Story of My Life (4 page)

Easier said than done. First we’re just kissing, and then he touches my breast, and that’s the road to trouble. My left nipple in particular. If you want to get Alison all hot and
bothered that’s the button to press. After an hour of touching and kissing and rubbing I’m going out of my mind. Dean brings me off with his hand but it’s just not the same, I want more, I don’t want to stop.

Poor Dean is like, dying of a monster hard-on. After a couple of hours it feels like something carved out of stone and heated over the fire. I’m wondering if maybe I should help him out a little but I think oral sex on the first date is pretty rude, like I’m almost always turned off when some guy I hardly know goes down on me. Under the circumstances I should do something for Dean but the thing is, I really want him inside me.

Please, I go. Please. He’s on top of me, kissing and dry humping.

Alison, he moans. Don’t.

I can’t stand it, I go.

I can’t either.

Goddamn Skip Pendleton, I go.

Skip Pendleton? he says, lifting his head from my shoulder.

You know him? I say.

He’s like, he’s a friend of mine.

Small world, I say.

Dean goes, he was the one who gave you this . . . disease?

I think so.

You
think
so?

I can tell Dean’s a little bummed out about this. He kind of rolls away, and even though he tells me it’s fine, he didn’t
know me then, I can tell he has that whole male competitive thing. Men don’t want women unless they’ve been wanted by other men, they’re not interested if you’re not desirable to their friends. But then they expect you to have resisted all the interest until they came along. I guess it’s because he knows Skip. The idea of the other thirty-five didn’t seem to bother him too much.

Suddenly, out of the blue, he says, don’t you ever worry about, you know, AIDS?

I say, sure, I worry, but I think it’s been blown out of proportion. I try to be careful who I sleep with.

Like Skip? he says. That fucking guy is a walking petri dish.

I’m like, I thought you said he was your friend.

The next day, actually the same day, I wake up at one in the afternoon. I try to remember if I have class, what day is it. Dean isn’t in bed. I smell coffee but I don’t hear anything. I figure maybe he’s gone to work, but then I hear him moving around out in the next room. There’s a phone next to the bed so I dial Francesca.

Tell me everything, she goes. I want details. Length, width, position and duration.

I go, you got your computer booted?

Francesca enters all of her conquests on her computer with detailed notes about their performance plus she has separate files for the sex adventures of her friends.

I explain the problem to her. She’s already heard about my social disease, must be everybody’s favorite subject this week.

Well, she says, at least you gave him a blow job, I hope.

I go, actually I didn’t.

Alison! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you like him? It’s the least you can do after getting the poor guy all hot and then telling him you caught some slimy social disease from his best friend. You’re really slipping.

After that I call my apartment to talk to Jeannie. My sister Rebecca answers the phone. She sounds crazed, which is a big surprise.

What are you doing there? I go and she goes, after we left Nell’s we went over to Emile’s house and bought a quarter and we’re just trying to finish it up.

I’m like, it’s two in the afternoon, for Christ’s sake. Most normal people have already been to sleep at least once already.

Did you get laid? Rebecca wants to know.

Then Didi comes on the line. She screams, you better have since you ditched your best friends. Then in a pretty normal voice, if anybody who’s been up all night drinking, smoking and doing coke can have a normal voice, she says, come over and help us finish this quarter ounce.

Where’s Jeannie? I go, and Didi says, Jeannie passed out in the bedroom around five and went in to work at nine.

I’m worried about Jeannie because she’s the only one of us who actually has a job and at this rate she won’t have it long. It’s hard to concentrate when you hang around with us.

After trying unsuccessfully to find my old man, who still hasn’t come through with a check, the son of a bitch, I get up and go into the other room, but first I look around for something to wear, being the incredibly modest girl that I am. In his closet he’s got about twenty shirts and I pick out a blue Oxford from Brooks Brothers. I approve. When I was thirteen I started wearing my father’s Brooks Brothers and now my standard outfit is one of those big old fat businessmen’s shirts—sixteen and a half thirty-four, untucked of course—leggings, white socks and sneakers or loafers.

The door to the bathroom is open and the water’s running. I kind of peek in. I’m a little worried about what kind of mood he’ll be in. Dean’s shaving, so cute in his plaid boxer shorts, and he’s using one of those old-fashioned safety razors, the kind I remember Pops using—that’s my grandfather. He has one of those shaving brushes all lathered up beside the sink and it’s weird, I have this kind of déjà vu of being a really tiny girl and waking up real early one morning in Gran and Pop’s house in Palm Beach and following the sound of running water to Pop’s bathroom where he was shaving just like this. He let me watch and I was so impressed, like I was witnessing some religious ceremony. This was like, prehistoric times, before Mom and Dad got divorced.

Good morning, I go, and Dean looks over, says good morning. He’s smiling even though you can tell he doesn’t want
to. He tries to swallow the smile, remember that he’s mad at me.

So how are you this morning, I go, and he says fine.

Did you blow off work, I ask, and he says he called in and said he was taking the day off, he had one coming. He says it like he wants me to think he was planning all along to take the day off, as if it had nothing to do with me or staying up all night.

And I go, I didn’t know people still used those kind of razors.

And he says, I guess I’m an old-fashioned guy.

And I go, that’s cool, I like that.

And he goes, oh yeah? I’m surprised.

