Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (9 page)

Still, my gaydar equipment farkled then because he is, in fact, straight. And he heterosexualed his way through every day and night with his live-in girlfriend Gabby. The duo continued to date for the next five years, and in that time, I’d switched jobs and performed a triple jump through engagement, marriage, and divorce.

I lost touch with Max when I began working at an advertising agency, but two years later, two months after discovering Gabe’s betrayal, I longed for what I knew. I longed for pantry. Max met me for an adult beverage at Ocean Grill on the Upper West. I wanted oysters despite December.

I waited bare-shouldered in my Wathne scarf, wrapped as a top, pressing my lips together. It wasn’t summer, but shoulders were in order. I’m not good at waiting without a glass of wine or napkin to finger, so I looked out the window and tried to spot him. The streets were filled with peculiar couples, and upon a glance, I struggled to understand what united them. I spotted the foreigners. I could see it in their teeth and hemmed Levi’s. Children in colorful tights walked hunched under the weight of violin cases and backpacks. A patron extended a folded dollar bill to purchase a dirty water dog and pretzel across the street. Taxicabs. Glittering twinkle lights on small tree branches. The city was busy, and I was lonesome.

I watched Max approach the restaurant through the window. He looked beautiful under the soft fall of lamp-lit snow, and when he came inside and hugged me with “hello,” it lasted too long for “just friends.” Over burgundy and blue points, we both shared our sad stories, his blue eyes staring into mine even when we laughed. If I believed in love at second sight, this was it.

“Yeah, I’m happier now that I’m single,” he said with a face that conveyed he smelled something rancid. “’Cause dealing with all her issues was worse than alone could ever be.” I didn’t believe him. “Actually, the worst was when my therapist sat me down, and kept saying the word
fuck
.” When Max said
fuck
he lowered his voice but exhaled the “ck” as if he were trying to blow out an Amish kerosene lantern. “He kept saying, ‘why do you want to be with her? She had some other guy’s dick in her. She was busy fuCKing other guys and lying to your FACE.’ I didn’t want to hear it, or believe any of it. Hearing
fuck
like that, though, it was what I needed.” Max looked up from the table and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly.

He was adorable. Seeing Max’s vulnerability convinced me I could tell him anything. He would understand my fears because he was on my side, knew what it felt like to be betrayed. Since we were already friends, there wasn’t any of the “When should I call?” anxiety. Everything was natural. Over the next two months, we became best friends who couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Just like you’d see written in a personal ad under the header, Ideal Relationship. There was just one problem: I wasn’t allowed to date him.

Okay, well, I could date him, but I couldn’t date
only
him. Phone Therapist reminded me of this often. “I know you want full throttle, 24/7, 365.” I knew when she whined “24/7,” she felt hip. “Stephanie, right now, any relationship you enter, you’re going to want to pick up where you and Gabe left off because it’s what you know. You need to move beyond this comfort level, push yourself to grow. Jumping into something again is unhealthy because it’s too soon. You won’t know what you’re jumping into. Healthy is slow-paced.” Slow-paced. It was as wretched to me as canned tuna fish packed in oil.

So, I forced myself to continue to see others without really mentioning it to Max. Okay, it was lying by omission. But, unless there’s some exclusivity clause mentioned in a talk somewhere, you’re technically not breaking any dating rules. Max might have assumed exclusivity, but it was never discussed. Maybe he knew, deep down. Maybe it’s why he continually wanted to talk about feelings.

By seeing others, I avoided the deadly dating sin of “diving,” “jumping,” and “shooting.” Headfirst, shallow waters, and something to do with asking questions once it’s too late. I was guilty. All I wanted to do was find a bathing cap and go running off a cliff headfirst into a new relationship.

“And if you jump into the wrong relationship, it will only leave you rocking on the bathroom floor in pain again.” Ouch, lady. It was her way of saying “fuck.” “What scares you about being single? You need to figure out why you want a relationship so desperately.” Why was I paying her again? Wasn’t that
her
job? Holy shit, all I wanted to do was cry and eat hamburgers.

As for variety, I had it all wrong. The real cowards aren’t the ones who enjoy the variety pack. Cowards pogo jump from one relationship to the next out of a fear of being alone. Cereal monogamists. They eat out of their safe pantries because they’re too terrified of walking beyond the perimeter of what they already know, exposing themselves to new “styles.”

That’s what Phone Therapist called them, “styles.” She argued in addition to coaxing me out from behind my preferred comfort zone of “serious relationship,” an assortment of men would expose me to new ways of thinking. “New styles,” she advised, as if they were overcoats. “There’s more to life than Jewish doctors who believe the planets orbit around their pants. You need to realize there are men out there who don’t even like golf. Sure, go ahead and date Max, but you can’t stop there.”

