The Accidental Virgin (15 page)

The taxi dropped her off at the entrance to the warehouse Bolt shared with Good Times, Inc., a party-supply company that rented chairs, linens, silverware and giant coffee urns, among other good-time things. She signed in with the part-time security guard and then climbed over stacks of folded chairs and a pile of twenty-gallon punch bowls before reaching the office suite at the back of the warehouse.

She knocked on Harry’s door, confident she was about to make a cranky little man very happy.

No one answered, so she walked in. Talk about bad
feng shui,
she thought. Harry’s desk faced the back wall of the office, so he couldn’t see the front door unless he turned all the way around. Stacy noticed a telephone book on his desk chair. Was he that short? She closed the door and perched herself on the edge of his desk, crossed her legs and waited patiently.

Five minutes went by before the knob turned. The door opened and, on the other side, stood an Adonis. He was in his late 20s, six feet tall if he were an inch, broad of shoulder and smooth of chest. She could see the marked absence of hair because his shirt was off. His skin, almond, glistened slightly. His dark brown eyes glowed. His legs, in denim shorts and work boots with heavy socks, were thick with muscles and nearly hairless. When this godlike statue of flesh saw Stacy, not Harry, inside the windowless room, he smiled slow and neat, teeth gleaming like white pebbles, lips red and juicy.

She broke the ice. “You’re not Harry.”

He nodded mutely, still smiling, and then said with a heavy accent, “I am Schlomo, from Israel. The deliveryman. I don’t speak English.”

A deliveryman who didn’t speak English. Well, now. Stacy had come to make Harry happy and beg forgiveness. And low and behold. Stacy got off the desk and took the man’s hand. No wedding ring. She wasn’t certain that rings were common practice in Israel, but she didn’t care. She said, “Follow me.”

The scene was straight out of
Penthouse Forum,
she assumed, never having read it — or lived it. But Stacy had learned, in her week of romantic misadventure, that opportunities knock and must be seized. She led her Israeli beauty into the warehouse. The security guard was nowhere to be seen, and even if he were, she was beyond caring about discretion. There wasn’t a single zipper anywhere on her entire outfit. It was an omen. She would have her zipless fuck, and tell Charlie all about it — the perfect get-well gift. Plus, she didn’t have to worry that this would be casual sex, or loving sex, or anything with implications about who she was and what she’d become. Balling Schlomo would be accidental. As much of an accident as her revirginity. As if she’d fallen off a ladder and landed snugly on Schlomo’s cock with an “Oh!” and an “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

They found a spot against the south wall behind an eight-foot-tall stack of collapsible tables. The space was cramped, but there was enough room for two adults. They’d have to do it upright, but she’d long been a member in good standing (as it were) of the Vertical Club. Stacy put her hands on Schlomo’s hips and kissed his mouth. His sweat tasted salty on her lips. She kissed him more passionately, and he responded by raising a flagpole in his shorts.

“I like American girls,” he said.

“American girls like you,” she responded.

He pushed her back against the stack of tables. While staring into her eyes (which made her feel weird: perhaps the secret to a zipless fuck was to keep one’s eyes, and soul, shuttered), he reached under her shirt and bra matter-of-factly and began playing with her breasts. Taylor Perry had done the same things with little effect on Stacy. But the roughness of Schlomo’s palms and the way he pinched her nipples, gently at first and then harder, caused that familiar crashing sound in Stacy’s ears. He pushed up her clothes to look at her chest — that adorable wide smile — and then dove in.

She held his head against her tits, thinking and saying, “Yes.” The electrical impulses traveled along the invisible cord from her nipples to her clitoris, sparking her off like a match (a really, really
big
match). Schlomo didn’t hesitate before pushing her skirt up around her waist. He dove into her panties with both hands, expertly rubbing and yanking and gliding with all ten fingers. Stacy’s legs began to shake and buckle. Feeling her unsteadiness, Schlomo lifted her off the ground (effortlessly, like a shapely sack of feathers), propped one of his feet on the edge of a table, and sat her on his thigh. She put an arm around his neck, spread her legs and deposited her head on his shoulder. He tore off her panties, which said more about the quality of thongs.com products than Schlomo’s strength. The underwear fell on the ground into a small puddle of brown water. Plenty more where those came from, thought Stacy.

