by Ilyse Mimoun
You take a deep breath and say yes!
Let’s hope he’s halfway normal.
Turn to page 49, section 16.
45
“Seriously, thanks for listening,” Zack says again.
“Maybe I’m done listening,” you say coyly and slink toward the bathroom. When Zack just sits there, you motion him to come in with you. Your heart is pounding wildly.
And suddenly Zack has slipped into the bathroom, and you charge him like a Spanish bull. It’s all deep kissing and him grabbing your hair and sliding his hand under your skirt and you breathing deeply into his neck.
“God, you’re hot,” he whispers, and somehow suddenly he’s sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink and you’re sucking away like his impressive organ is a cherry popsicle on a hot summer day.
This is the sluttiest, hottest thing you’ve ever done (besides college, and who counts college?). It’s all over so quickly, and on your way out of the bathroom you can barely make eye contact with him as you yank your skirt back in place.
You drive home knowing you’ll never see him again and pretend that’s okay with you. So when you get a text the next evening—I need to see you again—your heart practically bursts out of your chest. Then he texts you his address, not even awaiting your reply.
You’d just taken your first bite of a roasted turkey sandwich at your kitchen table, but you throw your fork down and head straight over to his downtown loft. You can’t remember if you’ve even shaven your legs, but you don’t care. You don’t care that his apartment stinks of cigarettes and looks like a cyclone hit it. You need to be in his bed, in his arms, feeling his weight on you as he devours you, you gasping, arching, melting into him.
It’s like your skin is on fire and only Zack’s touch can cool it down. You feel Zack in every one of your cells.
Days go by like this—the two of you holed up in his apartment, drinking vodka right out of the bottle and fucking like mangy beasts. Occasionally you get up to eat cold mac and cheese. It’s disgusting and incredible.
After two weeks, Zack says, it’s time to go out!
You taxi to a packed nightclub where sweaty twentysomethings with pierced tongues and spacey eyes grind against each other. You’re the oldest people there, but somehow you don’t care. You don’t care about anything when you’re with Zack. You don’t care that he wants to snort blow off your sternum in the stinky bathroom. You just want to be near him.
High on coke, Zack is even more energized. He pulls you to the dance floor where you jerk and twist maniacally for half an hour, then Zack needs more coke. He seems to know all the right people, and you never even see money exchange hands. Then back to the dance floor. Then back for more coke. Then finally you head home and collapse into a crumpled naked heap with him. Limbs intertwined. His mouth on your damp shoulder.
Although you yourself abstained from the hard stuff, you feel you’ve been on the same wild ride as Zack. The difference is your addiction is to him.
Six weeks go by in a vodka- and lust-soaked blur. You haven’t even been to your apartment except to pick up a bunch of clothes and a toothbrush. Mostly you wear clothes that various lovers have left at Zack’s—mesh shirts, leather pants, baggy vintage tees. Much of it doesn’t fit you, but you don’t care. You want to be Zack’s bad girl. Your mother is leaving worried texts. Your magazines are wondering where your latest submissions are. And all you can think of is Zack’s body pressed against yours, Zack’s intoxicating smell, Zack’s hands on your aching flesh. When you sit on his lumpy couch and eat bowls of gross canned soup, it’s physically painful not to be touching him. You want his body near yours at all times. You remember faintly that he’s supposed to have kids but don’t ask him about them.
Zack tells you he’s never felt this way, not even with any of his wives. Zack tells you he’s going to get his act together, sober up, get a job. Be worthy of you. Sometimes Zack cries quietly into your neck. Holding him in these moments feels like what your body is meant to do.
“Sssshh,” you say, like you’re wise. “It’s all going to be okay.”
One night neither of you have money left to taxi out to a new club, so Zack says he’ll drive.
“We don’t have to party hard tonight, babe. We can just go and dance.”
A distant warning bell chimes in your head, but Zack’s electric kiss mutes it.
For an hour Zack is true to his word, but then somehow you both decide drinking is okay as long as Zack stays away from cocaine and ecstasy. By midnight you’re stumbling drunkenly into his car. By twelve-thirty you’ve crashed into another vehicle and the police are on their way.
“Shit, baby,” Zack says, banging his hands against the steering wheel.
You turn your neck to see if it is hurt. You both get out of the car at the same time as the other couple. They are tourists, with their fanny packs and their “I Heart Hollywood” T-shirts. They are your parents’ age and look dazed and frightened. Their car is smashed, but they seem to be walking okay. Shame awakens inside you. Zack’s red flags resurface, blazing through your mind.
“Babe, if I get one more strike, I’m going to jail for a long time,” he says, tugging your arm. “Please say you were driving. Please.”
The wailing police car draws closer. You and Zack stand frozen in the glare of the headlights. You’re still half-drunk, disheveled, and sick to your stomach. You’re not a bad girl, like sexy. You’re a bad girl, like a horrible degenerate. You could have killed those innocent people. You could have died. Suddenly, you miss flossing.
“Please, baby,” Zack repeats. “I love you. I love you so much it scares me.”
If you want to cover for your beloved criminal, turn to page 169, section 46.
