The Accidental Virgin

by Valerie Frankel

  What a nasty little shit, this (g)Nat, she thought. Stacy would have to remember their conversation verbatim, to tell Charlie so he could post it on noir.com.

  Before she could respond to what she hadn’t realized was a rhetorical query, Nathan said, “I’ll tell you what makes you special. I can sense that you are the kind of woman who loves to suck dick. I bet you’d be willing to suck the dick of every guy at our table. And if you’re half the woman I think you are, you won’t settle for just one movie star. Tonight, you can have all four of us.”

  Tony, meanwhile, was standing behind Nathan, shaking his head as if (as if) he were astonished by the antics of his more famous friend.

  “I’m flattered,” said Stacy, fingers fluttering to her collarbone. “And I certainly do love to suck dick. But, to be honest, I may be only half the woman you think I am. And there are four of you. So that would mean I’d suck two of your dicks? Then again, maybe I’m just a quarter of the woman you think I am, and I’d suck only one dick. And, even if I were the woman you think I am, is this an all-or-nothing offer? I need to know, because I’m not exactly sure how much dick I want to suck, or how much famous, handsome movie-star cock I can stuff into one night. If it were spread out over four nights, that would be a different story. But, to tell you the honest truth, I’m really just an eighth of the woman you think I am. Which means just half a dick gets sucked. I’d be willing, but it could take a while. Is the possibility of sucking half of one of your dicks per night over eight nights out of the question?”

  Nathan blinked. He said to Tony, “This girl is crazy.”

  Tony said, “But good at fractions.”

  They snorted and left Stacy sitting just as she was, alone at a bar, sipping a fancy schmancy ten-dollar cocktail, feeling like one sixteenth of the woman she was when she’d walked in a half hour earlier. Pride required her to finish her drink. And then she left, her midriff and misery exposed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Saturday night — still

  As soon as she hit the pavement outside, a giant stretch limo — as black as Stacy’s mood — pulled up to the curb of the SoHo Grand Hotel. A dozen passers-by stopped to check it out. Stacy joined them. Her night was ruined, but if she could catch a glimpse of, say, Madonna, she’d feel a little bit better.

  The door opened. A woman’s leg appeared. This was some leg, long, muscular, shimmering in black sheer stockings. A glamorous leg. Belonging to someone famous and beautiful. The crowd pressed closer to the limo. The second leg emerged. Stacy was sure she recognized the spike of that patent leather heel. Before she could flee, the remainder of Fiona Chardonnay’s body emerged.

  “Stacy Temple!” Fiona called. “I thought I saw you standing there.”

  The crowd of people stared at the 57-year-old bombshell, elegant tonight in a black, off-the-shoulder Prada ankle-length dress and great chunks of diamond jewelry. She must have come from a benefit to be dressed so conservatively, thought Stacy. Her brain screaming, “Run away! Run away!” Stacy knew full well that she would have to stand her ground and have a conversation. The first question from Fiona would be What are you doing here and why aren’t you with Jorge? — a query Stacy was in no mood to answer.

  Fiona closed the limo door, strode over to her underling, and asked, “How do I look?”

  Stacy could address that topic easily. “You’re radiant, glimmering, a showstopper, a jaw dropper —”

  “That’s enough,” said Fiona. “What are you doing here?”

  No use lying. Stacy got to the meat of it: “I came here to pick up a man, but instead, I was mentally fucked by a couple of rude and imperious movie stars,” she said. “I’d already blown it with another guy earlier tonight by frying my eyebrows, after which point I found out that Stanley Bombicci is using my name and likeness on line as a masturbatory aid for millions of his horny subscribers. I didn’t call Jorge because, no matter how much you think I’m like you, I simply couldn’t live with myself if I paid for sex. What’s more, in half a day, I will be a virgin again. I’ll be fresh and innocent as a baby lamb, and just as prime for slaughter.”

  Fiona looked at Stacy as if she’d vomited on the sidewalk. “I disgust you?” asked Stacy. “I seem to have that effect on just about everyone I meet these days.”

