Bitch Is the New Black

by Helena Andrews

RBBDA 2.0 was taking place in New York that summer. I gave a Chinese woman wearing a fanny pack thirty bucks for a ticket to Thirty-fourth Street on a charter bus that looked like it’d had a hard life. “You going New Yawk?” she asked, already herding me into the line of graduate students and staff assistants to Sen. Somebody. My bag was sentenced to the hull before I could answer, “Yes! I going New Yawk to find me a man.” I grabbed a seat near a window, sat back, and watched Mission Impossible II.

  Dexter and I were broken up, and this time I was serious about it. He said he had “weird in-between feelings” for me, so I was determined to get someone else between the sheets. Well, not really. The only one-night stand I ever had ended eleven months after with tears and a “what relationship?” So maybe I’ve never had one. Really, I just wanted to do enough heavy petting to warrant mentioning on Monday when Dex called to ask how my weekend with those “probably psycho-killer online sex chat friends” went. Because in-between feelings were still feelings, after all.

  So. RBBDA. There were three distinct factions on “the boards”: newbies, regulars, and lurkers. I was a semiregular with lurker tendencies. It seemed as if every thirty minutes spent working damaged my brain in such a way that I couldn’t remember whether or not I’d checked the groups discussion board, wall, or news section that day. Trusting my gut, I’d get as far as “www.fa…” before my computer did the rest. Once inside, I spent the next hour reading posts, showing the pervier ones to my white work wife Emily, and then deciding not to make any potentially-harmful-when-my-husband-is-trying-to-win-Iowa comments of my own. That was the lurker in me—getting off on the sex diaries of others but remaining stingy with mine. To a certain extent. Once I did share a few lines about the time an old friend gave a valiant if brusque effort in a Los Angeles hotel room. But that was it. And the other time with a seven-foot college basketball star who could lift his leg behind his head and squeal like a gymnast half his size. Okay, fine, I was a perv too.

  As such, I felt like I “knew” these “people,” who up until now had been only thumbnails to me. But I wasn’t a regular either. Despite evidence to the contrary, I did have a full-time job and a part-time life.

  Of the regular chicks, there were five in New York: Justine, Tonya, Courtney, Reiko, and Dee. These were girls I’d never seen after five or in the flesh. On the guys’ side there were Douglas, Van, Raj, Chris, and Stu—all super cute in miniature, like doll-house furniture. Looking back, the black-and-white glamour shots should have tipped me off. Who takes a picture of just their eye?

  After making it off the Chinatown bus with only the slightest case of SARS, I met up with the group at a dive bar in the West Village. The only people I’d met in the nonvirtual world were Hillary and Raj, who according to their text messages were somewhere in the back. A bunch of black people were holding court at the table nearest the front entrance. I tried to avoid eye contact, because being the new girl is a lost art, like climbing monkey bars and raising my hand. Checking my phone for the third time in as many seconds seemed like the better option. I’m really in high demand and not a loser, this pantomime was meant to say. I have friends. They’re just not here—yet. Because they, of course, are tardy and rude. I, on the other hand, am responsible and confident. My phone rang in the middle of me fake-listening to a ghost voice mail. As “Does that make me craaa-zaaay…” torpedoed down my ear, I pretended not to notice.

  “Something’s wrong with this damn phone,” I told my face to say. It was Rasheed. He’d spotted someone who looked like me looking like an asshole and wanted to make sure. They were two tables away. I couldn’t see them past all the mixing, mingling, and morbid obesity. Yeah, a lot of these girls were…healthier than their thumbnail versions suggested. There was someone that resembled Justine, who according to her profile pic was often surprised mid–high kick. This real girl had missed a few dance classes and added as many pounds. The before shots went on from there like a Dexatrim commercial that’d been horribly botched. Geez, Larry, some idiot cut out the girls from Barbizon! I thought I saw someone who looked like Doug, but about a foot shorter. Van’s teeth were way bigger than useful; no wonder he never smiled in his pics. Raj and Hillary, always a puke-inducing example of bliss, were sucking a supersize something from the same straw. I wished my brain was frozen too. Maybe I could still catch the 11:00 p.m. back to the bat cave.

