by Amy Sohn
“It was meant to be humorous.”
“Well, it wasn’t. It was horrible! I can’t believe they invited you to this party. What—did they send out a form letter to every psychotic jerk who’s ever sent in an obnoxious letter?”
“No. They invited me because they’re running something of mine next week.”
“What?”
“I’ve written two dozen letters over the past few months, and last week I got a call from Turner asking me to write a story for them. So I sent in a piece about my first colonoscopy and they’re putting it on the cover.”
Suddenly Turner came over with this thin guy in his early thirties. He was tall and fair with a black wool cap on his head, blond eyelashes and eyebrows, and a crooked nose. “Ariel,” said Turner, “this is Adam Lynn. He’s a friend of Nadick’s, and he wanted to meet you.” Fred Sadowsky sidled away.
“I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your work,” said Adam, shaking my hand. “I was looking around the room trying to guess which woman at the party was Ariel Steiner, and when Bill told me it was you, I was really surprised.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess because I didn’t expect you to be so attractive.” Turner grinned and disappeared. “I always pictured Ariel Steiner as mean-looking and cruel, sort of a snide party girl, and you look . . . innocent.”
“That’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.”
“I don’t mean it in a backhanded way. I mean I think you’re . . . pretty.”
I thought he was pretty too. Especially with that huge crooked schnoz. “Did you break your nose?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“In a fight.”
“Was it over a woman?”
He nodded. My interest was piqued. I did not want to jump the gun, but here was a dish of a guy who was violent enough to have damaged his face because of a woman. I couldn’t help but get wet.
“What happened?”
“I was in a bar in Rome and I was flirting with this woman and this guy came up to me and tried to talk to her. I swung at him and he punched me in the nose.”
“Wow,” I said. “What were you doing in Rome?”
“I was on tour with my first novel.”
“What was it about?”
“A young guy coming of age in the city.”
“Have you written any others?”
“I’m working on one now, about a man and woman who break up, then each go insane. Have you always been a writer?”
“No, I started out as an actress, but when I got the column it made sense, because I’ve always had this movie of my life running in my head anyway, and the column was just a chance to show it.”
“I know just what you mean. I have one of those movies, too. Even when something really tragic is happening to me, I’m seeing it happen from outside myself, instead of feeling tragic.”
“That’s exactly it!” I screamed, and it was that incredible feeling of someone understanding you instantly and wanting to skip the getting-to-know-each-other part and do the vows right then and there.
But then he put on his coat and said, “I should be going soon. I have to meet some friends. It was nice talking to you.”
“You too,” I said. So that was it. He’d just walk out and we’d never see each other again.
But he didn’t leave. He kept standing there, looking at his feet, and then he said, “I was wondering if . . . you could give me your number. And we could go out. For coffee.” I covered my face with my hands in delight, but he misread it as annoyance and said, “I know what you’re thinking. The whole city wants a piece of you.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and everyone who wants one says, ‘The whole city wants a piece of you,’ before he asks for his slice.”
“I know that too. I feel like an idiot.”
“You shouldn’t. I want you to call me.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He smiled, took my number, and left. The room spun and I wasn’t even drunk.
•
On December 30, he picked me up in his car and we drove to a café in his neighborhood, Williamsburg. I’d never dated a guy with a car before. It wasn’t a nice car, though. It was a beat-up sedan from the seventies, and it looked more appropriate for an old husband than a young novelist, but it made the date feel datey and I liked that.
When we got to the café he ordered a coffee and I ordered apple pie and tea. We sat down at a table by the window and suddenly I got nervous. And whenever I get nervous, I get mean.
“Are you bald under that cap?” I asked.
He grinned sheepishly and took it off. He was bald. Shaved bald, though. I didn’t mind. Shaved bald is hotter than half bald. But instead of telling him that, I said, “You look like Nosferatu.”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Your nose and head are both so pointy. How old are you, anyway?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“You look like you could be anywhere from thirty to fifty.”
“I’m thirty-two,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“What kind of name is Ariel?”
“Hebrew. It means lion of God. It’s also one of the names for Jerusalem.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I forgot. We learned that in cheder.”
“Did you say cheder?” I asked tremulously.
“Yeah. My father made me go to an Orthodox Hebrew school till my bar mitzvah.”
My underpants slid down to my ankles. “Where’s your family from?” I asked.
“My mom’s side is Russian, my dad’s is Polish. Lynn used to be Linowicz. People always assume because of my blond hair and blue eyes that I’m not Jewish. I always tell them that—”
“Someone in your family got a little too friendly with the Cossacks.”
He took on a grave expression and said, “That’s exactly what I say. How did you know?”
“I guessed.” I smiled proudly. It was only our first date and already I’d stolen his line. “So, where did you grow up?”
“Connecticut.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“Yale.”
My vulva throbbed with glee. He was not only a Yid, but an Ivy Leaguer. I could already see the New York Times wedding announcement in my head.
