From Butt to Booty (5 page)

“My dick? Am I happy with the size of my penis? You want to know—”

“No. Forget I asked. I don’t really want to know. But are you?” My face is burning. I hate being a girl. We are so unprepared for genital insecurity. We’re too covert for this.

“I’m not throwing myself on any swords.”

“Meaning what?” Please, now he gets all cryptic. Spell it out for me.

“I’m about average, I guess. Maybe a little more. Nice size when erect. Nothing I’m worried about. Where does this come from?”

“Stephen called me.”

“And said what?”

“He’s uncomfortable with his … size.” And I know I’m totally perverse, but all I can think about is the baby boy I babysat whose teeny-tiny didn’t seem to matter when he peed all over me. Never change a boy’s diaper. Let them sit in it. Or bring a change of shirt for when they decide to engage in water sports.

“He did not. I am not falling for this crap. You have to be joking.”

“Have I ever in my life joked about penis size?” Knock-knock jokes, an occasional ironic comment, sarcasm, yes. But a shtick about sticks? Not my style. “I’m not kidding. Honestly.”

“Swear on the Barbie you mutilated.”

“I swear on Barbie’s double mastectomy, I am not kidding.”

“Oh my God.”

There’s a long uncomfortable silence.

“Adam?”

“Yeah.”

“You there?”

“Hmm. Trying to figure out what to say.” He sounds as blown away as I feel.

“Is it as weird as I think it is?”

Adam hmphs. “How long have you been going out?”

“Almost two months.”

“Yeah, it’s a little odd.”

“I mean, do guys talk like that? I thought you were supposed to be all silent and hard to figure out even after years of marriage.”

“Well.”

“I mean, first he makes me wonder if I’m gay and then he drops that one. And what do I say? What in the world did he want to hear? That I think his dick is just right for my inadequate vagina? How does he know? I have no idea if I need to add that to my list of things I should have therapy for, so how does he know? And why does he think this is something I want to hear about? What in the world was he thinking? That I want to know his every secret and fear?”

“Breathe, Gert, breathe.”

I gasp for air, but with a little oxygen, I get going again. “We’ve kissed. Once his tongue touched my spleen, but that’s it. Shouldn’t we date long enough to, I don’t know, meet each other’s families before the issue of dick size is even raised? Isn’t that something that should be talked about in marriage counseling before the divorce? I bring up how small it is, and how he can’t use it, and he makes cracks about size not mattering, but then when it gets down to it, he’s been ashamed of the small size all his life?”

“You’ve been watching too much Lifetime Television.”

“I have not.”

“I guess it’s good to know now.” Obviously Adam is reaching.

“How so?”

“Well, if dating a horse is something you aspire to, then you need to look in a different stable. Saves time.” He’s chuckling. I can’t believe it. He’s finding humor in this.

This is not funny. “This is not funny.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.” Okay, it’s a little funny. I swallow a chortle.

“Yeah, it is. Very.” Adam giggles.

I giggle. I hate growing up. I am not prepared for this crap.

Adam says something and then repeats it. “Did you”—pause for gasp of air—“did you reassure him?”

Tears stream down my face. I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts. “I don’t remember. Isn’t that horrible? I don’t know what I said.” I am the worst girlfriend in the world.

“Maybe he wanted you to convince him. You know, check it out and pronounce it worthy.”

“That’s as likely as me having sex in a room full of people.”

“He doesn’t know that. Maybe it’s a new line.”

“Maybe he thinks dating means actually being honest about all that.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“I don’t want to know. I want to kiss and cuddle and have someone to go to dances with. It was nice having a guy on New Year’s.”

“Hear you on that.”

“But I don’t think he’s the one who’s going to eclipse my moon.”

“Tell me you haven’t been reading Hallmark love cards again.”

“Some are very poetic.”

“Sick. You are ill. No one looks for romance in the romance section, honey.”

“I like them.”

“He’s not going to buy a card for you.”

“You never know.” It’s my secret fantasy for a guy to hand me one of those huge smooshy-squishy, lovely-dovey Hallmark cards for no reason other than because he saw it and thought of me.

“Not going to happen. Why don’t you bring the fantasies back
down to earth. Hope for an orgasm the first time you have sex. Something at least possible in the known universe.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Yes, I am. I’m being the voice of reason.”

Change the subject. “Tim’s good?”

“We’re good.”

“Good.” I really want to ask about his proportions, but, well, that could be construed as invasive.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I am. Maggie and Clarice are having a sleepover later.”

“Good. Let’s have burgers on Saturday night?”

“Yeah, it’s been a while. That’d be good.”

“And Gert?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not gay. Maybe you’re just not that into him?”

That’s something to consider.

This is both a rant and a rave because frankly, I can’t decide how I feel about them. My boobs took the idea “reach for the stars” seriously. Lying on my back, I’ve got twin launchpads with shuttles. Any minute now, I’m going to hear the NASA voice counting down to liftoff.

My bras aren’t fitting right. I’m kinda spilling over the top and out the sides. I haven’t gained weight, since my jeans still fit, but my boobs are getting ginormous. Slight exaggeration, perhaps, but who tells them to grow? And more important, who tells them to stop? Has a woman ever had boobs that didn’t stop growing? She’s probably stuck facedown somewhere, her throat hoarse from calling for help because all of a sudden her boobs went from having their own zip code to dry-docking her right where she stood.

Seriously, where’s the reboot function? Where’s the off switch? Who do I have to say nice things to to get them to stop? If I sleep on my stomach, will that slow the rate of growth?

