“Maybe we should slow down,” she says. “It’s not easy to walk on ice in stilettos.”
Maybe someone shouldn’t be wearing stilettos in the middle of winter, eh?
layla’s new fantasy
Wednesday, March 17, 1:32 a.m.
Don’t tell me…did he just fall asleep? With his hand on my clitoris? While he was trying to make me orgasm? We just had sex, and he came, and now it was my turn to come. Or it would have been if he hadn’t fallen asleep.
I’m not impressed. Just because he’s well endowed doesn’t mean he can take naps in the middle of coitus. He’s too big. It hurt when he inserted himself at certain angles. His penis is very straight, and could use a curve, like my banana.
Now what am I supposed to do? I wish I had my banana. No movement. I nudge him again. “Hello? My turn.”
Dead to the world.
Maybe if I catalogue the contents in his room I’ll fall asleep. His closet is open and I can see one, two, three, four, five, six…ten…no fifteen pairs of shoes. How many shoes does one man need? Shoes aside, I’m still aroused.
Maybe if I think about something non-sexy, like snow, I’ll be able to fall asleep.
Lots of snow. White snow. Wet snow. Wet.
Now I’m getting all aroused again. I guess I’ll have to do it myself. I turn over and slip my hand downward. He doesn’t move. I start to rub just a little bit. All good. He still isn’t moving.
As I start getting a little more into it, I notice that the bed is shaking. Not shaking a lot like in the Exorcist, but just rocking like we’re having a minor earthquake.
I stop and the bed stops shaking. Then I start again, slowly. He groans and turns over.
I freeze. But his eyes are still closed. I start again. Then stop.
This is kind of a turn-on. Once again I start. This time I picture a scene from an erotic novel I read years ago. A man and a woman are dancing at a party. The guy lifts up her skirt and undoes his fly, and they have sex right there in the middle of the dance floor. People are dancing right next to them, but no one can see a thing.
My legs start shaking.
And I imagine I’m dancing, moving around the dance floor, and he’s whispering into my ear, how good I feel, how good he feels, and it’s…my God, it’s Jamie!…and my legs are shaking, and the floor is shaking, and the bed is rocking…uhoh, the bed is really rocking, and I’m about to orgasm-
“What are you doing?” Brad asks, sitting up.
I stop. “Trying to orgasm.”
“You’re shaking the bed,” he says, then turns over.
Well, excuse me! As I wait for lover-boy to fall back to sleep, I realize something: he doesn’t have any fish. I didn’t see an aquarium anywhere in the apartment. Why did he write his whole essay on fish if he doesn’t have even one? What kind of lying freak am I dating?
I knew there would be something wrong with him. I sit up, put back on my clothes, leave him a goodbye-and-don’t-call note, and sneak out.
When I’m back home in bed, I return to the party.
Jamie, huh? Passionate, loving, caring Jamie.
Oh, Jamie!
kimmy boards the train to pain
Thursday, March 18, 9:30 a.m.
I. Am. In. Serious. Pain.
“Time to get up,” Russ says, jumping out of bed.
Can’t. Move. “Ghjrfhft,” I groan.
“Ready to get going?”
Going? Going back under the covers. “Going where?”
He laughs. “What do you mean, where? Boarding.”
He wants to go snowboarding…again? “I can barely move from boarding yesterday.”
We flew into Montreal on Monday, spent two days touring, then rented a car to drive up to Tremblant. Apparently my dreams of slaloming were outdated. “No one skis anymore, Kimmy,” Russ said. “We board.”
It was fun at first. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air fresh, the sun warm on my face. I wore my new ski pants and puffy jacket (what debt?), sunglasses and gloves, and rented boots and a board. We took the chairlift up, and up and up, stood at the top of the mountain and…
I fell. Again and again. And again. Russ was a champion at it, flying from side to side. Show-off.
“I was thinking that today could be a cuddle-by-the-fire-place-and-drink-Baileys day,” I say hopefully.
