The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  “Do you like Springsteen?” Ben yells over the music.

  “Oh, yeah. He’s the Boss,” I say without any irony whatsoever.

  Mistaking my lameness for a sardonic sense of humor, he laughs before trying to pull me off the couch. My arms go limp. I don’t know how to dance or play any air instruments. I was actually thrown out of band for allegedly molesting a clarinet. It’s a long story. Ben leans over me, bringing his mouth dangerously close to mine. I blush. Without breaking eye contact, he takes hold of my hips, raising me to a standing position.

  “Remember the video,” he says, moving behind me, his hands still on my hips. “He pulls Courteney Cox on stage.”

  I snap my fingers, doing my best imitation of her bouncy dance.

  This is the single most romantic moment of my life, beyond any fantasy, because this is happening. I am incapable of acknowledging that life existed before or will exist after; it’s right now that matters.

  “I bet this is how you got all the girls at Brown,” I say with a laugh that quickly sours. Ben didn’t tell me he went to Brown, and he knows it. As if trapped in an episode of Three’s Company, the music abruptly stops. The tension mounts. Sweat beads form on my upper lip. Within seconds, I will have a full sweat ’stache, or worse, another breast-rubbing incident. I should have listened to Janice and kept my mouth shut. Now it’s too late. I must say something.

  “I Googled you. But not in a stalker-ish way, more of a friendly research manner.”

  Total silence. I am Kathy Bates to his James Caan in Misery.

  “That’s okay, I Googled you, too.”

  He leans toward me, then stops inches from my lips. The anticipation kills me. Ben closes the three-inch gap and softly kisses me. Unable to control myself, I open my mouth wider than Mick Jagger at the dentist. My arms and legs tingle with passion. My heart beats loudly as my stomach turns with butterflies. This truly is the greatest kiss in the history of nerds. I half expect streamers and confetti to hail down on me from the Board of Nerdy Women. I am the poster child for nerd redemption, and Ben is my sweet reward.

  The power of the kiss increases exponentially with each second, dissolving my sexual apprehensions. Ben’s hand slowly caresses my waist, his fingers sneaking beneath my shirt. He kisses my neck while his hand passes over my bra-covered breasts. My nipples immediately react, joining the rest of my body in a state of extreme arousal.

  Within minutes, I am topless on his white high-thread-count sheets. Ben removes his shirt. Gulp. Don’t lick him. He’ll think it’s weird. It will ruin the moment. I purse my lips and caress his chest, lightly running my fingers over his nipples. My nipples meanwhile are still pointing fervently to space.

  Ben unbuttons my pants. Suddenly, I’m nervous. Cool people probably have sex differently than nerds, complete with a distinct vocabulary of moaning and acrobatic positions. I will pale in comparison to the thousands of seasoned lovers Ben’s experienced. My body tightens with stress, withdrawing into itself like a turtle under its shell.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Um, I guess you could say that . . . I am a little . . . nerdous . . . I mean, nervous.”

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Ben says in a soothing voice.

  He pulls me into his arms, placing my head on his slightly hairy chest. His hand glides over my hair.

  “It’s been a long time since a woman has been nervous with me.”

  Why did I tell him that? He’s going to throw a Valium into the hallway and tell me to fetch it.

  “I feel so special,” he says in a silly tone of voice.

  “Shut up, bastard,” I say, raising my head and looking directly into his eyes.

  My trepidation disappears. He wants me as I am. I let him pull off my jeans with one hand as his other hand caresses my thigh. Dressed only in underwear, I watch Ben take off his jeans and underwear. He is gorgeous naked, as I knew he would be. Ben kisses my feet, slowly making his way up my legs. He arrives at my black cotton underwear, then aggressively pulls them down my legs.

  Ben lowers his body on top of mine. My hand wanders down his chest. Ben watches me, waiting for me to make the obvious discovery. It’s like Pandora’s box. I have no idea what I will be unleashing. Ben senses my hesitation and places his hand atop mine, guiding it the rest of the way, the perfect mixture of tenderness and passion.

