"Hello, nice to see you this evening. Is our table ready?" she said with a big cheesy grin that reminded me of a billy goat in heat.
When we were seated, she told the hostess, "Please make sure we get a complimentary round of drinks. We had a long flight. I'd love something sweet."
"That's okay," I told the hostess. "Just ignore her."
"Fuck off, ho!" Shoniqua snapped at me, then looked up at the hostess and sternly commanded, "Just ignore her."
The hostess gave us an uncomfortable smile and walked off.
"Cut the shit," I said. "Why do you have to be so embarrassing?"
"Listen, bitch, they don't know who the fuck we are, let's get some free shit. I'm not a Jew like you, okay." Shoniqua thought being a Jew meant that I was born with a trust fund and received direct deposits into my account from the Bank of Abraham. I explained to her, on many occasions, that my family was the Sanford and Son of our neighborhood and the only trust fund my father had in store for me was a 1985 Yugo with a missing radiator. She chose to ignore this information and instead focus on the fact that we had a summer home.
The dinner was fantastic. I introduced her to foie gras, along with Kobe steak and yellowtail sashimi. Shoniqua was a walking oxymoron: She never bought a handbag or a pair of sunglasses that wasn't Prada, Gucci, or Chanel, but she couldn't pronounce filet mignon or, for that matter, pick it up with a pair of chopsticks. I'm not the most sophisticated girl in the world, but my brother Ray is a chef, and it didn't take me long to figure out what was worth eating and what was worth skipping for more alcohol.
Shoniqua and I always had a great time when we went out, and this night was no different. She was regaling me with a story about one of the 107 children her mother fostered when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my hot piece of Peruvian ass.
He was at the bar, leaning up against a glass partition, watching us. He was tall, with olive skin and wavy black hair. His nose was a little crooked but not enough to ruin his face.
I told Shoniqua that there was a beautiful specimen right behind her but not to look right away. "Heeeeeeeeeeeey!" she screamed in what she thought was a flirty tone and knocked on the glass like we had been dropped onto the wrong side of an aquarium. The billy goat was back.
Every person within twenty feet of our table was now staring in our direction. "Hey there!" she shouted, rapping on the glass again. I slid lower in my seat and contemplated using my dirty napkin as a burka. Shoniqua is great for introductions to new men since she is married and doesn't give a shit what anyone of the opposite sex thinks. "I got a husband," she would tell me if I ever asked her to tone it down. "I'm fucking trying to get one for your ass too." Shoniqua and her husband have the greatest relationship I know of; I can only assume it's because they don't have kids. They're constantly surprising each other with weekend get-aways and showering each other with gifts. They talk on the phone close to ten times a day. Lately I've realized I need a man just like him for myself. Except white.
Men love Shoniqua's straightforwardness and always seem to be charmed by her. She's a great partner in crime because I don't have to do much except be humiliated. We had perfected our "one-two-punch" technique on several occasions. Shoniqua would talk to my prey about religion, their homeland, and her husband who was a banker. I would jump in every once in a while to reinstate my position as his future sexual partner, commenting about how National Geographic's exposes on the wild were starting to look more and more like an episode of CSI: Miami.
"Here he comes," Shoniqua said. "Try not to fuck this up."
My Latin lover rounded the corner and took a seat next to Shoniqua. He was at least six feet tall, with dark brooding eyes and a flirty half smile. I knew for sure I had to have sex with him.
"Hello, ladies," he said in his Antonio Banderas accent.
I don't know what it is about accents that makes me want to get undressed and high-five myself. I'm helpless against any accent-except a British one. My ex-boyfriend's British accent was charming for the first two months, mostly because I couldn't understand a word he said. (It was very similar to the Crocodile Hunter guy. The first two episodes, you're thinking, This guy is great! Two more episodes and you want to dress up like an alligator and bite his hand off.) After the initial honeymoon phase wore off with my ex, I was ready to scream, "Stop talking like that, damnit. Talk like me. Just try!" Not a fair trade for someone who wasn't even circumcised. I've never understood why they don't circumcise men in European countries; most of them end up here, anyway.
My little Don Juan's accent was sexy and thick. At times, his words were barely decipherable. But this may also have been due to my failing eardrums, which were aligning with my failing liver, which was, no doubt, wondering why I had to keep torturing it. "Liver," I would say, "you only live once, or at least I do, and you should be grateful to be along for the ride."
He was visiting New York from Peru, where he worked as a mechanical engineer. That didn't interest me as much as my visions of him capturing anacondas on the Amazon, so I chose to stick with that mental picture instead.
He kept making eyes at me while Shoniqua and he were chatting, which was sweet and reassuring since we would be the ones having sex. In her characteristic and persuasive way, Shoniqua mostly dominated the conversation. She found out that this was his first trip to the States, and his name was Lupe. I had always believed that Lupe was short for Guadelupe, which is, I thought a woman's name. To avoid bringing this up in conversation, and thus postpone the moment when people would just stare at me with disappointment in their eyes, I excused myself from the table to take a breather.
I went outside to bum a cigarette. On the corner, just beyond the door, I saw another adorable face. My seven margaritas instantly took over. "Hey, you. Come over here. Will you come inside with me and pretend you're my boyfriend? There's a guy at our table who won't leave and I want him to think I'm taken," I lied. It was time to bring in reinforcements. I had to let Lupe know what a hot piece of real estate I was.
I shimmied back to the table, holding hands with my new boyfriend.
I sat down next to Lupe and made the introductions. Shoniqua glared at me and kicked me under the table with one of her massive feet. Meanwhile, I was looking back and forth between my two options, trying to figure out who was cuter. My new boyfriend didn't have an accent and looked about twenty-one. My Peruvian still had his accent and looked about thirty-five. Then the newbie mentioned being a rave promoter and the battle was over. "Are they still doing those?" I asked. I hadn't been to a rave since I was eleven, and from what I remember, staying up dropping acid until six in the morning was no walk in the park. I figured I would be better off with La Bamba.
I told the young boy to scram, as he had nobly fulfilled his commitment to me.
Lupe said he was going to the bathroom. To ensure he'd come back, I asked him if he wanted another drink. He requested a whiskey on the rocks. I've never bought into the whole soul mate thing, but after hearing this guy order the one thing I love to see a man drink, I considered getting my tarot cards read.
"Who the fuck was that other guy, you shithead?" blasted Shoniqua. "Now you're just getting cocky."
"Sorry, I'm drunk."
"Listen, I'm sitting here slaving over this fuckin' guy trying to get you some booty, and you're running around cockblocking your fuckin' self. He likes your skinny monkey ass, I don't fuckin' know why, but he does, so don't do anything stupid." I bit my tongue. Not on purpose. I actually bit my tongue.