Clarice pulls out a bag full of candles and begins setting them around Maggie’s room. We’re starting to look like the candle store at the Plaza—the one with eighty discreetly placed fire extinguishers and no overhead lights.

“What’s with the candles?” I ask.

“My sister says you must have the correct ambience when discussing kissing and kissing techniques,” Clarice answers, intently positioning pillars and votives.

Maggie moves behind her with one of those foot-long lighters, setting every wick aglow. The lit candles begin filling the room with a mosh pit of scents.

“Didn’t she mean actual kissing ambience?” The room smells like a yummy brothel in Turkey.

“No. It’s a ritual thing in our family. You get Frenched, you light smelly candles.” Clarice sets the empty shopping bag aside.

Uh-huh. And when do you sacrifice the chicken and smear frog intestines on your face?
I glance at Maggie, hoping I’m not the only
one feeling empty of understanding. She smiles at me. I hesitate, then venture in. “I don’t get it.”

Maggie shakes her head in minute agreement.

“There’s nothing to get.” Clarice is oblivious to the look Maggie and I shoot each other.

“Okay.” I don’t get it. But I really like the fruity coffee-cream candle wafting to my left.

Maggie pulls out a file folder from under her bed and shuffles through computer printouts. “I did a little research.”

Okay, here’s the deal, I’ve never understood how much I need and want girlfriends until this moment. I’m not going to get all gooey and gushy, but I have to say that watching Clarice light candles to purify my kissing karma and Maggie pull out her file-o’-technique, I realize that I’m blessed. I have to wonder why it took so long.

Maggie shuffles the papers and pauses like she’s gathering her thoughts before starting the lecture. “I’m impressed by the sheer number of techniques! I’m not sure we can cover the spectrum in a single sleepover.”

“Whatever. What are they?” Clarice waves her hands and jingles several very goth charm bracelets.

“Soft. Hard. Biting. Sucking. Breathing. They all have weird names.”

“Maybe we should watch the movies first, then decide which is which?” While I’m a serious fan of book learning, I’m thinking visual aids may be much more helpful. And more fun. Fun is good.

“Fine.” Maggie reaches for a stack of DVDs while Clarice pops the tab on a Diet Coke and rips the bag of Ruffles.

I pull out the Twizzlers, gummy bears and Doritos. Quite a
delicious combo when eaten together. The salty, the sweet, the artificial chemical haze of the twenty-first century.

“What’s first on the list?” I ask, grabbing a full-calorie beverage.

“From Here to Eternity.”
Maggie puts in the DVD and stacks more pillows for better viewing.

The beginning credits roll. Either there’s something wrong with Maggie’s HDTV or the movie is really old, like precolor.

“What’s that?” Clarice licks her fingers. “It’s black-and-white. Who makes black-and-white movies anymore? Seriously retro.”

Maggie shushes her. “It’s voted the best kiss ever on-screen,” she says.

“It’s in black-and-white.” Apparently, Clarice only lives in Technicolor.

“I’m just the librarian here,” Maggie offers.

I prepare to be blown away by the mind-blowingness of the most perfect kiss ever to grace the silver screen.

Clarice can’t just give herself up to the experience. “Are we watching these chronologically?”

Maggie presses pause. “Nope, ‘best kiss’ is how they’re listed.” She waves her stack of papers around.

Clarice motions to the television. “Who are these people? They’re old.”

“Yeah, so?” Maggie shrugs with disdain and pauses the movie.

I try to break the tension. “Frank Sinatra is in it. I recognize him.” This must be the original.

“Oh.” Clarice shuts up as Maggie presses play again.

“What’s it about?” I ask, thinking there could be more action to the best kiss ever.

“Barracks life in Hawaii in 1941.” Maggie hands me the DVD case so I can read the back.

“World War One?” Clarice asks, munching on more chips.

“Two. One was in the teens,” I answer. What number are we on now? Four?

“He’s hot,” Maggie says.

I look up. Not bad for a colorless man. “Where are the women?” This is way too old to be the first gay kiss, so where are our counterparts?

Clarice says exactly what I’m thinking. “Okay, I’m bored. Can we fast-forward?”

Maggie turns to me. “Do you think that affects the kiss rating? If we don’t know the whole story?”

I compromise. Isn’t a kiss a kiss no matter what the rest of the story is? Would porn be so popular if the story was important? “Well, go to where we see a girl come in.”

Clarice screeches “Stop!” when a woman comes on-screen. This woman’s got a reputation. She’s married. Is she giving him “the look”? They’re making eyes at each other. Is that allowed? How old is this movie? She smokes.

We glance at each other, hoping we’re not the only one unsure of the content. Is this movie about unhappily married people? “How is this a great kiss? They haven’t even shaken hands,” I ask as minutes click by.

“He likes her,” Maggie says.

“Who?”

“The sergeant guy,” Clarice answers.

“How can you tell?” I ask, still dubious.

“He’s ogling the pic on the guy’s desk,” Maggie says, zooming forward a little more.

“Do they like each other or hate each other?” Clarice asks.

“I can’t tell,” I say. “Can you tell?” I shrug, pointing to Maggie.

“Not really. But isn’t that what great love is all about? Not liking each other, alternating with liking?” She doesn’t take her fingers off the remote.

We skip more. Sandy beaches and bizarre swimming attire. “This could be it.” I have a vague recollection of my mother having watched this movie before. Ooo, they kiss. In the sand and covered in salt water.