Waking Beauty (10 page)

All of my bad feelings about the sofa photos vanished in an instant. God, I looked great! Jeans, T-shirt, a stinky old pair of basketball shoes, and I looked totally hot. Like a real sex-pot, I’m not kidding. It was bizarre. Downright porno. I was actually making
myself
horny. I brushed my gorgeous hair,
dabbed a little Pretty in Pink lipstick on my pouty mouth, and after striking a dozen or so cutesy
Playboy
poses, tore myself away from the mirror’s magnetic pull. I fished out some cash and a credit card, then hid my purse deep in the closet. It was best not to be seen toting it around, since it was “Allison’s” and she was in Los Angeles.

There were several things I noticed as I walked down my street. First, how swiftly and effortlessly I could move—again that feeling of lightness and length. Second, that Virginie’s shoes were definitely too small for my new feet. And third, that everybody seemed to be gawking at me. Nuno Benitah actually smiled, nodded, and made a lewd sucking noise with his mouth.

I noticed something else, too. Not only did I look different, but I also saw differently. The extra six inches or so of height had skewed my perspective and made everything appear slightly unusual and fresh. Also, I used to catch a bit of my potato nose in my peripheral vision. No more. My line of sight was suddenly unobstructed. For the first time ever, I could see clearly.

2    

Horns. Men were sounding their horns. No fewer
than three appreciative and zesty honks from passing cars in the ten minutes it took me to reach the local Second Cup. Feeling festive and frivolous—never before had I been honked at—I skipped my usual black java and ordered a jumbo cappuccino. The teenage cashier, an albino version of Ichabod Crane, glanced furtively at my boobs, blushed flamingo pink, and fumbled my change all over the counter.

“Oops, sorry ’bout that, heh, heh, heh….” Ichabod scooped up the misbehaving coins, smiled (bashfully!), and handed them over. He had never smiled at me before. A cold
albino stare is what I usually got. Ichabod’s comrade in coffee—a plump and dour-looking young woman—set my drink on the counter. “Chocolate?” asked Ichabod, brandishing the shaker.

“Yes, please.”

With a brisk flourish, he caved in the left side of the foam dome with a generous helping of cocoa. “Cinnamon?” he asked, holding up the shaker like a happy housewife in a 1950s magazine ad.

“Sure.”

“Have a great day,” said Ichabod, proudly presenting my cappuccino to me.

“Thanks.”

“Lids and napkins over there.” He extended a bony arm in the direction of the coffee station.

So helpful was Ichabod, so very attentive all of a sudden.

I went to the patio and drank my coffee. It was deliciously warm and sweet in my mouth. The sun was shining all over me, and the caffeine was kicking in. I felt good. Good, good, good. Every few seconds, I’d peek at my reflection in the plate glass window of the café. My hair was gleaming yellow in the light, my body poised and feline. I looked like a Northern Italian starlet on a coffee break, or Bridget Bardot relaxing between shots. Casual-glam. Effortlessly gorgeous.

I pondered what to do with my happy Saturday. Usually, I’d be dragging my duds to the Laundromat, cleaning up the apartment, or going for a Discman walk in the cemetery. Or else I’d be buying dull provisions like toilet paper and margarine, or getting some books from the library, maybe renting a couple of movies. Movies. Yes. I could go check out Nathan in his natural habitat, behind the counter at Art & Trash, something I had long wanted to do, but really had no excuse for, since the video store was way the hell and gone in the West End, and there’d be no reason for me to be there unless it was to see him. I finished my java and set out.

It was too nice outside to descend immediately to the subway,
so I decided to walk for a while. I wanted to enjoy the feeling of moving brisk and lively in the sun without getting heat-bogged and sweat-sodden. A mile was but a few springy steps. My energy was buzzing high, my spirits were glad—happy, like white sails snapping in a blue-sky breeze. I felt confident and fresh, like the dementedly cheerful young women in tampon commercials. I bought an ice-cream cone for breakfast—big pink in a waffle cone. No remonstrative glances as I strolled and slurped sloppy down the street, strawberry all over my mouth and chin and fingers. Just the opposite, actually—what I got were amused, isn’t-that-adorable looks from almost everyone I passed. And when I reached an intersection and paused at a red light, a rotund construction worker, sitting astride a low steel girder, eating lunch, shouted, “Looks tasty, baby.” And his sunburned coworker added, “Lucky ice cream.” And still another coworker—a studly guy in a sleeveless sweatshirt and tight jeans—called out, “Can I have a lick?” I don’t quite know what came over me; I knew I was supposed to scowl and move on, as I had seen other women do, but instead my mouth said, “Sure,” then smiled up at Studly Guy, who had thick, hairy arms and was kind of hoodlum handsome.

