Spooning Page 10
“So where is J. P.?” Macie asked looking up from the television set. Why she hadn't thought to go down to the corner and watch the real shebang on Central Park West was beyond me.
“At home in Connecticut.”
“Oh. And what's the latest?” I hated how my romance, or lack thereof, was like the headlines of the nightly news. Everyone wanted updates every twenty minutes.
“Ugh. I don't know. Remember how we left Top Shelf together last weekend?” Macie nodded. “Well, we came back here and I innocently suggested that we go into my room, where, you know, there is no distracting television set and no ESPN …” I paused. Macie smiled as Tara walked into the room. She wanted to hear the story too.
“So, have any of you ever heard about Lova-Rubba- Cumma, that lubricating massage oil?” I asked.
“Hell yes! They advertise on late-night infomercials,” Tara exclaimed. “Charlie, you have some?” she asked raising her hand to her mouth feigning shock.
“Yeah. I had a wild moment and actually bought some in one of those West Village sex shops.”
“They're erotica shops,” Tara corrected. “Can I borrow it sometime?” I winced at the idea of sharing a used bottle of love oil.
“Well, I strongly advise against using it,” I told them. “This is my gift to you from my inner circle of knowledge. I can attest that it can cause an allergic reaction, especially in that nether region, if you know what I mean.”
“Why, what happened?” asked Syd as she came into the room, licking the bread batter from her fingers.
I sighed. “So I decided to be bold and I slathered this love juice all over my hands. By the way, it doesn't smell pretty— kind of like car oil overlaid with vanilla; it reminds me of the minty cod liver oil my mom used to make me take. Anyway, I reached down and began to stroke.”
“Details, Charlie, details! I mean good God, you're using lubricating oil. I want Danielle Steel details!” Tara reprimanded.
“Okay! First he began to smile, his eyes were half closed, and then he moaned like a cat in heat. Lova-Rubba-Cumma is supposed to ‘heat up slightly with a light loving touch.’ So, like any pleasing woman, I thought I was headed in the right direction. Well, he then drew in a sharp breath and then another, and he moaned again. But this time the moaning began to sound more ragged and he began to hyperventilate! Now, I can be a maven in the bedroom, but this was a new reaction even for me. His eyes flew open and then, he screamed. Not a wow scream but an owwww type of scream. He leapt up from the bed pointing frantically at his genital region!” Tara bit back a laugh.
“No really, I was scared!” I protested. “There he was leaping and spinning like the best of them at the New York City Ballet. So at this point, I didn't know whether to throw the cup of water from my bedside table on him or grab his penis and try to rub the oil off of it. I finally just directed him to the shower and after that I couldn't tell whether the next scream was from relief or from the shock of our often too-cold water.”
“Thinking back on it, I heard that yell.” Macie said. “I just chalked it up to your—what did you call them—maven ways.” I glared at her before continuing.
“It was terrible! Within two seconds, he had leapt out of the shower, wrapped himself in my towel, and fled the apartment. Yes,” I confirmed before Syd could interrupt, “towel- clad, down the stairs and out the front door. And I haven't heard from him since.”
“Devastating,” Macie deadpanned.
“Horrific,” Tara shuddered.
“Wasn't he cold?” Syd asked. “You know, shrinkage?” We stared at her.
“No, well, okay … Mortifying,” she concluded with sincerity. Atta girl, Syd!
“Y'all?” began Wade. “Even though we are missing Sage, not that she'd eat anyway, I say that this here dinner is our official November Cooking Club meeting. I mean when have we ever even come close to such a cooking feat?” We were huddled around our cafe table surveying the remnants of Tara's cranberry sauce, Syd's beer bread, and Macie's slightly pink turkey. It had been a simple meal, but the pilgrims had prided themselves on Yankee minimalism. And as if it couldn't get any better, Wade brought out her dessert with a whopping grin on her face. The “Better than Ben Affleck Dessert” as she called it. Now, mankind has exalted the wonders of chocolate for centuries. Chocolate was rumored to be an aphrodisiac but either way I found it mood-altering. It wasn't that I wanted sex, at least not any more than I did before the pie, but at the very sight of all those chocolate shavings I slowly began to have a good NY day!
We fought spoon to spoon to dig into this delight. Each layer proved to be more rich than the last. I savored each bite—from the chocolate, to the pudding, to the surprising creamy layer, to the nutty bottom. The whole dessert made my life flash before my eyes—from childhood, when I would sing along with Mr. Cosby as I ate Jell-O pudding; to college, when my dirty talking hook-up brought whipped cream to bed one night (only to get too high on whip-its to notice my nakedness); to my present-day nuttiness over Mr. J. P. Morgan (my Abnormal Psych professor in college used to claim that craziness is correlated to genius).
