The Accidental Virgin (10 page)

Stanley didn’t need a script. His part was committed to memory. “How right you are, Stacy,” he said. “But don’t put yourself down. You are a beautiful woman, and I want to make you happy.”

“The only way you can make me happy,” read Stacy, “is by letting me make you happy. I’ll do anything you want. Just ask.”

“Anything?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, Stanley, I beg you to make sick and twisted sexual demands of me. Only then will I find joy and satisfaction in life.” She looked up from the page. “I don’t actually have to
do
anything, right?”

“You’re deviating from the script,” he admonished.

She read, “Tonight, with you, I want to do something that I’ve never done before.”

“What’s that, Stacy?” he asked.

She was supposed to say, “anal sex,” but Stacy had done that a couple times with Brian. She asked, “Does it matter if the script is factually inaccurate?”

“Just read it, please.”

“I’m not going to have anal sex with you,” she said.

“You don’t have to. I just want you to offer.”

“I’d rather not ask for something I don’t want.”

Stanley drained another glass of wine. The sommelier refilled it and made tracks. “Will you please just read the script?” begged Stanley.

“A great actor can improvise. Maybe I could dangle some other enticement. I’ve never had a threesome. Or — I know this will surprise you, but I’ve never done it outdoors. Not quite sure how I’ve missed doing something so elemental in the cannon of sexual experience, but the idea of sand or dirt or bugs? Ecch.”

Stanley looked like he was about to cry. “Let’s pick up on line twenty-four of page three.”

She scanned down to the designated spot. “Okay,” she said. “I say, ‘I want to feel your ramrod-hard oak trunk crammed inside my tight and squishy’…
Squishy?
Who would describe their own ass as squishy? Hmmmm, I’m going to skip ahead to this part, line thirteen on page five.”

“But you’re bypassing the paragraph that starts, ‘Moisten my rim’ at the bottom of page four. I love that paragraph.”

“Oh, I can’t read the word ‘moisten’ and then eat dinner. I’m sure you can grant me some small omissions,” said Stacy.

“This isn’t going the way —”

“I like this part, about how I long to ‘let you fuck my mouth until it overflows with the jism of the gods.’ Let’s keep that in. Although I question the use of the word ‘gods.’ Am I to be orally raped by more than one godlike person, or just you? And if it’s just you, it should be ‘jism of a god’ — the singular. Meaning you, with all your divine ejaculations. It’s very Roman, actually, with ‘gods,’ though.”

Stanley said, “I like it the way I’ve written it. You aren’t getting the idea of a script, Stacy. One line leads to the next. You can’t just pull out a particular line and read it solo. It doesn’t flow. The words sound clunky.”

“You said it, not me.” She sampled her wine. “Can we order soon? I think I could do it from the top,
with feeling,
if I weren’t so hungry. As you know, I am famished” — Stacy quickly flipped through the script pages and then stopped to read a line from page 7 — “ ‘famished for your meat in every orifice of my body.’ ” She giggled demurely. “But before we get to that, I’d love to try the coque au vin.”

In a flash of cufflinks, Stanley grabbed the manuscript out of Stacy’s hands. “You’ve completely killed the romance of the moment! None of it will sound sincere now. When I wrote this, I meant it from the heart. These are words of love, Stacy, and you’ve sullied them.”

“ ‘Slither my tongue around your man root’ are words of love?” she asked, genuinely curious.

He answered by throwing his wine in Stacy’s face and screaming, “You’ve ruined everything!” as he ran out of the restaurant.

While sopping up the mess, Stacy was grateful that the wine stains were on the same blouse as Taylor’s makeup smears (just one article of clothing sacrificed for two botched sexual pursuits). She could not have offended Stanley more; writing was the greatest vanity of all. Stacy did feel relieved that she would not be going home with a pervert. Disappointed, also. But not too.

Wednesday night

T
he coque au vin was delicious. For an appetizer, she’d had the terrine, and, for dessert, a soufflé. As part of his elaborate arrangements, Stanley had left his credit card imprint with the maitre d’. A lovely man, very
grandpere
-like. He saw no harm in letting Stacy sign her name in Stanley’s absence. Stuffed and a little buzzed, Stacy took a cab home. That’s when the pinch of anxiety started, and turned into a punch by the time she got to SoHo. What if humiliating and insulting Stanley put a glitch in his plans for thongs.com? The idea seemed ludicrous. One didn’t make million-dollar decisions on the success of a romantic dinner. Stanley had a business plan, and wouldn’t bother with thongs.com unless there was a potential for profits.

