“So after a day arranging a photo shoot with Charlize Theron, he goes home to his hot Brazilian ex-swimsuit model wife, and . . . nothing,” Jake laughs.
“I’m sorry, Miles,” I say sweetly, “that sounds like absolute torture. How you manage to survive each day with a successful magazine, a beautiful wife, and a new baby girl is beyond me.”
Julia snorts with laughter again. “I like her,” she says to no-one. “Can we keep her?”
“But you,” Jake says, pointing a finger at me. “You, on the other hand, you’re doing this sex strike of your own free will! Miles, here, doesn’t have a choice. I’m telling you, it’s not going to last. A few weeks, tops. Unless you’re having issues with your libido,” he adds, fake sympathetic. “Is that what this is about?”
“My libido is just fine,” I say coolly. “I told you, a toy is just as good—if not better than any dick in town. Particularly in this town, I might add.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right dick,” Jake says flirtatiously. Oh brother.
“You’re right, I haven’t,” I shoot back with a smile. “And the tongue round here isn’t great either. No stamina, if you know what I mean.”
Julia looks interested. “Am I missing something here?”
Jake chokes on his drink. “No, nothing.” He gives me a warning look.
I laugh. At least our NYE misadventures give me a trump card to play, but I think I’ll save it for another day. “It’s a long story. Another time.”
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn. It’s our hostess, a cute woman in her twenties with curly dark hair. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” she says, eyes wide, “You’re the one going on strike, right?”
I cringe. Is there no escape?
“She’s the one,” Jake announces loudly, and I shoot daggers at him. But instead of more gossip and laughter, the hostess claps her hands together.
“Oh my god, you’re like, an inspiration! I agree with everything you said. I’ve decided to do it too,” she says proudly. “I’m going to teach my asshole boyfriend a lesson!”
“Uh, good luck.” I’m shocked. Someone actually agrees with me?
“You too!” She squeezes my arm and then says, “I’ll show you to your table whenever you’re ready.”
I gesture for Della and Mel, and they follow the hostess over.
“Nice meeting you,” I tell Julia and Nate. “And you better watch out,” I tell Jake, who’s watching with a surprised look. “Looks like the strike is really taking off. Who knows? Maybe I’ll amass an army of sex strikers!”
Jake regains his composure. “I wouldn’t bet on it. So you’ve got some press.” He shrugs. “It’ll die down in about a week or so—if that. It’s not like people have much of an attention span these days, you know.”
Ugh, he’s so smug! But I have to admit, part of me wants to agree with him so this can all be over. But there’s no mistaking the fact that part of me also likes the fact that the strike—and everything it represents—seems to have struck a chord.
If the price for educating the men of NYC happens to be my dignity, then what the hell, maybe it’s a price worth paying!
10
Lizzie
All it takes is a couple of weeks—and one viral video—and my life is suddenly way out of control. The strike has taken on a life of its own, spawning think pieces on websites like Jezebel and The Huffington Post, segments on Good Morning America and The View, and has inspired so many blog posts that I can’t even keep track of them. Not that I have to worry about it, though, since Skye’s been spending her free time organizing all the press in a file on my laptop—in spite of the fact that she doesn’t really get what all the fuss is about in the first place.
“I mean, this is just the way things are,” she says while dragging blog posts to separate folders on my computer. “So guys are selfish and lazy. It’s part of dating in the twenty-first century! And, really, it’s always kind of been this way, hasn’t it? I mean, as long as I can remember, anyway.”
I laugh. “That’s because you’re a fetus. But since you’re asking, then no. No it hasn’t. There is a world that existed before apps and booty calls took over, you know. It’s called dating. And it’s a grown-ups-only zone.”
She waves her hand like she’s shooing away a fly. “But that’s so old-fashioned. I mean, who has time for that kind of stuff anymore? It’s just not the way we live!”
“Well, isn’t that the problem?” I muse, gaining confidence now. “I mean, we order up dates now the way we order in Chinese food, for fuck’s sake!”
“But what’s wrong with that?” She looks genuinely confused.
“Oh my god, Skye!” I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Everything! It’s the death knell of romance! It means we’d rather choose convenience over real human connection! Over real feelings!”
“But it doesn’t have to,” she pouts, closing the laptop and sitting back in my desk chair. “Look at Spencer and me—we met in person, not on an app—and he can be very romantic, I’ll have you know. He hardly ever makes me sleep in the wet spot. And just the other night, for instance, when I wasn’t feeling well, he researched Zika on the internet for two hours to make sure I didn’t have it. I guess he’s kind of a germaphobe, but still—he cared enough to check!”
“Skye,” I say firmly, leaning forward and enunciating every word. “That’s. Not. Romance. It’s hypochondria! They’re not really the same thing.”
“So what’s the difference?”
Just then the door opens and my boss, Morgan, comes stampeding in, her armful of bracelets and tangle of necklaces jangling noisily. Morgan likes to really pile it on before a workday. The good news about this is that as a result, she’s kind of like a cat with a bell—I can usually hear her coming from a mile away before I ever catch sight of her. Which generally gives me time to hide.
Except today, I’m not so lucky.
She looks at me expectantly, opening her lips in a wide smile. In fact, she’s practically beaming.
Uh-oh.
This can’t be good. Morgan’s everyday mode of communication with me usually consists entirely of displeased scowls or impatient sighs.
“Lizzie,” she says in a cloyingly sweet voice. “Why there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere!”
Everywhere except my office—where I spend the majority of my workday.
“I was hoping to have a few words with you—in private,” she half-whispers, shooting Skye a look that could freeze a lava flow in its tracks.
Skye may be naive but she can definitely take a hint. Without another word she exits. The minute she’s gone, Morgan sits down in my chair and leans forward with a furtive expression on her face, which doesn’t really move anymore. I swear, this woman’s had so much Botox and filler that her face is practically a landfill.
“Lizzie . . .” she starts, looking down at the desk as if she’s studying it. “I was hoping to get your advice on a delicate matter.”