Hurrying now, since Stacy knew she’d come quickly, she used her free hand to undo the button on his shorts. She reached inside and pulled him free. Flagpole was an understatement; he was an Israeli cannon. As Stacy beheld the monster in her hands, she did have a moment of concern that he’d be too big for her. That such mass couldn’t be stuffed inside her with a crowbar. Schlomo wasn’t concerned. He’d been stretching and widening her for five minutes now, and he even had the skills (language, that is), to say, “I fit. Don’t worry.”

He reached under her right knee with his left arm, and held her open. His right arm was holding her around the waist. She was aloft, her arms around his neck, her left leg resting on his right thigh. He attempted to lower her onto him. He bumped against her, and she tried to wriggle to get the tip in. But, in this
Kama Sutra
position (Two Tigers in Heat? The Crouching Lotus?), she couldn’t do much. He was in control of her movements. She was completely, rapturously, at his mercy.

Only problem: With both his arms holding her up, and her arms around his neck, neither had a free hand to guide him into her. A lot of bumping and cursing went on, until finally Stacy said, “Not there! Up, go UP!”

A bit of crashing behind the nearly rutting pair and then they heard the aghast squeal of what sounded like a little girl. “Schlomo! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Stacy looked over the Israeli’s shoulder and saw Harry Watsuba peering into their cranny. “Stacy Temple? Is that you?” he asked. “Stop that right now! This is a place of business. Get off him, this instant. I’m going blind!” He backed up, his forearm covering his eyes.

Schlomo said, “Shit. Piss. Fuck.”

Stacy said, “Curses, foiled again.”

The Israeli lowered Stacy to her feet and buttoned his shorts. She righted her clothes and looked mournfully at her ruined panties on the ground. She’d have to go without them for the taxi ride back uptown.

The thwarted lovers crawled out of their hole. Harry stood on the other side, scowling. He said, “Schlomo, you’re fired; Ms. Temple, in my office.”

Stacy felt terrible. She looked at Schlomo and said, “I’m so sorry. I’ll talk to him.”

Schlomo didn’t understand her, but he said, “He fires me every day.” Without so much as a peck, a grope, or a phone number, Schlomo walked off into the far reaches of the warehouse on his powerful hairless legs. He never looked back.

Gulping with frustration, Stacy went into Harry’s shoebox. He left the door wide open (maybe he was afraid to be alone with her, she wondered). He took a seat. She stood on the other side of his desk, facing him and out the open door. “We wanted to keep it a secret, but Schlomo and I have been seeing each other for some time now, and we’re going to get engaged,” said Stacy. “We’d like your blessing.”

“I should have known to expect something like this from you underwear people,” he said, sitting on his telephone book. “Schlomo is married with five children in Tel Aviv. But that’s his problem. Where’s my check?”

Almost penetrated by a married man, she thought. That would have been a first. She opened her purse, right where she left it on Harry’s desk, and handed him the check for $25,000.

“I know it’s only a third of what we owe you,” she said, “but we promise you the remainder by the end of next month.” Fiona gave her the line. She assured Stacy it would work (“He’ll take what he can get and like it,” she’d explained).

But it didn’t. Harry sighed with the weight of a forklift and said, “This amount is unacceptable. You Internet companies think you can exist on promises and lies, but that’s not the way I do business. I’m not going to listen to another word from you. Why should I trust you? Honest girls don’t do what you were doing with Schlomo. That just seals it. I’ve spoken with five of your other vendors, all of whom haven’t been paid. We’re going to hire a lawyer and we’re filing a class-action lawsuit to force you into bankruptcy. You’ll have to sell off the company’s assets, from your computers to your inventory, and when it’s been completely dismantled and sold off, the cash will be divided among the claimants. After what I’ve just seen, I feel less guilty about doing this to you, Ms. Temple. You are not a nice girl.”

