How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel (11 page)

Marty waves good-bye, sweetly smiling, as we drive off.

Now that we’re away from him, Lacey’s memory suddenly returns to the beginning of the evening, “You know what, Sam? You said I was gonna have sex with him, and I didn’t. You were wrong… Because you’re a little coo-coo, tonight.”

Am I a little coo-coo tonight? It’s definitely one explanation for why I just lived the night before my 30th birthday a second time. Unless the first time was the dream, and this is the first “real” time… But whether I’m crazy, or she’s drunk, or this is all a dream, or that was all a dream, or I just got a second chance to change my real life isn’t something I need to understand right now. I just need to keep acting as if this is the real version of my life, because right now, it’s the only one with which I’m still able to make choices, and so far, it’s my favorite version of the events anyway.

Turning John down for sex gave him the opportunity to show me his vulnerable side. Not only that, but if this version is the real version of my life, I never called my boss an asshole in front of everyone we both know!

After dropping Lacey safely off in her bed, with a bucket next to her head, I get home to my own messy bedroom. I smile at the dirty laundry pile to which I’ll return this pink flirty dress, from which I removed it—what seems like a week ago—and cozy myself up in my warm cuddly bed. Rarely have I felt so content to be sleeping alone, with nobody in bed beside me.

Tonight I can sleep peacefully. This time, he’ll call.

Chapter 12

The morning of my second pass at my 30th birthday I wake up feeling alert and alive—which likely is because I didn’t drink last night. But regardless, today is my day. It’s my birthday. And I can do anything I want with it! Again. Actually, I could even do totally different stuff with it this time! I love getting two birthdays in one week!

Wait a minute, is it my birthday? Because if last night was a dream, and I just woke up, I might be back to that horrible seventh day of the week, when I had to accept that John wasn’t calling me. I’d better check my phone.

Yep, according to my phone, it’s still my birthday again. I’m still in some weird, but welcome alternate life, where I get second chances at love. But just in case, I’d better check Facebook. If I’ve gone back in time, then I never sent a friend request to John—which would be awesome!

I log onto Facebook, and hooray! Not only have I not sent a friend request to John, but everyone I know is telling me how much they love me, by writing “Happy Birthday!” on my wall. I spent most of last week’s birthday reading these messages, so there’s no need to do it again. Today, all my time is bonus. I should do something fun, and stupid, that I usually don’t feel I have the time to do. I know. I’m gonna dance!

I turn on some pop music and proceed to dance around my apartment like a fool. I’m doing kicks, and spins, and Jazz hands, for no reason. I highly recommend this activity.

Ultimately, I wear myself out and build up the hunger of a thousand men. Brunch is always a fun way to start a birthday, but then I’d have to call people, and find at least one person to go with me, and get out of my pajamas, and leave the house. No, that sounds horrible. I’m gonna make myself some eggs right here. I might even read the news while I eat. That’s what grown ups are supposed to do, right? Maybe I can fit into this old persons’ club after all? Next thing you know, I’ll be out at hotel bars ordering Scotch on the rocks.

My eggs are delicious. I put scallions, sautéed mushrooms, apple chicken sausage, spinach, and Swiss cheese in them. Despite the omelet’s beauty, I spare my Facebook friends the picture of it. Somehow, after all these years of being friends with me, they still don’t care what I’ve had for breakfast. I really am growing up.

I decide not to read the news, when I remember it’s the same news as last week. Instead I look up “How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex,” on the internet, and to my surprise, I find a video post by my new friend, Marty Lowenthal. It turns out this particular vlog addresses virgins, who are trying to decide when to have sex for the first time ever, so it’s not specifically geared toward women like me, who wonder if waiting makes a difference to a guy or not when you’re getting involved with him, and how long we’re expected to wait to do it.

