Men love Shoniqua's straightforwardness and always seem to be charmed by her. She's a great partner in crime because I don't have to do much except be humiliated. We had perfected our "one-two-punch" technique on several occasions. Shoniqua would talk to my prey about religion, their homeland, and her husband who was a banker. I would jump in every once in a while to reinstate my position as his future sexual partner, commenting about how National Geographic's exposes on the wild were starting to look more and more like an episode of CSI: Miami.
"Here he comes," Shoniqua said. "Try not to fuck this up."
My Latin lover rounded the corner and took a seat next to Shoniqua. He was at least six feet tall, with dark brooding eyes and a flirty half smile. I knew for sure I had to have sex with him.
"Hello, ladies," he said in his Antonio Banderas accent.
I don't know what it is about accents that makes me want to get undressed and high-five myself. I'm helpless against any accent--except a British one. My ex-boyfriend's British accent was charming for the first two months, mostly because I couldn't understand a word he said. (It was very similar to the Crocodile Hunter guy. The first two episodes, you're thinking, This guy is great! Two more episodes and you want to dress up like an alligator and bite his hand off.) After the initial honeymoon phase wore off with my ex, I was ready to scream, "Stop talking like that, damnit. Talk like me. Just try!" Not a fair trade for someone who wasn't even circumcised. I've never understood why they don't circumcise men in European countries; most of them end up here, anyway.
My little Don Juan's accent was sexy and thick. At times, his words were barely decipherable. But this may also have been due to my failing eardrums, which were aligning with my failing liver, which was, no doubt, wondering why I had to keep torturing it. "Liver," I would say, "you only live once, or at least I do, and you should be grateful to be along for the ride."
He was visiting New York from Peru, where he worked as a mechanical engineer. That didn't interest me as much as my visions of him capturing anacondas on the Amazon, so I chose to stick with that mental picture instead.
He kept making eyes at me while Shoniqua and he were chatting, which was sweet and reassuring since we would be the ones having sex. In her characteristic and persuasive way, Shoniqua mostly dominated the conversation. She found out that this was his first trip to the States, and his name was Lupe. I had always believed that Lupe was short for Guadelupe, which is, I thought a woman's name. To avoid bringing this up in conversation, and thus postpone the moment when people would just stare at me with disappointment in their eyes, I excused myself from the table to take a breather.
I went outside to bum a cigarette. On the corner, just beyond the door, I saw another adorable face. My seven margaritas instantly took over. "Hey, you. Come over here. Will you come inside with me and pretend you're my boyfriend? There's a guy at our table who won't leave and I want him to think I'm taken," I lied. It was time to bring in reinforcements. I had to let Lupe know what a hot piece of real estate I was.
I shimmied back to the table, holding hands with my new boyfriend.
I sat down next to Lupe and made the introductions. Shoniqua glared at me and kicked me under the table with one of her massive feet. Meanwhile, I was looking back and forth between my two options, trying to figure out who was cuter. My new boyfriend didn't have an accent and looked about twenty-one. My Peruvian still had his accent and looked about thirty-five. Then the newbie mentioned being a rave promoter and the battle was over. "Are they still doing those?" I asked. I hadn't been to a rave since I was eleven, and from what I remember, staying up dropping acid until six in the morning was no walk in the park. I figured I would be better off with La Bamba.
I told the young boy to scram, as he had nobly fulfilled his commitment to me.
Lupe said he was going to the bathroom. To ensure he'd come back, I asked him if he wanted another drink. He requested a whiskey on the rocks. I've never bought into the whole soul mate thing, but after hearing this guy order the one thing I love to see a man drink, I considered getting my tarot cards read.
"Who the fuck was that other guy, you shithead?" blasted Shoniqua. "Now you're just getting cocky."
"Sorry, I'm drunk."
"Listen, I'm sitting here slaving over this fuckin' guy trying to get you some booty, and you're running around cockblocking your fuckin' self. He likes your skinny monkey ass, I don't fuckin' know why, but he does, so don't do anything stupid." I bit my tongue. Not on purpose. I actually bit my tongue.
