Year of the Chick (7 page)

“Wow,” said Laura, with the widest eyes I’d ever seen.

“Is this the right dimension of the universe?” I asked.

“All of these girls. They’re actual, official...”
 

“Sluts.” That’s all I could say before reverting to a stunned kind of silence. A silence created by an over-flowing scene of slutified Barbies, crowding each other on the Skanks-R-Us shelf.
 
It was so much more than cleavage and colossal boobs (which was still intimidating, but at least within reason). It was more like mini-skirts, pointed hooker boots, and hair volumized to high heaven.
 

“Look at the girl standing next to the statue of the silver Buddha. Her shirt is back-less. Her shirt, DOES NOT HAVE A BACK.” My voice had quickly changed from shocked to incredibly threatened.

“The one by the corner couch keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs. She’s wearing a tiny skirt. I can…see things.” Poor little Laura was tainted, yet she still couldn’t look away.

“There’s no way in hell these girls are from an office. Unless they brought duffle bags, and changed into their slut-gear after work.”

Laura nodded rapidly. “I think you’re right Romes. Like the one to my left is chewing bubble gum, IN A BAR, and the one on my right just asked a guy why he uses spreadsheets when he can use a calendar. These girls are from the outside.”
 

Once I had processed her findings, I suddenly had a flash.

“I know exactly where these girls are from. They’re from low-paying, boring jobs. They toil away all day and race downtown at five, so they can live out their childhood dream.”

“To get married?” asked Laura.

“Eventually. But for now their dream is a short-sighted one: to sleep with a white-collar dude.” My eyes bulged with realization as I continued. “They’re rarely seen as proper girlfriend material, but they relieve a man’s stress from his grueling day at the office. And if he’s married? No big deal. Being a mistress is extremely chic right now. And it leads to a lot of gifts.”

Laura looked at me, her face contorted in confusion. “So their dream is to be a mistress?”

“Damn right it is. But of course that’s never enough. For every ten dudes that a girl saddles in, she’s looking for the one who’ll fall in love with her. Like when Richard Gere’s character fell in love with Julia Roberts’s hooker vagina. From there, any one of these girls can become a second wife.” I shook my head in disgust. “This is the place where trophy wives are born.”

I took a big swig of my martini, realizing quickly that martinis should never be swigged.

My eyes watered hard from the burning in my throat, as Laura looked on amazed. “That’s a pretty detailed theory on these trophy sluts, but do you really think this bar is a place for hook-ups?”

Just then a man in a navy suit grabbed the girl in the back-less shirt. He rested one hand on her lower naked back, and guided her head towards his with the other. That’s when the kissing began.

They continued to kiss for a while. Ten or twelve seconds at least.

And it wasn’t even seven p.m.

“I bet he called her ‘babygirl’ right before he grabbed her,” I said. “Why does any woman on earth allow that nickname?!”

Laura shook her head. “It’s so sexist.”

“Forget sexist! I mean ‘BABYgirl’? Anyone who calls you that is basically admitting he’s sexually attracted to female infants.”

Laura laughed but I wasn’t quite finished. “Call the cops, I say! On any man that dare utter ‘babygirl’ again...”

I swigged back the last of my martini (yes, I swigged again), as Laura and I made a beeline back to the bar.

“Do you think we should leave?” asked Laura. “Go somewhere else instead?” Her eyes never shifted from the drinks being served.

“We could,” I said. “But that would mean getting our coats back…and walking in the freezing cold.”

“Screw it then, we’re staying here.”
 

And just like that, our back-up plan of getting trashed was in full effect.

***

“So Laura, why did you bring me to a sex-trade bar?” I asked, slurping the final drops of my second pomtini. “And your friend recommended it! Is she a whore?”

“She’s not a whore! She just likes sleeping with men.” We laughed. “And it’s not like she was lying. This place IS crawling with men.”

“But it’s you and me! We’re not sluts!” Though I knew my little Laura could go that route if she wanted.
 

“I know, I know...but at least the drinks are good.”

“You know what? They damn well are. Next round’s on me!”

Pretty soon we were two drunk girls at a bar, high-fiving each other for no apparent reason, and trying to guess which Barbie-slut would flirt with which banker (I was winning).

Meanwhile I was starting to develop sexy drunk eyes. It was involuntary yet mesmerizing. Sadly though, the sexy eyes were rendered useless on this night, since I sat here as a prop in this sleazy red and black bordello.

With Laura still stationed at the bar, I headed to the bathroom to relieve my bursting bladder. I squeezed my way towards the ladies room, when suddenly the front of my body brushed against some random dude.

I felt a sudden shiver, one that traveled straight to my baby-making region.

Could this be my valentine?

The man looked older than my usual target, late-thirties perhaps, and all decked out in a crisp grey suit. His hair was thick and black, shining bright from some dollops of gel. Like me he had a glazed set of drunken eyes, except they didn’t look as sexy or inviting on him.

In fact he was extremely inviting, as he wasted little time in introducing himself: “Heyyyyyyyyyyy.”

Sometimes a single word says a lot, and other times a single word releases a stream of whiskey breath.

“Hey,” I replied, trying to ignore my own heavy buzz.

“What are you drinking honey?” Before I could say a word he pulled it out.

Oh God.

It was a glowing BlackBerry, and in seconds he was furiously typing. I was slightly baffled, since typing on a BlackBerry usually means there’s an e-mail open. This guy was only staring at his home screen (which was a default desktop with some lilies and a bright blue sky).

So he’s trying to impress me with his mobile apparatus.