Marty’s vlog is interesting. He uses his specific brand of self-deprecating humor to try to help young people understand that once you’ve done it, it’s going to change your life forever, and not necessarily for the better. He explains how it could change your own perception of yourself in unexpected ways. For example, he says that you may start to see yourself as a slut, and the more you act on that, the more your self-esteem could drop, making it harder to find a boy who will not treat you that way. After all, if you present yourself as if all you’re worth is casual sex, when what you really want is love, how is a boy supposed to know what you want? He’s not psychic. Marty also advises the boys, that they should be careful too, because after their first time, they may see themselves as some kind of king, or Don Juan, who now owes it to himself to conquer every girl in the school yard. He reminds them that this is a bad idea because as each new girl potentially turns him down for sex, it could harm his self-esteem. He also reminds all the little non-virgins not to feel too special about having crossed sex off their “to do” list, because anybody can do it, it doesn’t require any special skills, and even their boring parents have done it, “as proven by the fact that you exist.”

“It’s not like you’re inventing the cure for cancer,” he explains in the vlog. “It’s just a commonplace act that almost every average, non-impressive person of a certain age has already accomplished. It’s nothing to feel special about yourself for.”

I guess there’s more to the study of sexology than just learning how to be excellent at sex. Well, I’m glad he’s using his powers for good!

I’m feeling pretty full as I force another giant bite of omelet into my mouth, which is when the phone rings. I’m so enthralled with Marty’s video that I do two things simultaneously that I never usually do. First, I pickup the phone without swallowing my food. Second, I pickup the phone without looking to see who it is. I’m secretly assuming it’s not John, because I just met him yesterday, and guys usually take a couple of days to call. Maybe it’s because I’m doing all new things this time, but I’ve clearly forgotten that last Saturday, nobody called me until well after lunch, which can only mean one of two things: either I’m not in a repeat of last week anymore, or
it’s John!

I wish I had given a little more thought to the second option before saying, “Hello,” with my mouth full.

“Samantha,” John says, from the other end of the receiver, “this is John. From last night,” he adds as if there were any chance at all I could’ve forgotten him by now.

I choke on my food and start to cough. Great, this do-over is going perfectly already. I spit up into a napkin, once again grateful that video phones aren’t yet as rampant as The Jetsons had premonished. Please let’s put those off as long as possible. I don’t want to have to do my make-up every time I need to call a friend with a quick question about some nonsense that I can’t remember, like whether I should buy the LCD or the Plasma TV, and why.

“Yeah, I remember you,” I finally choke out. Aside from the choking and coughing, I am off to a very nonchalant start.

“I had fun hanging out with you,” John offers, warming my heart, and making it very difficult for me to maintain my supposed nonchalance.

“Yeah, me too.” Less is more at a time like this.

“So,” he seems a little shy and almost afraid to say what he’s called for, “I hope I’m not being presumptuous. I know it’s your birthday and you probably have a million plans, but... Do you wanna grab some brunch?”

Brunch?! My stomach is so full. I just force-finished my plate.
Why couldn’t you call a half-hour ago?!

“Are you hungry?” he continues, unsure of himself.

“Yeah! I’m starving! Let’s do it!” Is it really so bad to make yourself throw up? I mean, so long as I’m not doing it for weight-loss, it shouldn’t count as bulimia. If you think about it, I’m doing it to be polite, so that this guy doesn’t have to eat alone. I am so incredibly not hungry.

“Can you be ready in, say, a half-hour?”

“Yeah!” That’s not nearly enough time to get rid of the throw up breath; maybe I’ll skip it. “See ya' then.”

“Okay, bye.”

We hang up, and it finally hits me, he called! I scream and jump up and down like a moronic little schoolgirl. You’d think a guy had never called me before. I’m embarrassed to know myself. Not only that, but the eggs in my stomach seem to be considering making an unsolicited return on me. I quickly stop to prevent the upchuck, and that’s when I hear:

“Samantha?” coming out of the phone.

Oh no. Please tell me that we hung up the phone. I look down, and it’s still John’s number coming up. Why am I acting like this? I’m not normally prone to dorkiness or dating mishaps. I quickly pick up the phone.

“Did we not hang up?”

“I did,” he reassures me, “and then I picked up to call you back and get your address, but you were still there.”

“Oh,” gulp. “Have you been on the line for long?”

“No, not long at all,” he says sweetly. Thank God! Maybe he missed the whole part where I was so excited that any semblance of nonchalance from this point forward would be preemptively outed as a lie.

“Cool… I’ll text you my address.” I’m giving the nonchalance a try anyway.