“I
am
a nice girl. I’m so nice, I came down here to give you this check and make sure you feel comfortable with a payment schedule,” said Stacy. “I’m such a nice girl, I took pity on your lonely deliveryman who, he told me with his eyes, is desperately lonely in this country. It’s clear to me that you don’t take his feelings into account. I was trying to show kindness to that poor, sad man. And maybe, just maybe, bring a little extra joy into the world.”

Harry stared at her, his nostrils flaring in disbelief. “You were showing him kindness? Is that how you underwear people show kindness?”

“I can show you kindness, too, Harry. Not that way.” God, no, she thought. “But in other ways.”

He grimaced. “I don’t want any of your ways.”

“You might like one thing I have in mind.” Stacy had to think of something she could offer him. Her eyes wandered off Harry’s scrunched face, over his bald head, and out into the warehouse. She smiled suddenly, and said, “Thongs.com has just gone into partnership with smut.com.”

“Sounds like a perfect match,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. It’s big news. Cause for celebration. Fiona Chardonnay was telling me today about a party at the end of the month to fete our new partnership. She said that smut.com was going to spend one hundred thousand on it. I’m sure at least half of that will go to rentals — tables, chairs, punch bowls, cocktail glasses. Like the ones stacked up out there,” she said, pointing at Good Times, Inc.’s inventory.

Harry frowned sharply. “So go talk to Good Times,” he barked.

“Maybe you should talk to them,” she said. “And maybe you should suggest a finder’s fee. I think ten percent is standard. And this first party is only the start. Smut.com throws parties every week of the year. And lunches. And dinners. I’d bet, given your way with words, you could get Good Times to agree to a fifteen percent finder’s fee for all that business. If they balk at the extra five percent, tell them to raise their prices. Smut.com will pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How the hell will you do that?” he asked.

She winked. “I’ll show them some kindness. Like I’m showing you right now.”

Harry Watuba was old, short, poor, sad, and angry. But he knew when he’d been handed a free lunch on a gold platter. He said, “Where’s my other forty-five thousand dollars?”

Stacy said, “I have a payment schedule right here.” She’d created the calendar on her way downtown, promising a $10,000 check every other Monday for the next two months, and a floater payment in advance of future purchases.

He grunted when he looked at it. “Do you want to spend three hundred bucks an hour on a lawyer?” she asked. “Force us into bankruptcy, and you’ll be lucky to get ten cents on the dollar.”

Her argument was solid. Harry made the right decision. Stacy promised to call him on Monday and help set up the Good Times/smut.com nexus. And she would. She was rolling with good intentions.

Stacy left Harry’s office and walked through the warehouse (no sign of Schlomo anywhere) across the West Side Highway, and a few blocks up 10th Avenue until she found a cab. All the while, she grinned like a fool and held down the back of her skirt with both hands.

Friday night

“I
have you in pen,” said Fiona Chardonnay at the close of an endless workday (but not the end of the workweek for the captives of thongs.com; Saturday might as well have been Monday). Janice had disappeared around eight for her birthday dinner with Upper West Side Lawyer, and Stacy had been ordered to remain at work until Fiona was done for the night.

Stacy had forgotten all about her evening plans with the boss. Fiona had insisted a couple of days ago that she would be the agent by which Stacy would de-revirginate. No living creature should ever come between Fiona and a goal, but Stacy was worn out from work, and simply could not sally forth into the New York City night wearing a metallic gold mesh G-string under her skirt.

