Sex in the Title - a Comedy about Dating, Sex, and Romance in NYC (back when phones weren't so smart)

by Zack Love

  “Evan, it doesn’t matter what else you’ve written if you can’t get her to the first page. And sex is the best way to do it. Look at you: you read those cheesy frat boy rags with sex plastered everywhere on them.”

  “But she’s so much better than me, Heeb.”

  “Evan, unless she’s Mother Theresa, the word sex will still intrigue her the way it does everyone else.”

  “So what do you want me to call it? Sex With Delilah? Or should I be truer to life and call it ‘Sex Without Delilah.’”

  “They both sound too much like a stalker’s confession…How about “Sexy Delilah?”

  “That’s too direct. And too sycophantic. I need something more subtle,” Evan said, now sounding genuinely troubled about not having a suitable title.

  “How about Sex and Sexuality?” Heeb suggested. “You know, a kind of play off of ‘Sense and Sensibility’?”

  “Sex and Sexuality? That sounds like the title for some biology book. Or some mildly pornographic guide to lovemaking.”

  Evan began to pace more nervously. “Just let me think for a sec,” he said, to curb Heeb’s distractingly bad suggestions. There was a long silence as Evan walked wildly all over his tiny apartment with the cordless phone in his hand, feverishly brainstorming for just the right title with the word “sex” in it.

  “I got it! I got it!” Heeb declared triumphantly.

  Evan stopped in the middle of his kitchenette to hear Heeb’s idea.

  “Sex in the Title.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you’ve been saying I need.”

  “No, that’s the title: ‘Sex in the Title.’”

  “You want me to call my novel ‘Sex in the Title?’”

  “Yeah. Isn’t it great?”

  “To quote that bimbo model from last Saturday night, that’s the most retardest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s completely idiotic. That title makes no sense at all. It’s the worst thing you’ve come up with yet.”

  “It was a joke, Evan.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, what better way to tease you about your title troubles than to state them in the title itself?”

  “All right, but now you’ve got me obsessing about the title.”

  “I’m sure you’ll come up with something good.”

  “Let me think for a second.”

  Heeb patiently waited in silence for a few moments.

  “The funny thing is,” Evan began, “as I think about it some more now, there’s actually something kind of appealing about Sex in the Title.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I kind of like how the incoherence – or rather the suggestion of coherence – is unshakably intriguing to the mind.”

  “It was a joke, Evan.”

  “But I kind of like it.”

  “It’s totally asinine. Ask the characters in your novel. They’ll tell you.”

  “I just did. We had a brief conference during that last silent pause. And they all agreed that it’s a good title.”

  “So they’re just as whacked as you.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, don’t come crying to me if the manuscript comes back to you unread.”

  “With cheerleaders like you, Heeb, who needs book reviewers?”

  “Forget me and the book reviewers. You have a much bigger problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Getting it to her.”

  But Evan had already worked out an elegant solution to that problem. He explained to Heeb how his strategy was premised on the unfortunate fact that nothing would happen in Hollywood if it weren’t for the exploited assistant. “Shame on Hollywood for using its glamorous aura to milk starry-eyed newcomers like that!” Evan exclaimed, as if his plan were some Marxist plot to rectify the injustices of Hollywood. Deviating from his usual naysaying, Heeb had to admit that Evan’s plan just might work.

  One week later, after several rereads and polishes, Evan finalized the manuscript, and was ready to send it to Delilah Nakova. His prior research had uncovered that she was represented by the International Artists Agency, a prestigious Los Angeles talent agency also known as “IAA.” After some additional research and a few anonymous inquiries (using his best imitation of Trevor’s accent), Evan was able to determine the names and numbers of several assistants who worked with Delilah’s main agent.

  The next day, Evan called IAA at 7 p.m. Pacific Time, when he knew that most of the agents were likely to be wooing new clients over cocktails, while their assistants were still laboring away at the office. He tried several extensions until he reached Mike Yuvalov, a fresh UCLA college graduate working at IAA as an intern “assisting the assistant” of a top Hollywood agent.

