Peter turned to the waiter. "Bring an extra fork."
"One cheesecake," the waiter said, and left to get the order.
My mouth watered in anticipation. Or should I say salivated.
After dinner, we walked through Times Square. Peter held my hand as we snaked through the hordes of Saturday night partiers and started to laugh.
"Why are you laughing?"
"I'm just remembering the look on your face opening night, when Kelly grabbed the script out of your hand. I thought you were going to faint right on stage."
"And that amuses you?"
"But you know what? You were good. That was good acting."
"But is it acting," I asked him, "when you're just saying what you feel?"
"Saying what you feel. One of the hardest things to do."
"I feel..." I paused. Hesitated. Forged ahead. "... like inviting you over to my place."
He looked at me with surprise. "Well," he teased, "it would save me the cab fare home."
"Then I insist." As we made our way down the avenue to my apartment, I wondered if he could tell I had the jitters, like an actress on opening night.
I suppose I could end this right here. This would be a perfectly good place to end. But the thing is, I know that I haven't completely said everything I need to say. So even though I really want to, I'm going to make myself continue.
When we got to my apartment, he walked me up the stairs and started to kiss me before we even got in the front door.
I know there isn't really any need to go into this. But it's important. Not to the world in general, but having to do with my struggle to become a full-fledged sexual person.
No kiss, not before then or since then, has affected me quite the way that one did.
If I try to describe it, I'm afraid it will just sound like stupid pornography.
Actually, we should all be so lucky.
I just don't want to think about it. The details of what his kiss did to my body. Like it made my—I hate this word—cunt. I would never use that word but there it is. His kiss made it open up like one of those, what do you call them, those things in the ocean, those plants that eat fish that open up and nab a fish as it's going by? This is an inane metaphor, I know, and I am completely incapable of describing this, but it was really like I opened up and wanted to take him inside me.
And he had me against the door, and he rubbed against me, and I felt his, you know, thing, okay "penis" big and hard against me, and it was HIM! After all this time, it was HIM and ME doing this! And he had me against the door, and his hands cupping my butt... bottom... ass... whatever... and he was pressing me up and into him, his lips all warm and soft.
This is horrible. Now I'm sounding like a Harlequin Romance.
I actually read a Harlequin Romance once and it wasn't that bad.
Well, it was pretty bad. But I read it.
In any case, I wish I could say we became mad, passionate lovers and had incredibly hot sex without using birth control in every position imaginable over and over again until we were utterly exhausted. But it wasn't like that.
I opened the door with shaking hands. Shaking all over, my body literally shaking. And we immediately made our way to the bed. And one by one, every piece of our respective pieces of clothing were removed.
And I think I have to stop now. I probably should've ended this before, because now I don't want to go on, but this would not make a very good ending right here.
I think I need to go get a cup of tea.
Okay, I'm back. I made some tea, and I inhaled about twenty honey roasted peanuts while I waited for the water to boil.
So anyway. This is the thing. The final embarrassing thing.
While we made love, I thought about Peter and me on a bed—center stage—making love. Having quite passionate, noisy bump and grind sex. And the audience? Sold out. Completely full. Eyes riveted on us. And the best part? They were all paying audience. No comps, no friends, no relatives, not even Kelly or Diana. Just total strangers. And they weren't laughing at me or thinking I looked ridiculous or taunting me or even encouraging me for being carnal. They were totally silent and transfixed and turned on by my incredible performance.
And it was that night that I had, in the presence of another person, an orgasm. Another word I hate, by the way. The way it rhymes with spasm makes me think of epileptic fits. I know, so what, big deal. Nothing to write home about, not that anyone would write home about such a thing. And it wasn't even a very strong orgasm. Just a modest one. But I did have it. And that was a beginning.
~~~
About the Author
STEPHANIE LEHMANN received her B.A. at U.C. Berkeley and M.A. in English from New York University. She has taught novel writing at Mediabistro and Salon.com, where her essays have been published. She lives in New York City. Her most recent novel Astor Place Vintage was published by Simon & Schuster in 2013.
Thoughts While Having Sex Page 20