“But we paid for two days of boarding.”
Does he always have to be doing something? “But I want to relax.”
“But it’s beautiful out.”
But, but, but. My butt is killing me from all that falling. “But I’m not a good boarder.”
“You won’t get better by not practicing.”
Even talking to him is exhausting. “Can’t we just relax? We’ve been running around all week.” We’ve shopped, we’ve Metroed, we’ve boarded and we’ve hiked. Ever since his hand has healed he’s wanted to do every possible activity imaginable. “This is spring break, not spring workout.”
“I was happy to stay at the Zoo for the break. You were the one who wanted to get away.”
“Get away for a vacation. Not to make myself even more worn-out.”
“But we’re here. Let’s not waste any time.”
“Since when is relaxing a waste of time?” Is cuddling a waste of time? Next he’ll be saying that being with me is a waste of time.
“But the tickets!” he says, jutting out his chin.
“So go.” I storm out of the bed and go to the bathroom.
Sometimes he’s so annoying. I sit on the toilet, and then see a splotch of red in my panties. Shit. I’m bleeding. It’s my period. Damn. I don’t know if I should be happy or upset. On one hand, I’m relieved I’m not pregnant; on the other hand, I can’t believe I got it now.
Damn. I’ve ruined the vacation. He’s going to start fantasizing about someone else. He’ll meet some sexy boarder on the hill who knows all the right moves, and he’ll forget all about me. And then who will I live with this summer? Not that he’s asked me yet, but why wouldn’t he? There is no point in us having our own places when we sleep in the same bed every night, anyway. I haven’t suggested it outright yet, but I’ve been hinting. I’d prefer if he came up with it on his own. Unfortunately, I don’t think skipping boarding will help my cause.
I find my emergency tampon in my makeup case, then turn the shower on and call, “We better hurry if we want to hit the slopes.”
The bathroom is full of steam. He steps into the shower and I wrap my arms around his chest. If I give him a blow job now, he might want to skip sex tonight. Here’s hoping that the slopes wear him out.
jamie talks the talk
Friday, March 19, 1:15 a.m.
R ing, ring.
Phones ringing in the middle of the night make me nervous. I pause Casablanca and pick up.
Me: Hello?
Voice on phone: Hi, ya! It’s Layla.
Me: Everything okay?
Layla: Of course.
Me: (Exhaling in relief and then singing her name song.)
Layla: You’re up!
Me: So are you, apparently.
Layla: I can’t sleep.
Me: Where’s Bradley the frog?
Layla: (Loud sigh.) That didn’t work out.
Me: (Heart soaring into the sky like a kite on speed.) What happened?
Layla: He wasn’t as perfect as I thought.
Me: After all that?
Layla: It happens. How are you? How’s the job search going?
Me: Job search? Is that what I’m supposed to be doing?
Layla: Does that mean you haven’t found anything?
Me: Actually, I did find something. Your contact gave me a bunch of names. I’ve decided I definitely want to get a job in movies. And I’ve spoken to a few production companies. They all seem interested, but none of them want to pay me. I’d be a kind of intern, aka slave laborer.
Layla: With half an MBA you shouldn’t be working for free.
Me: It’s not always about the
money.
Layla: You’re right. You are so right. I love that you’re following your passion.
Me: (She’s my passion. Maybe I should start following her.) You do?
Layla: I have a confession to make. I’m jealous that you’re not going for the money, that you’re going to do something you love.
Me: (What I’d love to do is you.) You love what you do.
Layla: I love working. But I wish I worked somewhere where I could make a difference, instead of pushing papers and million-dollar deals that don’t mean anything.
Me: What would be your dream job?
Layla: Remember Danielle Grand? The executive director of the Girls Group in Danbury? I would like to do what she does.
Me: So why can’t you do that?
Layla: Because I already have a job. And you don’t get to wear Chanel suits at a nonprofit. And-this is going to sound horrible-working at a nonprofit just feels like such women’s work.
