Faking It (16 page)

...I am eleven and my parents are in the den watching the mini-series
The Thorn Birds
. I wander in, my math book in tow, and sit on the couch. I've walked in on Rachel Ward seducing her Australian lover in the pond. I watch with curiosity. My father erupts: "Do you know what she's doing? She's
giving
herself
to this man!" I don't know what 'giving herself' means. He continues to holler at me for watching the lurid scene, for being in the room in the first place, for Rachel Ward's promiscuity. My mother defends my naivete and my parents begin arguing. I leave the room dejected and sick to my stomach, math book in tow, never getting the help with my homework. In my room, I shudder with shame--I actually
liked
"giving herself"...

Tears spilled down my cheeks, leaving lines in my makeup along my face, and dropped onto the new percale pillow. "Devin, stop..."

He stopped and looked at me.

"I can't," I cried. "I just can't. Oh God."

"Why not?"

"I've never actually done it."

He sat up, a bit startled at first.

"What?" he asked more out of shock than incoherence.

"I mean, I've done stuff with guys. You know, hand jobs and that sort of thing." I felt stupid saying the words
hand jobs
. "But I never went all the way."

"Are you telling me you're a virgin?"

"I decided a long time ago that I would wait until I got married--that that was the romantic thing to do. I didn't even date until I was twenty--between my father's death and my brothers' overprotection and the yo-yoing with my weight, there was no other chance. The first guy I was ever with told me I was a disappointment. He said he'd had better. He told me I was too 'Catholic schoolgirl' because I didn't know anything and because I wanted to wait."

"What an asshole," Devin responded. "I'm so sorry you believed him."

"After that, I changed my mind and decided not to wait. I wanted to learn, but I was too embarrassed, too afraid someone would find out that I didn't know what I was doing."

"So you didn't have intercourse with any of the guys you dated?"

"I wanted to, lots of times, especially with Andrew. God, I loved Andrew more than any of 'em. But every time I tried, something stopped me, and I couldn't go through with it. As a result, my relationships never lasted beyond a few months. Except for Andrew. When he came along, at first I changed my mind again and told him I wanted to wait until we were married, and he agreed to that. He loved me a lot, and I was certain he was 'the one'. But we were both getting restless. I thought I'd get comfortable in time. I thought my inexperience and the insecurity that came with it would go away. It never did, though, and the more time that passed, the more afraid I became that I couldn't actually go through with it. Every time I tried, I froze. Eventually, Andrew started telling me that I didn't please him. He kept telling me that what I didn't know was a hindrance. I tried to please him, I really did. I just didn't know how. I mean, how was I supposed to know?"

Devin finally interrupted my rambling. "It's okay." He said it again, rubbing my shoulder and arm. "Andi, it's okay."

"It's not okay!" I protested. "I'm thirty-four years old!"

"So? What's wrong with that?"

"Everything!"

"Says who? Andrew? And who is he--Professor Wonderstud?"

"Every guy I've ever been with eventually left me because they were either turned off or unsatisfied, even if I tried to fake it or say I didn't want to or wasn't ready."

"How many guys have there been?"

I paused to take a quick mental survey.

"Including Andrew? Five. Although one of them only lasted for two weeks..."

"Did they specifically tell you that that was the reason why they broke up with you?"

"Not all of them."

"Then you can't make that claim. False logic. Polarization."

"Devin--" I started.

"Andi!" He cupped his hands around my chin. Then he spoke more softly, with tenderness. "Andrea." He looked into my eyes, and I suddenly felt as if I was looking at a different person. And yet, this person was warm and loving and safe. I babbled out the repressed memories, one by one. He listened patiently and compassionately, caressing my cheek intermittently. Finally he stopped me.

