Anatomy of a Single Girl (19 page)

I know this isn’t me, and I can’t keep doing this forever, but as long as I’m here …

I smile at Guy. “Well, I suppose we should check you out to see if everything’s okay.”

I sit on his lap and unzip his fly.

“Dom, you’re
positive
you want this?”

“Yes. Tonight, we’re
not
friends.”

We do it twice. Technically it’s good, but make-up sex or not, this morning’s reality check makes everything feel off.
In an effort to keep things more strictly sexual than before, I’m constantly thinking to myself how Guy’s not so much a boyfriend as an activity partner or a “fuck buddy.” I never lean over to kiss him like I normally would. I even throw my head back so I don’t have to look at him, abandoning all thought of anything but me. I had assumed before that I could never touch myself in front of anyone else, but sex now kind of feels like I’m just masturbating with a guy. Then afterward, when Guy falls asleep while spooning me, things get bad.

I don’t know if it’s the weight of his arms, the narrow cinder-block walls, the sickly-green-colored lava lamp, or just the stale frat house air, but I feel like I’m suffocating. Even though there’s still time before curfew, I worm my way out of Guy’s hold and leave a new Word document on his desktop explaining that I needed to go and didn’t want to wake him. I think how we’ve come full circle since he did the same thing for me at the end of our first date. That makes tonight feel like a
last
date. I’m not sure how I feel about that except that I have to get out of here. I softly close Guy’s door behind me without looking back.

22

I
t seems like I’ve finally proven myself to my supervisor, because this week she begins allowing me to shadow doctors. Each day I get to observe various medical procedures, and I even sit in on some minor surgeries. But my favorite thing is simply following the physicians as they’re making their morning rounds. It’s so nice spending extended time with patients, when earlier in the internship, if I saw them at all, it was just to bring them their mail, gifts, or reading materials.

I don’t meet up with Guy this week because I have committed to babysitting every evening, and with things picking up at the hospital, there’s not much chance to think about
him. I do miss him, particularly when I’m in bed for the night. It turns out sex, like love, can be addictive—I actually feel my body going through withdrawal similar to when I cut out soda this year to lose weight. With every passing day, though, I begin yearning increasingly for the nonsexual stuff, like watching
Star Wars
on my terrace, having nerd talks, and especially cooking Guy his over-the-top birthday brunch. Doing things for someone else is what I love most about relationships, even more than having stuff done for me. But what Guy and I have is a non-relationship.

Amy claims that none of this means I can’t continue doing it with Guy, and I agree it seems like a pity not to keep enjoying him while I’m still in town. After Sunday night in his room when I all but ran away, though, just the idea of fooling around with him again feels more fake than fun.

Ultimately Guy and I make dinner plans at the sushi restaurant for Friday, when I intend to tell him that I’d like us to stop getting physical, at least for now, while I’m mixed up about everything. I’m not sure how I’m going to explain it to him, not that I owe him any explanation. It’ll probably be something to the effect that it wouldn’t be
wrong
if we still slept together, but it’d just be wrong
for me
. Before we can meet up, though, my supervisor phones with the news that the hospital is doing an emergency kidney transplant that night and I’ll be allowed to watch. When I call to tell Guy, he’s as excited for me as I am, and we postpone seeing each other until tomorrow. The operation is easily the coolest thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I am so happy afterward when the surgeons announce that both the organ donor and recipient are reacting well. I also feel happy for myself. I may
not have found the right guy yet, but I have no doubts that I’m on the right career path.

On Saturday, however, I wake up feeling completely wrong. I’m languid and off-kilter, and by the afternoon I have a throbbing headache that the thunderstorm outside isn’t helping. So I down a bunch of vitamin C and zinc and cancel with Guy again, this time indefinitely, until I’ve fought off whatever’s the matter with me.

That night I’m struggling to get to sleep, when my cell beeps that I have a text. I figure it’s Amy complaining about how bored she was at Brie’s bridal shower today.

I was right about Amy being the sender.

Joel fucked another girl & I dumped him. Call me if you’re up
.

I gasp and read it several more times before I believe my eyes.