  A man in a black tuxedo appeared at Fiona’s side. His face was familiar to Stacy. She wasn’t sure how. He was around 45, with soft, round cheeks in need of a shave, olive skin, curly black hair, oval-shaped eyeglasses perched on a two-sizes-too-big nose. He put his arm around Fiona’s waist and said, “Ready to go inside?”

  Fiona said, “Stacy Temple, this is Randy Gestalt.”

  The name jogged her memory. Randy Gestalt, the president and CEO of Mercury Matrix. He’d been on the cover of Fast Company magazine a couple months ago. Among the youngest billionaires in America, he’d made a dozen king’s fortunes the old-fashioned way: He bought failing companies for a song, dismantled or artificially bolstered them, and then sold them to other companies for a profit. One would think selling loser companies would be a recipe for financial disaster, but there was always some megacorporation (AOL and CBS, for example) that would jump at the chance to absorb a sick company, assuming they could ignite new life with their magic breath. More often than not, the small company died its natural death anyway. Meanwhile, the megacorp was rewarded for its purchase with tax breaks and good press (after all, if it weren’t for the megacorp, the staff of loser.com would have been out of work months before). Mercury Matrix made its millions one dead dot-com at a time. The kicker: Randy Gestalt was beloved by the Internet community. He wasn’t viewed as the man who swooped down like a vulture to pick the bones. He was seen as a white knight, the man who would ride in with the sunset and secure a new home for the impoverished orphan company, or broker a deal with banks and creditors to make sure the staff entered unemployment with something, even if that meant ten cents for every dollar of back pay owed to them.

  Fiona and Randy together could mean only one thing. Stacy said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gestalt.”

  “And you. Fiona?” He gestured for her to hurry along, they had to get inside before spontaneously combusting.

  Fiona said, “You go ahead. I need to speak to Stacy.” She kissed him on the lips — a wet one. He didn’t budge — not a man to take orders or be dismissed so cursorily by a…well, what was Fiona to him anyway?

  Stacy’s boss said, “Just five minutes, please, Randy.” He squinted at Stacy, perturbed that a girl with visible tummy (an insect, a plebe) could distract Fiona’s attention from him.

  He said, “I don’t like to walk into a restaurant alone, and we’re late. Let’s go.”

  Fiona — not a woman to take orders from any man, regardless of the relationship — said, “Stacy, walk with us.”

  Randy took Fiona’s arm. Fiona took Stacy’s arm, and the three of them entered the hotel. Mercifully, they skirted the bar and went straight back to the hotel’s restaurant. The Grand Café was famous for three things: 1) celebrity sightings, 2) mahogany (the wood of the moment) interiors, and 3) Duck Wellington, a lethal combination of brandy sauce, roast canard, sautéed mushrooms, and whisper-thin pastry.

  Apparently, Randy Gestalt meant exactly what he’d said. As soon as they had made an entrance, Gestalt waved at some other men in tuxedos and walked across the room to speak to them. Fiona and Stacy were left at the maitre d’ stand to talk.

  Stacy started in. “No need to pretend. You plus Randy Gestalt equals the end of thongs.com. Will the staff get anything from a sale?”

  Fiona said, “No. But I’ll get fifty percent of my shares at sixty percent of their current worth. Janice will get twenty-five percent of her shares at thirty percent of their worth. The staff will get COBRA insurance options and one week’s severance.”

  “What about Stanley?”

  Fiona said, “He never finalized.”

  “The banks?”

  “Happy to take what they can get from the sale
and potential resale.”

  “The vendors?” Including Harry Watuba of Bolt Fabrics, who would be chanting a curse in her name from now until solvency.

  “Not sure about them,” said Fiona. “Randy has a formula for who will get what, and when.”

  “My stock?” asked Stacy.

  “What you have vested will lose its value when we make the sale public,” said Fiona.

  “My options?”

  “No longer exist.”

  “Can you postpone the announcement until Monday afternoon so I can sell my shares in the morning?” asked Stacy.

  Fiona shook her head. “That would be insider trading, Stacy. Besides, my showing up here with Randy tonight is the equivalent of taking out a full page ad in the Wall Street Journal.”