"Ow, shit, I just bit my--"
"Shut up. Here he comes. Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!," squealed Shoniqua. "Lupe, you ready to get out of here, I've got a jammin' party for us to go to," she said with more enthusiasm than a QVC representative after a six-pack of Red Bull.
One of Shoniqua's friends was releasing his new hip-hop album and we were scheduled to attend the party. Ordinarily, it would have been fun, but I definitely wasn't going to let Lupe see me dancing next to black people.
"Why don't we stop by the hotel and freshen up?" I said, giving her the "pay attention" stare.
"Okay, okay, sure," she said, catching on.
We got the check and Lupe offered to put in some money, but I wouldn't think of it, considering what I had in store for him. "You can pay for me too, bitch," Shoniqua said. I'd have had to be Helen Keller not to have seen that one coming.
As we stood up to leave, Shoniqua whispered to me, "It's taken care of, you're gettin' it, and I'm going to the party without you."
"Fine," I said. "Just pretend you're coming back to the room to get us, so it doesn't seem so obvious." I always assumed anyone with an accent was automatically slow on the uptake, when in actuality the only one a few pom-poms short of a pep rally was me.
The three of us climbed into a cab, with Lupe in the middle. I turned and said, "I think you're really gonna love America."
"Copy that," Shoniqua said.
"Two such beautiful women, I am very lucky," Lupe said.
"Well, Lupe, that's just how we fuckin' roll,'" Shoniqua said.
When we got back to the hotel, we bid adieu to Shoniqua and I asked Lupe to come up with me to my room. Once inside the elevator, he said, "We are not going to the party right away, are we?"
"We're actually not going to the party at all," I replied.
He had a big smile on his face and I was glad he was happy with this decision. "I was hoping to get some time alone with you, to talk," he said, gazing at me with his big bedroom eyes. "You were very quiet at dinner. But you have beautiful smile ..." He hesitated. It seemed as if he was searching for the right words to say. I didn't have all night, so I made my first move.
We were making out in the elevator and it was hot--just like in the movies. And it was a pretty nice elevator too. I had never had sex in an elevator, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.
"Do you have a condom?" I whispered in between kisses.
"A who?" he asked.
"A condom . . . protection."
"Oh," he said, "no, no, no, I do not own condom."
This was very cute to me.
"It's okay," I said. "We can run out and buy some."
He stopped kissing me and held my face in his hands. "I would rather spend the evening with you talking and having nice time. No condom necessary." He paused and then followed it up with, "I don't feel comfortable spending our first night . . . together."
"Listen, Lupe," I said, "this is our last night! Don't get your hopes up. It's cold and I'm tired, so get out that pinata and let's get this party started."
I didn't understand what was happening. This had never happened to me before. I had been denied sex on certain occasions, sure, but they usually involved a three A.M. phone call.
"You are upset, are you not?" he asked.
Upset? I was stark-raving mad. I couldn't understand why a traveling man would come to the United States and not jump at the opportunity to be manhandled by an American girl.
I kn
ew that I couldn't physically overpower Lupe, but there was a chance of him losing some strength after a couple more drinks. I wasn't a huge fan of being on top, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and it looked like I was going to have to ride him like a pony.
"I'm not upset," I told him, "not at all. That's very sweet. Let's go have some drinks in my room."
I got a water glass from the bathroom and poured Lupe a nice long whiskey straight from the minibar. "Let's do a shot," I said.
We started kissing again, standing up, and then fell onto the bed. After a good thirty seconds, I reached for his penis, but he stopped me. "Slow down, slow down," he said.
This guy was really pissing me off. What was the story? I appreciated the idea of taking our time in bed, but not beforehand. After I got him naked, I would gladly roll around for hours if that was what he wanted.
"Are you seriously not going to have sex with me?" I asked.
He pulled me to him into a sort of cuddling position, which suspiciously felt like a full nelson.