Despite my drunken state, I knew it was time to leave, because the BlackBerry-bonehead was hunting for a trophy-whore. I also knew that if things didn’t work for him here, he could stop off at the zoo for some “inter-species” action.

I weaseled away from the whiskey air, and from his big fat hand that now rested squarely on my shoulder, complete with a jewel-encrusted pinky ring.

Guys and pinky rings. Worse than a guy with a thick gold chain? Toss-up.

When I returned from the bathroom, I spotted a tired-looking Laura leaning on the bar. We were two wobbly girls and we’d had enough…

***

We shivered and shuffled down the street, myself on the way to the train, and Laura headed straight for the subway.

“Hey Laura, remember that time we went to New York for work?” I pushed my hands down my pockets as deep as they would go. “And we partied in that awesome club ‘til four a.m., even though we had to go to training only four hours later?”

She laughed. “Yeah, I remember. And remember those guys we met? They partied with us all night long. I mean they ended up being losers in the light of day, but it was fun!”

“I know! All we had to do was stand in a room and the guys would flock. Not like tonight.” I lowered my eyes to my feet.

“But tonight doesn’t count Romes! Not unless you were planning to become a hooker. Trust me, every single guy winds up at a bar at some point. This was just the wrong one.”

I thought about my work-friend Eleanor, and how she did so well at rounding up the guys. Maybe as a unit of three we’d be better. But then again, if I separated my wingmen I could go out twice as often and increase my chances. So I decided then and there to keep the two girls apart.

With chins buried safely in our scarves, we finally arrived at the aged façade of Union Station.

“Okay Romes, have a good night. Oh, and one last tip: buy some new shirts for going out.”

New shirts?

“But what about this blouse? It makes my boobs look big!” I leaned against a lamppost and frowned. My tight blue shirt was the best thing my closet had to offer.

“There are tons of shirts that can make your boobs look big, but if you had the chance, wouldn’t you want a big-boobed shirt that flows ‘away’ from your stomach? And I say that with love.”

“I love you right back.” I forced a smile. “I guess that makes sense. I’ll try to hit the mall this weekend.” I stumbled towards the train station concourse, as Laura laughed and waved goodbye.

It’s not that I minded Laura’s fashion tip, but she could’ve waited until tomorrow to tell me. Or maybe she could’ve pretended to like it. Would it have killed her?

I boarded the train, feeling more and more disturbed by the second.

Honesty is good; honesty helps!…At least I think so.

With eyes closed, I leaned against the train’s cold window, imagining myself in the warmth of friendly lies…

Chapter Six

I didn’t have a date on this Valentine’s night, and after spending the day at work listening to Amy’s romantic plans, not to mention helping Eleanor choose a dress (for dinner with a brand new admirer), I was ready to fall into a food-related coma.
Too bad all the cake’s gone.

My sister had told me she’d be home late from work, but I started to wonder if that really meant a Valentine’s date. Theoretically it was possible, since it wasn’t like we ever confided in each other on the details.

Nah, no guy with a functioning brain would ever date her.

I wanted to call Laura, but then I remembered her big Italian family. She was close with her cousins, as they’d all grown up together in Toronto’s Little Italy suburb. I had no idea what being close to your family was like (
confiding in them? Enjoying their presence?
), but I knew her cousins would be her company tonight. And I didn’t want to get in the way.

So with no food or friends, my laptop was my saviour tonight. I propped my big pillows against the headboard, and leaned back slowly with a sigh. Then I pulled my blanket to my chest and checked my e-mail. I had a new one from John Turner. I only knew him from university and couldn’t care less about him now, but like many other recipients, I was always subjected to his forwards.

Today it was a “must-see” link, for a blog he claimed was totally hilarious. The blog had even been turned into a book.
But I don’t care what John likes. What does ROMI like? That’s the only important question.

I moved my cursor to delete the e-mail, but stopped when I had a sudden thought:
someone landed a book deal from a blog?

Even though blogs were an easy way to write, I’d always considered blogging as a pastime for losers who had no friends. Or teenagers with too many conflicting emotions. Or shut-ins who only left the basement when they ran out of chips.

But I do love to write, don’t I?

I clicked on the link to have a look.

The blogging thing didn’t seem that hard, but these average-length posts were written several times a week. Did people really have time for that? The more I read, the more I realized that bloggers could write about anything they liked. Maybe I could write about my man-search.
One Indian girl’s quest to escape an arranged marriage: Year of the Chick!

It’s not like I actually believed that writing a blog would bring me any notoriety. In fact I knew there must be millions of blogs, most of which went entirely unnoticed. Even so, this felt like just the way to verbalize my thoughts, on a quest that was undoubtedly a turning point.

And so, while everyone else was either making sweet love, or eating loads of chocolate in the absence of love, I was opening an account in WordPress, choosing a picture for my header, and writing my very first post to the world at large.

***

After only one week of blogging, I could sense the joy of writing coming back. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was churning out the word count and having some fun. The feeling made me smile as I finished my latest post.

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So maybe Mr. Whiskey-breath wasn’t “the one,” but I’m happy to be alone if it means avoiding men with pinky rings (ugh!).

And the search carries on…

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I’d already received five comments on my blog, two from fellow writers, and three from people who could only be described as “horny online men.” They hadn’t even seen my picture, yet still they were bold enough to flirt. But that’s what made the Internet special…
don’t ask, don’t tell, just embrace the pleasant fantasy.

I myself was a lover of fantasies too, so when I strolled to my laptop an hour later, I smiled at the discovery of another flirty comment: “I can’t believe you’re single. I would scoop you up in a heartbeat.”