“No assholes mooching off of you, thinking you’re gonna be his sugar mama and wanting you to drop everything every afternoon for mediocre sex in his cheap West Hollywood loft.” Kat picked up the pitcher of margaritas, poured the last of it into our glasses, and then turned around in her seat and half lifted to catch Hector’s eye for more.
“No endless parade of same-faced douche canoes slutting their shitty screenplays around Hollywood pretending to be producers and writers when all they really are is bartenders and baristas and CPAs,” I said. “No lawyers and hoity-toity execs wearing overpriced suits thinking you’re looking for a Tiffany ring and a place on his shelf as a trophy wife with no career and no goals and no identity. No dead-end quasi-relationships predicated on lackluster half-drunk sex and zero emotional connection.” Suddenly, it was a flood rushing out of me, a rant, and I couldn’t stop it. “No more sitting in a booth alone for two hours waiting for him to no-show, and getting slowly wasted on hundred-dollar bottles of wine. No more thinking finally, maybe this guy is it, maybe this guy actually has a soul that goes deeper than his ball sac and a mind that can function beyond his own career. No more wondering if you’re going to wake up one day and be sixty and still pimping overpriced houses in Malibu, living alone, still trolling Tinder for the next mindless fuck at one in the morning after a night of shouted conversations in a bar full of putzy, over-cologned children.”
When my diatribe finally ran out of gas, everyone was staring at me.
“What?” I asked, stuffing a chip into my mouth.
“Tell us how you really feel, why don’t you,” Kat said.
“I just did.” I took a sip, eyeing them. “What? You’re all staring at me.”
“What brought that on?” Teddy asked.
“I dunno. You and Laurel started it, and you can’t tell me you were joking. Teddy, you came to my house after Thomas hit you. You and I watched as my former friends-with-benefits ex-policeman PI worked him over and dragged him out of your house. We got drunk on gin and Lacroix afterward and watched Practical Magic. So don’t tell me it was a joke. And you, Kat—your history of getting suckered into being a sugar mama for douchebags way too young for you simply because they have nice abs and a short refractory period is a well-known thing, and not just to me. Zoe, Autumn, neither of you are any better. We’re all hookup artists and serial daters and cougars and sugar mamas.”
Hector came by with two more pitchers and a fresh bowl of salsa and a new basket of chips, efficiently gathering our empty pitchers and plates and dirty napkins. When he was gone, I continued.
“So yeah, my little rant just now was something that’s been building up inside me for a while.” I sighed. “I’m forty and still single, never been married, never even been engaged. Shit, I’ve never been in a relationship that’s lasted more than a year and a half, and that was only because he traveled for work three weeks out of every month. It’s bugging me. I think Teddy’s question just unearthed a whole bag of shit I’ve been ignoring for a long time.”
“So…what?” Kat said. “You’re suddenly going to…what? Join Match dot-com? Troll Tinder and tell prospective dates you’re looking for something serious, not just a hookup?”
“I don’t know, Kat,” I snarked, “I’m not saying I have any answers. I’m just saying, I’m wondering the same thing as Teddy. Have any of you ever thought, even like in the back of your head at two in the morning as you fall asleep, about wanting a relationship that means something? Or…or kids?”
Teddy was shredding a paper napkin and feeding the pieces into a sweating glass of melted ice water. “I have—thought about having kids, at least. After Thomas, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to trust a man again. I thought I loved him, the fuckhead. I did things with him that I’d normally never do—”
“Like what?” Laurel asked—the perennial horndog of the group. “Do tell, darling,” she drawled in a fake-posh British accent.
Teddy blushed furiously—she was the more introverted of us, the least likely to share salacious details. “You know, just…stuff.”
“Like what?” Laurel grabbed her arm and shook her back and forth playfully. “I NEED TO KNOW YOUR KINK.”
“It’s not kink, you weird-ass woman,” Teddy half snapped, half laughed. “Until Thomas, I was a vanilla sex sort of chick. The craziest thing I ever did in bed was doggy style and the occasional cowgirl ride. Thomas was…more adventurous. He wanted…anal. And…um, other stuff.”
“Anal isn’t that weird,” Laurel said. “You just have to be smart about it. Ease into it.”
“Okay you know what, Laurel? I really don’t need or want to know about your exploits in anal sex.” Teddy shuddered. “We tried it once, just a little exploratory thing, and it was…nope. Nope nope nope, that’s output only for this chica.” She laughed. “He asked me to peg him once, and that was fun. He wanted me to suck him off, like, all the damn time. It got tiring. Like, I don’t mind doing that, truly. It’s not my favorite thing, but if it makes him happy and he’ll return the favor, hey, I’m down. Like, hey buddy, I’m not gonna gag myself on your dick—I’ll let you my fuck my face for a minute or two, but you just damn well better be ready to go downtown and eat me out afterward, or we’re gonna be saying goodbye real fast.”
There was a concentrated silence, and then we all cracked up, shrieking half-drunk laughter. Teddy was baffled.
“What?” she demanded. “What’s so funny?”
“You’re just normally so quiet and reserved about that stuff,” Kat said. “It’s amazing to hear you talk like that. I honestly had always imagined you being kind of a starfish.”
Teddy blinked, confused. “A starfish?” She tilted her head. “What the hell does that mean?”
Laurel slumped in her chair, flung her arms out, splayed her legs apart, closed her eyes and opened her mouth, and let out a monotone, robotic groan—kind of a polar opposite version of the Meg Ryan fake orgasm scene. “Oh yeah, oh yeah, right there, yeah.”
Teddy’s jaw dropped open, and then her expression contorted into a glare. “Excuse me, but that’s insulting. I happen to fantastic in bed. Just because I don’t generally want to do stupid shit like the Butter Churner and like, the Flying Dutchman with an Upside Down Half Twist or whatever the fuck doesn’t mean I don’t like sex and don’t passionately and energetically get into it.” She huffed. “I like sex. I love sex. I want lots and lots of really good sex. I just…I want it…to mean something.” She ducked her head as if preparing for a barrage of castigation from us. “I don’t mind a hookup now and then to take care of my needs, but…I want more, I guess. I do. And it’s hard, because after Thomas I’m scared of men, of relationships, of trusting like, anyone. But I want to.”
I continued munching on chips and salsa, because although I was pretty full, it was still only ten and something told me I’d need food in my belly to absorb the berserk amount of booze we were going to consume before the night was over.