If it’s time to start living responsibly, turn to page 35, section 12.
46
French philosopher Blaise Pascal once wrote, “The heart has reasons that reason knows not.”
So you’re sure at least he would understand when you say, “Officer, I was the one driving the car. I’m so sorry.”
For some odd reason Officer Ruiz doesn’t really care that you’re sorry. He must not read a lot of romantic poetry. And he’s not buying your little doe-eyed routine. You are not legally permitted to drive Zack’s car. And the blood-alcohol-concentration test gives you a score of .077, just below the criminal level of .08. Ruiz thinks it’s close enough and gives you a ticket to appear in court. He tells you your license will be suspended, you’ll pay a huge fine, and you will need to do community service.
“Or you could plead not guilty and go to trial,” he continues in a monotone. He has a ring on his finger and likely wants to go home to his wife.
You have no idea what he’s talking about—words like “trial” and “community service” are for hardened criminals, not for a foolish girl in love!
You’re so nervous you’re shaking, but Zack’s look of gratitude melts you.
By the time you get back to his place you’ve forgotten all about the ticket, which is crumpled in your back pocket.
You will miss your court date, which is a misdemeanor.
You will miss the letter telling you about said misdemeanor and what steps you must take to address it, including a $6,000 fine.
You will be holed up with Zack, enjoying another debauched afternoon––both of you weeping with unbridled codependence—when the knock will come on the door.
As Officer Ruiz drags your butt to jail, Zack promises he’ll visit, but you suspect differently.
THE END
47
It would be shallow to go with that cocky-looking architect just because he claims to be rich. That’s not what you’re about! You’re about . . . wait, what are you about? Gentle Smile will be here in ten minutes, and you want to have a firm sense of what you’re looking for this time. After sweeping on some eyeliner and smoothing your first-date jeans, you jot down a quick list:
What I’m About:
Kindness.
&n
bsp; Humor.
Commitment.
Shared interests and go—
The doorbell rings and whoa! He is much more handsome in person than he was in his photo! You remember another important quality for your list: hotness. Jun is half-Japanese and strapping with a regal nose, thick arched brows, and a mop of silky black hair. He looks like a nonchalant prince. Holy crap, why would this guy like yo—
“Wow, you’re much prettier in real life,” he says, and his smile in person is downright dazzling. Uh-oh, maybe you should have worn something else!
The glitter in Jun’s black eyes suggests that maybe he doesn’t mind. He looks around your cluttered apartment and says it’s charming. He takes your hand and says, “I hope you like Cuban food.”
You don’t mention that you like almost all food nor that the touch of his strong hand sends your heart fluttering. To your surprise, Jun doesn’t lead you to his car but rather on a short stroll to a nearby Cuban café that you adore. Very few people even know about this little hideaway. Is Jun amazing or what?
Calm down––being handsome and knowing about a restaurant does not make him a god. Getting instantly swept off your feet is immature, remember? You determine to really get to know him and think up exposing questions to ask him like, “What is your biggest fear?” and “Do you follow your ex-girlfriends on Twitter?”
Then a strange thing happens over shredded flank steak simmered in cumin over saffron rice. Jun manages to sidestep all your questions and keep the attention focused completely on you. He is the most attentive listener you have ever met in the male form. He asks you what you’re reading, what you eat for breakfast, and he laughs uproariously at the crazy story about your mom’s appendicitis. Normally you love ropa vieja, but you’re chattering so much that you barely touch your plate!
You blush, afraid you’ve been monopolizing the conversation. Jun’s casual but sexy demeanor makes you feel feverish.
“Jesus, I’ve been babbling forever,” you say, looking down at your sautéed onions.
“And it’s utterly charming,” he says, gently nudging your chin up so you can meet his gaze.
That’s the second time he’s used the word “charming,” which is in itself charming. Your heart squeezes inside its little chamber.
“Well, tell me about you—I mean, where do you live?” you ask.
“Oh, not too far,” he says, then, “wow, this cubed pork is a revelation!”
You laugh and somehow start talking about food (you’re both obsessed), books (he’s read a few), and politics (he’s well informed).
Suddenly it’s midnight. You guys have been talking for over four hours. Is it just the frozen mojitos, or are you giddy from a magical evening?
Jun walks you home and does not ask to come inside. Instead, he presses his mouth against yours for the briefest of seconds and says, “I’d love to see you again.”
You repress the urge to push him against your door and run your tongue all over his teeth. Play hard to get, you tell yourself.
For your second date Jun picks you up in a rented Honda (his car is in the shop) and drives you to the beach to have a picnic. There is wine, homemade katsu sando sandwiches, and some dizzying kisses on the sand. He takes you back home and kisses you intensely at the door.
Date three is a funny indie movie, followed by an intimate wine bar and heavy petting in his rental car. Jun’s caresses are slow and steady, like he could do this all night and never lose patience. Did you walk up the stairs to your apartment or float?
On the fourth date you get a cold and Jun actually comes over with soup and DVDs. He cuddles you and nothing more. Through the phlegm and cotton-head, your loins are on fire. Postponing sex is hotter than sex. How much longer can you wait?