This guy was gonna drive me to drink . . . more. I lost my steam, grabbed the remote control, and found the Animal Planet channel.
The next hour consisted of us snuggling and watching eight morons compete in different challenges with animals. I had heard about men getting blue balls before, but didn't know it could happen to a female. At that very moment, my vagina was turning a deep shade of navy.
"Do you want to go to that party?" I asked him.
"Not really, this is nice," he said and burrowed his face into my shoulder.
This guy was a hot mess. Who on earth behaved like this? What was the point of traveling if you wanted to sit in hotel rooms and watch TV? He must have grown up in the wild, with no civilization at all, to think this was a good time. I was struggling to come up with ways to get him to leave, but I was too exhausted. I tried to fart, but nothing came out. Then he started to snore.
I fell asleep shortly after I resigned myself to the idea that I was, in fact, sharing a bed with someone who wouldn't put out. This was not the ending I had envisioned for the evening. Instead of steamy South American sex, the entire night was spent with Lupe holding on to me for dear life like a koala bear to a tree branch. Being cuddled while awake is nice, but when I'm sleeping, I need space. I kept waking up every hour, trying to nudge him toward the other side of the bed, but he slept like a big dead log. My shoulder started to ache from lying on my side, but there wasn't any other choice; whenever I turned around all I got was hot breath in my face. I was close to tears and thought about calling hotel security, but I didn't want Lupe to end up in the clinker.
At around seven A.M. I picked up the hotel telephone, went into the bathroom, and called myself on my cell, which I had placed next to Lupe's head with the ringer on high. I ran out of the bathroom in a fit of panic to answer my cell and saw his eyes open slightly. "Hello?" I answered inquisitively. "Oh, no, we do? Oh, of course, I'm just, I'm just aaaah . . . okay, I'll be here." I hung up. "Shit!" I screamed.
Lupe bounced up. "What is it?"
"I have a meeting in ten minutes, and it's in this room. You're gonna have to go. I am sooooo sorry."
"It's okay, it's okay, what kind of meeting is it?" he asked.
I wasn't prepared for his English to work first thing in the morning and was thrown off guard by the question.
"It's with the manager of this hotel, actually. Shoniqua and I are thinking about buying it."
"Oh, I didn't know you were into real estate. Shoniqua told me you were a professional ballerina."
This was news to me. "I am ... a ballerina . . . but I also buy buildings . . . hotels mostly . . . and then fix them up and sell them." I said this with about as much believability as Pamela Anderson as a lifeguard.
"Oh, okay . . . when do you think you'll be done?"
"It's gonna be a long one," I said. "Why don't you give me your cell number and I'll call you tonight."
"I thought maybe we could go to the zoo today," he said.
This came as no surprise to me, considering his affinity for things in captivity. "Probably not, but I'll call you later," I said. He told me he had no cell phone and asked for my number. I gave him Shoniqua's.
He got dressed and came over to kiss me good-bye, grabbing my face for what felt like an hour. He just kept staring into my eyes. "I had a beautiful time last night."
"Yeah, it was a real hoot," I said.
After he left, I locked the door, slept for another three hours, then put on a robe and went straight to Shoniqua's room.
"What's up?" she asked as she opened the door.
"What's up? What's up? Not Lupe's penis, that's for fucking sure."
"What happened?" she asked.
I got into bed with her and told her about my night of torture. "Well, bitch, that's what you get when you fuck with a sister and make her piss herself."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Think about it, Magnum P.I.," she said, with a big smile on her face. "You white bitches aren't the only ones who can plan some shit. I told Lupe that you only had three months to live and that this trip was our last hoorah. I explained that you had been treated terribly by men in the past and your dying wish was to be adored emotionally, not sexually." She paused and added, "I also told him you had herpes." Then she burst into maniacal, uncontrollable laughter.
"That's not fucking funny," I kept saying, all the while trying to control my own laughter. When I couldn't any longer, I decided to go up to my room and laugh in private. I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me entertained by my pathetic circumstance.