  “Hi Mike. My name is Evan.”

  “What can I do for you, Evan?”

  Evan chatted him up for a while, developed some trust, made him feel important, and got him talking about life on the exciting inside track to a glamorous Hollywood career. After about ten minutes of rapport building, Evan felt comfortable discussing his proposal.

  “Mike, you seem like a nice guy. How would you like to do me a personal favor and make infinitely more money than you make now?”

  “One dollar per hour is infinitely more than I make now, so that’s not necessarily such a tempting offer.”

  “See that? You’re smart and witty and probably better at math than your boss, and yet you’re getting paid nothing. That’s just scandalous. A moral outrage!”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I’m offering to do more than tell you about it. I’ll pay you some real money if you can just help me out with something.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  “Up to two thousand dollars.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I am. But since I don’t know you that well and I have no way to verify whether you actually do this personal favor for me, I have to incentivize you properly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll give you five hundred dollars upfront. And then fifteen hundred dollars on the back-end.”

  “If you’re talking about net profits, I know they don’t exist, so I’m not into back-end compensation.”

  “You’re good, Mike. Sharp and quick-witted. I like you. This little transaction could evolve into a nice friendship between us.”

  “I somehow doubt that, since I don’t really know you.”

  “I know you don’t know me. But this phone call is changing all of that. So here’s why the back-end is legitimate in our little situation here. You see, I’ve written a novel that could be a perfect film adaptation project for Delilah Nakova. And I just need to get her the manuscript now. Which is where you come in. All you have to do for the five hundred dollars is put the manuscript which I mail to you into an IAA envelope, include whatever cover note – on IAA stationary – you think will make her read it, and then you’re done.”

  “That’s it? You’re offering me five hundred dollars to stuff an envelope and include a cover note?”

  “Yup. And that’s five hundred dollars more than your boss pays you to do the same thing every day.”

  “Sad but true.”

  “So what do you say?”

  “I say it sounds good, except for the part about me losing my job afterwards.”

  “You’re worried about losing a non-paying job?”

  “Well, I’m just weeks away from being promoted from intern to paid assistant.”

  “Fair enough. But you won’t lose anything if you don’t mention your name anywhere. Besides, if she ends up loving the manuscript and her agent gets credit for sending it to her, do you really think he’s going to fire anyone? At that point you could probably confess your crime and get a promotion for secretly trying to advance the agency’s interests.”

  “You may have a point there.”

  “Of course, I have to take the leap of faith that you won’t
just pocket the cash and use the manuscript for toilet paper. But you seem like a nice, honest guy, and my manuscript paper isn’t exactly soft, so I’m willing to take that chance.”

  “What about that back-end you mentioned?”

  “Ah. The back-end. Here’s how it works. The back-end is your little fifteen hundred-dollar bonus if Delilah likes the manuscript enough to contact me directly. So you may want to encourage her a little. You can mention that you thought this story would be perfect for her next project. And you can suggest that she get in touch with me directly. That should significantly improve your odds of getting the back-end.”

  “But how can I trust that you’ll actually pay the bonus if she does get in touch with you?”

  “That’s where a little bit of trust will have to come into play, Mike. Just like I’m going to have to trust you with that first five hundred dollars. And, you see, if she contacts me, I’ll know that my trust in you paid off. And I’ll be in such a good mood about the beauty of trust that I’ll want to send you an extra, pre-agreed thank you. Besides, I may need you for other favors in the future, so I wouldn’t want to ruin all of that beautiful trust we’d have going on, if you know what I mean.”

  And with that, Evan sold Mike on the plan. Mike would forward Evan’s novel to his agency’s top celebrity client, with an IAA note attached that would induce her read it.