By the fifth date you’re back to health and offer to pick him up, but he refuses. He picks you up at eight and comes in to use the bathroom. There is a plan to see a local band play a concert, but you never make it out of your apartment. The clothes start flying off, and his body is so stunning, you’re afraid to reveal your own. Why is his body so good? Why is his skin so luminous? Why are even his fingernails, like, perfect?
Instead of asking, you let yourself melt into his kisses and into the best sex of your life. Jun is so good, you have the crazy thought that maybe he’s a male prostitute. The fact is, you’re still not totally clear about what he does—like, work for his father’s laundry business or something?
Your leg wraps around his waist and you gaze up at him.
“That was incredible,” you whisper. You hope he hasn’t noticed he has less hair than you.
“You’re incredible,” he says, causing you to practically swoon.
Then you say, “What do you do again?”
There’s a long silence. Jun doesn’t look nervous, just thoughtful. You snuggle up and inhale papaya in his neck.
“I really like you,” he says.
“I really like you,” you say back.
“I want to see you again this Friday.”
“Sure . . . but are you avoiding my question?”
“You promise you’ll see me Friday?” he insists.
“Okay!” you relent. “Maybe I can come over.”
Jun is silent again. You’re swimming in the black sea of his eyes when it suddenly hits you: Jun is broke. Jun is ashamed.
“You don’t have a real job, do you?” you ask.
“Nope,” he says, in a way that seems both noble and humble. He probably doesn’t even have a car—hence the rental!
The question is, Do you care?
Absolutely not. You are here to find love, not a benefactor.
Turn to page 176, section 48.
Kinda, maybe you shouldn’t . . . but you do.
Turn to page 194, section 52.
48
“I’d love to come over Friday,” you tell Jun, and you mean it. True love is the only prosperity you’re looking for, and everyone knows this economy is downright brutal.
The rest of the week you alternate from daydreaming about sleeping with Jun again to congratulating yourself for not caring about his financial status. Like you’re so great for liking a gorgeous, charismatic dude who happens to be having a hard time—get over yourself! It’s not like you come from money either—you come from a middle-class background, back when there was a middle class. You went to public school, and your parents often fought over electric bills and car insurance. And yet you’ve begun imagining yourself as a queen compared to Jun.
Bring a bathing suit! he texts you on Friday, and you picture the dinky little pool his shabby apartment building probably has.
“This pool is super!” you might say. No—too condescending.
“Great to be able to take a swim, ain’t it?” No—too avuncular.
You’re mulling over other options as you drive mindlessly through the winding road to Malibu. Some dilapidated beach shack awaits you—
Wait, this is weird. You’re at the house.
Wait.
You’re at the house, right?
The address is correct. But you check again to make sure. Yes, correct.
Jun does not live in a shack. Jun lives in a mansion. Jun is loaded.
“I never say it up front,” he tells you, leading you into the magnificent luxury estate. “Chicks can get weird about that kind of stuff. I usually wait months, to be honest. But something about you . . .” he circles his arm around your waist and pulls you into a kiss. You feel lightheaded for a moment.
All week when Jun was poor (in your mind), you felt benevolent and in control. Now it’s like he has all this status, and you’re just a little dust mite. So his dad made a fortune on a well-known sitcom––why should your dynamic change so rapidly based on a TV show about a talking monkey?
“It’s just money,” you say, willing this to be so. Money for guys is like beauty for girls—way too much emphasis placed on it, and in the end it shouldn’t matter at all.
But this doesn’t mean you don’t
enjoy drinking daiquiris in his shimmering pool and kissing passionately in the hot tub.
And in the weeks that follow you don’t exactly mind watching movies in the “screening room” or lounging at pool parties with big movie directors and bewitching actresses or having a cook whip you up berry-stuffed crêpes for a snack and a housekeeper who cleans and folds your laundry. Not to mention getting naked with Jun in every room in the place at every time of day. Jun’s body is so beautiful. It’s lean and smooth without looking like it’s trying too hard. Every time you touch it a thrill rushes through you. No, it would be a stretch to say you mind these things.
And it wouldn’t be fair to say you’ve moved in either. It’s just that Jun encourages you to stay there all the time, and your hot stuffy little apartment, after all this . . . well, it would just feel wrong. Chilled water with floating cucumbers by the bed tables and soft pillows plumped daily—these things feel right.
“These pillows are dreamy,” you mumble one morning, pulling Jun back into bed. His hair falls in his eyes. God, what you wouldn’t give for Jun’s mop of thick, silky hair!
“You’re dreamy,” he says and kisses your nose before jumping into the giant steam shower.
It’s stirring the way Jun always flatters you, but the intelligence and attentiveness that initially drew you to him may have less depth than you thought. It might have been more about charm—that easy, entitled, dazzling charm that belongs to the super-rich. The car in the shop? A Bentley. And as to why his skin and hair and teeth are so good . . . well, you know now. Jun has the most expensive soaps and lotions in the world, and if this relationship ends, you are taking all of them.
