How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel (10 page)

“We’ve gotta get out there now!”

If she was only half-convinced before, Lacey is now thoroughly committed to the idea that I should be committed.

~

As we come out of the bathroom, I explain, “Okay, I forgot my purse in there. Watch what happens, when I go to get it.”

Marty, who is predictably waiting for us right outside the bathroom asks, “What are we looking for?”

Lacey explains, as if it were the most ridiculous possible chain of events, “She’s supposed to meet a guy named John, and if he spills his drink on her, I’m supposedly going to sleep with you.”

Marty perks up, “Wow, suddenly I care.”

It’s time. I turn back toward the bathroom to retrieve my purse, and boom! I run smack into John. His drink spills on me, and Lacey’s jaw hits the floor. This is happening.

“Oh no! So sorry,” John says sweetly.

This time when he looks at me, he seems to recognize me, or something in me, I don’t know. He might have done that last time, but I don’t remember. Or I guess that time I was looking at the spot on my dress that had been newly sullied, and this time I was looking at his face to catch his first impression of me. This was a much better choice. Not only does he seem to recognize me from somewhere, but he clearly finds comfort, and possibly even some deeper longing, in what he’s seeing. I wasn’t wrong. There was something in me that he knew he wanted from the moment he laid eyes on me. It couldn’t be laid out more clearly than it is in his expression.

I’m feeling pretty good right now, so I command him almost cockily to tell my friends his name.

“It’s John,” he says, “What's yours?”

Lacey starts her backpedal to Marty before anyone has a chance to explain anything to John, “No, way! It’s a coincidence. John is the most common name in the world. That’s like being called, ‘Hey, you’. Everyone turns around.” She doesn’t seem to care that her comment may be slightly offensive to a person called “John”. Or “Hey You”, for that matter.

Marty is quick with the comeback, “But in my defense, he did spill his drink on her.”

“Yeah, but maybe they planned it,” Lacey argues.

“That was very much unplanned,” John quickly jumps in, “I’m so sorry.”

Lacey isn’t convinced, “So,
John
, how do you know Samantha?”

“Who’s Samantha?” John asks. Oh good, he doesn’t remember that I slept with him. I have a chance!

“I am,” I say with a shit-eating grin.

Lacey still won’t believe that it’s true. Why should she? It’s fucking weird.

“You really don’t know her?” she presses.

“No, but—can I buy you a drink?” he’s talking to me now.

“No!” I am not drinking this time. If I’m going to make it through this night with my chastity, I have to maintain full control of my libido. Still, I just told him no, and he seems pretty disappointed.

“No, I mean, yes, but not alcohol. I’ll have a sparkling water,” I correct. Then, feeling the need to justify my need to stay sober, I add, “I don’t drink.” He seems to buy it. Then again, why wouldn’t he? He’s never met the old, drunken, slutty me.

I tell him that I’ll meet him at the bar, after I go back to the bathroom to wash up.

As I go I hear Marty say to Lacey, “So, I guess we have a prophecy to fulfill. We don’t want to make your friend out to be a liar.” I sneak a peak at them before turning into the bathroom, and see Lacey respond to him by walking away in a huff.

Chapter 11

I still don’t know if any of this is real, or a dream, or time travel, or what, but for some reason, when I wished I hadn’t slept with John, my wish came true. Now it’s up to me to ignore the fact that this is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me (or probably anyone), and instead do everything in my power to make the best of it. If it’s real, I have to get it right this time. And even if it’s a dream, there’s no reason it shouldn’t be a really, really good one.

Wait a minute, what if I’m getting another chance at today because I’m supposed to meet one of those other guys that my surprise party friends all said were so great? Maybe I should take a little time to meet some of them?

I look around, from a spot where I’m slightly hidden in the short hallway to the bathroom. There are a lot of nice looking men out there, just waiting to meet me. But how desperate must they be to come out here and fight over one woman, whom they’ve never met, just because a friend told them to? The mere fact that they would show up reminds me of the type of people who go on The Bachelor, and I would never date any of them. Although that one with the auburn hair is kinda cute, for a borderline-Ginger. And that one Lacey hoped would get glasses to look smarter could be a model if he were a few years younger and a few inches taller.

