Recycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  At any rate, the thing I have elected to deal with, the thing that keeps me up at night, in fact, is Ian himself. He keeps texting and leaving messages, and I have to admit that just knowing there’s a boy out there actively wanting to have sex with me is deeply distracting. And the fact that he stole something to win my affections is one of the most ego-positive things that’s ever happened to me. Stealing is a crime.

  Don’t get me wrong. Technically, I am morally outraged by the whole thing. I can forgive Jack because he’s Jack. But Ian, presumably, did not spend his formative years locked in a room. He’s socialized. Shouldn’t he know better than to transact for sex with the brother of one’s intended? That’s, like, gross beyond measure. Right?

  Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not gross. I’m out of my depth here. This is advanced adult sexuality. I haven’t even really done adolescent sexuality. I’m skipping a whole step. I deeply want to be sophisticated enough to wade through this moral quagmire on my own, but for crud’s sake, I’m still a virgin. Is it even safe to wade in alone? I don’t want to end up as a cautionary tale.

  Ramie’s not much help. Mostly through texts and a few rushed coffees at the Starbucks near FIT she advises me to trust my instincts. She keeps mentioning the “tower of Babylon,” by which I think she’s referring to my virginity. Reading between the lines, I surmise that Ramie is of the opinion that I should stop thinking so much, have sex with Ian already, and get over myself.

  She can be so simplistic sometimes. I don’t want to pick a fight with her, though, because (a) I’d have trouble scheduling one with her, and (b) I don’t want to risk pushing her away for good. For better or worse, Ramie’s still my BFF. I’m hoping that the shine will wear off of the stunning and “brilliant” Marguerite eventually and she’ll come back down to earth where she belongs. Actually, I’m hoping this for Jack’s sake as much as for my own.

  So anyway, for two weeks I stew in indecision, deleting Ian’s texts without responding. Then, when I realize I’m getting nowhere on my own, I send for reinforcements. I call upon someone with experience, someone who has, by her own admission—and I think this is a direct quote—“had the naïveté screwed right out” of her.

  Natalie.

  We meet for mushroom pizza at the good place with the mean lady. I’m buying.

  After securing a quiet booth in the back, away from both the drunk in the corner and the mean lady behind the counter who has, with great reluctance, given us our pizza and sodas, Natalie gets right down to the business of eviscerating my innocence with gritty tales of how she lost her own.

  The pageant of sex and debauchery she presents for my education is shocking. I won’t abuse your sensibilities with the full details, but rest assured, tears were shed, wisdom gained, pride swallowed. Once, this guy named Brett stole her wallet when she refused to give him a b.j. He justified said action by claiming it was “false advertising” for her to let him pay for dinner, and he was merely getting a refund.

  The weirdest thing about that story (and believe me, there are stories far worse) is that Natalie concluded, after the shock wore off, that he sort of had a point.

  “I did let him pay for dinner,” she says. “I didn’t even pretend to reach for the check.”

  My inability to comprehend any part of this twisted tale is, according to Natalie, damning evidence that I am operating under a “naïve paradigm,” which I should reconsider if I’m going to have any success operating in the treacherous waters of the New York dating scene. When I protest that the world can’t possibly be as brutish as she describes, she reminds me that we’ve met today to discuss a guy who, until recently, used to trade girls with his friends.

  I can’t argue with her on that point.

  “So I shouldn’t see him?” I ask.

  “Do you want to see him?”

  “Well, yeah,” I tell her. “But I don’t want to feel like he’s purchased me.”

  Natalie sighs, then sips her soda with the vaguely jaded expression of someone who has clearly earned her wisdom. Then she unspools this whole complicated theory about how, in the end, sex is nothing more than a commodity for which everyone barters. When I tell her I’m pretty sure I’ve never bartered for anything, she tells me this is because I am the commodity. You see, I have something Ian wants, and I am “inflating its value” through the economic tactic of “false scarcity.” It’s like OPEC, she explains, when they withhold oil. For a second I get lost in this metaphor and ask Natalie if I’m the oil. But she says no. I’m Saudi Arabia. The precious commodity I’m hoarding behind my Victoria’s Secrets is the oil. She says girls like me are always hoarding. We drive guys crazy because we’re willing to repress our own sex drives in order to make them want us even more. She used to do it as well. She didn’t even know she was doing it.

