"Wow," he said.
"Don't look, feel!" I told him, as I forced his head between the girls.
Then he moved his head down my stomach. I stretched out farther and farther and he set off for downtown.
I quickly pulled him back up. I don't like oral sex between strangers and had to redirect focus. I undid his pants, and he tried again with his head to travel in a southerly direction.
"No," I said. "Let's have sex."
I yanked Carter's pants off and he reached for one of the condoms that he had placed on the nightstand. We were rolling around a little until he put one on and headed in the direction of my vagina.
A moment went by while I waited for him to get started. Instead, he just laid on top of me in silence. Was this Carter's idea of sex?
"What's up?" I asked.
"I'm really sorry," he said. "I don't think I can get it going."
"What?" I asked.
"I did a little more than one line… but I can do other things," he said.
I wondered if by other things he meant finding me someone with a working penis.
"I feel like shit," he said.
"Ugh," I said and put my hand over my forehead. "Don't you work for the government?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, what do you guys do, just sit around and blow lines together? Is that what's taking place in our nation's capital?"
"No, no, not at all."
"This is ridiculous," I said and rolled over to cover myself with the comforter.
"Can I come to L.A. and make it up to you? This doesn't usually happen," Carter explained.
Come to L.A? I thought.
I was so irritated by the whole situation. I hadn't even wanted to go out in the first place tonight, and now look what happened. I consumed way more than my allotted fifteen-hundred-caloric intake, all in the name of sex, and now I wasn't getting any.
"I'm going to sleep," I told him.
"I'm leaving my number for you. I'd like to see you again if you're not too turned off."
"Great," I said with the same enthusiasm I reserve for Steven Seagal movies.
I woke up the next morning and found Carter's cell number scribbled on a hotel pad. I packed my things in order for our airport pickup at nine A.M. At eight, I went down to the restaurant and ordered an egg white omelet with a side of Tabasco. I needed to get serious about the couple of extra pounds I had packed on. I sat at a table by myself, reading Dear Abby. When in doubt, advice about lending out a hairbrush will always put things in perspective.
The thought occurred to me that the one-night stand was not nearly as much fun as it used to be. I felt disgusted with myself for being so disappointed in a complete stranger not being able to perform. I felt like a man must feel after using and abusing women for ages. Then I reminded myself that I had only physically hit one man, and he had seemed to enjoy it. I felt better, but was still low. What am I doing, I thought.
If I continued on this path, the only men I was going to meet were guys like me, and I definitely don't want to end up with someone like me. The idea of marriage and monogamy were concepts that didn't make me shiver like they once used to. I wanted someone like Shoniqua had, to call when I was traveling or to come back to after happy hour ended.
The thought of giving up alcohol crossed my mind too, but I was soon reminded of the promise to Ketel One, Grey Goose, and other top-shelf vodkas I had made in my early twenties. Never turn your back on someone who has asked nothing in return.
These were feelings I had felt coming on in the past couple of years that I repeatedly pushed to my subconscious for fear of my very first panic attack.
I felt like maybe it was time to grow up, and I was not happy about it.
Shoniqua, of course, came down at ten minutes past nine because she had never been on time in her life. I was already in our idling car when the driver opened the door for her. She hopped in. "What's up, ho?! How was it?"
"Don't ask."
"What? Girl, please don't tell me you managed to fuck it up. I put in a good two to three hours workin' that shit out for you. Do not tell me you somehow managed to fuck that up."
"Carter does coke and couldn't get it up."
Her mouth stayed open until I physically closed it for her.
"I think you should give him another chance," she said. "Did you give him your number?"
"He gave me his and it's still upstairs where I left it."
" Chelsea," Shoniqua said in her shame-on-you voice.
"I've decided I'm taking a break," I told her.
"A break from what?" she asked.
"Sex. I'm not having sex for a while, or at least until I meet someone I care about. I'm done."
"Well, shit, I've never heard you say that before," Shoniqua said. "You might go into fucking shock."
"It's not fun anymore, and you're right. I'm an actual grown-up and whether I like it or not, someone is going to have to marry my ass one day so I better start getting ready for him."
"Copy thatV Shoniqua said.
"Did you hear that, Ahmed?" she said to the driver, whose name she didn't know. " Chelsea 's closing up shop for the winter! Well, it's about fucking time!"
We were flying to New York City to film some more of our television show, so my father decided to pick us up from the airport and bring us home for dinner.
"I can't wait to see your hot mess of a daddy," Shoniqua said as we collected our luggage from the baggage claim.
We walked outside and I spotted my father standing halfway out of a purple two-doored Ford Escort with racing stripes. The front fender was missing, and having grown up with vehicles like this parked in our driveway for years at a time, I was able to deduce that the car was from somewhere between 1980 and 1985. We were in the year 2005.
"There's Melvin." I pointed.
"Where, where?" She looked around excitedly.
"Right there."
"Look at that piece of shit car," she said.
Melvin saw us heading in his direction, leapt out the driver's side door, and started waving.
"Do you see those fucking sausage fingers attached to his hands?" Shoniqua asked, smiling and waving back.
He came around the door so we could see his complete outfit. He had on dark sunglasses that took up half of his face and a tan cowboy hat that barely fit his head. He was wearing a huge multicolored sweater covered in grease stains that my mother had undoubtedly knit for him, over a red golf shirt whose collar was exposed. Completing his look were cargo pants held up by suspenders and Velcro high-top sneakers.
"Look at him, look at him…" Shoniqua repeated several times over. "What up Melvin?!" she screamed and ran in his direction.
"How's my black magic?" he asked her as he went in for a kiss on the lips and she turned her face in order for it to land on her cheek.
"Look at you!" she said. "This is a hot car."
"You like it?" he asked.
"Like it? It matches your sweater," she said as she hopped into the front seat. I went around my father's side, endured his kiss on the lips, climbed in the back, and wiped my mouth.
"You wouldn't believe it, but this car has a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it," my father told us.
"It looks brand new," I said.
"What's up with the fender, Melvin? What happened to that?"
"Oh, who cares? That's aesthetics. You don't need a fender for a car to work. I've had this car in the paper for three days and have already had ten calls. It's gonna go quick."
Shoniqua turned her head to make eye contact but I focused on the traffic.
"So how was the trip?" he asked. "Did you keep Chelsea out of trouble?"
"Yeah, you know me, I try and keep her ass on the straight and narrow," she told him.
"She's gotta be very careful, my daughter. Men love her. And she loves men. She's very attractive, just like her daddy."
I pressed my face up against the window in order to focus hard on something else.
"Yeah, she sure is, just like her daddy,'" Shoniqua said. She poked her finger behind his seat and into my leg. She does this all the time, and on occasion I've bruised from it.