How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel

by Sorgen, Monique

  ~

  Moments after I send it out, my boss, Henry, walks into my office with a printed out copy of my public release.

  “I had been wondering why you hadn’t come out of your office all day. And then I got this. Is this what you’ve been doing on company time?” Um. Think fast, Sam. I am pretty much caught up on my business. I mean, I could be using this time to research prospective new clients, but I don’t have any unfinished business with my current clients, and it is my birthday… kind of.

  “Um… I didn’t take a lunch break. I did this during the time I should’ve been eating.”

  “And you really think you’re going to pull off this stunt?” he asks, incredulously. I realize that in some way, what I’m doing may seem a little extreme. But I think that one of the reasons I’ve been so successful in this career is that I’ve always understood one thing…

  “Sometimes, when you wanna meet your prince, you have to plan the ball yourself.”

  Henry smiles. He should, I’m quoting him.

  “And that, Samantha, is precisely why you are my top producer.” Then he adds, “Which isn’t to say that I don’t find your plan absolutely beyond the realm of sane thinking.”

  Then out of nowhere, he cryptically says, “Come with me. I’d like to show you something.”

  Now I’m worried. You never want your boss to come at you with any directives that could leave you vulnerable to being caught off guard over something you didn’t know you did wrong, especially when your boss is my boss. That’s the thing about Henry, you never know from moment to moment if he’s gonna say something to compliment you or destroy your self-esteem with a slashing blow straight to your soul. He travels easily between the two extremes, sometimes in the course of one sentence or paragraph, until it makes your head spin so fast that he can ultimately manipulate the outcome of any conversation. I guess he’s the perfect mentor for a girl who believes she can fix anything. Still, I try to hide my concern as I follow him through the bullpen, in the direction of his office, wondering what awful thing I’m about to get in trouble for.

  “You know,” he says, “when I said that thing about planning the ball, I was using the expression metaphorically. I was describing a means of maintaining control over what is and isn’t said about your clients in the press, by being in charge of the means by which rumors are exposed. I didn’t mean for it to be taken literally.”

  “I know. But it was still really good advice.” I recognize that I may be buttering him up a little extra, in hopes of softening the blow of whatever he’s taking me to the principal’s office to scold me about.

  To my surprise (although it shouldn’t have been), we take a last minute left turn into the kitchen, where the rest of my co-workers surround a cake, with the numbers “three” and “zero” flaming at the top of it.

  “You know, my birthday’s not really until tomorrow, so let’s not age me prematurely here. Ha-ha.” I know they say all publicity is good publicity, but we in the public relations business know that’s not true. If it weren’t for our hard work and spin, most publicity would be bad publicity, and even our magical touch can’t do anything to help a murderer, a racist ranter, or an accurate public announcement of one’s real age to all her co-workers. This is definitely bad publicity.

  Henry tries his hand at spinning it anyway, “You should be proud, Samantha. You’ve accomplished a lot for your age. Hell, you’re the best publicist I’ve ever had working for me!”

  Daggers shoot at me from the eyes of every non-assistant in the room. Great, now they all hate me. Thanks, Henry. Well, at least that took the focus away from my age.

  Henry senses my discomfort, and once again comes to my rescue, if you can call it that, “Hey, if you guys don’t like being second and third best, you’re welcome to try to take her place at the top. I’ve got no problem changing my mind, and passing on the crown and scepter as soon as one of you shows me that I should.”

  Well, that wasn’t awkward.

  I try to lighten up the mood, “Should we sing happy birthday to me, or just go straight to eating cake? I haven’t eaten today, so I’m more than happy to dig in if you guys aren’t up for singing right now.”

  No one responds, making me feel ever so much more awkward. Which is why I figure I may as well throw caution to the wind, and humiliate myself further, in hopes of advancing my cause, “So, any of you know any great single guys who might be interested in meeting up with me tonight at K-Bar?”