But what are the chances that any of them will be as sweet or as giggly and fun loving as John? What are the chances that we’ll click like I did with John? John got my sense of humor, and he’s cultured, and knows all about French stuff, and I know he’s looking for a commitment—just probably not with the kind of girl who goes to bed with him on the first night. I mean, what was I thinking by sleeping with him so soon? A guy who’s looking for marriage doesn’t want a girl who gives it up right away. He must’ve thought I do that with every guy I meet in a bar. He had no way of knowing that it was just him, because I had already figured out that he was the one for me, so I didn’t need any more time to find out if I wanted to get intimate or not.

The bottom line is that I just want John too much to miss out on this opportunity to get to know him, and see if making him wait for sex makes a difference. What girl gets a real chance to find out if how long you wait to have sex changes anything? I would be doing a disservice to all of womankind if I didn’t get to the bottom of this age-old question. There’s no choice, I have to try to make things right with John.

I join him at the bar, same spot as last week, and we go through all the requisite “get-to-know-you” small talk, most of which I already know, about how he grew up in Seattle as the middle child, with an older brother who bullied him and a younger sister whom he protected from all the horrible guys who wanted to date her. Like last time, all of his stories, good and bad, are riddled with his adorable little chuckle, which implies that he sees life as this strange, light-hearted joke that we’re all forced to happily endure. I love how he doesn’t seem to take any of it too seriously. And I love how he laughs at everything I say, and seems to find me as adorable as I find him.

When he tells me about his parents, I ask if they’re still married, which I know they are, and take the opportunity to let him know that I want the same kind of marriage that he is looking for, despite the fact that he hasn’t yet told me that it’s what he wants.

“Are they best friends?” I pry, setting myself up to say, “I’ve always pictured marriage to be like having a best friend, who is right there to do fun stuff with, you know. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

He chuckles, “So you haven’t been married before?”

“No,” I reply, “how did you guess?”

He chuckles adorably again, before surprising me by saying, “I guess because you have such an easy-breezy picturesque imagining of what it’s like.”

“Why? It’s not like that?” I ask innocently.

“That was weird how you asked me that, almost like you knew that I’ve been married before. Which I have been, by the way.”

Yes, that was weird. I’ve got to be a little smoother with my knowing of stuff I shouldn’t know.

“Oh, yeah. Weird,” I cover. “So, was it like that? Marriage?”

“For me, it was like that. We were best friends. We did everything together. The cooking, the cleaning, the fighting.” He makes it light by laughing. Everybody fights sometimes, I guess. I blow it off.

“Yeah, but I’ve just always thought it would be so much fun to have someone there who likes to go to concerts, and backpacking, and salsa dancing, and fun stuff like that, you know?”

“Wow, sounds like we like to do a lot of the same things!” I know. Now it’s time to really blow his mind.

“Hey, do you wanna see my favorite place in the whole city?” I propose. I’m ready for my kiss now anyway.

“No.” No? “We should go to my favorite place. I guarantee it has a better view than yours,” he teases.

“A better view than Alamo Square Park? I don’t think so,” I reply confidently.

“No way! That’s my favorite place.”

“Really? Weird.”

“Well this is cause for celebration! Let’s go.”

~

As we walk to the park, the conversation flows, despite the fact that we’re talking about completely different topics than last time. He tells me about how his parents are chiropractors, and how he majored in pre-med to follow in their footsteps, like a good little boy, but once he finished the basics that you need to get into chiropractor school, he decided to veer from their path, and go full hog toward medical school.

“Basically my classmates convinced me that chiropractors aren’t really doctors. They’re just elevated masseuses, which are just elevated sex workers, and now family time is awkward because I’ve realized that my parents are only two small steps above being prostitutes.” He’s just as funny as I remembered, even with all new material.

When we get to the park, the view is still as beautiful as it was before, but this time, I’m not going to let myself fall victim to its siren calls.

He takes my hand, and walks me to the spot where he finally wraps his arms around me.

“Is it as good as the last time you were here?” he asks, fishing for a compliment.

“Better,” I tell him in all sincerity.