  “Helena. Helena! Over here.” Yes, these were the right people. My people.

  “This is horrendous.” I needed to get that out before my butt hit the seat Rasheed held out for me. I needed to make my dissatisfaction with real life known.

  “Shut your face, dick towel,” he said. “I’ve got someone for you to meet.”

  I searched Hillary’s face for approval. Finding none, I rolled my eyes and tapped the waitress. “One of those slurpees for lushes, please.” I’d wasted three-inch heels.

  This “someone” was a five-foot-four baldhead from New Jersey, but who claimed Brooklyn instead. He had on the jeans of a much taller/wider man and had mistakenly decided against a belt. Employing his left hand to that end, his right was busy with a highball of Courvoisier. Since neither was free to shake my hand hello, I got a head nod, delivered with all the bravado of a man twice his size. Oversize suit jackets will do that. I gave Rasheed the side eye before he left the two of us alone. Waiting three very polite beats, I excused myself to the ladies’ room. Baldhead’s eyes dug into the back of my neck as I tried and failed to disappear into the crowd. Was he willing me back, or working out the tools necessary for murder? I took my chance but didn’t make it far.

  “So you weren’t going to say ‘hi,’ were you?” I’d recognize that sarcasm and sweater vest anywhere. One was patterned and the other practiced.

  Derek was Rasheed’s gay husband without the sex or social aptitude. Theirs was a love fashioned around boat shoes (without the socks) and seersucker. Derek and I shared an equally preppy night of the missionary position the year before. It was the first time I’d played shirts and skins in the bedroom. He kept his on. The. Entire. Time. Lifting the front hem over his head only when my eyes were closed (which they clearly weren’t) in order to get some flesh on flesh as opposed to boobs on Hanes. The whole thing felt very gyno.

  “Heeey, you,” I said in the voice usually reserved for work functions. “What has your life been about?”

  While Derek thumbed through his CliffsNotes—working in London, partner track, yachts—I drifted off to wherever bored hearts go. Argyle probably felt funny against bare breasts, and this top wasn’t so slutty I couldn’t pull it off on the train tomorrow morning. His man boobs weren’t so much bigger than mine that it’d be weird. If we left now…

  “See, Helena and I used to be lovers.” I caught him mid-e.g., offering me up as an example on his sex CV to some chick with short hair and a pretty face who’d sidled up to our conversation while I was pipe-dreaming. Grateful that the mood had been murdered, I backed away real slow, pivoting just in time to catch Baldilocks giving me the squinty face from the bar. Again, I didn’t know whether to be horny or horrified, so I chose both, but kept moving just in case.

  Hillary, always anxious to set people up (for failure, I think), wanted to know what I thought.

  “Of Weirdo McFeirdo over there?”

  “He’s been eyeing you all night.” She was squealing.

  “And this is a good thing? Please tell Rasheed that he’s an epic failure and should log off of life immediately. What the hell was he thinking?”

  “He said that you wanted a dude who, and I’m quoting you here, ‘would punch me in the throat and say let’s fuck.’ So there you go,” she said, making her arm into a teapot spout, boiling in the direction of Bald, James Bald.

  “I can’t begin to define sarcasm in a bar. Plus, if this cat wanted to grab my throat he’d have to leap like, I don’t know, three feet. Raj could’ve at least picked someone who can give me a good thrashing on his own hemisphere.”

  To take my mind off thi
ngs, we slurped down more frozen primary colors and talked about the debauchery waiting to happen. Dee was sharing a hotel room with Stu, who was presently getting a lap dance from someone who was not Dee. Apparently, Justine was a “squirter,” which didn’t surprise me, since I’d just witnessed her demonstrating what a “scorpion” looks like in cheerleading, gymnastics, and now dive bars. In brief, it is when one reaches behind one’s back, grabs a foot, and pulls it up to one’s head. Right. Squirting seemed like just another mundane display of physicality she’d share with the class. At least that’s what she told Doug, who, despite his diminutive size, would hook up with three different girls that weekend. Derek? Zero. A fact that supremely vexed him and Courtney, who secretly hated me because she had a none-too-secret thing for Derek. We’d met more than once, and she always introduced herself anew like an amnesiac, thus proving the hatred theory, because I hate when people do that because you know they’re just doing it to infuriate you, unless they, in truth, suffer from amnesia. Then it’s just sad.

