“Oh poor you,” Melissa giggles. “I’m sure it was just terrible.”
Melissa works at the Museum of Sex, where she curates vibrators through the ages all day long, and is writing her master’s thesis on the history of Victorian corsets. We all met at the Alibi one gin-soaked night last year, and have been friends ever since.
“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it,” Della says with a wink. “Speaking of which,” she goes on, turning her head to look at me, “you’re not really serious about this strike? Celibacy is no joke, you know. Your vagina could dry up from lack of use!”
“Della!” Melissa shouts, dissolving into a puddle of giggles. “That is so, so not true.”
“It is true,” Della snaps, stretching an arm over her left leg. “I heard it on NPR.”
“Guys,” I interrupt, “whether my vagina dries up is not the point.”
Melissa stretches one blue spandex clad leg up into the air. “So what is the point?”
“Yeah, Lizzie, what’s the point?” Della parrots as she jumps to her feet, bending over and staring at me from between her legs.
I sigh. “The point, I guess, is I want something real. A guy who cares. I mean, they think that they don’t have to do anything to get laid because we’ve let them get away with it for years! Whatever happened to actual dating? You know, candlelit dinners, flowers, a guy leaving a container of chicken soup in front of your apartment door when you’re sick?”
“Does that ever actually happen?” Melissa whispers to Della. “I thought the chicken soup thing was just an urban legend!”
“The point is,” I say more forcefully, “that they need to shape up before we give it up, you know? And if we make them wait long enough, maybe they’ll change their ways—for good.”
“But in the meantime,” Della interjects, “aren’t you going to be horny as hell?”
“How is that any different from my normal state?” I laugh. “I mean, it’s not like I’m giving up a bunch of hot sex every night for this strike—I’m not getting laid anyway!”
“She does have a point,” Melissa notes.
“I guess so,” Della says grudgingly. “But it still sounds like no fun to me.”
“Unlike this?” I point at the climbers on the wall in front of us, dangling from the wall like spiders, and Della gives me a wicked smile.
“Come on, ladies,” she says, as she pulls us to our feet. “Let’s hang.”
One hour—and a whole heap of bodily humiliation later—I’m coated with sweat, and sore in places I didn’t even know I had. We head next door to one of the trendy wine bars that have popped up all over the neighborhood: the kind with fifteen-dollar pancakes and all the mimosas you can drink.
“God, I love brunch,” I declare, sinking onto a bar stool. There’s a wait for tables, but that never stopped us before. “Whoever invented it deserves a medal. ‘Sure, let’s make dessert a real meal, and throw in champagne to boot.’ ”
“Amen,” Melissa agrees, raising her glass.
I’m just taking the first sip of my drink when I spy a familiar face across the room—Jake Weston, in the flesh, and dressed, predictably, in a suit even though it’s a Saturday. Does this guy not own a pair of jeans? Or a pair of kicks, for that matter? His black ankle boots are so highly polished you could probably check your make up in them.
Just as I’m turning away, hoping he hasn’t seen me yet, his eyes lock on mine, and he raises his glass at me.
Great. Just what I need today—eggs with a side of sarcasm.
He’s standing with a couple of guys who look about the same age as him—mid-thirties—one with brown hair and a shy smile, and the other with “alpha male” written all over him. Great. Before I know it, they’re walking over, Bloody Marys in hand. Well, his friends are walking. Jake is practically sauntering, taking time to flash that million-dollar smile at every hot woman who crosses his path.
Quelle rat.
“Are you stalking me now?” I ask, when he finally reaches me.
“Now, that’s no way to greet your beloved boss.”
“Co-worker,” I correct him.
“You say potato.” He shrugs. “This is Miles,” he nods to his shy-looking friend, “and my cousin, Nate.”
“Hi, I’m Lizzie.”
“Great to meet you!” Miles beams, and shakes my hand enthusiastically. “You work at the Met? That must be fascinating.”
I blink. A friend of Jake’s, with manners and enthusiasm? “Yes.” I warm to him immediately. “It’s great.”
“I majored in art history,” he says, still smiling. “At least, until my dad threatened to pull my trust fund. Then I switched to business, but it wasn’t nearly so fun.”
Suddenly, another woman comes hurrying over. She’s got strawberry-blonde hair, and is wearing jeans and a Doctor Who T-shirt. “Hey babe,” she grins, and I tense. This doesn’t look like Jake’s kind of woman, but then she reaches past him and slides an arm around Nate’s waist. I relax. “Did you order me waffles?” she asks, then catches sight of me. “Oh my god, it’s YOU!”
“Ummm . . .” I stare back blankly.
“From the video! Wait, you guys know each other?” She looks to Jake, then snorts with laugher. “Oh, yeah, that totally makes sense. Jake would make anyone swear off men. No offense.”
“None taken.” Jake rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He reaches over to take my mimosa. But this time, I’m prepared for his tricks. I snatch it out of reach and take a gulp.
“So how’s it going?” the woman asks, wide-eyed. “I’m Julia, by the way, big fan!”
“Nice to meet you, Julia. But since when did my sex life become a topic of national discussion?”
“Since you have more views than Beyonce,” Julia says. “And I’m an author. Everything’s material. Sorry.”
“It’s not going to last, you know. The strike, ” Jake announces.
“Wanna bet?” I say, draining my glass. I’m getting the feeling I’m going to need liquid courage for this conversation.
“Admit it, you need us.” Jake gives a cocky grin.
I snort. “Sure, because your track record in this department is golden. Women don’t need a dick to get off,” I add, enjoying his discomfort. “Toys do a much better job anyway. It’s scientifically proven.”
“Is it?” Miles laughs. “Maybe I should go buy some for Tatiana when we’re done here.”
“Miles and Tatiana just had a baby girl six weeks ago,” Jake explains in a low, conspiratorial voice, “so he’s desperate to get laid again.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say desperate,” Miles sighs, setting his glass down on the bar.
“I would.” Jake looks at me and smiles, and despite how much he annoys me, I feel it all the way to my stomach. And maybe lower, too. “I mean, having to look at scantily clad women all day while you’re stuck in sexual purgatory?”
I must look confused because Miles explains, “I run Dapper,” he says, naming a mega-successful men’s magazine. “I’m working on revamping the website right now.”