  While I know this is extremely uncouth, I would like to get today’s date tattooed on my derriere as a day that will live in infamy for nerds everywhere. I had sex with Ben Reynolds. Yes, the Ben Reynolds. I’m naked, having intimately shown every part of myself to the most attractive man in the five boroughs, yet I’m peaceful. While it sounds like the makings of a Danielle Steel novel, we fit together perfectly.

  I playfully hit Ben’s well-toned arm and say, “I can’t believe you Googled me!”

  “I was going to put a note in your locker, but I didn’t want to scare you off.”

  I lean in and kiss him. I am almost comfortable enough to lick his chest. Seriously.

  “It’s pretty amusing because there is a picture of an Anna Norton online. Only it’s this fat teenager in front of the Washington Monument. Definitely not my Anna Norton,” he says with a kiss to my forehead.

  Ben means this as a compliment, but in reality, it feels like a cruel joke. The fat teenager is me. I was on my senior trip to the capital five years ago. Part of me is relieved that he can’t recognize the ugliness of my past, that he wouldn’t even think that person could be me. Yet I cannot deny that Ben’s delivery of the word fat is on par with burglar, robber, or convict; there’s an association of blame or guilt for the person’s predicament. The f word repeats at inaudible levels in my mind. I am no longer the fat teenager on the outside, but I am clearly the same girl on the inside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Janice! I had sex!” I boom into the phone.

  I haven’t even showered yet. There is something strangely erotic about knowing I have the residue of sex with Ben Reynolds on me.

  “I hope you used a condom, ’cause a guy that good looking—”

  “Yes, I used a condom.”

  “And?”

  “It was amazing, I didn’t even think about—”

  “All the women that came before you?”

  “Um, no,” I say with attitude. Why does she have to say things like that?

  “Or will come after you.”

  “Jesus, Janice! No!” I roar. “I was trying to say that I didn’t even think about my performance.”

  “Exactly, and your performance would be in relation to Ben’s past and future conquests.”

  “Janice, stop saying that. He will never sleep with anyone again!”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I mean I hope he doesn’t sleep with anyone else. Damn it, I have no chance here, do I?”

  “I’m sorry. I think you and Ben are both great, and I am sure you will have sex again.”

  “We are both great. Equally great. Right?” I say to reassure myself.

  “Sure, sweetie,” Janice offers patronizingly. “And to prove how great you are, why don’t you stop by Peter Produce and get eggplants for the ratatouille?”

  Janice always calls our produce man “Peter Produce” even though his name is Stan. I guess Stan doesn’t go as well with the surname Produce.

  Dejected, I trudge past the brass mailboxes in the lobby of my building en route to buying eggplants. A dark manila envelope catches my eye. I turn for a closer inspection and see both my name and address printed on it. This is not a good sign; the last delivery I received was from Mother announcing the conception of Bastard Won Ton. She’s probably stolen the sonogram from Dad and Ming and drawn horns on poor Bastard Won Ton’s soft skull. I rip open the envelope, fully expecting to amass another year’s worth of material for therapy. I discover a CD, a small envelope, and a sheet of letterhead with instructions.

  1. Listen to CD.

  2. Read note.

  It’s not signed, but it�
��s from Ben. The letterhead has his law firm, Benson and Silverberg, on it. I smell the small envelope, hoping to discern a trace of Ben’s scent. Like an overeager child on Christmas, I want to open the note immediately. Wait, this could be bad. Am I getting excited prematurely? Technically, this could be a well-planned parting gift. Is this Ben’s sophisticated manner of dumping me? Unsure what to do, I pause and write a mental Hello Fatty entry to prepare me for whatever comes and to ward off bad luck.

  Hello Fatty,

  It’s not you, it’s me. I am a shell of a human, but still the best-looking man you’ve ever been with sexually. Here are a few songs to remember me.

  Lovingly,

  The man who dismantled your ego in less than forty-eight hours.

  P.S. No hard feelings.

  Back in my apartment, I put the CD in my 1990s boom box and sprawl out on the floor. In the words of Pat Benatar, “hit me with your best shot.” I push play and shut my eyes. I half expect some break-up anthem, but instead the distinctive opening bars of “My Girl” by the Temptations peal out; even I know this is definitely not a break-up song. This is not my worst fear, but rather one of my oldest dreams, a mix tape. In junior high, a mix tape was the ultimate sign of affection, and while it’s been twenty-odd years since it was at the height of its popularity, I believe the gesture’s significance remains intact. “He likes me!!”