  I confess, neither did I.

  “What you have to ask yourself, Jill, is what are you really after? What’s the commodity you want?”

  I don’t have an answer, because I have not been operating under the Commodity Paradigm. There’s something ugly and mechanistic about it. It’s not far off, in fact, from my mother’s approach. They both see men as consumers to be manipulated, which is pretty cynical. And as we all know, I do not have the cheekbones for cynicism.

  My instincts, which according to Ramie I should be trusting, tell me to reject Natalie’s theory. But then I realize my instincts were honed by the dating pool of Winterhead, Massachusetts. I’m not in Winterhead anymore. In fact, the longer I’m away, the more Winterhead seems like a make-believe place. Its tidy rules and quaint values are of no use in these shark-infested waters. If I’m going to thrive here, I may have to acquire some new values, even if those values feel wrong.

  Natalie polishes off her second slice of pizza, then takes a big sip of soda. “So is your brother still dating Ramie?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say with surprising insistence. “Why?”

  She shakes her head. “No reason.”

  I stare at her for a second, then return to my pizza. I can only hope that Natalie has not set her sights on Jack as her next “commodity.” That’s the last thing I need.

  I spend the next few days pondering Natalie’s theory and trying to figure out which commodity I’m after. Love, sex, crude oil? Ramie, who’s still crashing at Marguerite’s while they work on some massive extracurricular styling project together, weighs in on the matter with the following pithy text:

  I think u jus wanna bask in knowldg that someone wants u. don’t beat urself up tho. Every 1 wants 2 b wanted. Go 4 it. And send deets!

  It takes me a while to figure out whether I should be insulted by that text. In the end, I decide not to be. But I’m still not ready to “go 4 it.” It’s not that simple, no matter how much Ramie insists that it is.

  Now, while I’m trying to solve this highly complex problem, another complex problem resurfaces, courtesy of the reigning Poet Laureate of the Open Road, Tommy Knutson. It’s been nineteen days since his last text. Are you ready? Is your haiku translation device turned on? Here it is:

  Got mercy?

  As if life weren’t bewildering enough.

  I would very much like to report that I deleted Tommy’s text-haiku, gave it no further thought, and went straight back to pondering Ian. But that would be a lie. It turns out I am capable of obsessing over two boys at once. A first for me. My vacation from boy obsession is officially over. I do not feel refreshed.

  Sadly, I lack the literary talent to deconstruct “got mercy,” despite spending two full days on it. You’d be surprised how much potential meaning you can pry out of the word “got.”

  My opinion on the subject and on all things Tommy-related is thus:

  If Tommy Knutson has something to say to me, he should say it in plain English. Until such time as he says stuff in plain English, I shall not respond to any of his texts. I am cutting the cord.

  There, I said it. You can’t stop me.

  Cord cut.

  On to
the Ian affair.

  Ian, unlike a certain other boy, uses normal words like “Um, hi, Jill. Sorry to keep bugging you. Um, I was wondering if you wanted to come over to my place on Friday for, like, dinner? My roommates are out of town for the weekend so … um … Anyway, you’re not, like, a vegan or anything, right? Call me.”

  I may be operating under a naïve paradigm, but believe me, I know what “like, dinner” means. Ian is not “withholding” anything. His commodity is right out there in the open. It’s in the bargain bin.

  But do I want it?

  I fall asleep that night drowning in indecision and hoping the correct answer will come to me in a dream.

  Unfortunately, it doesn’t, so the next day, while I’m standing in the shower trying to force myself into a decision, I realize that what’s holding me back is my stupid virginity. Natalie’s right. I have been hoarding. I’ve been so caught up in losing my virginity at exactly the right time under exactly the right circumstances that I can’t even make a simple dinner date with a guy I’m attracted to. My virginity has ballooned all out of proportion.