  Truly pathetic was the fact that I treated these people like glitches in the system despite being right there with them, fucking up the connection with my supposed awesomeness. And still, I was the one walking to the train alone an hour later, deftly ignoring the “hey shawtays” of men eight feet tall sporting wife beaters that could hardly contain their protruding pecs. I wanted everything, but really only one thing. Sparks! “You just wanna be all up Dex’s booty,” was Adrienne’s analysis. I had my doubts about the prevalence of sparks in there, but saw her point. It took another year for me to get my head out of his ass and back to where it all started.

  Took me a year to remember the truth behind Rasheed’s very first note. The list of the reasons why it was hard to be bourgie and black. No. 5: The clusterfuck. “And even more common is the fact that we’ve often developed platonic relationships with opposite sex folks, who if we were just meeting them, we might pursue amorous intentions with, but because we’ve been friends for so long, that’s off the table. Or we already dated their monkey ass, and it didn’t work out.” RBBDA became required source material. If I was going to get a life, or at least get some (since everyone else was, even Justine, the high-kicking squirter), I’d need some guidelines.

  I reread the old post, “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” which attempted to spell out the ABCs of turning a homey to a husband. Scrolling through two pages of responses, I was surprised to find my own name among the “experts.” What I had to say was profoundly pointless: “There’s a fine line between putting yourself out there and playing yourself.” No shit, Sherlock. Last year’s me had nothing but craptastic advice for this year’s version, because it never works that way around, except for in Encino Man.

  I needed advice, because there was this new guy, Jake—an old friend I met through older friends, who after several thousand lines of chat, finally delivered a jewel, “I have two moods: happy and pissed off.” Lust. Ignited. Actually, it was Frances, my mother, who lit the match, describing him twice as having a “nice build,” which obviously grossed me out at first and then at second made me think. Soon I was spending an extra ten minutes in bed every morning, fantasizing about this nice build of his and how it would look erect. I e-mailed a new-boy alert to Adrienne and Gina with the disclaimer that nothing could ever happen because we were in the friends zone—the danger zone.

  “So did you tell Jake you want to ride his pony yet?” Adrienne’s nicknames for anatomy rival an eight-year-old’s.

  “I do not. Shut your mouth, monkey breath!”

  “Umm-hmmm.”

  I hung up on her and immediately got back to my life according to Gchat.

  ME: I break out in hives whenever I’m really stressed. Guess what’s all over my back?

  [Appropriate conversation in mixed company]

  JAKE: Sexy, sexy.

  ME: LMAO. Not boils. This isn’t medieval times. Although I’d love to go there.

  [Not that I’m fishing for an invitation]

  JAKE: How can you alleviate this stress? Need anything?

  [Is this an invitation?]

  ME: Besides a vibrator?

  [Hope so]

  JAKE: I’ll pick one up for you.

  [Dear God.]

  ME: Get outta town.

  [Or in my pants]

  JAKE: Dude, if you need one I got you.

  I’m secure enough to stop at the store.

  And buy a giant black cock for you.

  I mean, I’d prefer to bring a pizza, but whatever.

  Waiting for pepperoni and black olives never hurt so good. I wore a V-neck with no bra and jeans with no shoes. This was casual. What‘s a slice of pizza and an episode of Seinfeld among friends? Then again, isn’t this how things always go down in the pornos? Pizza guy, girl with no panties, a six-pack, the TV’s on but no one watching, and then bowchickabowbow!

  We typed on our laptops for a few hours, me hoping he was messaging someone about the fraught sexual tension between the cushions of my very grown-up couch. And he, redacting top-secret legal mumbo-jumbo, totally unaware of my uptight nipples. That’s when I decided all Ruhbuhduh really was, was just a lot of gibberishishy gobbledygooked hogwash. A bunch of grown-ups trying to grow their own luck. Ruhbuhduh Shmuhbuhduh, might as well be Pig Latin for “Go fuck yourselves, ’cause nobody else is going to.”