Tara, on the other hand, seemed to be shoveling rather than savoring, quickly making her way to the bottom of the dish. Maybe this was my problem. Maybe I was treading too lightly in my relationship with J. P. Maybe I needed to forgo the baby steps and the little nibbles of romance. Maybe I needed to dig in and dive deep.
“My mother used to call this recipe her ‘Better than Tom Selleck Dessert,’ Wade giggled with chocolate uncharacteristically adorning her nose.
“God,” moaned Tara. “He is the only man on the planet who actually looks yummy with a mustache.”
“She would whip this up for her lady friends and they'd all sit around and discuss their erotic memories of high school boyfriends long gone. It was a welcomed break from husbands and kids.”
“A precursor to our Cooking Club in a way,” theorized Macie.
“Yep! They even joked that this dish should be called the Better than Sex dessert—”
“Wild and crazy women,” quipped Tara.
“I figured that we needed to update the recipe with the times—no more Tom Selleck. Tom Cruise is too eighties and Brad Pitt is too blond for this chocolate masterpiece, so I decided on Ben,” Wade explained.
I'd just finished spooning the last of the pan's contents into my mouth when Macie sang, “Last bite is the Old Maid's!” I coughed on the spoonful. Not that I was superstitious, but did I really need any more obstacles in my quest for true love?
“Hey, let's all say something we're thankful for,” suggested Syd.
“Besides this?” Tara mumbled, wiping chocolate from her mouth. “If J. Lo had tasted this, she would have gotten rid of Ben a lot sooner!” With a deft flick of her tongue she did not miss a drop. The things that girl can do with her tongue!
“Each person has to list at least ten things,” commanded Syd.
“Ohh, goody! Let's write them down,” offered the ever-so- practical Macie. Syd passed out the paper while I distributed the pens, and off we all went, listing our thankful things.
Charlie:
• Cheap mani-pedis
• Unused Metro cards
• Page Six
• Good friends (albeit fledgling cooks)
• Caller ID
• J. Lo
• Neurotic yet loving family
• My butter yellow rug
• Mac and cheese
• Mr. J. P. Morgan (we'll see how long he stays on the list)
• Vanilla coffee
Macie:
• Bloomingdale's
• Tennis whites
• Fast elevators
• Flowers reappearing on semi-dead plants
• Sample sales
• Any Chanel makeup
• My mother
• My roommates
• J. Lo
• Our humble apartment
Wade:
• Rhyming poems (or nurser
y rhymes)
• Smelly markers
• Pearls being still in fashion
• Sunday afternoons in Barnes & Noble
• Dear friends
• Scented soaps (esp. those from hotels)
• My cashmere sweaters
• My sister
• J. Lo
• Free movies in Bryant Park
• Popsicles
Sydney:
• Newfound cooking skills
• Wine of any flavor
• Spell check
• Double features (for the price of one)
• My friends in NYC
• Reruns
• Starbucks
• Hospital scrubs to sleep in
• J. Lo
• Central Park (my reprieve!)
Tara:
• Boys
• J. Lo
• Boys (yes, I can put it twice)
• The female orgasm
• Roses from the man on the street
• New People magazines
• My family
• My ability to remember any cute boy's number
• My cell phone
• Yoga (the really hot kind)
• Ladies' night discounts
• My birth!! (You should all add it to your lists!)
It was touching to see what my best friends had put down and some of the items were very telling. For instance, I knew that Tara loved yoga not for the inner peace aspect, but for the way it limbered her up for certain nocturnal activities. Sydney's hospital scrubs were remnants of her high-school boyfriend, her first real relationship. She still refuses to go into detail about “him” other than that he was older, and a med student, but she still wore those scrubs as pajamas and a reminder of happy times. As for Wade, we'd all long been convinced that her love of Popsicles was purely phallic. She always goes for the really big round ones in the park, the ones that require your mouth to form the perfect “O” shape. She has a knack for sucking without one dribble. Demure southern belle, my ass!
To critique myself, I'd used up one of my ten valued spots on Mr. J. P. Morgan. Part of me felt like it was too early to be putting his existence on paper. I didn't even know if I could qualify him as my boyfriend yet (see inner-struggle from this morning), but he'd added a new dimension to my life here in New York, for better or for worse. Being superstitious, I was probably jinxing myself. However, I felt I couldn't help but acknowledge that man who had brought Gerber daisies, bedtime romps, and drama into my life. Who wants a flatline existence? I crave those peaks and valleys. Bring on the drama, I say!
Upon later inspection and after five glasses of cheap merlot, we noticed that Tara had added to our lists:
Charlie:
• Cheap mani-pedis
• Unused Metro cards
• Page Six
• Good friends (albeit fledgling cooks)
• Caller ID
• J. Lo
• Neurotic yet loving family
• My butter yellow rug
• Mac and cheese
• Mr. J. P. Morgan (we'll see how long he stays on the list)
• Vanilla coffee
• THE GODDESS TARA'S BIRTH!