When she’d returned to thongs.com, bare-assed, Stacy had had the travel time to consider the huge promises she’d made to Harry. Could she pull it off? The doubts flying freely, she was immediately summoned to Fiona’s office. Stacy described, word for word, the conversation with Harry. Stacy, of course, omitted the avuncular comments about her being “not a nice girl” and the entire close (but not close enough) encounter with Schlomo. Janice and Fiona were too wrapped up in Harry’s threats to guess that Stacy had left out part of the exchange. The plan of action: Stacy was to call other vendors who might be part of the class-action lawsuit, gather information and issue reasonable promises about payments. Janice would call thongs.com’s lawyers and find out what they could do to stop the suit, possibly turn the tables and create a legal headache for Bolt Fabrics (Janice thought they could accuse Harry of illegally importing silk from China). As far as brokering a deal with Good Times and smut.com, Fiona and Janice agreed that the bluff was first class, but that the whole scheme would never come off.

Janice said, “You are a damn fine talker, Stacy. That’s what we love about you.”

“I’d like to try, anyway,” she said. “I promised Harry.”

“If you want to call Stanley Bombicci, go ahead. But he’ll never believe that’s why you’re calling,” said Fiona. “He’ll assume you have an ulterior motive. Maybe you do.”

Stacy most certainly did
not
. She decided an e-mail would be the way to contact Stanley. She’d blind copy Harry, just to prove she was making a sincere effort on his behalf. Fiona gave Janice and Stacy a couple more minor tasks on the matter. She would do nothing herself, since she brought in the big money that morning, and because she firmly believed that when thongs.com launched the Meshwear line, they’d be flush with bucks and would be able to pay off all the suppliers by the end of August.

“You know why I’m so confident?” she asked Stacy and Janice.

Because you’re swimming in an ocean of your own hype? thought Stacy. “Why?” she asked.

“I have a prototype.” Fiona reached into the top drawer of her desk and held aloft a scrap of material in the shape (and size) of a Dorito. “This is the Meshwear G-string — the ‘Bermuda Triangle’ — in gold.”

She passed the G-string over to Janice and Stacy, who oohed and ahhed appropriately, as if it really were the golden scrap that would wow womankind, prevent pantylines and save a company from a financial breakdown.

“Stacy, for serving thongs.com loyally and tirelessly, I’d like to offer you a reward,” said Fiona. “I want you to be the first woman in America to wear the Bermuda Triangle, to feel the softness and sexiness of our latest, greatest product.”

She just couldn’t. She’d feel more naked wearing the G-string than she did without anything on. Fiona threw the underwear into her lap. Stacy excused herself to the ladies’ room and put it on. Afraid to look in the communal mirror (what if someone came in?), she returned to Fiona’s office and announced she’d never felt sexier, and was grateful beyond all reason to be the first model for such a revelatory — and chic — unmentionable. The Bermuda Triangle did, actually, feel sexy. The string itself was strong and stretchy, the mesh fabric stretched, too. The ventilation was a nice plus.

“Let’s see,” said Fiona.

“Yes, let’s see,” agreed Janice, smiling, enjoying every drop of Stacy’s embarrassment.

Stacy lifted her skirt and did a lightning twirl for her bosses, rearranged her clothes and plopped back down in the chair. Fiona and Janice applauded and the three women shared 30 seconds of amicable levity. If only it could be like this all the time, thought Stacy. Maybe it could be. Fiona’s confidence used to flow in her own veins. It could again.

Or not. Almost as soon as the moment had begun, it ended. Fiona took a call. She shooed Janice and Stacy out of her office to do their top-priority tasks. Which Stacy had been performing tirelessly for hours upon hours.

And now, Fiona stood in the door of Stacy’s cubicle, flush of face and purse, wanting to party.

Stacy said, “I’d love to, Fiona, but I’m exhausted.”

The Dark Lady shook her head. She’d take no excuses. “I guarantee that you will meet a hot, young, available man. And I think you know how committed I am to my guarantees.” Fiona had set the most generous return policy on the Internet: If you don’t fall madly in love with, say, your new Naughty Stewardess Negligee, thongs.com will give you a full refund, pay for return shipping, and offer a 5 percent discount on a future purchase of $100 or more. About 2 percent of their customers took them up on the guarantee — thongs.com lost about $100,000 a quarter on returns, a drop in the bucket of their scorcher of a burn rate.

Stacy said, “Another disappointment with men could do permanent damage to my ego.”

