by Neil Strauss
When I returned, Dee was going down on Leslie. I joined her, and eased my finger up to her G-spot. This was more like it.
Leslie moaned and arched her back. She shuddered to orgasm, then begged us to keep going. Dee and I switched positions, and Leslie quaked again. She begged for more. For what seemed like forty-five minutes, she kept us down there, giving her orgasm after orgasm. My jaw ached, my wrist hurt, I began thinking about how good a Caesar salad with huge seasoned croutons would taste. Leslie kept arching her back, making us work harder and harder for each orgasm. But, as greedy as she was, I didn’t stop. I wanted to show my appreciation for what she’d arranged tonight.
“Wow, that bath felt so nice.” The fun-ruiner had returned. “Do you guys mind if I call room service? I’m hungry.”
“No,” I told her. The last thing we needed was room service busting in on the action.
“No, you don’t mind or no, I shouldn’t do it?”
“No, now would be a bad time.”
Leslie, somehow, managed to have another orgasm during all this.
“I’m just going to make some tea.”
I don’t care.
I put on a condom, made sure it was unrolled to the very bottom, then entered Dee while she was going down on Leslie.
“Oh, here’s the ironing board.”
She must be on crystal meth.
“Do you mind if I iron your shirt?”
I may be all about worse, but this was becoming a nightmare. It was like having sex with my mother in the room.
Eventually, both Samantha and Dee were satisfied and they fell asleep. Not even a thank-you.
“You can go to bed now,” I told Samantha. ‘You’re safe.”
“That’s okay,” she said, sitting in the desk chair. “I’m an insomniac.”
Definitely meth.
With my mind and heart still racing from the night’s adventure, I had trouble falling asleep. Samantha, conscious of this, began reciting her life story—her father shooting himself in front of the family at a dinner party; her mother leaving her at an aunt’s house and never coming back; her first love beating her throughout the ten years they dated.
No wonder she was always begging for help and attention: Everyone she loved had left her or abused her. And, decades later, she was still searching for the safety she’d never felt as a child. Thanks to the needy way she went about it, however, she ended up replaying her childhood rejections with every new person she met instead.
I actually began to feel bad for her. Then I fell asleep.
In the morning, I woke to the sensation of Dee biting my neck. We were the only ones in the bed. It felt kind of empty.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“They’re in the bathroom,” she whispered.
She reached around and stroked me. “Do you have another condom?” she asked.
I put one on. She rolled onto her side, with her back to me, and I entered her. When I began to moan, she whispered for me to be quiet, as if worried Leslie would hear us. I couldn’t understand why this was an issue. Maybe she thought I was Leslie’s man. Maybe we were breaking some unwritten law of the ménage àtrois. Or maybe she’d just forgotten to bring her dildo that morning.
An hour later, we packed our bags, left the room, and took the walk of shame through the busy hotel lobby. Samantha offered to drive me to the airport and, as the four of us waited for her car at the valet stand, she grabbed my hand.
“Your skin is so soft,” she said coquettishly. This was so out of her character that I didn’t know how to respond.
Her car was not old and sleek like Leslie’s. Just a beat-up white Malibu from the nineties. Its dented body, grinding brakes, neglected interior, and broken taillight conveyed nothing but hard living and bad luck.
After she pulled up to the terminal, Samantha applied lipstick, pulled an envelope out of her purse, and covered it with kisses. Then she handed it to me. I took a last look at the women in the car. I was actually going to miss them.
I guess I had connected with Leslie after all—and, as much as I was loath to admit it, with Samantha, as well.
As I flew back to the relative normalcy of home, I opened the envelope. Inside was a torn scrap of paper covered front and back with tiny scrawl:
Please call me next week or e-mail me. You turned me on very much, and I haven’t felt what you had me feeling in a long time. It was a relaxing, sexual feeling. A turn-on that I never felt. I would have liked to experience being with you! I think you’re a wonderful guy. I want to thank you for making me feel the way you did, and you didn’t even know that you did. I sure wanted to suck your dick.
The next day, I loaded the photos she had taken onto my computer. They were the most compromising images I’d ever been in: I could actually see Leslie’s insides for several layers. It would be a disaster if they ever leaked on the Internet.
I opened a secure deletion program to wipe them off my computer forever. And then I sat there, listening to my hard drive grind out 0s and 1s, until the night never existed. They were from another world. And I had fit into that world a little too well.
RULE 6
EXPECT THE BEST, PREPARE FOR THE WORST
Dear Stacy,
You write the best e-mails. They are so thoughtful, warm, and tender. I wonder sometimes what it would be like to kiss you. I imagine that you would fully give yourself with a kiss, that it would be, like your e-mails, thoughtful and tender. I think of the warmth of your mouth, the joy of the first intimate touch, and how at first you might be a little nervous, but as you relax into the feeling, you would get lost in the moment, and our bodies, time, and the rest of the world would just melt away into that one single kiss.
Good night, Stacy. I hope all is well.
—Neil
P. S. I was pleased to hear that John and your sister are engaged. Please pass on my congratulations, and my gratitude to them for introducing us.
