A Woman Trapped in a Woman's Body (8 page)

He'd give me a quick glance as I heaved my body over the side of the tub, and then he'd go right back to stirring his Cream of Wheat.

“Did you want any of this?” he'd ask.

“No, and I guess after three years of marriage, you don't want any of
this,
either—do you?!” I'd yell back.

“What?”

“Forget it.” I said. Apparently, I could walk right by him completely naked and he had no trouble resisting the urge to have sex with me. Given the choice, he would have fucked his Cream of Wheat.

I'd end my shower and walk past him, this time wrapped in a towel, and apologize profusely, “I'm sorry you had to see my naked body before you've had a drink. Sorry I'm disgusting. Sorry, I'm a fatty fatty fatty.” I'd continue my rant as I went into the closet/office/second room to dress. “That must suck, always having to see me before I get into the shower, all naked. I know you're not really turned on by my body. No, wait. You said you like my ankles and my waist. Maybe I can have some operation where they make it so my waist went right into my ankles.”

When I finally emerged, fully clothed, I kept right on: “Don't worry! It's all over! I'm clothed! Just take it easy! You can digest your food now!”

To which Mathew would respond with a weary, “Lauren, I just want to read the paper.”

When I complained to my friends about Mathew's lack of physical attraction to me they would often blame me, citing circumstantial evidence, like how I don't like to be touched. It's true, even a hand on my shoulder causes me to jump. And when anyone tries to hug me they can feel me pushing them away. (If that doesn't keep folks from hugging me, the aggressive and constant patting on the back throughout the whole embrace does the trick.)

 

 

After a good day and half spent weighing my options (and nursing my freshly waxed butt), I put my profile back up on all the Internet dating sites. Last night's date was my sixth in two weeks. And it was just as disturbing as the other five. I've been holding my pee for the last hour hoping Jay will leave the house. I'm guessing he wants to leave but just can't make himself without first hearing about how my date went.

I'm just about to pee in my purse when I hear the front door open and close. Except for Jay's screeching lovebird, the house is quiet.

The minute I open my door Jay yells (from the front door, which he's opened and closed in order to get the show started), “Heyyyy!” and comes pattering down the hallway to catch me. The lovebird is on his head, and all three dogs are running right behind him.

“So was he better or worse than Bumpy Tongue?” he asks me as he detangles the bird from his hair.

Bumpy Tongue was Monday night's date, and the guy last night was actually worse. At one point he told me that he and his friends, who are all white tax accountants, like to “talk black” to each other. He said it like it was their hobby. (“Oh you know, I like model trains and talking black ...”) He referred to Phil, his business partner, as “my nigga.”

At one point we were walking on the beach and an African American woman passed us. He whispered, thankfully not loud enough for her to hear it, “What's up, my sistah?”

“Uh-oh,” I said, looking at my cell phone, which was turned off.

“Whassssssup?” Snoop Goober Dogg asked.

“Well, the dogs that I'm taking care of have all been spotted running along the 405 headed toward San Diego.” Making up excuses on bad dates felt like the most divorced thing I'd done since standing in line at the courthouse to file my papers.

In the car on the way home I was dry heaving at the thought of all the things I had told him about myself.

There seemed no story too personal, shameful, or damning for me to tell. I told him stories that most people would save for their deathbed. At first the obsessive self-divulging was my form of flirtation. It was “I'll show you mine,” only in the form of “I once took my wedding ring off at a party,” in the hope that he'd show me his. Also, if I told him the worst thing about me, he'd know what he was getting into.

But once I realized I didn't want to get into anything past the first drink, I kept talking just to keep him from telling crazy stories about his “crew” down at H&R Block.

When I got home I sent P. Diddy Taxman an email:

Here in Jay's kitchen all I want is a mug to pour my coffee in, but Jay keeps blocking my way.