  When I get out of the shower, I make a bold decision. I call Ian and say yes.

  And I don’t just mean for dinner.

  Friday night. Seven p.m. In one hour I will have crossed over into the treacherous world of adult sexuality. Don’t try to stop me. I know what I’m doing.

  Sort of.

  I get through seven different outfits before settling on the following:

  •Tight black pencil skirt (for subtle sophistication)

  •High black boots (a touch of danger?)

  •White ruffled blouse with pointy shoulders (current but playful, not trying too hard)

  •Pink bustier just barely visible under the blouse (for maximum devastation)

  Ramie’s not around, so I take a picture of myself in her full-length mirror and text it to her along with the following:

  am losing virginity in this outfit. What do u thnk?

  She doesn’t respond. Maybe she’s on the subway. I send the same image to Natalie, and she calls back with a thumbs-up and tells me to stay cool, make sure he wears a condom, and, no matter how brimming with emotion I may be, avoid at all costs blurting out “I love you.”

  When we hang up, I look at myself in Ramie’s mirror one last time, then turn to the one-armed mannequin. “This is it,” I tell her. “I leave here a girl and return a woman.”

  She doesn’t respond. She’s clearly been through a lot.

  As I’m making my way down Driggs Avenue in the cold, I’m exhilarated by what lies ahead and terrified of messing it up. I have elected to take only one lesson from Natalie’s confusing dissertation on the economics of sex. Forget about Saudi Arabia, false scarcity, and bartering. What it comes down to is this: sex is a transaction. It’s a transaction of sex. You give sex and you get sex back. That’s all. The mistake I’ve been making is that I’ve larded the whole enterprise up with love stuff. But love stuff only confuses things. I’m not saying sex and love aren’t related. They’re cousins. Siblings maybe. But you have to be able to separate them in order to make correct decisions. This is what I got wrong with Tommy Knutson. I was so busy thinking about love, I couldn’t do the sex part.

  The other thing I got wrong with Tommy Knutson is that I waited too long to make the decision. You have to make the decision before the moment arrives. Once the moment arrives, your brain is so flooded with sex chemicals and love stuff it’s impossible to think clearly. You don’t send a soldier into battle and tell her to decide what to do once the enemy starts shooting. You send her in with marching orders. Well, I’ve given myself marching orders tonight. So now when the enemy starts shooting, I’ll know exactly what to do. I won’t have to decide anything. The decision has already been made. Brilliant, right?

  Thank goodness I’ve finally seen the light. My virginity is going to slide right off of me. Believe it or not, I used to think of my virginity as something to guard, like a precious gem that evil boys wanted to steal. I think I got that idea from my mother, which is odd, because she never actually said those things to me. She implied them, though.

  It seems so silly now, so backward. Virginity is not a badge of honor. If anything, it feels like a badge of dishonor, a constant reminder of my failings with Tommy Knutson. The longer it sticks around, the bigger and uglier it gets.

  But tonight I’m going to dispense with it once and for all. Hopefully, once it’s gone, I’ll be able to think more clearly. I need all the clarity I can get as I continue on my path to becoming Amazing and Wonderful.

  Because honestly? Right now? All I am is a virgin.

  When Ian opens his door, I can hear quiet guitar music playing.

  “Wow! You cut your hair,” he says.

  I’d forgotten. He hasn’t seen me since I ditched the wig. I wonder if he thinks I look too much like Jack.

  “Do you like it?” I tug on the ends of it nervously.

  “It’s awesome,” he says. “Come on in.” He takes my coat and hangs it on a hook by the door. His eyes linger on mine for a second, then descend downward to take in the full view. His expression is hard to read. I can’t tell if he’s impressed or disappointed.

  “Nice place,” I say.

  He looks around his apartment. It’s bigger than mine but not as neat. It looks like he tidied up, but there are still dust bunnies here and there. In the center of the room is a Ping-Pong table.

  “Beer pong,” he explains. Then he stares at me for a few seconds. “Sorry,” he says. “But you look really hot.”

  “I do?”

  He nods. “Sort of like …”

  “Like what?” I say.