Surprised laughter. Jovial goading.
Go get it, buddy! Can I have a lick, too
?

Studly Guy smiled smug, stood up tall and macho on the girder and said, “I wasn’t talking about the ice cream, baby.”

“Whew hoo!” said the sunburned coworker.

They waited for me to flip him the bird and move on, but after countless years of sexual deprivation, and the suspicion that my day of beauty might be just that, one precious day, I wasn’t inclined to pass up an opportunity with such a hunky specimen. So I said, “I know.” Then I dropped what was left of the cone into a garbage can and licked some strawberry off of my finger in what I suspected and hoped was a suggestive manner.

A chorus of shocked exclamations followed. Studly Guy
looked uncertain as to how to proceed. He remained planted on the girder, laughing, glancing at his buddies. I could see the bravado draining from his face and posture.

“Whattya waitin’ for?” said Sunburn.

“Go for it,” said Rotund, slapping him on the back. “You still got ten minutes.”

“And that’s all he’ll need!” shouted Sunburn.

Studly Guy mustered a bit of bluster and climbed down to ground level. “What is this,
Candid Camera?”
he said, guffawing, but he looked a little stressed.

I found the entrance in the wooden hoarding and advanced toward him. I was feeling quite randy, and for the first time in my life, sexually bold. Still, I didn’t quite know what to do when I reached him. I couldn’t just start molesting the guy in front of everyone. I ended up poking him in the belly with my finger—don’t ask me why. His stomach felt hard and muscular.

“Let’s go in there,” I said, gesturing to a makeshift office, essentially a plywood shack, in the far corner of the lot.

“You’re kidding me, right?” said Studly.

“Come on, let’s just go.” I started moving toward the shack.

As Studly Guy followed, he called out over his shoulder to his buddies still laughing and watching from their steel perch: “If this is some kind of joke, you assholes are dead meat. Seriously.”

An indiscernible reply from one of the other guys, as Studly and I stepped into the office and closed the rickety door.

“It’s not a joke,” I said.

“What are you, a working girl?”

“Me? No. I mean, I have a job, do you mean—”

“’Cause I don’t pay for it, you know. I got self-esteem.”

I laughed. “Do I look like a hooker?”

“Nah. You look like one of them supermodels.”

“You think?”

“Duh.”

I moved closer. He had a good sweat smell (tomato soup camp). I kissed his left ear, his rough jaw. I went for his mouth, but it didn’t kiss back.

“I could get canned for this,” he said. “You’re not even supposed to walk in here without a hard hat and boots. Plus, I have a wife.”

“Do you have a condom?”

“Jesus, Miss. No. I don’t have a condom. If you’re so hot to trot, how come you don’t have a condom?”

“Hey, you’re the one who propositioned me. I was just walking along eating an ice cream, remember?”

“Yeah, well…”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Sure,” he said. But he didn’t look sure. He opened the door a crack, peeked out, shut it again. “The thing is,” he said, “I just got married, like, six months ago. And I just found out we’re gonna have a baby.”

“Congratulations,” I said, peeling off my shirt.

A second later his mouth was on me. It felt amazing. And it looked fantastic. Totally porno. He was all hairy and grimy; I was all white and clean.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” he said.

He popped the button on his jeans and unzipped. I reached into his Stanfield’s—threadbare/blue—and grabbed his boner. The second time I had held a penis in my hand. It was bigger than the other one. I squeezed it.

“I wanna fuck you,” he said. “Can I? Are you on the Pill?”

“No,” I said, wondering if my temporary body could get knocked up. It seemed unlikely. But the last thing I needed was to Revert back and have an unborn construction worker growing inside of me. “We’d better not.”

He was breathing heavy and staring fierce under black eyebrows. “Let me fuck your tits,” he said.