“Hey.” Amy answers my call in a seemingly tranquil voice. “Long story short, Joel and I were video chatting just now, and then out of nowhere he starts blubbering like a baby about getting wasted at that stupid counselors retreat last weekend, blah, blah, blah. The ho-bag was this CIT named Heather. Could he get more embarrassingly cliché?”

I gasp again. Just yesterday Joel sent Amy a huge orchid bouquet for completing her gallery internship, and I still assumed that if anyone in that relationship was going to stray, it would be her. I guess you can never really tell what’s happening between two people.

Amy goes on, “Then he claimed that it didn’t mean anything
to him, and he wasn’t even going to tell me! Too bad for Joel, Heather the ho-bag insisted I had the right to know, and she threatened to e-mail me about it unless he fessed up to me first.”

“Wait—so first she screws your boyfriend, and now she’s looking out for you? Ugh, I’m gonna barf. You know she’s just trying to make trouble.”

“Then Joel kept crying about how awful he feels and that he loves me more than ever and to please forgive him. So I was like, ‘Why should I tolerate a lying fuckhead of a boyfriend who I can’t trust to hold his liquor without banging the closest orifice in proximity?’ That’s when I signed off. Good riddance to bad garbage.”

“Wow, Ames … this is so incredibly strong of you. It takes a lot of courage to break up with someone you love, even if there are problems.”

“Well, now he’s free to be someone else’s problem. In the meantime, I’m wiping this mandala clean. As we speak, I’m putting his stupid locket on eBay. Next it’s straight to the fireplace to burn all my sketches of him. Then I’m gonna smash that brush holder he made me in pottery class—it never worked well anyway.”

“Okay, slow down. You’re sure you don’t want to save any of that stuff? It’s, like, your history.”

“Exactly! Out with the old, in with the new! Joel doesn’t deserve one square inch of space in
my
closet. And seriously, what was the likelihood of my first real boyfriend being ‘the one’ anyway?” She pauses for a sigh. “It just blows because at Amherst he was, like, my male BFF, and I thought we were such a good team, way better than Matt and Brie
-dzilla
ever
were. Now
she’s
the one at a strip club having a bachelorette party. Life’s twisted.”

“Oh, Ames, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” she snaps.

“W-well,” I stutter, taken aback by her anger.

“I don’t need any sympathy, Dom. Joel’s the one losing out.”

“Ames, I totally agree! All I meant was it’s a shame it had to end like this.”

“I’m just relieved this all happened in time for the wedding next week. Matt’s Cornell friends are gonna be there, and some of them are
hot
. Now I can actually get with them.”

Amy’s saying all the right things to show she’s okay, and to anyone else it might be convincing.
She
might even be convinced. After a breakup there’s a momentary relief that you’re free again. But that’s quickly eclipsed by all the good memories you had together and the realization that there won’t be any more of them. She’s in for so much pain. I know.

Amy’s mom and stepdad have already left town for a psychology conference in St. Pete tomorrow, so I tell Amy I’m borrowing the station wagon and driving over for a sleepover whether she likes it or not. When I arrive, she insists again that she’s all right.

“That’s great, Ames, but I still want to keep you company.”

“I wasn’t planning to be alone long. As soon as I dump Joel’s putrid guilt-orchids on the compost pile, we’re hitting Chamber and dancing our asses off!”

“Oh … Well, it’s almost ten, the weather’s sucky, and
my head still kinda hurts. I was thinking we’d just raid the fridge and OD on bad reality reruns or something.”

“C’mon, Dom. That reeks of a pity party. I need to
have fun
! Pop some Tylenol and suck it up!”

I know not to take any of this personally. That night last month when I hit rock bottom in my bathtub, I just wanted to get out and be among people, too. As Amy’s best friend, I should be encouraging her.

A half hour later I’m driving us over Edison Bridge while Amy’s applying makeup in front of the visor mirror. She insisted I borrow her clubbing gear of pleather pants and a bright turquoise halter top, which look positively modest compared to her black micromini, fishnet shirt, and red sequined bra. We’re quiet for a few moments as Amy draws on her glitter lip pencil and checks e-mail on her phone for the fifth time this car ride. Then, out of the blue, she asks, “Did I ever tell you that Joel was uncircumcised?”