It couldn’t be possible that he’d made the partnership deal just as an excuse to see Stacy again. She had a healthy self-image, but she was positive no one would risk all that dough for a date with her. Then again, Stanley did seem to be nursing an obsession. Was it worth $4,000,000 (how much stock he was to buy), to hear Stacy murmur the words “man root”? The more she thought about Stanley, the odder he seemed. People did play out scenarios in their heads, writing fantasy dialogue, giving themselves all the best lines. But no one (sane) would type out the words and expect the sentient being on the other side of the table to read them (at least, not for free, not on a second date). What’s more, now that the one-act play “My Date with Stacy” had closed on opening night, would Stanley be inspired to write a sequel called “The Night I Tortured and Murdered Stacy”? Would that script include her begging for her life (along the lines of, “I am worthless, pathetic and powerless, but I still long to see the light of another day, especially if allowed to buff your hardwood in the morning, afternoon, and evening”)? Stanley said it was just a game. How dangerous a game? she wondered. To distract herself, Stacy took out her Palm III and deleted Stanley’s name from her To Do list. The list grew more anemic by the day. She needed a new cache of candidates.

The cab let her off right outside her apartment building. Stacy managed to relax once she was safely within the double front doors. As she waited for the elevator, she pictured Stanley’s blotchy and knotted face right before he ran out on her. The image made her weary. Her sleepless night was catching up with her. Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders like an iron cloak. She could barely stand up to wait for the elevator doors. Finally, they clanged open.

Inside the car, Vampire Boy, the raven-haired creature of the night from 4C, stood with his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. He saw her and froze. She stood motionless, staring, as well. They looked at each other, silent and still. They must have stayed like that — Stacy outside the box; Vampire Boy inside — for a few moments, because the elevator’s automatic doors closed, and in so doing, broke the spell. Stacy leaned backward, resting against the lobby wall. She quickly took out her compact and checked her makeup. She saw the B above the elevator light up, and knew the car had gone to the basement. Vampire Boy had obviously intended to get out in the lobby. He’d be back up to the lobby in a second. She readied a warm smile, smoothed her stained blouse, and waited. But when the elevator doors opened to her, the car was empty.

While riding to four, Stacy took a few deep breaths. How had he locked her in his eyes like that? she wondered. And where had he gone? Had he transfigured himself into a bat and flown away? Vampire Boy had undeniable, tangible powers. At her floor, Stacy walked by apartment 4C — the cave of Vampire Boy — and wondered what he did in there during the day. Did he lurk in the dark, or sleep in a coffin? Maybe she should leave a note. Just a little invitation to come over for some casual, no-strings-attached blood sucking. She’d be rid of her problem (and become undead, to boot). She fished inside her purse for her pink notepad. She scribbled:

She slipped the sheet of paper under his door.

“Something ventured,” she said to herself as she entered her own apartment. It was just as she’d left it, coherently cluttered. Her friends and parents usually used phrases describing natural or man-made disasters (“a hurricane hit”; “a bomb went off”) to describe her nonconformist interior decorating. Regardless of how many tchotchkes were piled on shelves, or how many purses lay about (dozens hung on a hook on a geranium red wall), Stacy never left dishes in the sink or dirty clothes on the floor. It was a clean mess.

On the side table with the tasseled silk tablecloth, under the shaded lamp, between the beaded picture frame and her silver incense tray (with matching silver oblong box for rods and cones), sat her ultra-slim portable telephone, painted red, pink, and lilac with nail polish (some sleepless nights were too, too long). She picked it up and listened for the stuttering dial tone that meant she had voice mail. Two messages. One from Mom (bitching about Dad and his compulsive mulching), and one from Charlie, waiting impatiently for the lesbian report.

She returned the call. To Charlie. Stacy was surprised when he picked up. Usually, at this time of night, he was either out trolling or in entertaining an ex - girlfriend/current four - night stand (aka soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend). Charlie had the knack for not offending any exes in a permanent way. They were angry or hurt at first, but their feelings toward him were never irreparably damaged. Keeping people on his side was one of Charlie’s special skills.

She said, “I’m home.”

He said, “Give.”

“My story has a sad ending.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, muffling the line. When he came back: “I have company. Can we have lunch tomorrow, and you can tell me every microscopic detail in person?”

Stacy frowned, not sure if her jealousy was for Charlie and his constant flow of sex partners, or for the girl he was presently entertaining. “Who’s over?” she asked.

“You remember that publicist from the
Chemical Attraction
screening? Staci?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“No, her name is Staci.”

“The way you say it, I’m guessing it’s Staci with an ‘i.’ ”

He said, “It may very well be.”

She said, “For her sake, I hope it’s an evil ‘i.’ ”

“I’ve never dated a Staci before,” he said. “So this time, when I call out your name during sex, she won’t get suspicious. Tomorrow.” And he hung up.

She stared at the dead phone. He would rather fool around with a publicist than listen to her story about sex with a woman. How could he stand to wait? She was losing him. Maybe he actually cared about this Staci. Maybe he was falling in love with her. What would that mean to their friendship? It would leave her with lunch plans, she thought. Okay, then, Stacy would take a lunch. She’d see how far she could get with that.

She spent 10 minutes hatching a plot for tomorrow’s afternoon delight. Then she turned on her iBook (property of thongs.com, to be returned when she left the company; as if she had any intention of giving it back; they would have to come to her house, break in, and confiscate it). She logged on to AOL

“You’ve got mail,” said the computer voice. Her mailbox was jam-packed.