  Chapter 3

  Five hours until midnight. Two hours until I’ve promised I’d be at the bar. Lacey is going to be here any minute. I plan to get there early so we can settle in and have a drink before people start to arrive. I’ve found that a little drink can calm the nerves before any date, and tonight I’ve set myself up on a blind date with destiny. So let’s double that.

  Hair is done. Makeup looks great. Now all I have to do is put on this soon to be historic purple dress. As I slip the dress up my body, I remember why I chose it for this momentous occasion. The silkiness makes me feel both sexy and sweet. The tailoring hugs my body in all the thin places (my waist), while being more forgiving in the hips. And the aforementioned décolleté makes my breasts look just slightly more cleavalicious than they actually are.

  I reach back to grab the delicate zipper, trying not to get it stuck on the luxurious silk chiffon fabric, as it usually likes to do. Careful, careful… The zipper rides up, and gets stuck, not because of the fabric, but because of my girth. To get the dress closed from here I would need to pull the dress tighter near the waist, while I pull the bottom of the zipper down, and zip the handle up. Basically, I need three hands. This is why I need a man in my life!

  I suck in my breath and carefully try to cinch it up, but as soon as I let out my breath, the zipper rides back down to the top of my hips. Patience is the key. I try again, holding my breath until I’m sweating my perfect makeup job right down my face. Finally, with mascara on my cheekbones and blush on my chin, I get the zipper all the way to my upper back. Phew! I rest a moment to catch my breath and look in the mirror. Thankfully my makeup isn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined, but the dress isn’t zipped all the way either.

  I reach back and realize why I gave up when I did. I can’t reach that part of my back. I get an idea.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, with my feet dangling on the floor. Then I lay on my back as I throw my legs up in the air and over my head, so that my feet are hanging over my head, over the other side of the bed, and I’m balancing on the back of my neck, leaving both of my arms free to do whatever they want behind my upper back, and they want to zip up this dress. Success!

  I roll myself back up, feet landing on the floor where they started. I let out a giant breath of relief, at which point I hear the sound of fabric cracking, and letting out the seams right over my butt, exposing my panties to the knick-knacks laying around my bedroom. Looks like I’m not going to wear this dress after all. Well, at least after tonight I’ll have someone to zip up my dresses for me.

  I rip the dress off, which proves to be much easier than getting it on—especially considering the extra space the gaping hole has just created—and look for something purple to wear. Why did I have to commit to a color? I quickly sift through my closet: purple, purple, purple. I’ve got nothing. Except… there is this one oversized man’s T-shirt? I throw it on, rip the shoulder Flashdance-style, and belt it into a mini-dress. Upon seeing my reflection all I can think is, “I know the 80s are back, but why?” Now all I need are some legwarmers and a strip club. No thank you.

  My text message dings. Shit, Lacey is waiting in a cab outside with the meter running.

  I throw off my clothes, adding them to the mess on the floor, and as quickly as possible, browse through the other previously worn and not yet washed outfits strewn across the room, in such a way that they look like the discount bin at a retail store.

  In my dirty laundry pile, I locate a fun flirty dress that I wore last week to a r
estaurant opening. It doesn’t have a zipper and it’s a magenta shade of pink. Close enough. I throw it on, slip into my pumps, throw some jewelry in my purse, and grab my jacket as I rush to the door.

  ~

  When I open the door, Lacey is standing there shifting her boobs around in her bra, “Are my nipples pointing straight? I can’t tell.” I can’t tell either, because I’m too busy feeling mortified that my conservative older neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Apartment Seven just walked by and heard her say that. They glare at me. They probably think I’m too old to be single and living alone. They probably think I’m alone because I can’t get a man—instead of what it really is, that I just forgot I was supposed to. They probably recognize this dress from when I wore it 3 days ago. I hate their judging eyes.

  “I thought you were waiting in the cab?” I say, wishing she had.