Why are you so surprised, I say.

And he says, I think of you as a postmodern girl.

I don’t know if this is a compliment or what, it doesn’t really sound like it, but just to clear the air I go, sorry about last night.

And he says, what’s to be sorry for?

And I say, you’re probably a little horny.

I’ll live, he goes.

Jesus, men can be so silly when they think they’re being macho and tough. Sometimes I think there must be some kind of secret ritual like circumcision where all boys have three-quarters of their brain removed at adolescence, or else they just have to promise that they’ll act and talk like they’ve been lobotomized, grunt in monosyllables like cavemen, and limit their emotions to the range between A and B. Still, they’re the only other sex we’ve got. And they can make you feel so good
sometimes you want to scream like the housewife who’s just won the big prize on
Wheel of Fortune
and generally forgive them for being men.

So Dean finishes shaving, wipes himself off and walks out into the kitchen, ignoring me. I follow him in. Cute butt. He sits down at the table and picks up the
Times.

I’m thinking about firing up the first cigarette of the day but then I get another idea.

Poor baby didn’t get no satisfaction, I say, coming up behind him and rubbing the back of his neck. I start singing, I can’t get no . . . I can’t get no . . .

He resists for a while, keeping the muscles tense as I work my way down, pretending he’s reading, but gradually he starts to slump in his chair and when I kneel down in front of him and start to massage the inside of his legs he lets out this big moan. He reaches out to stroke my hair, leans his head back, closes his eyes, his breath catching in his throat when I reach for the little opening in his boxers.

He gasps when I take him inside my mouth, and that’s just the beginning. I mean, I haven’t met too many guys who say
no thanks, honey, I’d rather watch the game
when you suggest a blow job. But still, I never heard anything like the chorus of weird satisfied sounds coming from Dean while I’m going down on him. It makes me feel really good, like a nurse or maybe an angel, doing my good deed for the day. I mean, this boy is appreciative and that really inspires me.

What can I say? I’m an actress.

Let me just say that in general my feeling about blow jobs is, I can take them or leave them. In fact, mainly I could leave them. Guys, of course, won’t let you and I suppose you can’t blame them. I mean, if it’s anything like having a guy you really like go down on you, particularly if he’s shaved recently, then who can hold it against them, really? God knows I’d rather lose my left arm than go without that for the rest of my life. So, like, I usually figure its kind of a trade-off. You know, the I’ll-lick-yours-if-you’ll-lick-mine kind of thing. Except one thing that really grosses me out—somebody ought to write a book about modern etiquette that covers this sort of thing—one thing I hate, right? is some guy going down on me the first date. I think that’s incredibly presumptuous and rude. Fucking is one thing. But sticking your face in someone’s crotch—I mean, that’s really intimate. And I get really uncomfortable and weirded out when it’s some guy whose name I never did catch over the music on the dance floor. I think you should put some talking and kissing mileage on your lips before you put them on my, uh, lips. Okay, guys? Just in case anybody out there wants to know.

And another thing I don’t like, as long as we’re on the subject, is when some guy is going down on you, and you’re like—wow, even if there isn’t a God it’s okay, I can deal with it no problem, like, I could give a shit—and you’re floating in some kind of warm liquid trance when you suddenly feel the
old pivot. You know what I mean, the old swivel where he’s still got his tongue in your southern cleavage but it’s rotating, swinging the hips northward and suddenly there’s this dick banging against your teeth. I don’t know, I suppose trading favors is what it’s all about. I mean sometimes I think we’re all just masturbating each other any way you look at it. If we’re not jerking each other around, we’re jerking each other off. But still, do we have to be so blatant about it? I mean,
really
.

Actually, my last real boyfriend, Alex—the only real boyfriend I ever had in my life, we went out for five years—he was blatant about it. He’d make deals. Like, for instance, I’d be looking through the new Saks catalogue that just arrived in the mail and I’d point to a sweater or something and say, I love that, and he’d go, I’ll get it for you and I’d go, really? and he’d be like raising his eyebrows and winking. And I’d be like, oh, yeah, I get it.

So I’d get tough and make him fill out the order form with his credit card number and seal the envelope before I’d go down on him. And when I was really being a hard-ass I’d make him walk it out to the post office with his hard-on. I don’t know, I think it turned him on even more. The harder a time I’d give him, the harder he’d be.

Alex was really pissed when I read in
Vogue
or somewhere that there’s like twelve hundred calories or something like that in an average load of come. Because at the time I was kind of anorexic and the last thing I was looking for was a way to swallow an extra thousand-plus calories. So I got kind
of reluctant after that. Because, really, it seems to me it’s kind of rude and insulting not to swallow. Like inviting someone to your house for a dinner party and then making them eat in the kitchen with the help. Anyway, God was Alex pissed. I think he even wrote a letter to the editor of
Vogue
. Or maybe it was
Cosmo
. Whatever. He got paranoid and started talking about feminist dykes taking over the media and stuff. And when he wanted it he’d whine and squirm like a hound with his nose in a foxhole, because as I say I wasn’t that hot on the whole operation to begin with. When you love someone, okay. I loved Alex, and there is some kind of special thing about doing something for someone you love that’s a better feeling than anything else in the world, even if it’s something you normally wouldn’t do at all. Or maybe especially if it’s something you normally wouldn’t do.