  I quickly open the off-white envelope. The navy blue ink stands out against the expensive paper, as does the question “Will you go steady with me? Circle one— yes or no— and put it back in my locker. Ben.”

  There is a slight chance I fainted. As I am already lying on the floor, I can’t tell for sure. All I know is that I am out of breath and woozy. This is it. It is happening. I have confirmed proof in my hand. This is not a fantasy or a delusion, but an actual occurrence. Ben likes me and not in the platonic manner. He wants to be my boyfriend. It’s more than elation and euphoria that keeps me pinned to the ground, it’s shock. After a quarter of a century, I have finally gotten what I want.

  An hour of prep later, having completely forgotten the eggplants, I run to catch the L train with freshly blown out locks, lip gloss, and brown eyeliner that works hard to make my eyes pop. Happiness clouds all rational thought. Once in SoHo, I dial Mother, for reasons mostly unknown to me.

  “Yellow?” Barney answers.

  “Barn . . . I have a boyfriend . . . and I’m not talking about Jesus,” I say jubilantly.

  “You didn’t even notice I said yellow, not hello.”

  “Barn . . . a boyfriend . . . a tall and sexy boyfriend . . . a man that women faint at the sight of,” I say, ignoring his previous comment.

  I am too happy to be annoyed or irritated by my brother’s weird ways, so I just hang up. I needed to tell someone from back home, someone who knows what horribly unattractive beginnings I come from. And yes, Barney may not have responded like a normal human being, but I don’t care. All I care is that I am en route to tell Ben yes! I bolt up the stairs to his apartment, arriving out of breath and sweating with anticipation. I pause to reapply lip gloss before ringing the doorbell.

  Please be home. I ring the doorbell. Nothing. I bang my fist against the door and, able to restrain myself no longer, yell.

  “Ben! Beeeennnnnnn! Bbbbbbeeeeeeennn!” My inner drama queen arrives with guns blazing and eyes misting. Not since I cried over the death of my college roommate and friend Jane Zelisky have I been so theatrical. Do I lower myself to the floor mumbling Ben’s name? Or pound on the door one last time?

  “Ben, please open up,” I plead, pumping my fists against the door.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” says a voice from behind me.

  I don’t answer. I run. I grab. I kiss.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the middle of Central Park, I watch beautiful, slender women smile seductively at my boyfriend. I hold Ben’s arm proprietarily, but it does little to deter these women. Ben is neither amazed nor shocked by the attention. This is his reality, gorgeous women check him out. They smile at him and he smiles back, not in a lecherous manner, but as an acknowledgment. Or is that merely wishful thinking on my part? Men pass without batting an eye in my direction. Actually quite a few grin at Ben as well. Open-minded flirt that he is, Ben grins back. Every time. He places a blanket on the grass on this unusually sunny fall Saturday, pulls out the New York Times and I rest my head in his lap. I happily forget the women as Ben reads articles aloud. I never read the paper. Any paper. I know it sounds ignorant, but world affairs depress me. “Babe, can you believe that?” Ben says emotionally.

  “It’s terrible,” I say shaking my head. I have taken to saying everything is terrible when Ben reads the paper to me. It is a safe bet that whatever he read was indeed quite terrible. I honestly want to expand my scope of knowledge, but there is an insurmountable problem. Close proximity to Ben negates all intellectual capabilities. Instead, my mind wanders to thoroughly embarrassing fantasies like Ben and me in matrimonial bliss. Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Reynolds. With my face nuzzled in his warm charcoal gray Patagonia, I am safe. Staring up at Ben, I find it hard to fathom that he’s my boyfriend. I feel like he’s on loan to me from a museum, he’s that beautiful.

  On the way back to Ben’s apartment, we take a detour down West Houston to stop at Jones Bakery. He is obsessed with their apricot and chocolate rugalach. It’s a tiny, unkempt shop that clearly hasn’t been remodeled since the late 1960s, a true hole in the wall kept in business by stoned NYU students with the munchies. Behind the counter is a twentysomething sprite with chipped black nail polish and cheap gold jewelry. She doesn’t compare to the well-groomed ladies that prowl the streets of Manhattan. However, she is young, she is cute, and she knows it. Women aware of their assets have an edge I envy. Even if their assets are limited, the mere act of acknowledging them doubles their appeal.