“So, who were you last night? Were you the sad, grungy, ex-Seattleite divorcée, or the heaving-cleavage Southern California divorcée?” Jay wants to know.

“I was Terre Haute, Indiana, through and through. Are the mugs in the dishwasher?” I ask.

He ignores my question and continues, his voice notching up a bit. “So, how long did it take before you told him you used to be on
The Daily Show
? I think you should make it a personal challenge to see how long you can go without telling people that. I think that would be really interesting, don't you?”

I am not going to bite. I want some coffee. I'm still trying to rinse the bumpy tongue taste out of my mouth from a few nights ago.

Jay has positioned his body right in front of the dishwasher. He wants my daily confessional and until I drop to my knees and admit my sins, I can't get a mug.

“Could you move? I need to get a mug,” I say.

Jay's eyebrows are starting to quiver and one of his legs starts to bounce uncontrollably, thumping against the dishwasher. He's like a junkie and I've got his junk—he's getting desperate. He changes tactics.

“What are you doing tonight? Do you wanna come with us to—”

“I have a date tonight with a guy who used to work at the Playboy mansion,” I tell him. I'm thinking he'll love that I'm living this sad Internet life. It will make him feel superior, which I think he prefers to me chipping in for the gas bill.

But instead of looking satisfied, he yells, “What are you doing?” and causes all the dogs to start spinning in excited circles and the lovebird to fly off his head back to its cage.

“Dating! I'm dating!” I defend myself.

He reminds me that I've been divorced for a half a second and should try to be alone for a little while.

Taking his advice, I'm alone from 10 a.m. that morning to around 5 p.m. that evening. And he's right, it feels much better. I'm back to my old self just in time for Rick to pick me up.

 

 

At the bar, Rick drinks his fifteen-dollar glass of wine in a single gulp, sets the glass down on the bar, and says,
“Whoa, I was thirsty.” He re-feathers his hair with his fingers and flicks his bangs back using only his neck muscles. He does it one more time—the feathering fingers, the neck flip. Then he asks me about me.

One thing I immediately like about Rick is that he's got a good sense of humor about the career he had in the '80s—working in the softcore porn industry.

He tells me about a movie he did for the Playboy channel in which he played a judge for a beauty contest. He never had any sex scenes—he mostly just stood in a tuxedo surrounded by topless women and said things like, “Ladies! Ladies! Why, you're
all
beautiful!”

Rick is the most overly buff straight man I've ever seen. He himself comments that many girls think he's gay because “he has zero percent body fat, tucks his shirts in, and has good hair.” He works out daily and looks like an action hero, all of which, in my post-divorce haze, is not particularly unattractive.

On my second date with Rick we attend his ex-girlfriend's birthday party. He prefaces the party by explaining, “We call her ‘Daisy Von Crazy' and I think you'll see why!”

As we walk toward the bar I notice a group of women wearing jeans so low their tampon strings could get caught in their belts.

“Isn't it amazing and ironic and sad how comfortable everyone has become being physically naked,” I say, “but
it's getting harder and harder for anyone to be emotionally naked?”

Rick laughs like I've told a joke, then calls out to the group of midriff-baring women, “Hey, you guys!” And they all turn and run in our direction, like in a nightmare, clicking their way toward us in wobbly stilettos, calling out Rick's name, and refusing to look in my direction.

Inside, Daisy Von Crazy is drinking her birthday drink (a Screaming Bloody Orgasm on the Beach) out of a giant straw shaped like a penis and telling us about an audition she's just had to be the naked weather girl on the Playboy channel. I ask if they are hiring any news correspondents, and she gets mad and asks the crew of women around her, “Is she making fun of me? Is she?”

Everybody is so physically exposed, with their miniskirts and push-up-bra tank tops, that trying to talk about anything other than how great their bodies look is impossible. It's like trying to eat dinner while a porno is on.