•
When we got back to my house he stopped the car and said, “I had a great time with you tonight.”
“Me too.” We stared at each other for a second and I knew that if we were going to kiss, this would have been the moment to do it. But for some reason I didn’t feel ready. For the first time in my life, the feeling of knowing I could kiss a guy was more exciting than the prospect of kissing itself. “Good night,” I said, then got out of the car and walked up the stoop.
As I was opening the door, I heard him call, “Have a good New Year’s!”
“Thanks,” I said, stopping dead in my tracks.
“What are you doing for New Year’s, anyway?”
I considered the possibility of lying to him, making him think I had plans, but something about Adam made me want to tell the truth. “Nothing,” I said. “I have no plans. Not a single one. I’m a sex columnist and I don’t have anything to do on the sexiest night of the year.”
“I was invited to a party in Fort Greene. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Really? I wouldn’t want to pressure you . . .”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
I opted for the black minidress, a little bit of makeup, and a dab of Body Shop White Musk behind each ear. The doorbell rang at five to eight. He was dressed up, in pressed pants and a collared shirt. Some light brown chest hair was protruding from his collar. Usually chest hair grosses me out, but on him it didn’t. I wanted to bury my face in it and smell his neck.
When we got to the party he introduce
d me to the host and hostess, and then we sat down in a corner of the living room and I asked if he knew how they met.
“No,” he said.
“Isn’t it funny how couples always seem to meet under the most innocuous circumstances?”
“I know what you mean. Maybe we should take a poll to find out exactly how all the couples here got together.”
We spent the rest of the night going up to every duo at the party and asking for their first-encounter stories. We heard about people meeting on Greyhound buses, through mutual friends, self-defense classes, and infidelity. The guy and girl would overlap and argue about the details of their meeting, just like in the opening sequence of When Harry Met Sally..., and when they finished they would look at Adam and me and ask how we met. We’d color and exchange glances and then one of us would say, “Actually, we’re not going out,” and they would smile knowingly, like they knew it was only a matter of time.
At five to midnight everyone went down to the basement and stood around the TV for Dick Clark’s countdown. As I watched the apple slowly slide down the pole, I tried as hard as I could to think of New Year’s as a Hallmark plot and nothing more. On the stroke of midnight all the couples embraced and started to dance, but I kept staring at the TV. Then I heard Adam say, “Happy New Year, Ariel,” and he leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
As soon as his lips touched my dimple, I could feel a blush rise from my neck to my chin to my forehead. I lowered my head quickly so he wouldn’t see. I was ashamed that one little cheek kiss could make me turn so red. But then it hit me that if a guy could make me blush from putting his lips on my cheek, it was probably a very good thing.
At one-thirty, he drove me back to Carroll Gardens. When we were a few blocks from my place, I said, “Why don’t you come in for some tea?”
He parked the car on Clinton and Third, and as we walked to my house, he put his arm around me. The streets were covered with snow, and every single yard on the block was lit up with plastic reindeer, Santa figures, and lights. One even had a sleigh with a microchip in it that played Christmas melodies twenty-four seven. I despise Yuletide about as much as I hate New Year’s, but tonight the neighborhood looked like a wonderland, glowing and magical and alive.
When we got into the apartment I put the water on the stove and Adam sat on the couch. “Do you like Bob Dylan?” I asked.
“He’s OK, but I’ve never been a big fan. Most of the Dylan I’ve heard has been from his later years, when you can hardly understand what he’s saying.”
“Well, then, you are in for a treat.” I put on Another Side of Bob Dylan and sat down next to him. “All I Really Want to Do” came on. When Bob said, “All I really want to do is baby be friends with you,” I looked at Adam expectantly, but then the water boiled and I had to get up. I poured two cups of almond tea and brought them over. We sat side by side and sipped it as Bob whined on and reveling noises floated up from the street.
But as Bob made his way through “Black Crow Blues” and “Spanish Harlem Incident” and Adam and I small-talked without smooching, I started to fear he wasn’t into me. Despite the fact that he’d asked me out, invited me to spend New Year’s with him, and come back to my apartment. Maybe the reason we hadn’t kissed in the car that night was because he didn’t want to. Maybe he only liked me as a friend.
But then he put his hand on my hand—silently, without any particular flair or finesse. He just rested his right palm on the top of my left, threaded his fingers through mine, and looked at me. I kept staring ahead, as though I was utterly fascinated by the counter on the disk player. He stroked my fingers for a long time and then he moved his hand to my wrist, and then up to my neck and the side of my face. He ran his thumb against my cheek and over my ear. I turned to face him and he kissed me with such tenderness that I swear I could feel his soul entering my body.
I moved my mouth to the neck I had been thinking about since he first picked me up, and it smelled so sweet and clean I felt like staying there for a month. He put his hand on my breast and then he got on top of me and moved around, but just as we were getting frisky, the mattress slid off the frame onto the floor. I led him to the bed, and on the way I turned out the lights and put on the lanterns. We got under the covers and rubbed and murmured and moaned until the sky began to get light. By the time we kissed good night, it was four-thirty in the morning. I turned my back to him, he spooned me, and I fell asleep fast and smooth.