"Listen to me: there is nothing wrong with you. Do you hear me? Look at me: there is
nothing
wrong
with you. You think the fact that you never had intercourse has been the problem all this time? That was
never
the problem--the problem all these years was neither your inhibition nor your inexperience. It was your
shame
. And there was nothing to be ashamed of. For God's sake, your family guilted you into suppressing your sexuality, and for no good reason. No matter what choice you made, you couldn't win. If you expressed yourself, if you 'gave yourself' to someone you loved, you'd be degraded. And yet, you were also given the message that you weren't worth waiting for. Add that to all the times your brothers said hands off... I mean, geez, Andi. If anyone's to be ashamed, it's
them
. Fuck 'em all--how dare they do that to you! They were wrong. They mislead you."

His words soaked into my skin and circulated through my blood like an antibiotic, cleansing and washing away every prudish prevarication that imprisoned my innocence. He cupped my face again, his own eyes glassy.

"My God, Andi. You're so beautiful. All of you. You are a vibrant, passionate woman with abounding creativity and wisdom and humor. You are enticing and delectable. You have a body that is a joy to explore, a rapture to the senses. You smell and taste and look and feel and sound good. And above all, you are sexual. Always were. You don't need sex to be sexual. Never did."

No one, not even Andrew, had ever said such things to me before. And for the first time, I believed every word. Devin held me while I wept, rubbing my back and stroking my hair. As I quieted, he dried my tears, careful not to smudge my makeup. He kissed me first on my forehead, then on my cheek. But this time he was the one who seemed dissatisfied, and kissed my lips softly. And it was he who didn't stop. I kept kissing him and leaned back and pulled him on top of me.

He stopped for a moment and looked at me. "You're a good kisser," he said softly. Then he whispered in my ear, "Andrew was a fool to let you go."

"I'm ready now," I said with an acceptance and affirmation in my voice I'd never heard before. Devin blew out the last two votives, picked up the vibrator, and turned it on again.

***

Something with a parasitic appetite left me that night and never returned, washed away with the river of tears, leaving a soothing, fountain-like serenity in its place.

I still blush when I think of the things he was able to do with that vibrator, and the way it made me feel. And now, whenever I hear
SwanLake
, I am conditioned to the sound of soft buzzing in Pavlovian fashion, and must splash some cold water on my face.

Chapter Sixteen

October

I
HAD FALLEN IN LOVE WITH DEVIN. DUH.

It probably started that day we danced stripped down in his apartment over the summer. Or maybe even sooner; I don't know. It took some time for me to admit. But my eyes lit up when he entered a room, and my heart leapt when he ran even just a finger down my arm. The unexpected friendship confused things even more. Our contract had explicitly stated that we were not to get so personal that romantic feelings would evolve, but the platonic relationship had broken that rule, and neither of us had ever held the other accountable for it.

The fall semester had begun, and I entered my classes with an unexpected renewal, excited about the coming weeks. I could feel a bounce in my step, a lighter laugh, a feeling of having dropped a bag of heavy rocks I'd been carrying around my entire life. And my new students seemed attuned to this energy. They were just as eager as I was to come to class, to write, to learn something. Outside of class, the faculty meetings were livelier than ever, with Maggie and me working more as co-directors than director and assistant.

Andrew was fading like a photo in the sun.

And yet, still...something wasn't quite right.

"You look fantastic," Maggie remarked one day over lunch. "Your skin is glowing."

"Yeah, well, not for long."

"Why?" She leaned in and whispered, "You're not
pregnant
, are you?"

"Geez, no--it's nothing like that. I told you, we haven't actually slept together--well... oh hell, you know what I mean. It's just that I've fallen in love with this guy and there's no chance of us getting together."

"Why not? You're spending time with him, aren't you? In fact, it seems to me that you're
dating
him. How many clients does he go to the movies with on his day off?"

"Mags, he's an
escort
. This wasn't the arrangement we had. We violated the terms of our contract."

"I thought the contract ended."

"It did. But we broke it before it ended."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Hard to tell. Anyway, we're both responsible, I guess. I mean, we should both pay up."