I almost swerve the car into the Caloosahatchee River, I’m so thrown. I want to laugh, but her tone was really solemn.

“Um … 
no
. You left out that minor detail.”

“Well, that’s probably because I tried not to think about it. Uncircumcised dicks are disgusting.”

I’ve never seen one myself other than in anatomy books. I never thought they were pretty, but circumcised ones don’t hold the monopoly on aesthetics, either. “Well, they’re certainly different,” I say.

“And hazardous, too! I got a yeast infection
and
a urinary tract infection while Joel and I were together. I bet that wouldn’t have happened if he had a regular cock.”

“Actually, there shouldn’t be a correlation unless he had
bad hygiene or something. A lot of women develop yeasts and UTIs at some point.”

As if not hearing me, Amy goes on. “I should’ve dumped Joel once I saw he was uncut, but I didn’t want to be judgmental. I remember thinking,
It’s not Joel’s fault his parents were too crunchy-granola hippie to get him fixed
. But it
is
Joel’s fault. He’s an adult. He could’ve gone to the doctor himself. Why would any self-respecting male not do that?”

I assume that was a rhetorical question, but then she repeats louder,
“Why?”

“Oh … well …”
Are we actually having this conversation?
“It could be because circumcision hurts a lot more in adults than newborns, and there’s greater risk of complications.”

“A little pain’s not a good enough reason. Joel’s a wimp.”

“Or maybe health insurance doesn’t cover it. It’s usually not medically necessary.”

“Then he’s cheap, too. A wimpy cheapskate freak.”

“Well, it’s not exactly freakish. Something like only fifteen percent of men worldwide get circumcised, so Joel’s actually in the majority—”

“Jesus, Dom!”
She slams the visor mirror shut.
“Whose side are you on?”

She’s never yelled at me like that before, but I tell myself yet again not to take it personally. She’s simply besieged with emotions and is unloading it on the nearest warm body. I get that her whole circumcision rant is nothing more than a classic breakup defense mechanism of dwelling on the relationship’s bad points. I did the same thing. But recalling how my ex had nasty BO after track practice never
made me feel better. It seemed disingenuous to hold things against him that before I readily accepted as the price of love.

“Ames, of course I’m behind you. I didn’t mean to defend him. I was only spouting medical trivia.”

Apparently still not hearing me, Amy continues, “I mean, I am
awesome
! I’m wicked hot with brains to match and mad talent. Why should I lower myself to put up with a grosser-than-gross pecker?”

“You’re right,” I respond, just trying to placate her at this point. “Foreskin—
blech
. Who needs it?”

“Exactly! Fuck Joel and his bagel-dog-looking wiener!”

There’s another silence as Amy checks her e-mail again. I can practically hear my Biomedical Ethics professor narrating the scene as it unfolds,
Grief stage one: denial
.

“That uncircumcised dickhead,” she grumbles. “Why isn’t he blowing up my phone begging me to take him back? He should’ve at least tried to text.”

“Maybe he’s scared of making you madder.”

“Or maybe he’s having rebound sex with Heather the ho-bag. I
knew
she was bad news when I met her there. Well, this is what happens when your relationship gets too comfortable and familiar. The guy’s destined to get his rocks off with someone shiny and new.”

The moment we get to Chamber, Amy slinks to the center of the dance floor, where within seconds she attracts a half dozen guys vying to ride her thigh. I attract one, and as we gyrate our hips against each other, I think how just last weekend I was moving very similarly with somebody else. I waver between feeling disconcerted and pleased by
that, though soon I feel nothing but faint from the deafening techno music. I try to endure it, but after two more songs, my eardrums are about to explode. I pull away from my dance dude and tug on Amy’s fishnet sleeve four times before she gets that I want her to follow me. Once we’re back outside under the awning, she demands to know what my problem is. When I tell her, she’s unmoved. “Of course it’s loud. It’s a club!”

“Well, my headache came back times ten, and I wasn’t comfortable in there anyway. I saw people doing bong hits near the bathroom.”

“So, what are you going to do? Tell your
daddy
on them?”