he forces himself to relax. At eleven-forty I kiss him on the forehead. “See you tomorrow,” I say, and reach for my crumpled panties and socks, which always end up squeezed between the corner of the bed and the heater. I get dressed quickly and quietly.
“Good night,” he says. I press my head against the door to see if I can hear anything outside. I’m holding a textbook as my alibi in case anyone is lurking in the hallway. Nothing. I open the door a crack and don’t see anyone outside. I wave, and close the door behind me. Then I wait. After a few minutes, I hear him move inside. He listens to the message. And then dials her number into the phone. “Hi,” he says. “I’m good… No…nothing new… You?”
I hear someone walking up the stairs, and decide to take off before I’m caught eavesdropping. What I should be doing, instead of eavesdropping and giving blow jobs, is writing my cover letter and résumé. I think I want to be a consultant. Sounds glamorous. Lots of travel, high salary, get to be based in New York. Get to play with goals and tactics and strategies all day long. I’m applying to all the strategy consultant firms, including Bain, McKinsey, Accenture, BCG and O’Donnel.
Back in my closet of a room, I flip open my laptop. The job I really want is that of girlfriend. But before I can get that job, Russ has to fire the person currently hogging my position. I’m hoping he’ll lay her off over Thanksgiving.
I really don’t feel like writing a cover letter. Maybe this is what I’ll write instead:
HR Jerk
100 Skyscraper, #666
New York, NY 69696
212-no-chance
Kimmy Nailer
The Zoo
1-555-AMB-ORED
Dear Mr. HR:
A consistent objective throughout my life has been to acquire skills that will not in any way, shape or form help me get a job. Such as Pilates and blow jobs. I believe that my skill set can be successfully leveraged as a Summer Associate at your incredibly boring place of work.
Upon graduating from college, I worked for my father in a job I detested, where I spent most of the day phoning my boyfriend. Then the jackass cheated on me and I came to business school to find a new boyfriend.
I possess strong interpersonal skills (two guys in my learning group want me) that I believe would be an asset to you. My experience demonstrates the ability to plan and execute in-depth seducing strategies, with results-oriented goals. I’m hoping the guy I’ve been hooking up with will dump his girlfriend over Thanksgiving. Why wouldn’t he, right? He’s obviously not too interested in her if he’s been hooking up with me. Not sleeping with me, mind you, as that’s where he arbitrarily draws the line. But I’m assuming he hasn’t wanted to break up with her over the phone (he’s sensitive and considerate) and will take care of it this weekend in person. I’m sure you agree that this is his best plan of action.
Should you also agree that my competencies would make a strong contribution to your organization, I would appreciate the opportunity to further discuss my experience and goals at your convenience. My résumé is attached for your review.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Kimmy Nailer
P. S. If you perform drug-testing for summer employment, don’t bother getting back to me. It’s a long story, but the guy I’ve been hooking up with smokes a lot of pot, and in order to prove to him that I’m more agreeable than the prude he actually does cross the line with back home, I’ve had to do some puffing myself. I wish I could tell you that although I smoke, I don’t inhale, but that would make me a liar as well as a boyfriend-poacher, and I do have some ethics, after all. Who knew?
jamie wants a sex change/jamie wants sex, period
Thursday, November 20, 7:00 p.m.
I knock on Layla’s door to the rhythm of “The Sound of Music.” The-hills. Are-a-live. To-the-sound. Of-mu-(long pause)-sic.
“One sec!” She hollers, then opens the door, dressed in khakis and a Polo shirt. I love that this is her study outfit. Everyone else wears sweatpants and flannel to study in. Or maybe that’s just me. What’s the point in being uncomfortable?
“It’s Thursday night. Time to watch the student body drink and make fools of themselves,” I tell her.
She laughs and shakes her head. “Are you crazy, Jamie? There’s no time for a beer bash tonight. There’s a speaking event I want to go to, and do you realize how much work we have due next week? Job applications, Economics midterm, our group OB and Strategy cases, never mind the Economics assignment-”
“You can’t still be working on Economics. You’ve been doing it for ages.”
“It’s worth sixty percent of our final mark! Have you finished your applications?”