  “I was, but you took so long, I wanted to see what was up with you. He’s still out there.” Then, without skipping a beat she goes back to discussing her boobs, “I got this really cute new bra! Which is a miracle because even though my boobs are supposed to be Ds, they’re less firm than before, so now I can fit them into Cs, which is awesome because designers don’t care about girls with D-cups or bigger.” Despite the running meter, I take extra time to lock my front door in hopes of letting my neighbors make their exit first, so that they don’t have to endure any more of this tirade than necessary. Unfortunately, behaving like the old folks that they are, they walk especially slowly toward the security door, and hear everything, as Lacey goes on.

  “They just assume that you’re fat, and you won’t make their clothes look good anyway, so they don’t make cute designs in that size. And you can forget it if you’re a skinny 32 or 34-D like me! Then they assume you have fake ones and you don’t need to wear a bra—so there is literally nothing on the shelves. Having real boobs has always been such a burden for me… But now that I can squeeze them into a C, there’s like a whole new world of cute bras for me to try! Do you like this one?”

  She pulls the top of her dress down, exposing her bra to me and The Apartment Sevens. I smile awkwardly at them.

  “Yeah, it’s cute, now put those away.”

  “What? I’m just trying to be positive about one of the great things that’s happened to me because I’m getting older.” Then, noticing my dress, “I thought you were supposed to wear purple?”

  “Yeah, I know,” I answer, as we finally take our turn walking out of the building and toward the waiting taxi.

  “Well I hope you’re not too disappointed if this thing doesn’t work out tonight.”

  “Why wouldn’t it work out?”

  “Because, Sam, you can’t just produce your life like it’s some PR event.”

  “Sure I can. That’s what I do best.”

  ~

  As we get in the taxi, I tell the driver where we’re going, “Do you know K-bar? On Union Street?”

  “I looked it up on Google,” Lacey interjects, “and I realized that I know K-bar. That’s where I was the night I met that sexologist I told you about.”

  “Oh, the one who teaches in the PhD program at U.C. Berkeley?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Didn’t you have sex with him?” That perks up our cab driver’s ears. There’s usually about a 50-50 chance they speak English, but I’ve found that talking about sex is always a good way to figure out if you’re speaking privately or not.

  Lacey also notices that he’s paying attention, and that may be why she plays up her disgust, “Eiw! No! He’s gross! And he’s a sexologist! For a living.”

  “That’s why I’m surprised you would turn him down,” I joke, “he probably knows some things!”

  Lacey shushes me as she holds back laughter and signals with her eyes that the cab driver is listening.

  We decide not to talk for the rest of the ride, but after we get out of the cab and pay him, our cab driver and his accent let us know that he has his own wicked sense of humor, “Back in my country, I was sexologist, too.”

  Lacey and I let out the laugh we’ve been holding in since the topic was introduced, as we slam the taxi doors and run away toward the bar. I’m glad the cab driver waited until we were getting out of his car to chime in with that tidbit. The rest of the ride would’ve been really awkward otherwise.

  Before entering K-bar, I take a deep breath to calm down and center myself, as I prepare to walk in and meet the man I’ve forgotten to look for, but have been waiting my whole life to find. This is it. This is my moment. This is my last chance. Here we go.

  Chapter 4

  K-bar, while not particularly crowded yet, is as expected, already loaded with hot, age-appropriate men. I’m pretty sure that I have something to do with this.

  “Nice choice,” Lacey clearly agrees with my assessment as she looks around. Or maybe she’s referring to the cozy yet upscale atmosphere. The design is luxuriously clean, like a $500 a night hotel room in any modern city, and it has the kind of lighting that makes everyone look like they’re gracing the pages of Vanity Fair. It’s fantasy inducing, almost as if it were whispering into your ear that you are about to embark on a very special night. And it was right. We were.

  A group of girls screams loudly for no identifiable reason. Then a flash photo goes off, taking their picture, and everyone in the bar turns to see what the commotion is all about.

  “I hope I never come off that desperate for attention!” Lacey scoffs. Then in what can only be described as a desperate cry for attention, she whips off her coat, revealing her form-fitting outfit, throwing back her hair, and jutting out her size Cs that used to be Ds. She has clearly stopped worrying about whether or not her nipples are pointing straight.