  Stacy had to ask, “If I hadn’t run into you tonight, would you have called to tell me or would I have had to find out like everyone else?”

  Behind the two women, a party of ten or twelve diners waited for their table. Their laughter and loud clothing offended Stacy’s ears and eyes. Fiona barely noticed them. She’d been staring at Randy, still across the room, shaking hands and slapping backs, for the length of their conversation. Finally, Fiona said, “So you didn’t call Jorge.”

  “I called,” said Stacy. “And hung up.”

  “I never really expected you to do it,” she said, holding up an index finger to Randy (international sign language for “one minute”), who was beckoning her to join him. “I’m going to say something that will shock and amaze you,” Fiona started.

  “Something else?” asked Stacy.

  “Randy and I are engaged.”

  This wasn’t quite as shocking and amazing to Stacy as the other news (that she was out of a job with nothing to show for it as of ten seconds ago, that Fiona was willingly, remorselessly, screwing over the entire staff, and everyone else who’d dare to do business with thongs.com, simply to save the thin and crispy skin on her own bony back).

  Fiona stared at her former underling with a smile and arched eyebrows. “I’m so happy for you,” said Stacy.

  “It’s not love,” said Fiona.

  “It couldn’t be that,” agreed Stacy.

  “I told you my next move would be a biggie.”

  “You’ve known him for while?” asked Stacy. Like that mattered.

  Fiona nodded. “A couple years. When Stanley started waffling a couple of days ago, I called Randy. I never completely let Janice or anyone know how bad things were financially. Our accountant knew, of course. She’s the one who begged me to call Randy and do something fast. At that point, there was still hope of finding a buyer. Randy and I met. We talked. Made some tough decisions.” Some tender ones, too, apparently, thought Stacy. “And here we are.”

  The party behind them was growing restless waiting for a table. Randy was now peevishly waving Fiona over to him. “I’m going home,” said Stacy. “Best of luck to you, Fiona. You’ve taught me a lot.” About how what she didn’t want to be.

  Fiona kissed her gently — more gently than Stacy would have thought possible — and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  It was a promise, a threat, a little of both. Stacy said, “I’m cashing the check for two thousand.”

  “I wish it’d been more,” said Fiona, and then slinked toward her intended, her mind-bendingly high heels leaving tiny puncture dots on the mahogany floors.

  Stacy’s apartment never looked so good; she was glad to be home. It’d been a horrible night. Possibly the worst ever. Her quest was over. She’d failed. Her employment was finished. And now she had the ripe opportunity to start fresh in the two major areas of her life.

  Deciding to publicly declare her change of philosophy, Stacy turned on her computer to compose an e-mail to Charlie, describing the night’s events and announcing her plans for renewal. She had no clue as to what those plans might be, but sometimes when Stacy’s fingers touched the keyboard, her fingers would type out ideas she never could have come up with had she been lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, fretting.

  Once she’d logged on to AOL, she found a few dozen e-mails waiting for her. More than half were match.com hopefuls. She deleted them all. Then she went to the site and deleted her profile.

  The only e-mail she opened was from Charlie. He was much better, although the med student he’d hooked up with had been summarily dismissed because, as he wrote, “her lips were too wide, and she had too many teeth. Whenever she went down on me, I got scared.” Along with his confessions, he’d pasted a link to the latest posting from Gigi XXX at swerve.com. Reluctantly, Stacy clicked on the link, and beheld the same photo of Gigi’s lithe body bending over a bed.

  Column title: Seduced and Betrayed.