“So, what were you screaming about?” Busted.

I can’t think of a fix, so I just buy myself some time, “Oh, I’ll tell you about it later, when I see you. Right now I wanna get off the phone, so I don’t forget to text you my address.” Because, you see, forgetting would be proof of nonchalance, so implying that I might, but then not, is smoothness incarnate. It shows that I don’t care, but I’m still on top of my shit. Yes, I realize that this is completely over-thought, but at this point, I’ve gotta do whatever I can to build back the image of a person who has it together. Not only for him, but for myself.

He laughs, “Good idea.”

Chapter 13

When he arrives, I don’t want him to see my messy place—especially since his comment last week about how people who don’t keep their place clean don’t respect themselves—so I meet him on the street in front of my place, where he stands leaning up against his silver BMW, looking like some kind of bizarro Abercrombie model, who smiles and wears clothes. This is a good day to eat brunch on a full stomach!

“You’re even more beautiful by daylight,” he says almost relieved. He’s not the only one who’s relieved that he thinks that.

“And more charming, too,” I add, because why not boost myself up while the door is open? I still have some making up to do for that silly scream, which I’m hoping he’ll forget to follow up on.

He laughs at my joke, and then grabs me by the waist, and kisses me. It takes me by surprise, and confirms that he’s a man in charge. I don’t always need that, but when done right, it sure does turn me on. It’s just a kiss hello, so it only goes on ever so slightly longer than it should.

He pulls back to smile at me and says, “Happy birthday, Samantha.” Then he opens my car door, which is an easy way for a guy to get much appreciated chivalry points, and we drive off to the Marina.

The Marina is a posh neighborhood with a lot of nice restaurants. He doesn’t take me to any of those. Instead he takes me to Marina Green Park, and reveals that he has packed a picnic.

As he lays out a blanket, I gaze off at the beautiful view of the Golden Gate Bridge and imagine us drinking champagne on one of the nicer yachts docked at the harbor. I am snapped out of my reverie though, when an ultimate Frisbee player almost takes off my head leaping for a catch. I gasp, and turn to see that my peripheral vision has fooled me, and the player isn’t nearly as close as I had thought.

“What happened?” John laughs. Oh, nothing, it’s just me acting batty in front of you, again.

“I have no idea,” I tell him, light-heartedly. He chuckles, and lays out his picnic, which includes a plate of assorted French cheeses, some fancy Italian cold cuts from the salami and prosciutto families, a fresh baguette, a fruit salad, some chocolate truffles, and full size his & hers water bottles.

“I would’ve brought champagne for your birthday, but you don’t drink, right?”

Yes, I do! Especially on my birthday. And I was just fantasizing about champagne. Oh, man, that would’ve made this day perfect. Maybe it’s not too late to tell him? Maybe we could still run and pick some up? That would give me more time to digest my breakfast, too.

I feel like I’m breaking some moral obligation to tradition by not getting drunk on my birthday, but it’s probably for the best that I stay sober around him.

“No, I don’t drink,” I sadly say. I can’t afford to lose control and do something I’ll regret doing too soon—even though it also means missing out on the tradition of birthday sex. I just can’t give in to birthday sex, though. That’s the whole point of this do-over. I’ll simply have to be satisfied by the fact that I had birthday sex in the previous version of this day. So what if I’m the only one who knows about it. Geez, this is hard. And champagne would’ve been ideal with this picnic…

Which gets me wondering: if this is his first date since breaking up with his wife, how come he has almost no learning to do? Is he lying about not having been on other dates, or is he just naturally perfect at this stuff? Maybe his wife trained him well? Either way, he sure does know the way to a woman’s heart, and now I’m doubly disappointed about the complete lack of room in my stomach.

“When did you have time to prepare this beautiful spread between my place and yours, in a half an hour?”

“You like it?” he seems pleased, “I have a place I order from. They know me, and I always get the same thing, so I called them up, and it was all ready when I got there.”

“You ‘always get the same thing’ as in, on all your dates?” I try to make it sound light, like I’m teasing him. The truth is I don’t care if he’s been on other dates, I only care if he lied to me when he said he hadn’t.