  As we approach the bar, she brings up the sexologist again, “The thing about him, too, was that he wasn’t the one night stand type, you know, and I just can’t afford to get involved with another guy who’s got no money.”

  “If you don’t like him, then why are we still talking about him?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, it’s so rare that you meet a nice guy who’s probably good in bed, and wants a serious relationship.”

  “So basically, you just didn’t want him.”

  “I wanted to want him. I just couldn’t get myself to want him because—" despite the fact that we are in a loud bar, she feels the need to lower her voice for this next part just in case someone might find out that she’s as superficial as the rest of mankind, “—he’s just not that hot, okay?”

  Which is when a pleasant male voice decides to join our conversation, “Who’s not hot?” He walks up behind us at the bar, “Because if by any chance you are thinking about me long enough to talk shit behind my back, I seriously could not be more flattered by that!”

  Lacey pulls some girl-a-tude as she turns to face our mystery man, “That is the worst pick up line I—“ She sees him and screams, shocked! Her surprise causes her arms to flail, knocking the man’s drink, and spilling it all over my carefully selected dress! Lacey speechlessly stares at him. He quickly grabs a cocktail napkin from the bar and begins blotting my dress.

  “Sorry,” he says, before adding in jest, “but really it was her fault.”

  Meanwhile Lacey is standing behind him, frantically pointing and mouthing, “That’s him!” Hi-larious. How did this happen to her? The one person who hears her comment, is the one guy she is trying to keep it from. And she actually went to the trouble of lowering her voice! In a bar!

  Before I get a chance to ask, our new friend breaks it down for me, “Hi, I’m Marty. Marty Lowenthal. Lacey and I are old friends.” He instantly realizes that’s not true, probably taking his cue from the incredulous look on my face. “What I mean is, not really. We met the last time we were here. So we go ‘way back’ in a colloquial way. And when I say, ‘the last time we were here’, that’s not entirely true either, it’s more like the last time we were both here at the same time, because I’ve been here quite a few times since, even though she ha
sn’t.” Okay, now I’m starting to understand why she didn’t have sex with him. He may have picked up on that because he keeps going, “That sounded weird. It’s not that I’ve been looking for her, or anything…” his words fade off, as he realizes he’s just making things worse, and he somewhat changes the subject. “Nice people at this bar.”

  As fun as it is watching him squirm, I’ve had about as much as I can handle. I stave off his continued wiping and blotting of my dress, and excuse myself, “Thanks for trying, Marty, but I need to fix this mess. I’ll be right back.” I head to the bathroom to clean myself up.

  “What are you doing, Sam? Where are you going? I should go with you!” Lacey exclaims in a panic as she chases after me, clearly trying not to be left alone with the charming but dorky Marty Lowenthal, sexologist PhD.

  ~

  When she finds me in the bathroom cleaning myself off, Lacey is rightfully freaked out, “Why would you leave me alone with him?!” Then, not waiting for an answer, “Do you see what I mean?”

  “Well at least now I’m wearing purple!”

  This leads Lacey to realize another thing she doesn’t like about him, “Was he drinking a Cosmo?”

  I’m actually starting to feel bad for the guy. And I can’t help but wonder if Lacey’s self-esteem wouldn’t be lifted by dating a guy who worships her for once, instead of all those hot guys with “hot guy” attitude that she’s usually attracted to. Marty is the kind of guy who deserves to be seen with a girl like Lacey. And if Lacey ever dated someone smart like Marty; that would be a lesson to all those jerks who thought she was nothing but a hot body with a pretty face propped on top of it. I decide to defend the poor guy.

  “Come on, Lacey, Marty isn’t so bad. He’s really cute in a ‘nothing special’ sort of way. And I’ll bet his baby pictures are adorable!” Lacey once told me that it helps her to know what a guy looked like when he was younger, because most kids are cute, and by visualizing a guy’s younger self, she can see past his old rough skin and the layers of age-related fat he’s accumulated, to what was adorable about him before he grew to look so tired. I kinda get that.