Fiona checked her gold-and-diamond Tiffany wristwatch. “It’s ten o’clock. If you don’t have a man’s tongue in your ear by eleven, I’ll give you a thirty-thousand-dollar raise.”

“Fifty thousand,” said Stacy.

“Sixty!” announced Fiona. “That’s how confident I am in you.”

“Since you put it that way,” said Stacy, “a tongue in the ear is an offer I can’t refuse.”

Eleven o’clock. Stacy had already consumed two white chocolate martinis. She would have ordered a third, but she couldn’t signal for the waiter with this young, hot, available man’s tongue in her ear. Fiona had taken her to the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel, a wood-paneled bar a few price points and tourists above a country-club lounge. Fiona was in tune with the decor in her purple passion dress and pinpoint heels. Within five minutes of sinking into plush chairs at a table in the back, two astonishingly attractive men approached them. Sven and Jorge. They were traveling businessmen from Finland with perfect English and not much to say. Fiona invited them to have a seat. Fifteen minutes of lust-laden small talk later, the Oak Room magically transformed into Makeout Central Station.

While Jorge gave Stacy’s ear a lashing, she watched Fiona and Sven’s maneuvers. Their lips were fused and his hand had disappeared up her dress, exposing a length of Fiona’s thigh (Stacy hoped she would look as lithe in 20 years). Stacy spotted the trademark black satin roses on the garter straps of her Merciless Merry Widow (one of thongs.com’s most popular styles). For a nanosecond, Stacy felt a wave of genuine affection for her boss. Fiona really loved and used the products; she wanted women to feel sexy and alive, at any age, in any size.

Stacy pushed Jorge back. They were squeezed into a plush chair, sides pressed together. His face was adorable: honey-colored eyes, rounded cheeks like a boy’s, slight sheen from cocktails and kissing, tiny lines on his forehead to show some age and experience. Stacy guessed he was just over 30. His chest was a wall of muscle; you could chop wood on his legs. “Tell me, Jorge,” Stacy said. “Where do you live in Finland?”

He took a lingering sip of his scotch (rocks) and said, “I’ve forgotten.” Then he covered Stacy like a blanket.

Fiona and Sven stood suddenly. She said to Stacy, “We’re taking a room. You might want to get one, too.”

They left, Sven’s hand on her lower back, her hand inside his pants pocket. Fiona was an incredible woman, Stacy thought drunkenly. Nothing could come between Fiona and a good time. Jorge handed Stacy the remains of her drink. She licked the white chocolate around the rim and made cat eyes at the Fin.

He said, “We won’t need to get a room, Stacy.”

Her heart sank. He didn’t want her? A flood of disappointment (permanent damage?). “We won’t?” she asked.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit, he removed a plastic key card. He held it between two fingers and said, “I’ve already got one.”

Jorge’s room in the Plaza had one queen-size bed, a couple of fake Chippendale chairs, a TV stand and a mini-bar. Pretty sparse, she thought. So the traveling businessmen were not on a lavish expense account, she thought. Stacy said, “No turn-down service tonight.”

He laughed, confused. Okay, maybe that went over his Finnish head. Not wanting to disrupt the mood, she said, “I like you, Jorge.” He was perfect — handsome, here today, gone tomorrow. She could secure sexually active status without disrupting the ordinary flow of her life. God bless Fiona, she thought.

“I like you, too, Stacy,” he said, and pulled her down on the bed with him.

As they kissed, Jorge made small purring sounds, like a blond cat. “My God,” he said. “What are you wearing?”

He’d discovered the Bermuda Triangle. “Oh, nothing,” she said.

“Nearly nothing.” He resumed nibbling her clavicle, and he whispered, “You can spend the night if you’d like.”

“I’d like,” she answered. She rubbed his lap.

“It’s just a little bit extra, but you won’t regret it.”

Stacy stopped rubbing. “A little bit extra?”

“The room is covered, plus two hours. But if we go twelve hours, it’s an additional thousand,” said Jorge.

