What would I do without my girls? I don't mean the ones I adorn with lace, the ones I push-up and separate, and advertise with plunging necklines.
I mean my girls: real-live, breathing, heart-beating, sensate, female humans. The ones who love me, and whom I love - no matter what. The ones who are there for me, and I for them when men disappoint, let us down, abandon us, and worse. The ones I turn to when my own blood-family drives me to the point of insanity (except Cousin T).
The ones who exist deep within the concentric circles of the imaginary dartboard that lies over my heart. The ones who are the bulls-eye.
They range in age from early 30s to mid-40s. (There are some outliers: a 20-something, a couple of 50-somethings, and a 60-something too.) Their stories slay me, from jaw-dropping surprise, to flat-out laughter that makes me run to the bathroom, to anguish - the kind that only a sympathetic or empathetic hug can ease.
On Girls Night In, held once a month, we down a glass of wine or five, and start with a round-up of men - the subject about which we never tire.
A sampling:
The Greatest Gift. This has happened to any of us at some time in our adult lives, but most recently to me. I made him scream, the reverberations of that sound replay in my mind. (In a good way - for me.) He tasted just like Kumamoto oysters, and I like Kumamoto oysters, a lot. I thought we had just started - he had his - and then he claimed he had to leave, something about the guns in the car, parked on my street (Guns???? Well, he is a NYC detective.). And he did. Leave. I stood there, clutching my silk robe closed, my body hungering for more, stunned, mute.
His Big Dilemma. There is such a thing as too big. I call it reverse birth. No amount of personal lubricant, deep-breathing techniques, or monster hits of hydroponic weed can help the insertion of tab B into slot A. Tell a man you can't have sex with him because he is too big, and I can almost guarantee that he'll want to have sex with you - more.
Stalkers. He was French, charming, romantic, and he fell for our girl like elephant merde at Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus. He took her out for expensive dinners, held her hand, gazed into her eyes, and declared his love (immediate and insistent). He explained that he told his family - back in a town in the French countryside - that he found his true love, would marry her, and have babies. That was after one week. She was taken aback, she's not looking for a profound, life-altering baby-making relationship with anyone. She begged off. He would not take no. She told him plain: no way, get lost. Not good enough. When he jumped off an uptown bus on the Upper East Side and chased her - as she was walking home, fully iPod-ded, startling her, she had enough. She laid into him - our girl can get ferocious when cornered - but given his nonstop, albeit waning voice and text-messaging, she still watches her back. We watch too.
The Mooch. Their second date has lasted until now. That was months ago. On the second date, he moved out of his apartment and in with her. He's younger, an entrepreneur, starting his own businesses. They fell in love, she called him "the perfect man." He's not so perfect anymore. Her dry cleaning bills went from $25 a month to $325. And she paid. His cash contribution to their home amounted to dirty dishes piling up in the kitchen sink. He dresses like a prince, has to cut the right impression to launch his as yet unborn ventures. He gave her stock in the companies - worth exactly the paper upon which they are written. She wanted to have a baby, and they adopted a puppy. They don't have sex anymore. And now she has to figure out how to get him out of her house - and out of her life.
The Cheapskate Date. Put your hand in your pocket, m.f.! This fellow persisted in getting a date with our girl. He suggested Bryant Park Grill. Nice place for a first date, we said, nodding in unison, nice food. Except that when she arrived, he suggested a drink. No more. One drink. Afterward, he suggested that they take a walk around the park. Our girl was hungry. She split. We shook our heads. In unison.
New York City's Finest. Turns out that it is a girl's right of passage to date a New York City Policeman. Beat cop, desk sergeant, detective, any flavor will do. Funny thing is: for all their ardor - can you meet me for lunch? I have two hours this afternoon, can I see you? Would you mind if I stopped by your office, we can get a coffee? (and a donut?) - they never show up during "normal" dating hours, those time periods after work, the evening, and if sparks fly, into the morning. And why not? Because they are all married - or something like it. Go fellas! Preserve and protect!
By then, we're on our fourth or fifth bottle, and we laugh again and again, forehead-slapping, gasping. Some of us lift up our shirts, unhook our bras, and compare cup and nipple sizes. If we lose our senses of humor, what do we have? Each other.
OK-you are killing me AGAIN!! Here I am at the office, surrounded by people and I feel like they can see right through me. GNI for ever baby!!!!
Posted by: Anonymous L | Tuesday, January 03, 2006 at 12:33 PM