When I woke up, he was staring at me. “I can’t wait to see you again,” he said.
“You want to see me again?”
“Of course I do. Don’t you?”
“Yes! I just wasn’t sure if you—”
“Well, be sure.”
Suddenly, all the months of fighting with Jake, closing my front door to guys I knew would never come back, and having quick, awful sex came back to me, and before I knew it I was crying. “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my face.
“Why?” he said.
“I don’t want you to think I’m . . . unstable.”
“I don’t. It’s been an emotional night for me too.”
“It has?”
“Yeah.” He held me close for a while and I cried into his chest. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?” he said. “I’ll go out and get us some coffee.”
I put on my robe, walked him downstairs, then locked the door behind him. Half an hour later, he still hadn’t come back. I started to worry that he would never return. Just like the rest. He’d fled my house without even having the decency to say good-bye.
The doorbell finally rang and I raced downstairs to get it. “What took so long?” I asked as we headed up the stairs.
“I’m sort of embarrassed to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“To tell you the truth, it was so I could . . . um. This is hard to say.”
“What?”
We sat down at the kitchen table. “So I could . . . use the bathroom. I know that might sound strange, but I just didn’t quite feel comfortable, you know, here, with the bathroom right next to your bed. The door’s so thin. You can hear everything. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I wanted to be upfront with you because I thought it was better to be honest about my hang-up than to lie about it. Do you think I’m weird?”
“Not at all,” I answered, smiling my best encouraging smile. But I did think he was weird. Way weird. As relieved as I was that he’d come back, I hadn’t been prepared to deal with such a mother of a neurosis so early on, especially not one with such heavy Freudian implications. But it had only been the second date, after all. It was understandable that he didn’t feel completely comfortable around me. I tried to relate. “I know why you were embarrassed,” I said. “Things are new. It takes time to feel totally at ease around someone. I hope one day you and I can cultivate an intimacy so deep and honest that we’re not ashamed to fart in each other’s presence.”
He laughed and said, “Me too.”
I took the coffee and bagels out of the bag and we started to eat. Halfway through my bagel I got so hot for him that I had to move from my seat to his lap. We kissed in a much more openmouthed and raunchy style than we had the night before. He stood up, guided me to the wall, and pressed himself against me. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, and suddenly I realized I was hovering above the floor. My passion had caused me to levitate. It was surely a vision from God. But then I looked down and saw that he had lifted me up by my crotch, with his hand. So it wasn’t a vision from God—but it was significant nonetheless. He had made me rise, literally and figuratively, and when a man makes you do something in both of those ways, you know that man’s no joke.
I closed my eyes again and he kept thrusting against me and kissing me until his whole body shuddered and he let out a sigh. He lowered me down.
“Do you want a towel or something?” I asked.
“It’s all right. I’ll just let it dry.”
“I can’t believe you lifted me up l
ike that. I didn’t know novelists had such strong arms.”
“Before I was a novelist, I was a fencer.” My clit ballooned out and punched me in the face.
After breakfast he drove me to the F stop because I was supposed to go meet Sara for coffee. When we got to the station I said good-bye, leaned over to kiss him, and tried to get out of the car. But every time I put my hand on the door handle, he would pull me back and kiss me more. Finally I wrenched my lips away and got out. As I headed down the subway stairs, I heard him say, “Shane! Come back!”
“Who?” I said, turning around.
“You’ve never seen Shane?”
“No.”
“It’s the greatest Western of all time. There’s this little boy in the movie who idolizes Shane, and at the end, when Shane rides off into the distance, the boy says, ‘Shane! Come back!’ in this sweet, vulnerable voice. I feel like I’m him.”
I smiled and went into the station. He kept calling “Shane! Come back!” behind me until I got down to the platform and couldn’t hear him anymore.
8
ON SUNDAY I wrote a column about the New Year’s date. I dubbed Adam Novel Lover. It came to me as soon as I sat down at the computer, and once I saw it on the screen, I knew it was perfect. When I finished writing it, I took a deep breath and called him.
“Is it positive?” he asked.
“Of course it is.”
“Is there anything in it that might upset me?”
“No. It’s all good.”
“OK.”
“So you really don’t mind?”
“No. I find it flattering.”
After I E-mailed it in, I went to meet Adam at a Mexican restaurant in Williamsburg. Over dessert, he gave me a copy of his first novel, Bedskirts. “Don’t be scared,” he said. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but when I got home that night and opened it, it became pretty clear.
I read it in the bathtub in one quick sitting. The book was weird. On many levels. It chronicled a litany of sexual interactions more grotesque and freakish than my own—unprotected, frequent sex with whores, men, and transsexuals. His stories made mine look like very silly putty. And I had no idea how much to believe.