"Fuck off," I yelled as I left her room. "By the way, he wants to go to the zoo today!" I shouted as the door swung shut.
Lupe called Shoniqua several times after our trip to New York to check on my status. "I'll be honest with you, Lupe," she said on their last call, "it doesn't look good. It doesn't look fucking good."
A WEDDING STORY
I WAS ON the phone with my doctor's office trying to get my hands on some Vicodin.
"What do you need it for?" the nurse who answered asked.
"I'm in a lot of pain," I lied. "I had a bit of bad luck over the weekend."
"I'm sorry to hear that, but you'll need to be more specific, Ms. Handler."
"Fine," I said. "If you must know, I was skydiving and my chute didn't open."
"Oh dear god, are you all right?" she asked me.
"Yes, I'm okay, I'm just in a lot of pain," I told her.
"What. . . where . . . how did you land?" the nurse asked me.
"In a tree," I said.
"Have you been to the hospital? Is anything broken or bruised?" she asked me.
"No, it's mostly internal injuries, nothing you'd be able to spot externally. I also feel like I'm suffering from posttraumatic syndrome, so I may need some sleeping pills."
My call waiting beeped and I told the nurse to hold the wire.
It was my sister Sloane, whose wedding was two months away.
"You can bring a guest to the wedding if you want," she said.
"Hold on," I said and clicked back over to find that the nurse had hung up on me.
I clicked back to Sloane. "Fine. Who?" I asked her.
"I don't know. One of your girlfriends or if you meet a guy you want to bring."
The thought of bringing a love interest to my sister's wedding had about as much allure as joining the Navy SEALs. Every time I brought someone home to meet my parents, whether it was just a friend or an actual boyfriend, my family felt compelled to remind me that I had terrible taste in people, and that they liked me better when flying solo. They all agreed that my friends in California were shallow and brain-dead and we were all much better off when I left them behind.
My Mormon sister was engaged to a normal human, and it seemed he was helping her to slowly snap out of the spell the Mormons had put her under. Sloane's wedding was being held at our summerhouse in Martha's Vineyard. Though I had recently been o
ut a couple times with a guy I liked, I didn't want to embarrass myself on our third date by asking him to fly across the country for my sister's wedding.
Since my gay friend Nathan had included me in many of his family events and vacations, it seemed like time for a little reciprocity. My father had never met a gay man in person before and I thought that this could be a time of great revelation. Once again, I was sorely mistaken.
For the record, Nathan is not your typical gay man. He's not as blatant a homosexual as Harvey Fierstein, but if you have any gaydar at all--which I don't--then it wouldn't take you more than a couple of nights out with Nathan to catch on.
I didn't realize he was gay for a long time, attributing most of his effeminacy and idiosyncratic ways to the fact that he was Jewish. He is tall and handsome, a sports fanatic, and a man's man in many ways--except when having a verbal disagreement, in which case he turns into an eight-year-old girl.
Nathan and I have been friends for many years. I met Nathan when I was nineteen years old and landed my first job waiting tables at Morton's, a restaurant in Los Angeles. He trained me on my first day, and when I spilled a glass of red wine on some woman who had more eye liner on than Liza Minnelli, he assured me that big things were in the cards for me.
Bringing Nathan home, however, was not quite the stroke of genius I had anticipated. Minutes after introducing Nathan to my mother, he sat down at our kitchen table and told my mom how famished he was from the trip. "What can I make you, sweetheart?" she asked. "We've got cold cuts, potato salad, I can heat up some chili ..."
"I'll take four eggs over medium, absolutely no oil or butter. I'll also take a turkey sandwich on multigrain with some mustard--Dijon if you have it."
I wasn't sure what to make of Nathan's behavior but felt that I needed to defend my mother.
"Is that all, or would you also like her to whip you up a brisket with some gravy?" I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so hungry I can't even think."
"Chelsea," my mother said in a disapproving tone. "Don't be silly, it's my pleasure," she lied.