  He shakes his head shyly. “Nothing. But you look good.”

  “Thanks.” I pull a bottle of red wine from my bag and hand it to him. “Natalie recommended it. I don’t know anything about wine.”

  “Me neither,” he says.

  He takes the wine into the kitchen, which is just a row of appliances against one wall. He stirs something in a pot. “I hope you like beef Stroganoff,” he says. “It’s the only thing I know how to make.” He doesn’t look very natural in the kitchen. It’s safe to surmise that under normal circumstances, this is a strictly take-out establishment. I do appreciate the effort he’s making. But then I can’t help but wonder if the whole dinner is a second payment on my body.

  After shaking that thought free, I vow to avoid thinking about anything abstract or economic for the rest of the evening. I’ve already made my decision. All I have to do now is execute.

  Ian comes over with two glasses of wine, and we clink them together. I take a small sip. I do not intend to get drunk tonight, because I don’t want to lose my virginity in a drunken haze. That would be cowardly, and I am not a coward. Ian keeps his eyes glued to mine.

  “You’re staring,” I say.

  “I know. Does that bother you?”

  “Would it bother you?”

  “No way,” he says. “You can stare at me all night if you want. My roommates aren’t coming back until Sunday. You can stare at me all weekend.”

  “Tempting,” I say. I sit on the couch and let the tiniest bit of wine moisten my lips. The apartment fills with the warm, rich smell of beef Stroganoff.

  “Are you hungry?”

  I nod.

  •

  All through dinner Ian makes heroic efforts to entertain me. He tells me about his run-in with some indie film actor who was shooting something on his block. He tells me how beautiful I am and how much he likes me with short hair. And he keeps refilling my wineglass. I take only small sips, but somehow, by the time we’re eating a store-bought chocolate cake, I’m a little tipsy. I guess when someone keeps refilling your glass after every other sip, it adds up.

  I tell myself this is okay. I’m not drunk enough to go stumbling around the apartment or puking on his shoes. Perhaps being ever so slightly non-sober will smooth out the edges of my nervousness about losing my virginity.


  Not that I want to focus on the momentousness of that.

  When I fumble slightly on my way to the couch, Ian comes over with his own wineglass and sits right next to me. Then he stares at me full on. He’s not nervous anymore. He’s determined.

  Before I know it, we’re kissing. Deep, wet, powerful kisses. Ian guides me gently down on the couch and lies on top of me. Lifting my hands over my head, he begins unbuttoning my shirt.

  Very softly, he whispers, “Are you going to say yes to me tonight?”

  “Um,” I say. “What’s the question?”

  He opens my shirt and stares at my pink lace bustier. “The question …,” he says. His mouth drops open, which is exactly the effect I was aiming for with this thing.

  But then, all at once, he pushes my bustier up and, in a forceful yank, peels both it and my shirt clean off!

  I swallow.

  His eyes adhere with magnetic force to my chest.

  “God, you’re hot,” he says.

  “Really?”

  He nods, still mesmerized. Then his hands slide under the small of my back. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but …” He fumbles for the clasp to my skirt.

  “But what?”

  He opens the clasp and pulls the zipper down, his hand getting stuck halfway. It’s up to me now. I can either raise my hips to help him unzip my skirt or lie there pressing my butt into the couch to prevent further progress.

  It’s all on me.

  Suddenly an unwelcome cluster of economic concepts start dancing around in my head (false scarcity, bartering, the price of oil). I try to repress them, but this only brings to life a confounding miasma of love stuff. (Is this a relationship? Is Ian the one? Am I still in love with Tommy Knutson?) I’m thinking too much. I’ve lost the ability to act. My virginity grows by the second. Before long it will become life-size, gain sentience, and sit like a disgusted chaperone on the edge of the couch.

  I must take control!

  With an enormous force of will, I evict everything from my mind, improvising a new mantra on the spot: I am a sex machine. I focus on Ian’s body, the weight of it, the length of it. Before long I am back in the moment, sex chemicals flowing, love stuff extinguished. Clarity regained.