So, I didn’t. I dated a variety of men hoping to find “attentive,” “thoughtful,” and “selfless.” I didn’t know, at least not from experience, if they existed in men other than my father.

But of course, it all came down one day to a postcoital talk when Max questioned, “You’re not seeing anyone else, are you?” I didn’t need to answer. We stopped talking.

Days later, I tried to rescind it all. “I only want you. I don’t care what Phone Therapist says.” I felt needy and hungry for what I knew. I wasn’t that different from Lower Least Side Greg, unaware of just what I had until it was too late, until it was “better off as friends.”

“No, sweetie,” Max said. “I knew something wasn’t right. You’re too fancy for me, anyway.”
Fancy
meant I didn’t own my own dartboard and preferred bars without sawdust.

“Can we still,” I wondered how I’d redeem this, how I’d not have to lose him completely, “be friends?”

“Of course we can. But some time needs to go by. Let’s give it a few months.”

So, just three months out of my marriage, anxious as a fly trapped in a jar, I needed to move beyond the Max and, at a minimum, pluck a few other fresh fish out of the water and do some examining. Leave my apartment and check out their colorful scales and slick gills. I had to see what all these fish in this enormous sea everyone kept mentioning were like. I just wasn’t permitted to engage in any deep-sea fishing yet. Well, thank God for argyle-print waders. Now all I needed were some fishing buddies. “Ew, do I have to touch his worm?” Oh, for the love of God.

IT WAS TIME TO GO OUTSIDE AND REALIZE LIFE DOES ACTUALLY
go on beyond the walls of my very small, so this is what it’s like to live alone apartment. Linus crawled onto my chest and pawed at my forehead. Okay, so I wasn’t
alone
alone. It was worse. I was one of those women who thought she wasn’t alone because she picked up shit and fed something. “Wanna go for a walk?” I needn’t ask twice. The runt was ready to go.

It was the Thursday before Fourth of July weekend, which meant I had to air out Linus. On Mondays and Wednesdays, he attended Camp Canine, a doggie day-care facility—resembling my father’s basement—which enables New Yorkers’ guilt to dissolve like the sugar in their
A.M
. lattes. For the rest of the week, though, he sulked alone all day—curled into himself like a small black-eyed pea. So I exercised him at the Seventy-second Street dog run where he chased a ball, sniffed some ass, and basically drooled like an adolescent boy upon his first glimpse of bush.

My overprotective soccer-mom instincts extended beyond wanting to make Linus wear shin guards and a helmet. Linus on the streets of Manhattan, even while I was gripping his leash, was a lawsuit waiting to happen. As we walked to the run, strangers leaned toward him and made nice nice. His tail curled between his legs like an apostrophe. “Aw, he’s so cute.” Yeah, lady? Wait until he devours two of your knuckles. “Look at that face!” His head lowered, ears pinned back. “His eyes are so intelligent. What is he, a Jack Russell? I used to have a Jack, too.” They tried to pet his head. “They’re the best—” GRORWRERESRRR.

I yanked the furkid off with a breathy apology. “I’m so sorry! I told you—he really doesn’t like people.” Or dogs, or pigeons, or anyone but me. So listen to me when I say it, and stop molesting my Notorious D.O.G. No one asked these ugly Tevas-with-socks strangers to handle my toy fox terrier dog (thank you very much). Maybe I’d humiliate him soon with a T-shirt:
CAN’T TOUCH THIS
. M.C. Hammer would be proud.

“Linus, baby, I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t let her touch me either,” I whispered into his rose petal ears. “Now let’s go chase some tail.”

At the playground, it’s not like I strapped him into a swing or anything. I mean, I wanted to, but that’s as degrading as forcing him to wear a glamour gem collar with a jailhouse rock doggie tee. Oh, I’ve seen it. Way too many women in New York treat their dogs like surrogate children, right down to the wipes, bottled water, and booties come winter. They bring a blue bouncing baby ball and try to entice their canine to fetch it as though they’re encouraging first steps. The problem, of course, with balls at dog runs is everything is up for grabs. Any dog can swipe the ball from Linus’s jowls, leaving him flustered and vicious, picking fights with dogs that consider him nothing more than an amuse bouche. On occasion, though, miracles happen. Miracles like BooBoo.

BooBoo the Boston terrier suddenly pounced off her owner’s lap and sadistically raced Linus for the ball. “My God, BooBoo never chased a ball before!” Her owner, a tattered woman with a voice like Tevye’s from
Fiddler on the Roof,
exclaimed, suddenly on her feet, clapping, with the excitement of a new mother. “It’s a miracle, I tell you.” Clearly, she also smoked unfiltered cigarettes for a living. “A modern-day miracle.” Was she talking about BooBoo or Botox? Just as easily, I could have heard, “Bobby never went down the big slide on his own before.”

