“Luke doesn’t make you come, right?”
She doesn’t answer, which means yes.
I stand in front of the television. Amy crosses her thin arms and looks past me, focusing on Duff Goldman, the chef, who is up to his elbows in fondant. She can be pissy sometimes, but we’ve been friends since we were both straight. That was sixth grade. Then puberty hit and Amy fell in love with Samir Rajkumar, who, after two dates that involved making out at the movie theater, admitted to her, I think I like guys. Then the universe decided to donkey punch Amy because I told her that I was into chicks on the same day. She asked if gay was going around like the flu.
“Amy, come on. It’ll be fun. I’ll buy you a coffee.” She ignores me and changes the channel. There’s a lady on the news with pink lipstick and bad hair talking about a sexual predator on the loose.
“The suspect is a twenty-five-to-thirty-year-old white male…”
“Who is this guy?” Amy asks as an artist’s sketch lingers on the screen.
“Some meth head who’s been ‘harassing women outside a local nightclub.’” I wiggle my fingers in the air, putting quotes around the second part.
“What does that mean?”
I smirk. “He’s been harassing dykes outside E Room, asking if he can help them come. That’s what Julia told me, anyway.”
“How would she know?”
“Her friend Emma works there.”
“With our luck, we’ll run into some guy like that at the porn shop.” Amy gestures at the screen and wrinkles her tiny, cute nose.
“Cathie’s is very classy,” I assure her. “It’s women-owned. Minimal meth head exposure, I promise.” Her green eyes move from the screen to my pleading, grinning face. “Orgasms, Amy!” I do my Martha impression, which she loves: “It’s a good thing.”
Amy cracks a smile, turns off the TV, and picks up her tiny purse from under the coffee table. I see her pull out her phone as she gets into my car.
“Who are you texting?”
“Luke.”
“Gonna let him know that you’re going to buy his competition?”
She doesn’t say anything as we drive down Eighty-second, past Vietnamese restaurants and brothels with names like Honeysuckles Lingerie and The G Spot. I wonder what she’s writing. what r u doing tonight? I pull into a strip mall with a Russian deli, a teriyaki joint, a nail salon, and a bubble tea café.
There’s techno music playing in the café, which is mostly deserted except for a guy checking his e-mail and two teenage girls reading magazines in the back. Amy orders a latte. “I hate the way those bubbles feel in my mouth,” she says when I order a taro root smoothie with tapioca pearls. “They’re so slimy.”
“Nah, they’re kind of like candy,” I explain.
Amy argues, “I don’t think you should have to chew your drink,” and adds another packet of sugar to her cup. She grabs two swizzle straws and pushes them through the hole in the lid.
We drive further south, past the community college, the Taboo porn shop, and two enormous Chinese restaurants.
I ask Amy if she came with her last boyfriend, Del, who she dated her junior year. He was tall and tan like a Ken doll. I liked him, right up until he called Samir a faggot behind his back. I did the only thing a sensible lesbian would do-I gave him a black eye. Del snitched to his parents, telling them a crazy dyke tried to kill him, and I had to spend time with my mom and a juvie youth counselor talking about why I was such “an angry young woman.” I got probation. Amy broke up with Del and didn’t talk to me for a month.
Amy shakes her head about Del. I suck the bubbles up from the bottom of my cup. “That blows,” I say.
She stares at her phone, mid-text. “His dick was too big. It hurt.”
“Okay, well, moving forward. Top 10 best things about vibrators. I’ll start. They come in shapes like dolphins and beavers. Your turn.” Amy will play Top 10 anything. It’s my way of making her feel okay about things she doesn’t want to do. One time we played Top 10 best things about abortions.
“Uh,” she finishes her text and puts her phone away in her purse. “Some of them ejaculate, I’ve heard, which is absolutely hilarious.”
“Good call. Number three, some of them light up. I even had one once that had glitter in the middle.”
“Isn’t that a health hazard?” Amy asks.
“Not if you wash it properly. Your turn. Four.”
“They don’t forget your birthday,” she offers.
“Oh, bitter. I like it.”
She adds quietly with a smirk, “And they can’t get you pregnant, either.”
I nod. “Six. They never get jealous when you sleep with someone else.”
Amy rolls her eyes. “And they never choose to play Xbox over you.”
“You can easily twist the base to adjust the speed.”
“Number nine… When they get tired, you can just put in more batteries.”
“Excellent point. And number ten, of course-multiple orgasms. Thank God for the Hitachi magic wand.”
Amy puts down her cup mid-sip. “Wait,” she says. “I thought the Bunny was the best one.”
“You mean the Rabbit. And you watch too much Sex and the City.”
“So then which one do I buy?”
“Well, that depends,” I reply, “on whether you have clitoral or vaginal orgasms.”
Amy bites the tiny swizzle straw in her latte, opens her mouth, and then closes it again.
I try to translate. “Neither?” I ask as we pull into the strip mall parking lot. The windows are frosted white and the neon sign above the door is written in swirly red letters with a heart dotting the i: Cathie’s. Amy opens her door and jumps out of the car to avoid the question.
Inside, I help her decipher the wall of fake wieners. I explain the difference between jelly, cyberskin, and plastic, and the importance of noting battery sizes.
“See this one?” I pick up a slim white number from the wall. “This one takes double-As, so that means it’s kind of like a quiet hum.” I pick up a bigger one, an inch and a half in diameter, with a pink leopard pattern all over it. “This one takes C batteries. It’s like having a didgeridoo against your clit.” I smile and close my eyes. “Mmm. My favorite.”
Amy bites her lip. “How do I know which one to pick? Should I get that thing with the hook on the end?” She picks up one that looks like a dentist’s instrument-long and thin with a slight curve at the tip.
“Have you found your G spot? That’s what the hook is for.”
Amy cocks her head in response, her body now mirroring the shape of the vibrator in her hand. The way she holds it, it almost looks like an abstract self-portrait.
I smack myself in the forehead with the pink leopard wiener. “This is ridiculous,” I say. “Do you do anything down there besides piss and put in the occasional tampon?”
Amy smirks and puts it back. “I know you think I’m an idiot, Kate, but I’m not.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m getting more head than you right now,” she says with a self-satisfied smile.
I roll my eyes. “Boy head, whatever. He doesn’t give you orgasms!”
“Sometimes orgasms aren’t everything,” Amy explains.
“Only people who can’t have orgasms say stuff like that.”
Amy picks up a slim silver vibrator with a body that slowly moves in and out. The base is cupped like a spoon. The box says, Hummingbird. “How about this one?”
I nod. “Sure, it looks good. I think that little spoony part is for your clit.”
Amy holds it firmly, decisively. “Okay. I think we’re done.” Her eyes dart around the store and she lowers her voice to a whisper. “See that lady over there?”
I turn to the display of butt plugs and pick up one like I’m interested. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot an older woman in her forties with bright yellow hair hanging in crispy, over-gelled waves down her back. She’s wearing white shorts and her skin is brown like a hot dog. She’s holding the largest bottle of lube I’ve ever seen. It looks like a Big Gulp cup.