Summer and the City

have some big romance with this guy she just met, and I’ll never see her again either.

“I hardly know him,” she giggles, “but so what? If it’s right, it’s right, don’t you think?”

“I guess so,” I say grudgingly.

“Can you believe it? Me? Having nonstop sex? Especially after all those things I told you. And now that I’ve finally had good sex, I’m thinking it might give me a new perspective on life. Like all men aren’t necessarily horrible after all.”

“That’s great,” I say weakly, feeling sorry for myself.

And then it happens. My eyes well up with tears.

I quickly brush them away, but Miranda catches me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you crying?” Her face screws up with worry. “You’re not mad because I have a boyfriend now, are you?”

I shake my head.

“Carrie. I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong,” she says gently.

I spill the whole story, starting with the disastrous dinner with Bernard and how Maggie insisted we go to a party and how she ended up with Ryan and how Bernard hasn’t called me and now it’s probably over. “How did this happen to me?” I wail. “I should have slept with Bernard when I had the chance. Now it will never happen. I’ll be a virgin for the rest of my life. Even L’il isn’t a virgin. And my friend Maggie is sleeping with three guys. At once! What’s wrong with me?”

Miranda puts her arms around my shoulders. “Poor baby,” she says soothingly. “You’re having a bad day.”

“Bad day? More like bad week,” I sniffle. But I’m grateful for her kindness. Miranda is usually so prickly. I can’t help but wonder if maybe she’s right and two days of great sex have awakened her maternal instinct.

“Not everyone is the same,” she says firmly. “People develop at different times.”

“But I don’t want to be the last.”

“Lots of famous people are late bloomers. My father says it’s an advantage to be a late bloomer. Because when good things start happening, you’re ready for it.”

“Like you were finally ready for Marty?”

“I guess so.” She nods. “I liked it, Carrie. Oh my God. I really liked it.” She covers her mouth in horror. “If I like sex, do you think it means I can’t be a feminist?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Because being a feminist-I think it means being in charge of your sexuality. You decide who you want to have sex with. It means not trading your sexuality for… other things.”

“Like marrying some gross guy who you’re not in love with just so you can have a nice house with a picket fence.”

“Or marrying a rich old geezer. Or a guy who expects you to cook him dinner every night and take care of the children,” I say, thinking of Samantha.

“Or a guy who makes you have sex with him whenever he wants, even if you don’t,” Miranda concludes.

We look at each other in triumph, as if we’ve finally solved one of the world’s great problems.

Chapter Nineteen

At about seven, when Miranda and I have taken a few swigs from the bottle of vodka and have proceeded to interpretive-dance our way through Blondie, the Ramones, The Police, and Elvis Costello, Maggie arrives.

“Magwitch!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around her, determined to forgive and forget.

She takes in Miranda, who has picked up a candle and is singing into it like it’s a microphone. “Who is that?”

“Miranda!” I shout. “This is my friend Maggie. My best friend from high school.”

“Hi.” Miranda waves the candle at her.

Maggie spots the vodka, storms toward it, and proceeds to pour half the bottle down her throat. “Don’t worry,” she snaps, catching my expression. “I can buy more. I’m eighteen, remember?”

“So?” I say, wondering what this has to do with anything. She glares at Miranda and drops onto the futon.

“Ryan stood me up,” she snarls.

“Huh?” I’m puzzled. “Haven’t you been with him for the last twenty-four hours?”

“Yes. But the minute I let him out of my sight, he disappeared.”

I can’t help it. I start laughing.

“It isn’t funny. We were at some coffee shop getting breakfast at six in the evening. I went into the bathroom, and when I came out, he was gone.”

“He ran away?”

“Sure sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, Mags.” I’m trying to be sympathetic. But I can’t quite get there. It’s all too ridiculous. And not terribly surprising.

“Could you turn that thing off?” Maggie shouts at Miranda. “It’s hurting my ears.”

“Sorry,” I say, to both Maggie and Miranda, as I scurry across the room to lower the volume on the stereo.

“What’s her problem?” Miranda asks. She sounds put out, which I know she doesn’t intend. She’s just a bit soused.

“Ryan ran out of the coffee shop while she was in the bathroom.”

“Ah,” Miranda says with a smile.

“Mags?” I ask, making a cautious approach. “There’s nothing Miranda likes more than guy troubles. Mostly because she hates all men.” I hope this introduction will make Maggie and Miranda appreciate each other. After all, guy troubles, along with clothing and body parts, are a major source of bonding among women.

But Maggie isn’t having it. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a dick?” she demands.

This isn’t fair. “I thought I did. You knew he was engaged.”

“You’re dating a guy who’s engaged?” Miranda asks, not liking the sound of this.

“He isn’t really engaged. He says he’s engaged. She made him get engaged so she could string him along.” Maggie takes another swig of vodka. “That’s what I think, anyway.”

“It’s a good thing he left,” I say. “Now at least you know his true nature.”

“Here, here,” Miranda adds.

“Hey. Miranda just got a new boyfriend,” I tell Maggie.

“Lucky you.” Maggie scowls, unimpressed.

“Maggie has two boyfriends,” I say to Miranda, as if this is something to be admired.

“That’s something I’ve never understood. How do you handle it? I mean, they’re always saying you should date two or three guys at once, but I’ve never seen the point,” Miranda says.

“It’s fun,” Maggie retorts.

“But it goes both ways, right?” Miranda counters. “We hate guys who date more than one woman at a time. I’ve always believed that what’s unacceptable in one sex should, by definition, be unacceptable in the other.”

“Excuse me.” Maggie sounds a warning note. “I hope you’re not calling me a slut.”

“Of course not!” I jump in. “Miranda’s only talking about feminism.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any problem with women having sex with as many men as they want,” Maggie says pointedly. “To me, that’s feminism.”

“You can do anything you want, sweetie,” I reassure her. “No one’s judging you.”

“All I’m saying is that men and women are the same. They should be held to the same standards,” Miranda insists.

“I totally disagree. Men and women are completely different,” Maggie replies obstinately.

“I kind of hate when people say men and women are different,” I interject. “It sounds like an excuse. Like when people say, ‘Boys will be boys.’ It makes me want to scream.”