  Thirteen

  TRANNYGATE

  Only once in my life have I ever wished for a time machine—or, lacking the technology, a driver’s license.

  It was Christmas in Los Angeles, which despite not looking much different than any other time is, indeed, special. I’d spent nearly a decade out on my own—even going so far as to tilt my “west sii-ide” the 90 degrees it took to claim the east—but California was still called “home.” There’d always be one week at the end of December when the weather was in the high eighties and time was frozen in the late nineties. Not only was I back, but we were. Gina knew all the old stories I only wanted to hear in L.A., my grown-up lullabies. Like that time Richard Shin threw a “bomb” made of water and single-ply from the second-floor boy’s bathroom onto Janet Lalebekeyan’s back and then she bitch-slapped him with the same wet toilet paper in front of everybody. Everybody was small enough to fit in a carry-on that week. Actually, everybody was just me and Gi.

  I think we all started after I went away to college. She started calling to talk about the gorgeous eggheads I’d be meeting. Fools that we were. Eventually we became more than each other’s sounding boards—we were each other’s wailing walls. Whenever I got back into town, there was only one question: “Dude, what are we doing esta noche?”

  On this particular break “we” now included a new dude named Bilal. She wanted me to meet him, and instead of being envious, I was excited. Too bad he left me wishing for a pimped-out DeLorean capable of turning back time to before the night started.

  The three of us were having drinks at the bar/lounge in the Sofitel off Wilshire Boulevard near the Beverly Center. A glass of Riesling was $16, but we weren’t college or even graduate students anymore, so fuck it. Gina and Bilal had fallen in love a few months before, after a day spent in bed watching Clue—her favorite movie of all time, next to our favorite, which is Teen Witch. Unable to top his unflinching knowledge of Clue’s complete working script, Gina gave Bilal a pass on being half African.

  A brief note on xenophobia and dating: when you’re from Los Angeles, where one is either black or Mexican, not Martian, your opinion of people opposite the globe is formed almost exclusively by the movie Not Without My Daughter. Forged in the fires of Lifetime, NWMD is a film about race, religion, family, abuse, divorce, escape, and Sally Field’s convincing hijab. Basically, she marries a doctor who happens to be Iranian (as played by Alfred Molina) and everything’s all lovey-dovey until he takes her and their kid to Tehran and then goes bat shit crazy after praying or something. In the end, Field plus her daughter escape on a magic carpet, kind of. Anyway, the movie also doubles as code word f
or racism in romance if, finding ourselves in mixed company, we need to express fears over a potential partnering of one with an other.

  “Ooh, look at Punjabi MC being all sexy at the bar. Hollaaaaaah….” one of us might say in reference to an attractive gentleman of South Asian descent.

  Cutting her off after a quick up-and-down, the other might reply, “Dude. Not. Without. My. Daughter.” And the issue would get tabled—indefinitely. Gina’s looking past Bilal’s African-ness was huge, therefore prompting me to utter the phrase, “I like him for you.”

  Third-wheeling it suddenly didn’t seem so bad. She was super hyped about a guy, and I wanted to bask in some of the afterglow. Unfortunately, my time in the spotlight was all too brief.

  Okay, there was a tranny at the bar who kept eyeing Bilal. Gina pointed her out. When he (Bilal, not the she-man) walked over to chat it up with her (the tranny), we were horrified. The scoop was that the tranny (name unnecessary) was in fact a real live thirty-five-ish woman with whom Bilal had done some things. How we came to find out this information I was never sober enough to know, but once it was revealed, there was no stopping the onslaught. Also I don’t think she looked so absolutely mannish—there were some very women-of-the-WWF thighs and a pair of arms that would decimate Angela Bassett’s in What’s Love Got to Do with It—but nothing that would place her last in the LGBT acronym marathon. But Gina said, so I went with it.