“Fifty-seven e-mails!” said Stacy. She scrolled down the long queue of incoming. All but five — spam, work stuff, Mom, and one from Gigi XXX at swerve.com — were from match.com subscribers (she’d practically forgotten about posting her ad). She had hit the virtual bar scene like gangbusters. How encouraging! There has to be someone halfway decent in a pool of 52 hopefuls.

But first, she read the e-mail from Gigi. It said:

Still not using her real name, that chicken shit, thought Stacy. And how dare she suggest that anything she grinds out like sausage meat could be of real emotional value to anyone? Stacy was only too glad to turn her attention away from Gigi and back to her bulging pack of cyber suitors.

She scanned the messages, instantly deleting those with unappealing screen names (for example, HOTNHORNY might be a sure thing, but a girl had to have some standards; HOLDENC might have homicidal tendencies; DARKSTAR had to be stoner — not necessarily a bad thing, but she was in a hurry; ZYGOTE wasn’t looking for a date, he was looking for a womb). She whittled the list down to 20 on the first pass, still highly encouraged by her crop. Next hurdle: photo and profile analysis. She methodically checked the ad of each e-mailer. If he was older than 40 or younger than 30, she automatically deleted. If he described his body type as “average,” “large” or “a few extra pounds,” she deleted (since she had options, she’d stick with “athletic” and “slim/slender” only). She trashed the men who made less than $100,000, figuring that since she had the opportunity to discriminate, she might as well be traditional.

This weeding-out process was exactly why web matchmaking had so little potential for finding true love. It was too methodical. No kismet. No spotting the man of one’s dreams across a crowded room. A listing of one’s credentials, combined with a grainy photo and a self-consciously written profile, lead to making a paper judgment. If love could be inspired by how someone looked on paper (or, more accurately, on screen), it would be miraculous. Besides, there was the smack of desperation to overcome. Having to advertise for dates, with language like, “Your mother would approve” was almost too hard a sell to bear. On the other hand, people were busy in this city. No one had time to go to parties. Bars were depressing. Harassing friends for blind dates and fix-ups was humiliating. Dating services were expensive. That left work contacts, friends who turned into something more and Cupid’s wobbly arrow. Why dismiss on-line dating out of hand? It could work. On its homepage, match.com claimed to be responsible for thousands of marriages.

Her match.com shortlist:

ADMAN was a 34-year-old advertising executive who lived in the West Village (geographically fortuitous). His photo was blurry, but he seemed well within the range of male attractiveness. He claimed he was “athletic,” made over $100,000, was looking for someone who laughed at Woody Allen movies. Stacy loved Woody Allen. It was destiny!

RICHARDMcD, a 39-year-old architect from the Upper East Side, enjoyed running, hiking, baseball, football, basketball and hockey. He had season tickets to the Mets, Jets, Knicks and Rangers. His income was “unspecified,” but since he had to be in great shape, Stacy forgave him his secrecy. His head shot showed an abundance of red hair just like hers (they had so much in common!), a Hugh Grant-ish smile, and bright, sparkly blue eyes.

BULLWINKLE was a veterinarian, 37, who loved animals, plants, anything living. He had just exited a long relationship. Being alone (but not lonely) wasn’t his style, and he’d like to explore the city and its many wonders with an intelligent and caring woman who was shorter than five foot seven. He was slim/slender, and his headshot was passable.

SNAP was Stacy’s number-one choice. He was 35, “athletic,” six feet tall, had a full head of beautiful brown hair, described his occupation as “other” (he didn’t elaborate, but Stacy got the feeling he was wealthy beyond all reason, despite the fact that he listed his income as “unspecified”). He enjoyed theater, film, classical music (he played the violin and performed professionally “when there’s time”), had published two novels (“of little consequence, but so much fun to write”). On the issue of why such a fine catch was single, he explained it thusly: “Proper channels haven’t yielded my ideal mate, so I thought I’d try this. My best friend met his wife on match.com, and she’s a wonderful woman. I should be so lucky.”

Well, this was his lucky day. Stacy responded to his original e-mail (short and sweet — he’d written, “Have you met your match yet?”): “Dear SNAP, I haven’t met my match yet, but if you’re available tomorrow night, I may have only one more day to wait. Warmest regards, Fluffy.” The tantalizing part about it: Despite the odds, SNAP
could
turn out to be the love of Stacy’s life. When you’ve never seen or spoken to someone, you can project anything on him, even your boldest fantasy.

To the others on her shortlist, Stacy sent terse responses attempting to move out of virtual mode and into direct contact, believing that prolonged e-mail exchanges would be awkward. Since she gave such great phone, she’d very much appreciate it if he would send her his number. She’d send hers, but a girl can’t be too careful, etc.

It was nearly midnight when she sent her last e-mail of the night. She was beyond tired. As she walked from her desk in the living room toward the bedroom in back, Stacy noticed a sheet of pink paper on the floor by her front door. On closer inspection, she saw that it was her note to Vampire Boy next door. He’d written her a response on the back. It read:

He hadn’t signed off with a name.

She washed her face, brushed her teeth and got in bed. Her reserves of men overflowing again, Stacy was able to drift effortlessly to sleep. She had peaceful dreams for fluffy clouds.