He must have realized Stacy had turned to marble. He took her face in his hands. “Fiona didn’t tell you?”

Fiona hadn’t told her. But now she knew: Sven and Jorge were not businessmen from Finland. They were escorts from Fiona’s regular date-supply service. For the count of 10, Stacy was furious with Fiona. How dare she set her up? But by the 11 count, her temper had cooled. This might have something to do with Jorge’s lifting her shirt and kissing along her ribs. Fiona had only been trying to help. In theory, calling an escort had seemed tacky and pathetic. But now that she was past hypothetical and deep into actual, Jorge, a flesh-and-blood gift from her boss, didn’t make Stacy feel anything but curious and tickled. He would do anything she wanted.

“Have you ever been to Finland?” she asked.

“I’m from Boston, but I like Finlandia vodka,” he said.

Stacy said, “Jorge, I would like you to kiss my entire body, inch-by-inch for an hour, including at least twenty minutes of oral sex, followed by long and slow intercourse, and fifteen minutes of hugging and gentle, absentminded stroking while you recover. Then we’ll do it all over again. After that, you’ll bathe me, wash my hair and brush it until it’s dry. Then sing to me until I fall asleep in your arms. What does that go for?”

Jorge got off the bed, retrieved his suit jacket from the floor and found his Palm VII. Using the pen, he scribbled some numbers and checked the downloaded Executive Escorts listing of services. Stacy, looking over his shoulder, was astonished at the menu — it was like a spa’s, only dirty. Finally, he said, “The straight sex is applied to an hourly rate of five hundred until twelve
A.M.
To stay until morning, it’s a flat rate of one thousand. Plus two hundred for the bath and shampoo (an extra fifty for conditioning), one hundred dollars for the brush-out and blow dry — I’m very good, by the way, I’ll make your hair straight as a pin — and an additional three hundred for the singing, unless you want something by Frank Sinatra, in which case it’s jacked up to three fifty. Fiona already paid a thousand, which covers me until midnight. The balance: two thousand, one hundred dollars.” He showed Stacy his calculations.

She whistled. “That much?”

“I’m worth it.”

“And for a quickie, right now?”

“It’s eleven forty-five. We still have fifteen minutes on Fiona’s tab. We can do it and leave, and you wouldn’t owe a penny,” he said. He smiled seductively. “It’d be my pleasure, Stacy.”

She grinned. No doubt he’d be thrilled. She was still young and — dare she say so herself — foxy. His obvious (like a frozen herring) attraction was visible and tempting. So were his time-tested skills.

She stood up and pulled down her skirt. “Can I have your number?” she asked.

He handed her an engraved card. “I’ll come down ten percent on the package. And that’s out of my own pocket.”

“Keep it in your pocket, Jorge.” It wasn’t the money. Stacy could pay for a week of Jorge. She wasn’t sure she could afford the emotional cost just yet.

She leaned down and kissed him sweetly and regretfully. He said, “Twenty percent. And that’s my final offer.”

“Still over my limit,” she said. “But you never know when those lines are going to be redrawn. You may hear from me.” If she got desperate on Sunday, her last day of non-virgin status, she could change her mind. She left him alone on the bed, blond and boyish, honey-colored eyes already checking his Palm VII for his next appointment.

Back in the hallway of her SoHo apartment building, Stacy found her Palm III in her evening bag and called up her To Do list of men. She’d crossed off a couple names (been there, not done that), and added a half dozen question marks alongside the name “Jorge.” She unlocked her door and was greeted by the comfortable clutter of her living room. She took a step inside and spotted a white square of paper on the floor.

She picked it up. It read:

It was signed “4C.”

Her heart pounded. The fates might be smiling on her after all. She hadn’t given in to temptation, and this was her reward! She checked her watch. Just past midnight. She ran as fast as she could, up the rickety fire escape stairs, to the roof.

He wasn’t there. All she found on the flat black-top roof were a couple of empty bottles of Brooklyn Lager, and a full one. Underneath it, a wet ring of condensation smudging the inky letters, sat another note. It read: