"I'll be nineteen on January first," he told me.
"I really need to get back to my friend," I told him as I lunged off the top bunk, naked with one hand covering my vagina and the other covering my right boob. My left boob was out for the taking, but in an effort to avoid it getting hit, I turned and quickly put on my clothes.
In my drunken stupor I was still trying to figure out how I could have ended up in bed with an almost minor. This wasn't good at all. I had never slept with someone even a year younger than me and immediately felt like R. Kelly. How did a boy that young learn how to spank women? I feared that maybe he was lying about his age and wasn't even legal; images of the water police taking me off the ship in handcuffs and ankle weights swam through my mind.
The next night was New Year's Eve, and we decided to see a show called Swing, Swing, Swing since my gambling streak was over and I was now down two hundred dollars. As we were being seated, I saw Rico a couple of rows behind us. "Hey, Rico," I yelled, "corno te llamas?" He looked at me and my roommate and then made a gesture that was similar to the middle finger, but the Spanish version that tells someone you're not interested in speaking with them.
"You really pissed that guy off, now he won't even talk to us," I told Dumb Dumb. "Thanks for taking care of me!" I screamed out, and this time he made a gesture I hadn't seen before. I didn't understand why he was pissed at me. I never threw a shoe at him.
As the mangy curtains separated to start the show, the first person out on stage was a bare-chested male wearing green tights with a long run down one leg and a fake wreath on his head. He sprang onto the floor with a combination of two back handsprings followed by a half pike into a somersault. I would have recognized those moves at sea or on land. It was official: I had now hit my all-time low at the tender age of twenty-six. Not only did I sleep with an eighteen-year-old who hit me, but he was the lead in an abysmal cruise dance show called, Swing, Swing, Swing.
Maybe a real boyfriend wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a girl.
OUT OF THE CLOSET
I WAS ON the Discovery Channel's Web site trying to get my hands on a monkey when my cell phone rang. Nathan called to ask me if I would be his beard at his high school reunion.
Somehow, Nathan still considers himself a closet homosexual even though anyone who has ever spent a late night at his apartment knows otherwise. You didn't have to clear a thousand on your SATs to figure out that when you were abruptly getting kicked out of his apartment at one A.M., and a tall beefy Latino passed you on his way in, that Nathan had ordered takeout from We Deliver Cock.
All Nathan's classmates from high school and college, along with his parents, were still in the dark about his homosexuality. His parents had no idea that when they sent him to a child psychiatrist at the age of fifteen, he began a romantic relationship with his shrink that lasted for well over ten years. "Romance" isn't the word I would use to describe your psychiatrist giving you head, but Nathan insisted that the relationship was a two-way street and they had strong romantic feelings for each other. This was obviously the Jews' retaliation for not having access to the Catholic church and their pedophiles. Being as resourceful as we are, we developed our own system of child molestation and then added another layer by paying our attacker.
After receiving this information from Nathan, I was thoroughly disappointed that none of my therapists had ever tried to go down on me. Nathan admitted this relationship to me only after we had been friends for many years, and when he did, it was primarily to convince me to accompany him on his family vacation and pose as his girlfriend.
"Will the psychiatrist be there?" I asked.
"No."
"Then why would I want to go?"
"Because my parents want to meet you. I talk about you all the time, and this way they'll think I'm closer to getting married."
"But you're not getting married. Certainly not to me," I told him. In fact, we'd discussed marriage on several occasions just because we seemed to get along so well, but after thinking long and hard, I realized it was not in my best interest to waste my first marriage on a gay man.
But Nathan convinced me to come along and I ended up going on many more family vacations with him after that. There was the trip to Telluride, ten days in Fiji, and a couple of weekends at his family's house in Big Bear. It was turning out to be a swell deception and I was getting a lot of frequent flyer miles in return. His family was fun, and I liked his overbearing Jewish mother who wanted to know everything about me, from my favorite sexual position to my rising sign. She would sit and play with my hair and stare at me like I was Goldilocks, saying over and over again how she couldn't believe I was Jewish. My mother is the antithesis of a typical Jewish mother; she is very soft-spoken and takes more naps than a cat. As a result, I've always longed for someone to really annoy the shit out of me.
Normally I would say yes to a high school reunion, but I was still pissed about my sister's wedding. Thanks to Nathan's catastrophic visit to my parents' summer home, I was banned from bringing anyone home again.
So when Nathan asked me to go to his high school reunion that wasn't really a reunion, more like an annual summer cocktail party for all the alumni who had attended his prep school, I refused.
"Come on, pleeeease, it will be so much fun. It's at the Bel-Air Bay Club, there's an open bar, and there will be hot men." These were all valid arguments, but I wasn't giving in. I was seriously considering cutting him off for good.
"I'm not even sure I ever want to see you again," I told him.
"Don't say that!" he hissed. "It wasn't that bad, you're totally overreacting. I even got a thank-you card from your sister. She loved me."
I felt unsure about believing him, but it was so typical of my sister to help me not make a point.
"A thank-you card?" I asked. "Thank you for what? Ruining her wedding? How would she even get your address?"
"It was probably on the bottle of Valium I gave her," he replied. "She was a real wreck before she went down the aisle. I only gave her a half because she said she'd never done any before, but after the ceremony she wanted more, so I gave her the bottle."
Now I was fuming. How could I have missed the opportunity to pop pills with my sister who was purer than a Quaker? I was torn between being angry at Nathan and being proud of my sister for finally loosening up her sphincter. This was a girl who, when I was ten years old, used to wake me up after she got home from a party and whisper, "Chelsea, wake up. They had marijuana at the party and I didn't smoke any."
I'd roll over, crack my eyes open and say, "Why not}"
"Nathan, you are ridiculous, you have no respect for anyone. How many times have I been to your parents' house or on vacation and not only behaved myself but quoted actual verses from the Torah?"
"What if I pay you?" he asked.
I had always dreamed of being a professional escort but never thought that there was any real money in it. "How much?" I asked.
"Two hundred dollars," he offered.
I guffawed loudly and then pretended to choke. "Homo you don't!" I said. "That's not enough money to pretend I like you again."
"Please, please, just come with me, it will be fun, we can both meet people."
We had done this type of thing before, on numerous occasions. I would hit on a guy whom Nathan liked, and if he didn't respond to me, Nathan would move in. This way no one ever found out that Nathan was indeed a flaming homosexual, unless Nathan ended up sleeping with him, in which case he definitely knew. The problem with this approach was that Nathan was obsessed with huge lumberjack-type men, preferably with a pickup truck, so if the guy I came on to wasn't gay, I'd usually end up getting stalked and forced to make a quick getaway out the back entrance of some seedy bar.
"I'm not picking up guys for you," I said. "Not for two hundred dollars."
"These guys are all from my prep school, there won't be any dumb ones, I prooooomise," he said.
"You're dumb and you're going to be there,
" I reminded him.
"There's my girl. You'll do it?"
"Not for two hundred," I told him. "I'll need some other incentive."
"I'll buy you a dress, from wherever you want. "You get it and I'll reimburse you--no more than two hundred and fifty dollars."
"That sounds reasonable," I said in my best impression of a litigator.
I ended up spending less on the dress than the two fifty allotted me by my gay pimp because Barney's was having a 75 percent off sale, so I also bought a head scarf in case it became windy. It was actually a neck scarf, but I had seen J. Lo wrap her head with one and tie it at the nape of her neck, which split the silk into two different sections of flowing magic. The shade of my dress was a hot pink more accurately described as "summer whore" and the head scarf was cream with rings of citrus, lavender, and summer whore as well. I had never worn a head scarf publicly before and was looking forward to finally commanding the respect I deserved.
Nathan picked me up in a town car outside my apartment. He did this when he wanted to impress. He claimed he was just being responsible because we would be drinking, but considering he had been convicted of three separate DUIs, I knew better.
"Look at you!" he squealed as I made my way to the car. "Three words: beau-teee-ful!"
"Thank you," I replied with the cool air of an aristocrat. I wasn't giving in to him that easily; he was going to have to work for my forgiveness.
The Bel-Air Bay Club is located north of Malibu and overlooks the Pacific Ocean. Throughout the course of our ride, when I wasn't staring out the window I had rolled down to aid my scarf in a current of strong wind, I was reminding Nathan of how lucky he was to have a friend like me.
"You better drop this shit when we get to the party. I said I was sorry and sent a letter apologizing to your parents."
"Well, I hope you did. I am not allowed to ever bring anyone back there again!"
"Listen, I'm sorry and I know I drank too much, but let's focus on tonight," he said. "You could meet your future husband here. There are a lot of rich and successful young men who went to this school."
"I'm not that shallow, asshole. I don't need money," I said. "It's way more important for them to be good-looking."
We finally arrived at the front door of the club and the car slowed. "You are my girlfriend unless I tell you otherwise," he reminded me as our driver opened our door.
We checked in at the front and they gave us name tags. I wasn't about to ruin my ensemble with such a cheesy name tag, not to mention the blatant clash of color; the Magic Marker the woman was writing names with was fire engine red. I was already going out on a limb with the head scarf and didn't want anyone to think I was trying to one-up Sarah Jessica Parker.
I told the woman I'd put mine on my purse, and she said she'd prefer if I wore it on my dress. Then I told her I wasn't part of the alumni and that no one would be recognizing me anyway.
"That's not the point, dear. It's just better if everyone's names are displayed so that the lines of communication have already opened."
I thought maybe she was trying to be funny but then realized this was impossible to do without a sense of humor.
"What's your name, dear?" she said.
"Beulah. My name is Beulah," I told her.
Her eyes darted from mine to Nathan's, but he backed me up with a quick nod in her direction.
"How is that spelled?" she asked.
"Just as it sounds, B-e-u-1-a-h," I said. Then she ripped off the adhesive and stuck it right above my right breastplate. "I love your head ornament," she said with a closed smile.
"I love your personality!" I said with wide eyes and an open smile. I had used this look before when a bank teller at Wells Fargo had threatened to put a ten-day hold on a check from my father because my average balance was $3.56.
Nathan grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the patio. There were various food stations all around and two bars positioned at either end.
"I'll get us drinks, you find somewhere to sit," I told him. I went to the bar and ordered two Ketel One and sodas.
"Fourteen dollars, please," the bartender said.
"This isn't an open bar?" I asked.
"Only for well drinks," he told me. "The well vodka is Gordon's."
"Who's Gordon?" I asked him.
He half smiled at me, shrugging only one of his shoulders.
"Hold on," I said and ran over to Nathan. "Give me money, it's not an open bar. This party is starting out very badly, Nathan. Not so good, so far!" I intimated that an unhappy Chelsea would lead to unhappy times. He got the message.
After I paid for our drinks, I came back to find Nathan being harassed by a middle-aged white woman wearing a strapless cotton-poly blend that pushed her breasts out like a shelf. Her blond hair was three shades too light and she was holding what I presumed could only be a chardonnay. Women like this love chardonnay, especially while it's still light out. She seemed very taken with Nathan, as many women were; he has a way of making women feel beautiful and sexy, which is why my friends and I liked him so much in the first place.
She kept moving closer to him and I didn't want to steal her moment, so I discreetly took a seat at the table behind where they were standing and observed. Five minutes later, she noticed me and introduced herself. "I'm Lynn," she said, extending her free hand.
"Beulah, how are you?" Nathan said.
"Oh, I'm sorry, are you two ..." she pointed back and forth between us.
"Oh no, no, no, he's just my swim instructor, we're very close, but not like that." I winked at her.