  Chapter 28

  The Posse Takes on a Snobby New York Club

  The successful start to Evan’s scheme sent his confidence soaring to new heights, as if he had no scars in strange places and it hadn’t been over seven months since he last had a girlfriend. Suddenly, it seemed as if his creative ingenuity could propel him into a whole other league, which – until that phone call with Mike Yuvalov – had always seemed elusively inaccessible and otherworldly.

  The whole posse knew that Evan’s head was in a new place. Happy to have finished his novel, Evan no longer diligently collected story details on paper and was now an active participant in the gang. But his attitude towards meeting new women evolved into the aloof indifference that marked Carlos’s style. Lucky Chucky would flirt with women primarily to persuade them to meet his friends. Only on rare occasions, when a particularly stunning and charming female was involved, would he flirt on his own behalf, just to see if he still “had it.” Just as Carlos believed – as a matter of objective fact – that no woman could compare to Carolina, Evan was utterly convinced that no woman could even approach Delilah Nakova, and so he rarely bothered to take any flirtation too seriously. It was only when a posse member reminded him that he and Delilah weren’t even communicating yet, much less dating, that he sometimes mustered the motivation to get a phone number.

  The bulk of Evan’s renewed self-esteem was now spent boosting Heeb and sending women his way. In mid-February 2001, Heeb finally decided to try to seduce a woman with the goal of becoming sexually involved with her, in a real relationship or otherwise. Doctor Clayton had reassured Sammy, over a month earlier, that his penis was totally healed and that he could resume a normal sex life. But Heeb still harbored deep insecurities about his injury and wanted the scars to shrink a little more. He had also grown accustomed to “the power to reject” and the reassuring thought that he wasn’t really interested in taking anyone home with him anyway. So, on the posse’s tenth night out, when Heeb faced the prospect of rejection for the first time since the group’s formation, he was more insecure than usual. And because Evan could so easily empathize with Heeb’s situation, he made even more of an effort to encourage and reassure him.

  That night was a brutally cold one. The biting February frost made it particularly hard to motivate Carlos, Evan, and Heeb into leaving their warm apartments, but Trevor and Narc rallied the troops after Narc mentioned a swanky VIP party on Thursday night at a posh Chelsea lounge called Bungalow Eight. By 10:30 p.m., everyone but Carlos was waiting at the door to get in.

  Christophe, the doorman at the club, was a homely Parisian waif with thick glasses, a sloppy hairdo, and clashing fashion choices that seemed more contrived than creative. In his right hand, he held a clipboard containing the club guest list, which he wielded like a royal scepter. Christophe took obvious pleasure in his fleeting supremacy over the shivering patrons, many of whom were begging to be admitted more for the warm shelter than for the exclusive party inside. The list was really just a power prop because Christophe rarely consulted it and, in any case, needed no particular justification to reject anyone. He often refused individuals on a whim, just to feel better about himself and the club. He genuinely savored his own rudeness, as if it to highlight the fact that his power – embodied in the large bouncers at his command – rendered his weak physique, ugly appearance, and humorless attitude irrelevant for that precious moment that people needed his approval.

  While Trevor, Narc, and Evan were among the most attractive and well-dressed men in the crowd gathered around the velvet ropes, Christophe summarily dismissed them upon discovering that Heeb was in their group and that they were unaccompanied by women. “If you don’t have girlz weet you, don’t waste my time. Pleez. Go home,” he said in his thick French accent, eyeing Heeb with particular condescension.

  As others pushed their way in front of the posse to test their odds, Heeb was tempted to throw in the towel.

  “Louis the Sixteenth seems to have overlooked my modeling credentials,” Heeb remarked.

  “This asshole wouldn’t let himself into the club if he was trying to get in,” Evan affirmed, his breath billowing like dragon puffs in the cold.

  “Guys, you’ll never get in with me here. Why don’t you go ahead without me?”

  “No way, Sammy. You’re not getting out of this!” Evan protested.

  “Sorry I can’t party in Antarctica…I mean, it’s been ten minutes since I last felt my nose.”

  “It should be slammin inside, Heeb. Just hang tight,” Narc said.