Macie:
• Bloomingdale's
• Tennis whites
• Fast elevators
• Flowers reappearing on semi-dead plants
• Sample sales
• Any Chanel makeup
• My mother
• My roommates
• J. Lo
• Our humble apartment
• TARA'S PRESENCE IN THIS WORLD
Wade:
• Rhyming poems (or nursery rhymes)
• Smelly markers
• Pearls being still in fashion
• Sunday afternoons in Barnes & Noble
• Dear friends
• Scented soaps (esp. those from hotels)
• My cashmere sweaters
• My sister
• J. Lo
• Free movies in Bryant Park
• Popsicles
• TARA, TARA, TARA
Sydney:
• Newfound cooking skills
• Wine of any flavor
• Spell check
• Double features (for the price of one)
• My friends in NYC
• Reruns
• Starbucks
• Hospital scrubs to sleep in
• J. Lo
• Central Park (my reprieve!)
• TARA IN MY LIFE
In truth, I was thankful for Tara in my life. I was thankful for her birth, and I'm sure she popped out like the friggin’ finale at a Fourth of July fireworks display. Fittingly, her birthday was two days after Thanksgiving and we celebrated the following Thursday after Sage had returned from her homey Thanksgiving break. Ensconced at Top Shelf with a free birthday shot in her hand, Tara had conceded to the bar manager that the green felt pool table might indeed be marred by her savvy dance moves, and then had chosen the back bar top with its bottle rings and cigarette burns as an ideal dance platform instead. On top of the bar, wiggling her hips, she moved as if the beer were sloshing through all of her limbs at once.
It was no secret that Tara had moved to New York City knowing that her Sex and the City fantasies could be fulfilled without guilt. If Miranda could be a successful lawyer/mother with a terrific sex drive, then Tara could certainly be an unemployed coed/hottie with unquenchable sexual compulsions. Now, drunken eyes were ogling from across the room. She stared back—she had chosen her target. I followed her super- hero-like gaze and saw none other than Mr. J. P. Morgan's best friend staring back at her, enraptured.
“Oh, shit! Tara is crossing the boundaries!” I moaned to Syd. In the girls' code of life, as close friends, you can be friends with but not hook-up with someone's ex-boyfriend; you can flirt with but not give a blow job to another's brother; you can like but not love one another's boyfriend's ex-girlfriend; and you can do shots with but not get too close to a current fling's best friend. Too soap opera-y. Think about it logically! If girlfriend A messes up with boyfriend's best friend B, you get a huge fucking mess on your hands; if A and B fall in love, they will cast a shadow on your own wavering relationship; or if B dicks over A, questions of female solidarity arise and A will not understand why you're still friends with B. Loyalties will stomp all over your relationship anyway you twist it! Tara could not finger (literally and/or figuratively) Mr. J. P. Morgan's best friend (aka Mr. Goldman Sachs). No way, no how.
At this point, Tara had turned and was gyrating solely in his direction. Like a snake charmer, she was bringing Mr. Goldman Sachs hither. He was attempting some pathetic dance moves in her direction, but looked more like a Disney character tiptoeing on steroids. Think of Beetlejuice doing his uncoordinated shuffle. When his face reached Tara's crotch, she swiftly bent down (thus revealing her cleavage) and wrapped her arms around his neck. God, was Mr. J. P. Morgan watching? He had to be here, they never did anything social alone. Was he mortified that he and I had looked just as pathetic at our first memorable Top Shelf encounter? My headed whipped from side to side in sheer panic. Where was he? Coat check, nope; bathroom door, nope; dance floor, nope; the Tiki Bar outside, yes. Phew. I could just get a glimpse of him in my peripheral vision. But my relief was quickly squelched as I noticed he was chatting with a nondescript blonde. You know the type. She was short and petite (but you knew the squat factor would be an issue in her forties); she had shoulder-length hair without layers (too risqué) and had obviously once been a towhead but hadn't yet discovered the wonders of highlights. Not really cute, but pleasant enough with a huge, bonded-tooth smile plastered on her face as he probably engaged her with the details of some finance deal he'd recently closed. Not that I'm the jealous type, but all of a sudden my mind was filled with images of he and she, the two of them with two kids—no scratch that, no kids (no time due to their all- consuming love
)—kissing each other good-bye in the morning light, outside of their suburban Connecticut house before he climbed into his BMW and she into her Saab, leaving plenty early for their executive jobs. I was torn—should I thwart the happy hook-up of Tara and Mr. Goldman Sachs or wreck the happy home of Mr. J. P. Morgan and bland girl? I had to call in reinforcements. The closest help was Syd.