  Already a winner, thought Stacy, as she scanned down to read the text. It started:

  “Last night, I found my boyfriend in bed with another woman. I wasn’t jealous, just peeved he hadn’t asked me to join them. I started taking off my clothes to do just that, but he said, ‘Don’t.’ I asked him why. I’m recording here exactly what he said, proving that my honesty is unflinching, and that I am loyal to you readers, even when the most important person in my life has stopped being loyal to me. He said, ‘I don’t love you anymore, and I haven’t been sexually attracted to you for months. I’ve been going through the motions, but I can’t anymore. The apartment lease is in my name. You can move out anytime you want, but do it before the end of the week, because SlutWhoreBitch needs to move her stuff in by Friday.’ Okay, ‘SlutWhoreBitch’ is not her real name. Gigi XXX isn’t my real name either. It’s all a sham. My pen name. The dozens of columns I’ve written about phenomenal sex with my boyfriend (ex-boyfriend; must get used to that), the tsunami of love we have (had) for each other. No matter how real and beautiful the relationship was for me, he was ‘going through the motions.’ He doesn’t love me. He’s not attracted to me. And I call myself an authority on love and sex. I couldn’t see the fucking signs!

  “I am swearing off men. To have loved so profoundly, and craved so desperately, without picking up the faintest inkling that he no longer reciprocated, I am unqualified to be in a relationship, much less write about them. I don’t understand men and never will. If I were to take up with another one, I could be a grave danger to myself. I might even hurt someone else, the idea of which, I don’t mind saying, is highly tempting right about now; I’m thinking of a certain SlutWhoreBitch with my boyfriend’s name tattooed on her right tit. I nearly vomited the contents of New York when I saw that tattoo. Wish I had. All over it.

  “To the women who’ve written letters about their inability to get sex, or their lack of effort, or their confusion about the simplest things (e.g., Heidi from Houston, who once asked, ‘What does it mean when he asks for a rim job?’), I am sorry for ridiculing you. I am prostrate, groveling, abased, pathetic and begging for forgiveness. I was wrong about everything; I know nothing. To the accidental virgin I wrote about earlier this week, I offer one last piece of advice: Keep on not doing what you’re not doing. Stay in the cave. It’s dark and cold, but you’ll be safe in there. I’ll be joining you presently, so you’ll have company. As for what to do when horniness sets in, we’ll always have our memories to jack off to.

  “So then, this is good-bye, readers. The good editors at swerve.com want me to stay (they’re under the screwy impression that I ‘will meet someone new, sooner than you think’). But to be completely honest (and loyal), I can’t face this space without my ex. Even after he’s kicked me out of my apartment — leaving me homeless and desperate, with a trashy, tattooed, dyed-blonde sleaze-bag set to move in — without so much as tossing me a farewell hump for old time’s sake (here comes the kicker), I still love him. Writing about anyone else would be a betrayal. I won’t do it. And maybe, if he knows that, he’ll come back to me.”

  Stacy read the column again from the top. Any rancor she’d held for Gigi was gone. That poor woman, she thought. At least in her unaffiliated state Stacy had been spared the
pain of a bad breakup. But she hadn’t been blinded by love, either.

  She clicked on the SEND FEEDBACK TO GIGI button at the bottom of the column and typed:

  “Gigi, Stacy Temple here. The accidental virgin. I’m sorry for what’s happened to you. It’s been nearly a week since I last wrote, and I am still in the same spot I was then. No action, but I have come to a few conclusions. First of all (since you’ve joined the chastity klatch), a life without sex and love is worth living. Millions of people carry on productive existences, sexless and content, all over the world. But a life with sex and love is worth more. I want more. And I want it to be real, and serious, even if I wind up getting hurt. I am officially out. Of the cave. I won’t be seeing you there, but I’ll leave a light on for you.”

  SEND, she clicked.

  Chapter Twenty

  Stacy Temple, 32, red of head, pink of cheek, eyebrows singed, unemployed, impoverished, unplucked and unlucky, woke up to a sunny, humid New York City July afternoon the very picture of happiness. She was also inquisitive, asking herself and her ceiling, “So how does one start the first day of a new life?” On the premiere morning of wide-open freedom and freshness, what did one eat for breakfast? More importantly: What did one wear?

  With a red miniskirt and a bowl of Coco Pebbles in mind, Stacy swung her feet over the side of her bed. It was the one-year anniversary of her last sexual encounter. Technically, since she’d had that last romp with Brian in the evening, Stacy figured she still had a few hours before her revirgination was official. Not that she had any plans to pursue the issue further. She was off, way off, way, way off her quest for sex, and had moved on to bigger and better things (that might include sex, but not just fucking).