This time, when he goes in for the kiss, I’m sober, so I feel it even more than I did last time. It’s soft, and caring, with just the right amount of pressure to express passion, while leaving me wanting more. I’m starting to remember why I slept with him.

This time the kiss is longer than it was last time, because we got here earlier. But he must’ve been keeping track of the time, because he still remembered to pull away at midnight to wish me a happy birthday and ask me if I’d made any special wishes.

All I say in response is, “I have.”

We go back to kissing, and that sneaky shiver surprise attacks me, racing up my spine again, and causing me to unconsciously let out a, “Brrr.”

This brings us to the moment of truth.

“My place is right around the corner,” he suggests. And then realizing that he may sound a bit presumptuous quickly adds, “I mean, because it has heating and I… well, because you’re cold.”

I’ve rarely wanted something this badly that I knew I wasn’t going to allow myself to have, but this is the whole point of getting a do-over. This is my chance to do it right. I try not to focus on what I know I’m missing; the warm beautiful house, the sensuous surround sound of “Les Nubians”, his hands running down my naked body, his sexy thrust inside of me, taking me to levels of nirvana that I’ve only read about in Buddhist meditation books. I can’t think about any of that stuff. I can only think about the goal: getting him to love me.

“Actually, I should go back to the bar and check on Lacey,” I finally manage to push the words past my lips. He laughs awkwardly, recognizing that he’s stepped out of line with a “good-girl”. This is a side to him I hadn’t seen before.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have invited you back. I’m moving too fast. I apologize.”

“No,” I quickly reply, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, “I’ve just gotta stop her from doing something she might regret.”

And there it is again, his mind-erasing puppy dog smile. He seems touched that I care so much about protecting my friend.

“I’m really glad that I spilled my drink on you,” he says, vulnerably.

“I’m glad, too.” Is this actually working?

“I haven’t met anyone I’ve liked since my wife,” he admits, as he musters the courage to say, “could I call you up for a date sometime?”
It is actually working!

Trying to stay calm I say, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Then he walks me back down the hill to find a taxi, and on the way, he takes my hand. If someone didn’t know us, they’d think we’re already together. I can’t help but squeeze his hand back, letting him know that he’s welcome here.

Not sleeping with him was definitely the right move.

~

My taxi pulls up to K-Bar right on time to catch Marty carrying a drunken Lacey out, over his shoulder. I haven’t even had a chance to pay the driver, when Marty, unaware that the cab is still occupied, opens the door to my cab, and drops Lacey into the backseat.

“But I think it would be fun,” I hear her say before her head lands in my lap, “and I wanna see if you know what you’re doing.” She grabs him by the lapels and tries to pull him into the cab, on top of her.

I never wanted to hear how their foreplay began, but wow, I got back right on time to save her from herself.

As Lacey pulls Marty into the cab, he notices me, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know this cab was take—Samantha?”

Lacey looks up from her position in my lap, “Samantha! You’re here! Me and Marty were just about to do it.”

Marty shakes his head and reassures me, “No, actually, we weren’t. She’s really drunk. I was just gonna get her home safe and leave.”

“I can take it from here,” I offer.

“Great! Let me just help you get the rest of her in the car.” He lifts up her jello legs, and tucks them behind the passenger seat. This guy is such a sweetheart.

“Thanks, Marty,” I say.

“It was my pleasure,” he replies, before turning his attention back to Lacey. “Hey, Lacey, do you think I could have your number? I mean, your real one this time?”

Lacey props herself up just long enough to look at him lovingly and say, “Of course you can, Marty. You’re my best friend!” Then she falls back into my lap, and sees me, which jars her short-term memory, “I mean, besides Sam.”

Lacey rolls over onto her side, like a baby in the womb, whose pillow is my thighs, and mumbles, “Give Samantha your phone. She’ll put it in there. My hand fell asleep.”

As I punch Lacey’s phone number into Marty’s phone, Lacey plays with her floppy, sleeping hand. She laughs like a child as she hits her dead hand with her live one, watches her dead hand droop downwards, swinging back and forth like a pendulum, and pokes it repeatedly commanding it to, “Wake up. Wake up. Why won't you wake up?!”