Dear Neil,
Your description of our kiss leaves me rather speechless. I can definitely feel the nervousness at first, but then the love pours in as we embrace. I don’t want to sound corny, but that simply is how I envision our kiss: like the sun, love just warms everything about us.
I should warn you of something, though: I am a novice when it comes to kissing and sexuality in general.
Here’s the short version of the story: for many years, I have battled anorexia nervosa, and because of my low weight over a period of time, my sexual experience remained at zero. Only recently have I begun to branch out and respond to sexual stimuli, which makes me a late bloomer at twenty-eight.
The next time I see you, I may be a bit heavier than I was in Chicago. I seem to have overcome the disease in the last few months. Well, not completely, but let’s just say I’ve eaten a lot of chocolate chip cookies lately!
So, I do not mean to shock you, but that is my story. I am a very loving person, and I have so much love to give, but my knowledge of love-making is about minus ten. But wouldn’t it be fun to learn, and start with the most beautiful kiss of the century?
When can we see each other and fulfill the wish? I can surely swing a visit to L.A., but only if you’re willing to have me after all I’ve divulged in this message.
Keep enjoying yourself and write back soon.
Yours,
Stacy
Dear Stacy,
I’m writing this from Australia. I arrived safely yesterday, and wanted to thank you as soon as possible for sharing your story with me.
I don’t want to make you wait, wondering what I’m thinking. So I will let you know now that I truly appreciate your candor and honesty. I would never think any differently about you as long as you are making progress. So you can put those worries to rest. I promise to be a patient teacher. If you’re a really good girl, I’ll even buy you some chocolate chip cookies.
I remain willing and eager to have you visit, and see all the places I’ve been telling you about. How does February 21 to 2
4 work for you?
E-mail me your address, and I’ll send you a postcard and show you the beach on the Gold Coast where I surfed today. I miss you, too. Funny, huh, considering that we’ve only spent a total of ninety minutes together?
—Neil
Dear Neil,
I really have no special reason to write: just wanted to chitter-chat with you since I am so exceptionally fond of you (on some level, let’s face it: I love you). Right now I am looking at icicles the size of lances hanging off the eaves of our roof, and I am thinking of you on the Gold Coast surrounded by gold. Gold: the alchemy that we create, you and I, together.
Send me messages—messages full of your joy and love and whatever you have to spare. If you need to vent, put it here. If you need to wax ebullient, put it here. If you need to say a cuss word, put it here. If you need anything, put it here. You are guaranteed a reception and a proper response. Just because I care so deeply for you.
In the meantime, just know that my crush keeps getting bigger every day. By the time I visit you on the 21st, I’ll have pummeled you into the ground with my crushing affection. Hope you don’t mind!
Love,
Stacy
Dear Stacy,
Apologies for the delay. Thank you again for another beautiful e-mail. I look forward to your visit, and want to assure you that I have no expectations of you or for anything to happen, just like I hope that you have no expectations of me. I must admit that I worry about your crush: I hope that I can live up to it. Looking forward to next week. Expect to see me waiting for you at the baggage claim. I’ll be the one carrying the tray of chocolate chip cookies.
—Neil
Dear Neil,
Thank you for a lovely trip to Los Angeles. I had an unforgettable time exploring the Getty Museum with you, and it was a thrill learning to surf.
While I am disappointed that things didn’t work out for us, I will savor forever the alchemy of our kisses and my first sexual explorations.
I am of course aware that gradually you distanced yourself from me, and I apologize for my lack of sexual experience and my crushing affection and everything else that probably scared you away. Because of my condition, I am not as comfortable with myself as I’d like to be.
I think you are a special person, and I will always have a space in my heart for you. Thank you again for showing me your world.
I am sad, but I will pray for you.
Love,
Stacy
Dear Stacy,
It was great to see you. And I feel the same way. You write the most beautiful e-mails I’ve ever received, and I will treasure them always.
I suppose an explanation is in order: I was so excited to see you at the airport, after all our e-mails, each one increasing in intensity. And, I must admit, at some point, I was a little scared, as well. When we went back to my house, I think reality set in. When I discovered that you still had your hymen, I realized you were no ordinary girl and this was no ordinary experience.
I didn’t know if I could live up to your expectations, or ever reciprocate the immense reservoir of feeling you have for me. So I thought it would be better to back off and be friends, and let you have that other experience with the incredible person you’re really supposed to be with. I can be a great lover, but I’ve always been a horrible love. I don’t know if it’s an emotional failing of mine, or if it’s simply that our worlds are so different. You go to church every Sunday; I write books on Marilyn Manson.
You have so much love in your heart and goodness in your soul, and I’m glad that you were able to share just a little of it with me.
Are you familiar with Ryokan’s poetry? The first part is by Ryokan and the second part is by Teishin. These are what I call good for the night poems.
Ryokan’s letter:
Having met you thus
For the first time in my life,
I still cannot help
Thinking it but a sweet dream
Lasting yet in my dark heart.