Nathan turned his head in order to avoid eye contact with me and with her.
"Are you a professional swimmer?" she asked.
"Synchronized swimming, actually. I'm the only professional synchronizer who can compete without a nose plug," I told her.
"Is that right?" she asked excitedly. "How are you able to do that?"
"It's not easy," I told her. "I've trained myself to hold my breath underwater as well as above water for close to six minutes at a time. Each competition is five minutes." I, of course, didn't have the faintest idea if this was true, but five minutes sounded like a reasonable time to be able to hold your breath. Why anyone needed to hold her breath above water was beyond me, but when I make things up, I rarely have a filter.
She had a confused look on her face and opened her mouth to say something when I jumped in.
"There's a good chance I'll be competing in Athens in 2004."
Nathan coughed loudly and sat down, "Actually--"
I interrupted. "He's so superstitious, he doesn't like me to talk about the Olympics before the trials, he thinks I'll jinx myself," I said dismissively. "I keep telling him God gave me a talent and there's nothing to jinx about that."
"Amen!" she said.
"Hallelujah!" I responded.
She turned to Nathan and put her hand on his arm. "A swim coach. You must be in fantastic shape!" Nathan smiled sheepishly as I got up to excuse myself.
"I'm going to see if I can't find a fish in this big swimming pool. You kids get to know each other." Nathan averted his eyes and looked down at his hands in his lap. I winked at the woman and mouthed, "He's single!"
I wandered over into another room dominated by a massive chandelier. The club was huge and extravagant, with four separate patios. I love places that are spread out like that; this way once you embarrass yourself in one area, another forum is just a hop, skip, and jump away.
This being an all-boys school, there were guaranteed to be dozens of men to harass. I sauntered over to the sushi bar, filled my plate, and went to sit by a window all by my lonesome. I put on a sad, wounded, dovelike expression to let any potential male suitors know I was available and, more important, vulnerable.
After a good ten minutes of no one approaching me, I saw a hottie walk by me in a beautiful Ted Baker shirt. I knew Ted Baker shirts like the back of my hand, and anyone who wears one deserves to be complimented.
"Excuse me," I said as he glanced around, trying to see where the voice was coming from, "I absolutely love your shirt."
"Thank you," he said, finally noticing me. He smiled. "That's sweet."
"Is it Ted Baker?" I asked.
"Yes, yes it is." He was pleased.
"I used to work for him in London." I wasn't planning on lying, but I needed to keep him here long enough to get my rhythm going.
He sat down next to me and we talked for a couple of minutes about what a brilliant designer Ted was, and then he said, "By the way, I'm David, and you are . . . Beulah? Is that how you pronounce it?" I couldn't let him think that was my name.
"Oh, no, the lady at the front was a little intense. I was just messing with her. I'm Chelsea."
"That's funny," David said. "Beulah's gotta be one of the ugliest names I've ever heard."
David told me he was a real estate attorney and had just moved back from Atlanta to be close to his family. He didn't know that many people and came here to try and reconnect with some friends from high school. Most of his friends were married and he had just ended a two-year relationship with someone because he hated her family and didn't want to expose his future offspring to them.
"I like your scarf," he said. "Not a lot of people can get away with that look."
I got the feeling he meant that no one could get away with the look, and I started laughing. "Point taken," I said and took off my scarf. He quickly wrapped it around his own head. "You're right," I said and pulled it off his head.
This could definitely turn into a relationship. I knew because I didn't want to sleep with him right away, and I've felt that way only a couple of times. He was solid, good-natured, and most of all he was sarcastic.
He had just asked me who I was there with when I saw Nathan out of the corner of my eye.
"Beulah! There you are! Where have you been, my little bean dip? I hope not flirting with other men," he said as he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me on the mouth. He looked at David. "Oh, hey, I know you, right?" he asked.
"Yes, David Stevenson. I'm sorry, what is your name again?"