I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that, but I had a feeling that it wasn’t quite what I wanted, so I said, “No. Do what you said before.”

“Fuck you?”

“No, the other thing. Remember? You asked if you could have a lick….”

He undid my pants and yanked them down.

“Oh, baby,” he said. He got down on his knees, and he did what I wanted. Down on his knees on the dirty plywood floor. He had one hand on my ass and the other hand on his cock. He made me come—my first non-masturbatory climax—and then two seconds later he jizzed on my left shoe. Virginie’s shoe, actually.

As we were covering our parts and tidying up, he said, “Can I have your number? I wanna call you.”

“I’m just in town for one day,” I said, thinking about the new wife and zygote. “But that was very satisfying. Thank you.”

“I’m not gonna forget this,” he said.

“No, me neither.”

Not likely that I’d forget my encounter with Studly Guy. Not a chance, really, since prior to the Big Change, my interactive sexual experiences had been countable on one hand. There was a kindergarten kiss from Nelson Rumack, who, fulfilling a recess dare, pushed me down onto hopscotch cement, stamped my cheek with a clamped mouth, then ran away squealing. There was my neighbor and baby-sitter Martin Standish, who watched over me when my mom went to the bar, and, under the guise of “tickling,” used to grope and probe and hold me hard against his safely blue-jeaned boner (he usually waited until I had changed into my nightie before initiating the frantic, leg-kicking tickle sessions, and he always disappeared into the bathroom immediately after). I’m pretty sure I was in love with him. Just after his thirteenth birthday, Martin experienced an obscene growth spurt,
which was accompanied by erratic facial hair, rampaging acne, and a sick sourdough odor. My mother hired a new baby-sitter. Her name was Melissa. She ignored me entirely and would spend the night simultaneously staring at the TV and talking on the phone. She and her boyfriend would blab or just listen to each other breathe while they watched
Married with Children
or
Full House
or
Cheers
. She didn’t even hang up when she went to empty her bladder; she’d say, “Pee break,” drop the receiver in the sofa cushions, and dash to the can. If I tried to speak to her, she’d give me a withering look and say, “I’m on the phone, Allison.” Sometimes I’d go to my mom’s room, pick up the extension and, with my hand clamped over the mouthpiece and the volume down low on the portable, watch what they were watching, and listen in on their conversation (a kind word for the blather that slunk back and forth along the phone lines). Melissa was obsessed with what her boyfriend thought of the various females on TV. A typical exchange:

“Do you think she’s pretty?”

“Who,
her
?”

“No. God! The older one.”

“Mallory?”

“Yeah. Justine Bateman.”

“She’s cute.”

“Do you think she’s hot?”

“I guess so.”

“Hotter than Lisa Bonet?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, which one would you rather go out with?”

“I dunno. Mallory, I guess. But they’re both hot. The mom’s pretty hot.”

“Who, Elise?”

“Yeah.”

“You think she’s prettier than Mallory?”

“No.”

“So Mallory’s the prettiest?”

“I guess.”

“Prettier than Christina Applegate?”

“No way. She’s the hottest.”

“Hotter than Blair on
Facts of Life
?”

“Ew, she’s a pig.”

“I thought you liked her?”

“No, I like that Alyssa chick on
Who’s the Boss
?”

“You like her better than Christina Applegate?”

Blah, blah, blah. I don’t know why I bothered eavesdropping. Something to pass the time, I guess. Still, I’m happy to say that I could never stand it for more than two half-hour sitcoms, and I was jubilant when Melissa got reprimanded and replaced after failing to notice that I had left the house while she was supposedly taking care of me. I had gone to the corner 7-Eleven to play video games, and had returned much later with a bag of Doritos and a jumbo Slurpee, to find the house dark, the doors locked, and my mother’s car in the driveway. Home early. I rang the bell, but Mommy had obviously paid Melissa and fallen drunk into bed. Luckily, it was summertime and sticky hot outside. I semi-slept in the backyard and then rang again at daybreak. It took a lot of nonstop staccato on the bell before my mystified and hugely pissed-off mom flung the door open. I’m still not sure if she canned Melissa because I was out all night or because I woke her up in the middle of a hangover. Either way, I was hoping for the return of Martin the Tickler, but instead I got an endless stream of bitchy females. And zero sexual activity until I was fifteen.