Me: Excuse me?
Layla: It’s such a stereotype. Like teaching. My sister is in Teacher’s College. And I’m disappointed in her. I thought she could do better.
Me: (I hate that she said, “I thought she could do better.” For sure she’d never go out with me.) Teaching shapes the minds of our youth. Isn’t that one of the most important jobs there is?
Layla: I know, I know. Rationally, I know. But I would still worry about people putting down what I did, like it was some kind of woman’s hobby. (She sighs loudly.) Isn’t that dumb?
Me: Yes. Do you want to be a banker?
Layla: My mother is a banker. My father is a banker.
Me: That’s the worst answer I ever heard.
Layla: (Laughs.) I love working. I’m just not crazy about the projects I work on. (She sighs again.) Let’s talk about something else. So is it quiet there? Empty? Is it weird?”
Me: It is weird. Like that scene in Vanilla Sky when Tom Cruise is walking through an empty Times Square.
Layla: I loved that movie. So what did you do all week?
Me: I instant-messengered my mom. Never show a lonely mother how to use the Internet. She’ll use it against you.
Layla: My mother wouldn’t have time to IM me. She works twenty-five-hour days. But if we didn’t communicate by e-mail, I would never hear from her.
Me: What about your dad?
Layla: Same.
Me: You must have seen them this week while you were in New York.
Layla: Nope.
Me: That’s so sad.
Layla: Isn’t it?
Me: Were you a lonely kid?
Layla: I had my sister. And my friends. And my work. Yeah. I guess I was. (She laughs again.)
Me: Maybe you want to be a banker because you think it’ll bring you closer to your parents.
Layla: (Pause.) That’s very astute of you, Jamie. Maybe you should look for a shrink job instead.
We stay on the phone until I look out the window over my bed and the light has started to eat its way over the empty campus, turning the sky vanilla.
layla’s epiphany
Sunday, March 21, 7:00 p.m.
I can’t wait to see Jamie. He’s funny and sweet and smart and passionate, and he organizes book drives.
I pull my car into my underground parking spot and take a deep breath.
Jamie’s the one.
He’s perfect for me. He gets me. I don’t know how I didn’t realize this before. As soon as I see him, I’m going to tell him. No, I’m going to throw my arms around him and show him. Unless he’s still in love with Kimmy.
How silly of me, encouraging him to go for Kimmy when he’s so perfect for me.
I shift the gear into Park, grab my bag and lock the door. If only the Zoo had a valet. Or a doorman. This is taking too long! I have to know if he feels the same way I do.
I sprint out of the garage, into the Zoo and up the stairs, run right to his room and pound on the door. “Jamie! It’s me! Open up! I have something to ask you!”
From behind the door I hear, “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” He’s watching A Few Good Men. I love that movie. See? We’re made for each other.
He opens the door and I throw my arms around him.
“Hello to you, too,” he says, looking vaguely flabbergasted by my greeting.
“Are you still in love with Kimmy?”
He snorts. “Noooo. Why?”
Before he can say anything else I tilt my head down and kiss him hard on the mouth.
He just stands there.
Oh, no.
He doesn’t want me. What did I do? I didn’t even stop to think, I just did it and…wait a sec. He’s kissing me back. Yes! He’s kissing me back! His tongue explores my lips, my mouth, my tongue. Tingles explode down my face and neck and chest and arms. He tastes sweet, like ice cream.
It’s a perfect kiss. I knew it. I am so clever. I pull away and smile.
He looks shell-shocked. “If that’s how you say hello after a week apart, what will you do after summer vacation?”
“I have no intention of keeping you in suspense,” I say.
russ gets busted (and drags kimmy down with him)
Tuesday, March 23, 12:30 a.m.
I’m high and lying on Kimmy’s bed.
“I found a great sublet in the West Village,” Kimmy tells me.
“Yeah?”
“It’s a one-bedroom, and it has large windows, and a rooftop patio with a charcoal barbecue. How amazing is having a barbecue?”
