I know, I’m rambling, but it’s just hard, that’s all . . . I want love. I want fireworks, and chemistry, and romance that makes my stomach dance with butterflies. And yes, I realize that sounds na?ve, and I’m supposed to be a modern independent woman who fucks and forgets as good as the next guy, but what can I say? Those afternoons in front of TCM screwed me up, and good. But c’mon, Jess, surely it’s not asking too much to find a man who puts five seconds of thought into showing me a good time? Who finds a moment to plan an amazing date, just to make me smile? Or who cares enough to find out what I like instead of just going through the motions, or even worse, barely looks up from his X-box when I walk in the room? I’m not asking him to fish a damn necklace out of the wreck of the Titanic! Or write me a letter every day for a year! Just don’t assume you get a prize just for showing up and breathing in and out, and that the prize is going to be my pussy!
You know what? That’s the problem. Men are so used to getting laid at the drop of a fucking hat, they don’t even have to pretend to care, let alone actually do it! This entire city is a damn buffet table full of naked women, and if I don’t spread my legs by the third freaking date, then they just move right along to the next chick, no problem. I like sex! I fucking love fucking! But it’s like the minute a dude comes, the part of his brain that pays me actual attention switches off. Boom! I should just stop having sex, full stop, and see how they like it then.
You know . . . maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Like, a strike. Downing tools until management meets our demands! Hell, every woman should take a time out and close for business until men start showing us some damn romance and consideration. Ha! I bet they’d find a way to pay attention then. Fuck, even Colin would upgrade from his two-for-one wing deal at Sal’s Brewhouse if he couldn’t get laid. Yeah, that’d teach them. No sex until we get a little romance in our lives. Some courtship. You know, in the seventeenth century, Welsh men would spend months carving intricate wooden spoons as a symbol of affection for the girl they were courting. I’m not even asking for some damn whittling, so would a nice candlelit dinner for two be asking too much? I want to be wooed, dammit. Show me the woo!
That’s it. It’s decided. All of this is off the market until the men of New York get their woo into action. Let’s see if they can think with their hearts instead of their dicks, for once in the history of the known universe.
OK, I better go. Love you babes! Mwah!
8
Lizzie
The next morning, I feel like a woman reborn. There’s nothing like an epic rant to your sister to help get everything off your chest. All the frustration I’ve been bottling up is finally out of my system, and I feel a million times lighter. Plus, it’s a gorgeous spring day in New York: the cherry blossom is on the trees, my subway train arrives on time, and there’s zero line at the Starbucks on the corner, so I actually bounce into work on time (gasp) and fully caffeinated (double gasp). Today is going to be a good day.
I stride through the lobby and head downstairs. “Hey Shauna!” I call to a co-worker, but she’s whispering furiously with a group from the Decorative Arts department and only looks up long enough to giggle and smirk as I pass.
Weird.
I keep walking, making a detour for the break room. OK, so I’ve had my first coffee fix, but it’s Friday, and that means doughnut day. And I deserve some rainbow sprinkles in my life right now.
When I walk in the room, the first thing I see is crowd of people talking noisily, gathered around a table, all of them hunched over someone’s phone. Thank heavens for YouTube videos of a cat playing a piano, because for once, the doughnut box is undefended.
“Come to me, Boston cream!” I coo happily, making a beeline for the best of the bunch. But as soon they notice me, the conversation stops. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, and then the whispering starts again.
I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but suddenly they all grab their stuff, talking loudly about work. A guy from the Egyptian collection shoves his phone back into his pocket, an embarrassed grin on his face, and everyone bustles out of the room without making eye contact with me at all.
Umm, what?
Am I wearing my shirt inside out, or do I have my skirt tucked in my underwear? I quickly check my reflection in the glass, but there’s no camel-toe to be seen. I feel a shiver of unease. Maybe Morgan’s on the warpath, and decided to cut jobs from our department. But no, that wouldn’t explain the weird smirks. And the phone.
Huh. I grab a couple of doughnuts and head down to my office, but I’m on edge now. I’ve just thrown my coat over the back of my chair and settled down to work when Skye walks in, without knocking, of course. Her normally silk-smooth hair looks like she’s gotten caught in a wind tunnel, and she’s out of breath.
“Busy morning?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you’re trying that spinning class again? I thought you quit after you fucked the instructor while riding the stationary bike—which,” I add, “I still think defies the laws of physics. Or decency. One or the other.”
Skye looks at me, and her mouth drops open.
“Oh . . . my . . . god,” she says slowly. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
She hurries over and starts messing with her phone before placing it on my desk, and all I can see is some video loading.
Perfect. The cat video has gone viral.
“Look, I love whiskers just as much as the next girl, but I have a lot to do this morning so I would appreciate it if you’d just—”
“Just watch!” Skye insists.
The video starts. It’s someone's living room: posters on the wall, and a cream-colored couch. “I have that throw!” I note. “It’s super-warm, and—”
“Is this thing working?” A familiar voice comes, and my blood turns to ice, because I know that voice. I know that living room.
“No. No, no, no, no . . .” I gape at the screen, just as someone sits in front of the camera.
And by someone, I mean me.
“OK.” I see myself on screen, still dressed up in that red dress from my aborted date with Colin, my mascara flaking and my hair pushed back. “Hey, it’s me.” I give a wave at the camera. To Jess! This was a video for Jess! What the fuck? “I know you’re probably off snuggling with your dear husband,” I continue, totally oblivious that this video is somehow now PLAYING ON MOTHER-FREAKING YOUTUBE. “But some of us are still in the trenches trying not to drink ourselves into oblivion just to make it through the night.”
“Turn it off!” I cry, lunging for her phone. “Turn it off now!”
Skye hits pause. “Sorry.” She makes a face. “I, umm, thought maybe you knew? And it was like a weird performance art thing? My friend Kayla is in this improv troupe, and they do shit like this all the time, but then you’ve never been someone who likes the camera, so I didn’t know if I should call you right away. And it’s getting all those hits, and your views are through the roof, and . . .”
I close my eyes, willing her to just disappear—and the video right along with it. But Skye keeps chattering, and that image of me frozen on the screen doesn’t melt into oblivion.
What the fuck have I done?
The video is out there. In the ether, or the cloud, or wherever it is that abject humiliation and cat videos are stored. Instead of sending the video to Jess the way I’d meant to, I must’ve hit the wrong thing and uploaded it instead.
I put my pounding head in my hands, willing a hole to open up directly under my desk so I can crawl in and hibernate until this all blows over.