The deepest conversation I fall into is with Daisy Von Crazy's best friend, Beth. Beth comes right up to me and says, “I like you. Let me tell you something—you're a strong woman. I can tell. I'm a strong woman too. I like you.”

“You just think I'm a strong woman because my voice is low and you saw me benching 200 in the bathroom,” I say.

Daisy Von Crazy overhears me and yells to Beth, “She's making fun of you!”

But Beth ignores her and leans in close to me. “Listen to me! Strong women have to stick together. I mean, I walk in a room and women hate me. For these right here!” She grabs her fake breasts in her hands and shakes them at me.

“Those?” I say. “They seem perfectly friendly.”

“Are you making fun of me?” she asks.

“Absolutely not. Listen, people hate me for this up here,” I say, pointing to my head.

Her eyes light up. “Oh my god, I know! And mine is natural!”

Seeing how we're kindred spirits, I try to talk to Beth about my divorce, but I'm interrupted by her screaming in my face.

“Oh yeah, this is my cut!” she shouts, bopping her head to the song the DJ just put on. She grabs my hand and leads me to a tiny dance floor and starts grinding up against me. Soon we're surrounded by men and women, all grinding and groping away. Fake breasts are bouncing off me at all angles, and belly button rings are threatening to snag my full-coverage knit top. Every time an anonymous hand lands on me, I grab it and follow the arm up to see who it belongs to so I can make eye contact and tell them, “NO! No touching!”

At one point a man locks in on me and motions for me to lean in so he can tell me a secret. I put my ear to his mouth and he screams, “Let's see that ass of yours!”

I motion him forward so I can scream back in his ear, “You mean just pull my pants down and show you?”

He raises his eyebrows and very slowly nods his head.

“I WAS KIDDING!” I yell back.

He motions me back in again. “Flip your hair!” he encourages.

I yell that I'm not a prostitute and go to find Rick to ask him if knows that guy. He does and he loves him.

“He's lecherous and stuff, but a really, really sweet guy,” he says.

 

 

In the car on the way home, I tell Rick how different his group of people is from “my people.” He doesn't understand exactly what I mean, so I have to tell him that I don't know anybody else who works in porno. As far as I know.

“They aren't porno people!” he says. “This is just California. It's warmer here, people dress differently.” He flashes his capped-teeth smile at me and reaches across the stick shift and grabs my leg, and I let him.

I tell him about what Beth said to me, and he laughs and enjoys my replay of the evening. So much so that he invites me to come over to his place to finish my story. I hate to end an evening mid-anecdote, so I go to his house, finish my story, and have sex with him.

 

 

When my friends meet Rick they all say the same thing: “Well, you just got divorced. You deserve to have some fun.”
They seem to think our relationship is based on sex, and they seem to be right.

Rick has a giant mirrored headboard where he watches himself flipping his hair and flexing his muscles. And after years of avoiding the sight of my own naked body, even I get into watching myself. My body is thinner, being fed on nothing but white wine and chips and salsa at happy hours. I don't even look like me. In fact that woman in the mirror looks like she's ... shooting a porno or something.

Meanwhile Rick seems to be falling deeper and deeper for me, saying things like, “The only thing I want for my birthday is to be with you forever.” I pretend I don't hear him and ask him to take his shirt off and do some push-ups.

On date nights we do a variety of activities that could have been set up by a TV dating show. We go to batting cages and he teaches me how to swing a bat. We go to video arcades and play shooting games. He takes me to karaoke bars so he can sing “I Think I Love You” to me while I sneak off to the bathroom so he can't keep gesturing toward me and trying to lock eyes.

None of the things we do or places we go are things that I would have ever done on my own or with my friends. It was like I was visiting a different culture.

One night we're sitting at Applebee's and I'm trying to figure out what to eat. “I'll have the deep-fried cheese salad,” I joke, but Rick doesn't laugh. Normally he laughs at everything,
if only to play it safe and show off his charming smile. But tonight he is chewing his fingers like a wild animal.