It does sound amazing. I want a charcoal barbecue. I haven’t even looked for an apartment yet. “Wanna shack up for summer?”
I can see the possibility rolling around in her mind. Come on, Kimmy, say yes! I want a barbecue!
“Why not?”
I love how spontaneous she is. And I love that she doesn’t care that she did all the work. Truth is, I’m not sure if I love her. I know I told her I did, but I didn’t mean it. I like her a lot, and I’m in lust with her, but-love?
She kisses me and I forget what I was worried about.
I walk in fifteen minutes late to class, and sit in the spot Kimmy reserved for me.
She points to her watch. Thanks, Mom. She can’t get over the fact that I’m late to every class. I pat her on the knee. She pats back.
The trip was great, except for her excessive how-do-I-look and do-you-think-that-chick-is-hotter-than-me whining. How is someone so awesome so insecure?
Sharon wasn’t insecure. Shouldn’t think about Sharon. Can’t stop thinking about Sharon. Did I make a mistake? No. Kimmy is right for me. We’re moving to the same city. We’re working at the same place.
When there are only a few minutes left of class, Professor Martin pulls out a stack of assignments from his briefcase. “The class average was a seventy-three, which isn’t too impressive,” he says. “Apparently the majority of you failed to understand the difference between synergy and leveraging.”
I don’t even remember the assignment. Not a good sign.
I brace myself for a low sixty. I couldn’t have failed. I assume that if you bother showing up you deserve a passing grade. And I’ve shown up. Some of the time.
Martin hands back the assignments. Hands back every assignment but mine. Kimmy nudges me. She doesn’t get hers back, either. When the bell rings, Martin is out of papers. He returns to the front row and says, “Russ and Kimmy, I’d appreciate it if you two could stay after class.”
Did I forget to hand in my assignment? That’s possible. There’s so much to keep track of. After the class empties out, Kimmy and I make our way to the front of the room.
“It has come to my attention that you have both breached the MBA Code of Conduct and Honor Code of Leiser Weiss Business School.”
What?
Kimmy’s face drains of color. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Both of you signed the honor code, which states that as a student of LWBS, you would not plagiarize another student’s work.”
Oh, man.
He places two papers, side by side, faceup on his desk. Kimmy’s has an A on it that’s scratched out. “Now herein lies the problem. I received these two almost identical assignments. According to school rules, plagiarism must result in disciplinary action, and any person found guilty will, at the very least, receive a failure for the course.”
Shit.
Kimmy starts crying. “But…I…”
I give her a look to be quiet. Crying is not going to win us points. “Sir, we discussed the assignment together. It was just a coincidence, a crazy coincidence that the papers look alike. I don’t think it’s unheard of that a couple discusses an assignment.”
Martin stares at us. “I believe this goes way beyond bedtime chatter. The two papers were practically identical. I believe one of you plagiarized off the other, and I suggest that you speak up now.”
Kimmy looks at me with beseeching eyes but doesn’t say a thing.
“I see,” Martin says. “Let me add that by protecting the guilty, the innocent is just as culpable. Both of you can expect a notification from LWBS’s disciplinary committee. They’ll be sending you a notification regarding the day and time you’ll be pleading your cases. You’re dismissed.”
We leave the class, shell-shocked.
“What’s the worst that will happen?” I ask.
She wipes the back of her hand against her eyes. “We’ll both be expelled.”
jamie’s rise to stardom
4:50 p.m.
There’s a knock on my door, which I ignore, as at present I’m in the middle of negotiating a movie deal over the phone.
“We can’t pay much,” says the VP Business Development of Light Productions. “Only a stipend really, but we’d love to have you onboard.”
They want to pay me a thousand-dollar stipend for the four months, but that’s one thousand dollars more then I was expecting. It’s a viable offer, an offer I’m taking. I’m going to use my business skills at a production company. And I’m going to major in Media and Entertainment next year.
Monkey Business Page 26