  Ben peruses the rugalach while I internally debate buying some for my neighbor, Mrs. Bester. An expression of gratitude from the old deaf woman would warm me. Moreover, I can tell Ben about it and let him praise my generous nature. While I am busy debating whether the sketchy motivations behind my act of charity would be too obvious to pull it off, Bakery Bitch attempts to hand-feed Ben a piece of rugalach. I snap to attention, grab the morsel out of her hand, and feed my boyfriend the tiny pastry myself. Yes, Ben’s hands are full, but that is no excuse for the Bakery Bitch to feed him as if he were a trained monkey. More important, why does he lean in with his lips slightly parted as if being fed by strangers is a common occurrence?

  “May I try a piece as well?” I ask Bakery Bitch with the nastiest stare seen outside of female incarceration.

  I bend forward to see if she will hand-feed me. Her hand hangs in the air. I didn’t think so. I grab the pastry, stuff it in my mouth, and savor the buttery contents. Ben is completely oblivious to the girl-to-girl subtext. I touch his arm sweetly as I chew. Bakery Bitch’s open mouth conveys her disbelief that he is my boyfriend. I stare a message to her: “I am the only one who hand-feeds him.” It is a complicated stare, but I manage to get the meaning across. Outsiders may misinterpret the look as one of intense food poisoning or nearsightedness, but believe me, Bakery Bitch understands.

  “Babe, what do you think? Apricot or chocolate?”

  “Apricot,” I respond robotically.

  “Okay, we’ll take a pound. What’s your name again?”

  “Gwendolyn, but my friends call me Gwen. Ben, right?”

  “Good memory, Gwen.”

  Why is he calling her Gwen? She said her friends call her Gwen. Is this a pathetic attempt to be her friend? Plus, you can’t be friends with people with rhyming names! Gwen and Ben . . . disgusting!

  “I had no idea you were such a regular here, Ben,” I interject in my best pseudo-casual tone.

  “I love pastries.”

  As if channeling Mother, I want to scream, “You better not want any pussy pastry!”

  “I’ll get a pound for Mrs. Bester downstair
s.”

  “Babe, that’s so thoughtful of you.”

  As I predicted, he is touched by my charitable act. I am deeply disturbed by my dubious attitude toward charity, but pleased that I can give Bakery Bitch a look of benevolent superiority. Ben tips Bakery Bitch two dollars and leaves with a sexy smirk.

  “See you next week, Gwen.”

  Is this a standing date? What is she like when I am not here? Does she hand-feed him naked?

  Two days pass before I finally stop thinking about Bakery Bitch. I hardly have time today to fret over Ben as Janice and I work a party for two PR girls, Jo Allen and Fiona Worthington. In a small boutique on Little West Twelfth Street in the Meatpacking district, we celebrate Jo and Fiona’s book on how to throw the perfect party, which apparently requires that everything be violet, including the food. Jo is a beautiful, tall woman with the kind of cascading blonde locks that inspire normally rational women to get hair extensions. Fiona, on the other hand, is a short redhead with glasses and a nose as overbearing as her personality. I savor the idea that Fiona secretly envies Jo’s beauty as much as I do. It comforts me to know that I am not alone in my insecurities.

  PR girls are a strange breed of insecure bitches that exude the type of cruelty most often seen in high school cheerleaders. They are fake in every sense of the word. They are judgmental. They are mean. They are elitist. They are also our clients, so I nod and smile when they make snarky remarks about “the help.” I know that every finger in the room will be tickling their tonsils creating a wall of violet vomit in the sewer and frankly, I find that disrespectful. They are literally flushing our work down the toilet. Still I forge on stacking violet meringues and macaroons in the corner of the bustling party. With my back to the guests, I unprofessionally sneak a coconut macaroon. Bitchy women set off the defensive eating mechanism of my youth.

  “You can’t get fat if you want to be Mrs. Ben Reyn olds,” Janice announces a little too loudly.