Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (12 page)

“Well, then you’ve come to the right barstool. I’m all balls, baby.”

I returned my almost finished martini to its napkin on the bar, looked my new neighbor in the eyes and placed my hand firmly on his crotch. “Kenny Boy, no girl wants
all
balls.” I let my hand linger on his groin, then slipped it back around the stem of my martini.

“Damn, girl, you just had your hand on my cock. That was awesome. Do it again.” I loved that he said cock instead of dick. It meant he’d be good in bed.

“I’m trying really hard this summer not to repeat any of my old mistakes.” And with a wink and a smile, I pivoted and found refuge in the arms of my beautiful friends. I knew, despite my flabby arms and the slight bump of my nose, I belonged with them. I was a member of the pack. After all, I had potential: I just pulled a
Pretty Woman
of my very own. And why not make the boy sweat it out a bit? It was summer, and there was always tomorrow night. Yum.

HOW ABOUT THIS FOR A NOD TO INDEPENDENCE? I’M NOT
fucking going. I hate Cabana and its Page Six customers, cloned out in couldn’t-be-couture-but-I’ll-pretend-it-is, consuming cosmopolitans, and speaking of “the left coast.” It was Saturday night when my friends revealed their agenda for the eve, fanning out tickets to HBO’s private kickoff party for
Entourage
. We’d begin our evening at Star Room, then hop to Cabana in Southampton, a motel made must-go meat market that crams in more boldfaced names than a tabloid paragraph. We’d mouth the words to all the exact same songs we’d been hearing all summer. I’d have sooner eaten a fistful of rancid chopped meat than join them. “Sweetie, are you sure you don’t want to come? What will you do?”

“I’ll do just fine. Have fun.” This wasn’t passive-aggressive—I genuinely wanted them to enjoy themselves, and doing so meant I couldn’t participate in their night. If I had to abide more chair dancing on a velvet banquette, screaming to make Mickey Mouse conversation with girls who tried to figure out if I was more Longchamp than YSL, I’d have cast myself into the middle of the road and thrown myself in front of the Jitney. There had to be more to “the Hamps” than all the have-beens doing their should-be things. Besides, my breasts were too sunburned for a push-up bra.

After they’d gone, I braved the diva dungeon alone, ready to settle in with a book and the obligatory curl. I needed to stray from the pack, at least for a night. Otherwise, I’d have become that girl, the one who stands there with her arms folded, tapping a foot. I’d rest up so I could throw a barbecue birthday dinner for Dulce the next night.

Midcurl in the curling up with a good book process, there was a voice saying, “Knock, knock,” by the dungeon door.

“Who’s there?”

“Ken.”

“Ken who?”

“Ken I come in?”

I was freshly showered and moisturized wearing an overpriced tank top sans bra and black Juicy capri velour pants. Damn straight he was coming in. But when I opened the door he was dressed in a conservative button-down, car keys in hand.

“Steph, what are you doing in here all by yourself? Aren’t you coming out?”

“If coming out means Star Room or Jet, then no. I’m not.”

“Well, what if it means Stephen Talkhouse and me?” Stephen Talkhouse was the one place in the Hamptons I knew was never a scene. Pine walls, pool table, paltry stage. It was perfect.

“It means I need five minutes.” I took ten.

A COVER BAND WAS STRUMMING UB
40
’S “RED RED WINE”
when we arrived at the Talkhouse with a few other people from our house. Good idea. I’d have some. On our struggle to approach the long narrow bar, Ken reached for my hand without looking back. I love when they do this. It’s a move that throws any idea of platonic intention to the winds. He grabbed it and took his time, rubbing his thumb across my fingers like a blind person touching a face for the first time. “Oh man, I love this song.” He shouted it casually, as if he hadn’t had my pulse in his hand.

Once we made it to the bar, he pulled me into his hips. “So how long are we going to do this, Steph?” “This” meant not attack each other like African animals in heat.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me what I’d like to drink first?”

“I only ask questions I don’t already know the answer to.” There was a trace of laughter in his voice, and I somehow wanted to touch it.

“Someone met his minimum daily requirement of Vitamin S today.”

“Vitaman S?”

“You’ve got a little too much Smug in your diet there, Sparky.”