"Maybe he has feelings for you," she said.

"Maybe not," I replied.

"Maybe you should find out."

"Maybe I shouldn't."

***

My feelings for Devin were obvious, but neither of us said a word about them. After the "final," we continued to see each other as friends, meeting for coffee or going to museums or out to dinner. He even came to my apartment a few times to watch a movie or a Yankee game. By this time, we were quite comfortable with each other--to the point of finishing each other's sentences--but he kept me in check when I tried to hold his hand or flirt with him. He was used to that. Business as usual, even after our contract expired and our arrangement officially ended. We never talked about that final night, or my revelation. And although he would occasionally kiss me on the cheek, he wouldn't dare let me kiss him, ever. It frustrated me to no end that he showered me with so much attention yet restrained himself--and me--from so much emotional affection. How could he be like that? I wondered. Of all the women he'd serviced in the last five years, did he manage never to fall in love with even one? How?

I got up the nerve to ask him while walking through Central Park one afternoon.

"I simply told myself not to," he answered. It's a matter of ethics. Think of your students. How would you respond if I asked you if you ever fell in love with one of them?"

"That's different."

"How? You offer them a service. They're part of your working environment."

"Yeah, but I don't teach them to write while rubbing whipped cream on their nipples and licking it off."

"But you make them get naked every day. Come on, Andi. There is nothing more vulnerable to those kids than to put their thoughts on paper and have you evaluate them. You know that. They want you to like what they write. They wanna walk away feeling better about themselves. So tell me how that's different. And you're just as professional about your work as I am about mine, and you're just as good at what you do as I am at what I do. You wouldn't compromise that."

I said nothing in response. Instead, I walked pensively before continuing the interrogation.

"Are you ever sexually attracted to a client? Have you ever gotten aroused?"

"Sure, lots of times."

I remembered our foreplay lesson, the bathtub date, and the night of the final, in that order. I wanted to ask, "with me?" but was too afraid his response would be "hell, no" followed by "are you kidding me?" Instead, I pressed on.

"Whattya do?"

"I take a cold shower or whack off like any other guy."

"You're so fucking poetic," I said. "And you're telling me that you never once let them..." I tried to finish the sentence, but couldn't. Instead, I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Not if I can help it. It's not in the contract."

Of course it wasn't in the fucking contract. I wanted to point accusingly and say,
A-ha!
Instead, I said, "So, you've not had sex all this time?"

"I didn't say that. I get laid--maybe not as often as I'd like to, but I do. Just not with my clients, that's all."

"You've
never
slept with any of your clients? Never went all the way, never got paid for it? Never did it with them for free?"

"I told you,
never
."

"Then with whom?"

"Women I meet at clubs or galleries or parties when I'm not working."

I looked away from him, my brow turned inward, dismayed. When was the last time he'd done it? Was it recently and he didn't tell me? What did she look like?

"Do you call these women the next day?"

"Not usually. Sometimes."

"Do they call you?"

"We have an understanding that's it's not a long-term thing."

"Do you tell them you're an escort?"

"Sometimes."

"What do they say?"

"It's a turn-on."

I scoffed, "I'll bet."

***

At Borders, while he flipped through the pages of a book about Van Gogh, I approached him and leaned in.

"Do you kiss your clients?" I asked.

"I don't initiate it, if that's what you mean," he answered, still looking at the book.

"But you let them kiss you. Totally make out with you."

"If that's what they want, yeah."

"How come you stop me?"

"It's different with you."

"How?"

"It just is."

"That's a stupid answer."

"It's the only one you're gonna get," he said, annoyed.

Frustrated, I headed to the chick lit section while he finished Van Gogh and picked up Mondrian.

***

Later, while sitting in Cafe Dante, I asked him yet another question between sips of mochaccino.

"So, when was the last time you were in a serious love relationship?" I asked.

"Couple of years ago, I think. Before the business took off. I haven't had much time for a personal life."