Teishin’s reply:
In the dreamy world,
Dreaming, we talk about dreams.
Thus we seldom know
Which is, and is not, dreaming.
Let us, then, dream as we must.
Good Night Stacy,
Neil
RULE 7
WHATEVER’S IN THE WAY IS THE WAY
“I was at a friend of mine’s house and this storm came up out of nowhere, man, with big clouds that looked like snakes standing up,” he was saying, his deep voice reverberating off the hotel room walls. “I had one of those little twelve-dollar cameras in the glove compartment of my truck and I just snapped pictures. When I got the photos back, there was an image of God with his beard blowing in the wind, standing up in the storm.”
He was one of the most important musicians of the century. After weeks of work, I had finally persuaded him to sit down for a two-hour interview. And everything was going well—until the last ten minutes. That was when his granddaughter walked in the room. Suddenly, I found myself unable to focus on a word he said.
She had thick black hair, long muscular legs, a high forehead, and tremendous breasts lifted high in her sweater. Her silhouette was the kind people made stencils out of and stuck on the mud flaps of trucks. Judging by her proud posture and haughty air, she seemed well aware of the effect she had on men. But, worst of all, she seemed bored.
She lounged on the bed, picking feathers out of the pillowcase. In her mind, I was just another white guy pumping her grandfather for trivia from fifty years ago.
I had to do something to change that.
“In my belief, there’s a supreme being who can show himself whenever he feels like it. But he comes angry at the way we live and treat one another. He didn’t mean for us to fight like cats and dogs. He meant for us to get along and love one another until death takes us away,” he concluded.
“Let me ask you a question, since you understand human nature so well,” I began. I needed to pull his granddaughter into the conversation: “You can help out, too, if you want.”
She glanced up indolently, mildly interested. “You know how they say women are more attracted to power and status than looks?” I continued, beginning an admittedly ridiculous opener I’d been testing lately to start conversations with women. “I was talking to a friend about it the other day and he asked a good question: ‘Then why is it that most women would rather sleep with Tommy Lee than George Bush? Isn’t George Bush one of the most powerful men in the world?’”
“Who’s Tommy Lee?” he asked.
“He’s the heavy metal drummer who did that sex tape with Pamela Anderson,” his granddaughter explained.
“Well, that tells you something right there,” he said. “It’s because rock ’n’ roll is soulful. You listen to it to get away from all that political bullshit.”
“George Bush is ugly,” the granddaughter opined, too beautiful to bother with the actual point of the question. “That’s why no one wants to sleep with him.”
Weak answers to a weak opener, but it had served its purpose: the focus of the conversation had now shifted to her.
“She wants to move here and model,” he explained. “She’s not like them toothpick girls. Skin and bones do not excite me. They need young girls with figures like Alicia’s.”
He wrestled his pocket for a mint, then shoved it in his mouth. “The burning went to the wrong place,” he coughed.
This seemed to remind her that he was old and that time was short. She massaged his shoulders, waited for him to regain his composure, then made her agenda known: “Don’t forget, you promised to take me shopping.”
“This is her first time in New York,” he went on, “but I reckon I’ll be sorry I brought her.”
These were all clues: model, shopping, new to city, Grandpa’s reluctance to shop. Before I put these clues to use, there was one thing I still needed to know. “You’re how old now and you’ve never been here?”
“Tw
enty-one,” she replied.
The word granddaughter had worried me.
“She has to go to Century 21,” I said, planting the seed to spend more time with her. “They sell every designer brand you can think of for practically nothing. She’ll spend hours there.”
After the interview, he decided to take a nap. I gallantly offered to take Alicia off his hands and escort her to Century 21.
She glided by my side through the streets, speaking rarely, smiling never. This was her first time in New York—dense with noise, drama, dirt, culture, chaos, life—and she was sleepwalking through it all. She seemed to exist in a glass box that separated her from the rest of the world. And I wanted, more than anything, to smash through it.
I once told the story of Sleeping Beauty to a young cousin of mine. “How can a prince fall in love with a girl who’s sleeping?” she asked afterward.
“Good point,” I replied. “She may be beautiful, but they haven’t even spoken. What if she’s a complete bitch?”
This is probably why relatives don’t allow me around their kids.
At the time, I didn’t have an answer for her. Now I did: He loves her simply because he has the power to wake her.
At Century 21, I tried to flirt with Alicia, choosing the ugliest outfits and insisting she try them on. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t break through her reserve. She still saw me as an antique collector rummaging through the closet of her grandfather’s mind.
She left the store two hours later with a purple satin dress, a lace skirt, and an extra-large men’s polo shirt. The shirt, she said, was for her boyfriend.
This complication would have been much easier to take if the shirt had been a size that was easier to compete with. Like extra-small.
That night, I had plans to see a stylist I was sleeping with named Emily. I’d talked to her for a few minutes at a party once. Afterward, she found my e-mail address online, wrote to me, and suggested getting together for coffee.
“You’re like heroin,” she said when I arrived, late from shopping with Alicia. “All my friends say to stay away from you because I’m starting to fall in love with you.”