He smiled and bit his lower lip before adding, “I thought I told you, Steph, Ken is the funny one in this relationship.” Then he tapped the tip of my nose with his finger. “You, my dear, are the pretty one. Don’t go confusing things this early on in our relationship.”
Our relationship?
I loved that he said it. Of course, I knew what he meant, that we didn’t have a relationship, but it was a good sign that he wasn’t afraid to say it. If that slipped from my mouth, I would have quickly apologized, fearing I’d scare him off. He then kissed the tip of my nose. “So like I said, how long are we going to do this? All you have to do is just…” he kissed my cheek. “Say.” Then the other. “When.” Then his lips brushed mine, softly at first. His hand pulled me in closer, and he kissed me like he meant it.

Once we came up for air, I glanced at him with a smile for a moment before mouthing the word, “When.”

He tilted his head and stared at me, as if he were trying to observe the negative space of an important sculpture. It’s the face my father makes when he’s proud of me. It’s the look I associate with love. Then he said, “Can we try that again, but this time can you tilt your head the other way?” I felt my eyebrows pinch together. “I’m a lefty,” he added, as if it explained something. Since when is there a “right” and “left” way of kissing? I know there’s a right way to kiss. It involves trying not to suffocate the person with your tongue, slobber on their chin, or make ’em worry you didn’t eat enough dinner and want to consume their face in one big gulp without even a napkin. But a lefty kiss? Who makes this stuff up?

After our follow-up kiss, he drew his knuckle across my jaw, lifting a stray curl off my face and tucking it behind my ear. It was his power move. See, there’s opening her side of the car first, the half-stand at the table, walking closer to the curb with her by your side. Those aren’t power moves, they’re manners. Ken had practiced moving misplaced hair mid-sentence everywhere. I wouldn’t fall for him. Oh, please, it was too late.

We danced—okay, let’s face it—we grinded to the stylings of one mister Johnny Cash and then some song about redheaded chicks. I almost got on stage but decided his hands felt better than any other attention could. With anyone else, I might have apologized for my sweat as I tried to wipe it off from under my tent of curls, but with Ken, I grabbed him by his wrist and led his hand beneath my shirt, to my slippery lower back. When he felt how wet I was, he drew me in closer, his breath warm on my neck. He kissed me hard; I tasted his want.

When it got too hot, he led me outside, where we drank from plastic cups to cool off. He told me about his family, his nephew. “Yeah, he’s my sister’s son from her first marriage.” When I heard “first marriage,” I knew there was a second. It made me feel better. It meant he wouldn’t be judgmental.

“Yeah, I’m divorced too,” I said before taking a long sip of my mint julep.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I hate when people say this. No one died.

“It’s okay, it was a long time ago.” It was less than a year ago.

“Yeah, breakups suck,” he said. We both looked down at his shoes. He was kicking his feet. “So what happened? Why didn’t it work?”

I’m never sure how to answer this one, unsure of how much detail to reveal. It’s like an employer asking you why you want to leave your current job. Because it sucks the big fat hairy moose cock, that’s why! “Oh, I’m just ready for a change. I’ve reached my potential there.”

“Honestly, it didn’t work because I was too ambitious.” Ah, the perfect answer. Right up there with, “Um, yeah, I would have to say my biggest flaw is that I’m a perfectionist.” Riiiiiight.

“Too ambitious? Come on.”

“No, really, women of my generation were told all our lives we could be or do anything we set our minds to: a doctor, lawyer, molested White House intern. So growing up, ‘I will get whatever I want if I work hard enough’ became my morning mantra, stirred that shit into my day with the honey in my farina.” Ken began to lean in closer. “And guess what? It worked. I got everything I wanted. The grades, the school, the jobs. But no one ever told me it didn’t apply when dealing with relationships. Kinda fucked myself there.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was so used to getting what I wanted, as long as I worked at it. So, naturally, when it came to relationships, if I decided I wanted it enough, I assumed it would work out. Look, I was married to a charming Jewish docta! Okay? I was married to the perfect piece of paper, and having that made me feel…” I hesitated. “Made me feel worthy. Important. I don’t know. It just felt like it was one more thing on life’s to-do list I could cross off.” Shut it, Klein. “But, it wasn’t. You just can’t work hard enough for two people.”

“And he didn’t want to work?” I was startled by the green in his eyes I’d never seen before.

“He was lazy. The guy sat down to pee. I should’ve known.”

“Uh-oh. Remind me never to pee in your presence.” He laughed at his joke, then pinched my waist. I wiggled to break free from his embrace. “You’re not getting rid of me that fast, Steph.” Then he kissed me. “So, does this mean you’ve sworn off weddings?”

“Given that I never had a wedding, I certainly can’t swear off them. But if you’re asking if I’ve sworn off marriage, well, I’ll let you know if you’re ever on bended knee.”

“You never had a wedding? Come on.” And this is how it goes, every single time.