I smiled at her, one of those sympathetic, you poor sad sack smiles usually reserved for those who choose the wrong impressive vocabulary word at the right dinner parties. This is the best she’ll ever have, right here, in this moment. She was sadder than air guitar. I was suddenly terrified. What if this were me? What if this was it, a life revolving around dog accessories instead of making play dates and helping with homework? Living my life from the bench beside Burberry dog carriers and Swarovski-studded leads.

Linus was back, unexpectedly with a pack of other dogs, panting at my feet. “What? What is it, baby? You want me to throw the ball again?” Upon hearing me address him, he scampered off, clearly embarrassed by my baby talk now that he was runnin’ with the cool kids. It’s as if he forgets for those forty-five minutes that he likes to sleep under the covers with me and that his favorite toy is a stuffed frog. Instead his instincts kick in, and he’s suddenly one of the pack, asking me to drop him off around the corner from the movie theater. At that moment I understood why parents sob at weddings.

Just then my cell phone buzzed with a new e-mail message from Alexandra Geddes, a post-divorce girlfriend I’d met through Dulce, my pre-divorce friend. It’s amazing how significant events in life divide everything into “before” and “after.” Sure, doctors get a rap for having a God complex. Gabe was more like Christ. Everything was reduced to BG and AG.

“We’re going out tonight, cookieface! Markt: reseys at 9
P.M.
sharp. None of your fifteen minutes of fashionable lateness crap.” We’d be going to Markt, a new restaurant in the meatpacking district. I stood from the bench and danced a jig.

At least for most of the evening, I’d be out with a pack. The New York single scene wasn’t all that disparate from the Upper West Side dog run. Like wild dogs traveling through twilight in nonstop strides, constantly in jeopardy of ambush, with a need for securing their own prey, my pack of chicklet friends announced their presence, not with howls, but silently, through scent, communicating their territory to neighbors. You could nearly see Creed’s Fleur de The Rose Bulgarie, as if it left tracks indicating where we’d been, who we’d conquered, and who we’d left for dead. If a dog strays from the group, he’s less likely to eat, so his chances of survival increase when he stays, not strays. When a woman strays, deciding to abstain from a night out with friends, she’s less likely to meet anyone, and more likely to sit on her fat ass watching Lifetime TV, increasing her chances of doing just that for the rest of her sad-sack life. It’s precisely why women move through the night in groups, right down to their lengthy bathroom visits. It was going to be a great night. I could smell it.

REMARKABLY, I WAS FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLY TO DINNER.
Nevertheless, there was no chance we’d be seated anything short of a half hour after our actual reservation at Markt. The dinner was in honor of Dulce’s twenty-fifth birthday bash. Girls like Dulce were always having “bashes,” yet this was only the second time I’d celebrated her birth since meeting her on a double date with Gabe, two years prior.

Her beauty intimidated me at the onset. There I was, married to Gabe, wearing matronly capri pants, a cashmere cable knit complete with pearls, and a ribbon headband—always the “tell” of a married woman, dressing the proper preppy part to complete the proper married picture—when along comes girlfriend d’force, in heels and hoochiewear, complete with perfectly threaded brows and overly glossed lips. She wore a minute of a jean skirt with a pink baby tee clearly made for a Chihuahua. Dulce looked like a soft porn DVD cover featuring young dirty college girls on spring break. I remember touching Gabe’s arm to make sure he was still there.

I imagined she’d be aloof and only warm when prompted to speak of her childhood abroad, where I was certain she partied on the bronzed shoulders of men while wearing little more than a belly chain. Gabe had mentioned something about Chile, but I imagined Brazil. He couldn’t have birthed a more erroneous story if he’d actually closed his eyes and pushed. Apparently, Dulce was really Allyson Reese of Austin, Texas. She acquired the pet name
Dulce
from her sorority sisters when she’d returned from her Chilean semester abroad, not speaking Spanish, but “a speaking a English with a Spanisha accent” to replace her sometimes southern one. If Dulce were a scratch and sniff sticker, she’d smell like birthday cake.

The guy from the double date broke up with Dulce two weeks later, claiming, “I need to focus more at work, and you’re a distraction.” I didn’t really believe girls who looked like Dulce could ever be abandoned. She was
Austintatious
: big jewelry, big breasts, big heart. She’d just moved to Manhattan from Baltimore, where she’d gone to college, to live with him, so this didn’t just make Dulce dumped; it made her homeless. Gabe relayed that, really, his friend believed she was just too immature.

“Immature how?” I wanted to know. Gabe just shrugged. How infuriating men can be with their lack of probing questions. “So you’re a real stickler for details, huh?” I crossed my arms waiting for a reaction. “You mean, you didn’t even ask?” Gabe shrugged again, then diverted his attention to his medical flashcards. “Where’s she going to live?” Another shrug. Clearly I was speaking to a mime who’d cut out of “shoulder shrug” class to vault imaginary walls and pick make-believe flowers.