  “Carlos’ll be here any minute,” Evan added. “We can’t just bail on him now…Just think of this as a subway dilemma.”

  “What’s that?” Trevor asked, as he rubbed his frozen hands together.

  “A subway dilemma occurs when you’ve waited ten minutes past the time you expected the subway to arrive,” Evan explained. “At that point, you already feel painfully invested in the next train, and you’re afraid that if you give up, you’ll not only lose the time you invested, but you’ll just barely miss the train, because the longer you’ve been waiting for it, the more likely it is to arrive right after you give up and leave.”

  “Subway dilemma…I like that,” Trevor said.

  “But there’s a flaw with your subway dilemma analogy,” Narc objected.

  “What’s that?”

  “Sometimes the longer you’ve been waiting, the less likely the train is to come, because the longer wait could mean the train just completely broke down and it’s gonna take hours to fix.”

  “Narc makes an excellent point,” Heeb added. “This train’s not arriving any time soon,” he said, looking around them, as if to highlight all of the glamorous club-goers standing nearby, vying for entry.

  “Hold on a sec. Carlos is calling.” Narc answered his cell phone.

  “Whassup Carlos? No, we’re still outside…Where are you? Oh, cool. We’re right in front. See if you can round up some TH.”

  “Tell him he has to bring at least five TH or we’re going home,” Heeb said insistently.

  “Heeb said you gotta bring five or we’re going home…No…It would definitely help…It looks very good inside…I don’t know…He’s definitely getting impatient…OK…Word. Hey, do you know if…”

  Narc suddenly stopped talking into his cell. He looked up at the others.

  “Damn. Chucky hung up on my ass.”

  “You know he hates talking on the cell,” Heeb reminded him. “He worries about the brain cancer risk.”

  “So what did he say?” Trevor asked. “Is he on the way?”

  “His cab’s two bloc
ks away,” Narc replied. “I don’t know how he’ll come up with five babes, but I told him to try.”

  “That’s all you had to do,” Heeb replied, looking somewhat encouraged. “Now there’s hope…Remember, this is Lucky Chucky we’re talking about.”

  And sure enough, on Tenth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street, just as Carlos was getting out of his cab he spotted a bevy of beauties getting out of the taxi right in front of him and heading towards the club, about 150 feet away. The five stunning women had each clearly calculated that they would be better off waiting two minutes in the bitter cold wearing sexy, skimpy outfits, than waiting ten minutes in the same cold wearing warmer but less revealing clothes. Their seductively rhythmic, stiletto-tipped walks were another indication that they knew the norms of New York nightlife.

  Carlos approached them from the side, as smoothly as lightly melted butter spread across a warm piece of toast. With a slight smile, a cock of his dark eyebrow, and an aplomb that suggested he was the owner of the club, he approached the apparent leader of the group, a long-legged brunette cover girl and said, “Hey there. My friends and I have a table reserved inside. You want to join us?”

  She almost replied with her canned rejection to street overtures but when she looked at the cool, dark, six-foot-one Adonis smiling mysteriously her way, she could say only, “Um…OK.” Her four friends immediately drew closer as he led them all to where Heeb and the others were standing in silent awe.

  Heeb threw an amused glance at Narc, as if to say, “What did I tell you?” Narc smiled back an acknowledgement. The posse played it cool, as if they weren’t at all flabbergasted by how easily Carlos had just produced a set of stunners out of thin air, and approached the doorman with them. The crowd by the velvet rope noticed Carlos and his five femme fatales. Even the doorman looked impressed when Carlos went up to him and said, “They’re with me.”

  Christophe tried to suppress his smile of amazement and automatically unclasped the velvet rope, as if this were a common occurrence at the snobby club. But Carlos didn’t advance and held the women back as his four buddies approached the area. “So are they,” he added. Christophe shot a glance at the men he had rejected earlier and then looked back at Carlos disapprovingly. Carlos just stared back at him nonchalantly, as if there were ten other elite parties on his list of options for the night.