No one believes me when I say it: “We eloped.” They bounce back with, “Come on!” They smell my hair products and eye my pedicure, thinking I’m high maintenance. No one can believe, at the end of the day, I didn’t care about a stupid wedding. I was never
that
girl, the one who dreamt of her wedding day. I dreamt of being a singer or a writer but never a bride. I always skipped that step in the dreams and went straight to the wife and mom part, imagining myself in driving loafers planning a Make Your Own Taco night. But I did care about missing the dance with my father.

WHILE I NEVER IMAGINED IT, IT’S NOW SOMETHING I’LL
never forget. May 20, 2000. The day Gabe and I eloped. Actually, eloped isn’t the right word. It implies romance and a sandy island somewhere, me with a bikini bottom embroidered, “Just Married.” Ours was a secretive marriage, and it felt shameful. I was nervous it wouldn’t happen. I told Gabe I wanted to know it was what he wanted, not something he was doing for me, not something to be pressured into. He responded with love, saying, “While I’m not happy with the situation, I still know this is something I want. I know I want to marry you, Stephanie.” It was overcast. Gray and spitting, as if God just sneezed. Gabe began to cry in the cab ride downtown. I kept looking out the window, praying. Praying for God to give me strength no matter what the outcome, and I didn’t even know if I believed in God. Some force, anything, just give me strength. Once we arrived at the synagogue, we walked inside holding hands. I pushed the elevator button. Once it arrived, he asked if we could take the next one. “Steph, I don’t know if I can do this.” He was white.

“Are you going to faint?”

“I might.” He trembled.

“Let’s go, they’re waiting for us.” I whispered.

We got off the elevator and arrived on the second floor.

“I can’t go in there,” he said. “I’m not ready. Maybe if I was given the chance to get here in my own time I’d be able to, but—”

“Don’t give me that. Here we go. Let me say this, Gabe. This is it. This is what it comes down to. If you can’t do this, fine. But you might as well leave here alone because I will never see or speak to you again. This is what it all comes down to.”

“I need fresh air and time to think.”

I went in alone to speak with the rabbi and cantor. I went in ALONE. It’s our goddamn wedding day, and he doesn’t know—I don’t know—what’s going to happen next. The rabbi, with his gold chain and blue necktie, looked like a shriveled up Rocky Balboa, except his eyes were gentle and inviting. The cantor, Romina of all names, had a soothing, soft voice. She smelled like wet wool and dry cleaner steam. I sat and explained to them how nervous Gabe was, how controlling his parents were, how torn he was feeling. “My God, what if he doesn’t come back? What if I’m some girl sitting in a synagogue in all white and he doesn’t—”

Romina rubbed my shoulder and said, “Well, this is the true test. This is the moment. Now is the moment of truth, and you’ll know forever. Have courage and faith.” It was as if I were sitting with God.

I went outside to check for Gabe, and he said he couldn’t do it, that he thought he’d be more ready. I told him to “go inside and tell them so.” I wanted him to say the words to someone else. I needed to hear them again, with a witness beside me. I should have handed him my heels and run full speed in the other direction. Shit, I hate myself for how much I wanted him.

Upstairs, he cleared his throat and apologized to the rabbi for keeping him waiting. The rabbi motioned for us to sit beside him. Gabe told the rabbi he loved me, and before he could say much more, the rabbi responded, “That is all I needed to hear from you. Do it then, we shall?” The man was Yoda before Lucas went mechanical. I felt safe, like the rabbi was on my side, the good side.

Gabe asked if he could speak with me outside the room again. That’s when he spilled it.

“It’s just that I’m afraid if it doesn’t work out, I’ll have to pay you a quarter of my earnings for the rest of my life if we get divorced, and fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. It’s worse for doctors, and I don’t want to get punished for something I’m worried about. So I want you to sign a prenuptial agreement.” I heard his father’s voice. “My father gave me a lot of money for me to start a practice one day, and…”

“Please. Holy fuck, I would never want any of that money.” And I didn’t. When we were going through our divorce, I wanted no part of any money he had before we married. I didn’t want anything that belonged to that family, including their son. Gabe’s waiting until the minute before we married to bring up a prenup was as unexpected as being served red wine with fish. He wanted an out because he was afraid. I was afraid, too, but I wasn’t about to sign over my security. I was supporting him, keeping our home, paying his credit card debts, and I’d be sacrificing and tolerating his long hours, too. I told him “fine” after arguing for a while because I wanted to marry him and thought he was just scared. When he heard me agree, he turned around completely, grabbing my hand and walking me to the rabbi.