“Well, is it okay if she stays with us for a while?” I was surprised it came out of my mouth. From where was my new concern for her coming? I only knew her and her skirt for a minute. Shouldn’t my loyalties have rested with Gabe’s friend, who was by extension my friend, or at least our friend? When breakups happen, sides are taken. Loyalty becomes black and white. I was playing the part of the sensible driving shoe wife. My mothering instincts kicked in, and I wanted to protect this young blonde Manhattan transfer.

“Yeah, she can stay.”

SO, DULCE LIVED WITH US FOR A SHORT TIME WHILE SHE
hunted for a job, an apartment, and a new life. I know. Was I crazy to invite this leggy Texas cheerleader, with her itty-bitty pink terrycloth running shorts, to lounge on our sofa cross-legged without the slightest hint of a thigh dimple? Really, just let her ample bosom heave just a room away from us in the dark of night? Truth is, Gabe’s fidelity never even came into question. Instead I wondered if this woman would ever be the kind to put her oar in married waters. And the answer was always, No. Not because she’d be afraid someone would discover the indiscretion, but it was the kind of thing
she’d
never be okay with, in her own buffed skin. Now why couldn’t I have married someone like Dulce instead of Gabe? That’s the only question I should have been asking.

Though Dulce appears to be nothing more than a sugary soufflé of blond hair, with bonbon breasts and skin as soft as confectioners’ sugar, she’s as real as the Bible. Sadly, I only began to appreciate her once I discovered Gabe was on the cheat. Only when the shit comes down do you learn who your real friends are. When shit landed on my welcome mat, Ms. Dulce was there to help me scrape it all off, phoning me every single morning to ensure I got out of bed. She wouldn’t hang up until she heard the shower water. And in the middle of the night when I had to talk but was afraid of the hour, she always answered, “I’m glad you called.” Dulce became family, never sugarcoating the facts. “He is a liar; he specializes in it. Don’t let this be your life.” She is my strongest friend.

We became each other’s pack in the face of ambush. Now, we’re two little bitches, strutting side by side off into the sunset, leaving our piles of dog shit by the curb where they belong.

DULCE BELONGED AT HER OWN DAMN BASH HALF AN HOUR
ago. While I waited for the birthday girl to arrive, I did what I do best: drink and eavesdrop. Before even asking her name, the part-time Fifth Avenue man beside me spoke of the part of time he spent beyond the city.

“See, I love the warmth, but South Beach is insipid these days. The crowd is so pedestrian.” He sounded like a black man impersonating a white news anchor.

This man, who ought to have been in his late forties, was probably only thirty-three and referred to his parents’ summer home on The Vineyard as his home. Schooled at all the “right places,” places with crests and “the” in the title, Mr. Madras Pants carried a degree in poplin with a minor in seersucker. He wore his conceit neatly behind the gold button of his navy blazer, and I could tell by the way he inspected the rim of his Cape Codder tumbler that he was the type of man who was at complete ease when sending his order back to the kitchen. I imagined his way of “ending things” was not returning phone calls.

“I prefer Nevis these days,” he continued. I’m sorry, since when is Nevis in the same realm as South Beach, and who says insipid? The guy was
awkwords
.

I looked around watching new couples write big ideas on small cocktail napkins, communicating in squares. She’s got her heart on her sleeve, he’s got his monogram. It’s rare to find real in a city where the wine is sixteen dollars a glass, the lighting is scarce, and all the boys are necked out in Ferragamo…and occasionally Zegna. But only if he’s in a suit because Zegna neckties are all about the suit. But you knew that. Okay, you didn’t.

When a man who is clearly the boyfriend of the woman Mr. Madras Pants is trying to impress approaches, touching the small of her back and accepting a kiss from her on his lips, Pants rose to the occasion.

“May I offer you
both
a drink?” He looked into the boyfriend’s eyes as if he’d just walked away with a golden regatta trophy for his fifth consecutive summer.

“No, thank you,” Boyfriend responded in a tone that said, “and it’s a yacht, not a boat, you dinghy.”

So, she had a boyfriend. Please, every attractive woman in this city is attached. Boyfriends are not deterrents—they’re accessories. I wondered if they made one in my size.

“Oh my God, this is too funny!” It was Dulce with Alexandra approaching me from behind. Dulce’s hands were touching both my shoulder and the shoulder of Pants. “Two of my most favorite people.” An actual squeal escaped her fuchsia lips, followed by introductions and double-cheek kisses. Apparently Pants was Paul Williams, a trader at Merrill Lynch with a fiancée of his own…though on drunken occasions, he left this item off his social CV.