‘Get the hell away from me, creep.’”
“Or maybe the vagina is saying, ‘Hurry up,’” I add.
L’il dabs at her mouth, and smiles. “That’s the problem. If you think it’s going to be terrible, it will be.”
“Why?” I dip my fork into the red curry to test it for hotness.
“Tension. If you tense up, it makes it more difficult. And painful. That’s why the woman should always have an orgasm first,” L’il says nonchalantly.
Miranda finishes her beer and immediately orders another. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you tell if you’ve even had this supposed orgasm?”
L’il laughs.
“Yeah.” I gulp. “How?”
L’il slides back in her chair and puts on a teacherly face. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not,” I say, looking at Miranda. Her face is closed, as if she doesn’t want to hear this.
“You have to know your own body,” L’il says cryptically.
“Meaning?”
“Masturbation.”
“Eeeeewwww.” Miranda puts her hands over ears.
“Masturbation is not a dirty word,” L’il scolds. “It’s part of a healthy sexuality.”
“And I suppose your mother told you this, too?” Miranda demands.
L’il shrugs. “My mother’s a nurse. She doesn’t believe in mincing words when it comes to health. She says healthy sex is simply a part of a healthy life.”
“Well.” I’m impressed.
“And she did all that consciousness-raising stuff,” L’il continues. “In the early seventies. When the women sit around in a circle with mirrors-”
“Aha.” This, I suppose, explains everything.
“She’s a lesbian now,” L’il says casually.
Miranda’s mouth opens as if she’s about to speak, but suddenly thinks better of it. For once, she has nothing to say.
After dinner, L’il begs off the party, claiming a headache. Miranda doesn’t want to go either, but I point out if she goes home, she’ll look like she’s sulking.
The party is on Broadway and Seventeenth Street in a building that was once a bank. A security guard tells us to take the elevator to the fourth floor. I figure this must be a big party if the guard is letting people in so easily.
The elevator opens into a white space with crazy art on the walls. As we’re taking it in, a small, rotund man with hair the color of butter bustles over, beaming.
“I’m Bobby,” he says, extending his hand to me.
“Carrie Bradshaw. And Miranda Hobbes.” Miranda gives Bobby a stiff smile while Bobby squints, summing us up.
“Carrie Bradshaw,” he says, like he’s delighted to meet me. “And what do you do?”
“Why is that always the first question out of everyone’s mouth?” Miranda mutters.
I glance at her so she knows I agree, and say boldly, “I’m a playwright.”
“A playwright!” Bobby exclaims. “That’s good. I love writers. Everyone loves writers. I used to be a writer before I became an artist.”
“You’re an artist?” Miranda asks, as if this can’t possibly be true.
Bobby ignores her. “You must tell me the names of your plays. Perhaps I’ve seen one-”
“I doubt it,” I falter, never expecting he’d assume I’d actually written a play. But now that I’ve said it, I can’t take it back.
“Because she hasn’t written any,” Miranda blurts out.
“Actually”-I give her a steely look-“I’m in the middle of writing one right now.”
“Wonderful,” Bobby cheers. “And when it’s finished, we can stage it here.”
“Really?” This Bobby must be some kind of crazy.
“Of course,” he says with a swagger, leading us farther into the room. “I’m doing all kinds of experimental productions. This is a nexus-a nexus,” he repeats, savoring the word, “of art, fashion, and photography. I haven’t done a play yet, but it seems exactly the right sort of thing. And we can get all kinds of people to come.”
Before I can begin to process the idea, Bobby is pawing his way through the crowd, with Miranda and me on his heels. “Do you know Jinx? The fashion designer? We’re showing her new collection this evening. You’ll love her,” he insists, depositing us in front of a scary-looking woman with long, blue-black hair, about a hundred coats of eyeliner, and black lipstick. She’s leaning over to light a joint when Bobby interrupts.
“Jinx, darling,” he says, which is extremely ironic, as it’s clear Jinx is nobody’s darling. “This is”-he searches for my name-“Carrie. And her friend,” he adds, indicating Miranda.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I can’t wait to see your fashion show.”
“Me too,” she responds, inhaling the smoke and holding it in her lungs. “If those friggin’ models don’t get here soon-I hate friggin’ models, don’t you?” Jinx holds up her left hand, displaying a contraption of metal through which each finger is inserted. “Brass knuckles,” she says. “Don’t even think about messing with me.”
“I won’t.” I look around, desperate to escape, and spot Capote Duncan in the corner.
“We have to go,” I say, nudging Miranda. “I just saw a friend of mine-”
“What friend?” Miranda asks. God, she really is bad at parties. No wonder she didn’t want to come.
“Someone I’m very happy to see right now.” Which is patently untrue. But as Capote Duncan is the only person I know at this party, I’ll take him.
And as we push through the crowd, I wonder if living in New York makes people crazy, or if they’re crazy to begin with and New York attracts them like flies.
Capote is leaning against an air conditioner talking to a medium-tall girl with one of those noses that turns up like a little snout. She has masses of blond hair and brown eyes, which gives her an interesting look, and since she’s with Capote, I assume she’s one of the errant models Jinx was referring to.
“I’ll give you a reading list,” Capote is saying. “Hemingway. Fitzgerald. And Balzac.” I immediately want to puke. Capote is always talking about Balzac, which reminds me of why I can’t stand him. He’s so pretentious.
“Hel
Capote’s head jerks around as if he’s anticipating someone special. When he sees me, his face falls. He appears to undergo a brief, internal struggle, as if he’d like to ignore me, but his Southern manners won’t let him. Eventually, he manages to summon a smile.
“Carrie Bradshaw,” he says, in a slow drawl. “I didn’t know you were coming to this.”
“Why would you? Ryan invited me.”
At the name “Ryan,” the modely girl pricks up her ears. Capote sighs. “This is Becky. Ryan’s fiancee.”
“Ryan’s told me so much about you,” I say, extending my hand. She takes it limply. Then her face screws up like she’s about to cry, and she runs off.
Capote looks at me accusingly. “Nice job.”
“What’d I do?”
“She just told me she’s planning to dump Ryan.”
“That so?” I snicker. “And here I thought you were trying to improve her brain. The reading list?” I point out.
Capote’s face tightens. “That wasn’t smart, Carrie,” he says, pushing past us to follow Becky.
“It’s all about being smart with you, isn’t it?” I shout after him.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Miranda calls out sarcastically.
Unfortunately, the Capote exchange has pushed Miranda over the edge, and she insists on going home. Given Capote’s rudeness, I don’t really want to stay at the party alone, either.
I’m bummed we didn’t get to see the fashion show. On the other hand, I’m glad I met that Bobby character. During the walk home under the salty yellow lights, I keep talking about my play and how it would be so cool to have it performed in Bobby’s space, until Miranda finally turns to me and says, “Will you just write the damn thing?”
“Will you come to the reading?”
