As Seen on TV (14 page)

We couple off and continue dancing.

“I meant dirty dance,” he says. “You’ve got to work it, girls. Hollywood ain’t all glitz and glamour.”

Hollywood?

The last time I dirty danced was in 1987 when I had a
Teen Beat
poster of Patrick Swayze taped to my bedroom wall.

And I was alone. Not with another member of my own sex.

Erin shakes her behind down the ground around Michelle. Michelle’s hands are up in the air. They really do look like porn stars.

I don’t think we’re as sexy as the other team. Brittany’s breasts accidentally hit my thigh. I lose my balance but then steady myself before I topple headfirst into the bottles of vodka.

At one-thirty I creak open the front door. Two women are making out on the television. Steve is lying on the couch.

“Hi,” he says. “You look gorgeous. Very sexy hair. So how’s my favorite TV star?”

“You’re sure I’m your favorite?” I nudge my head toward the TV. I attempt to yank off my boots, but they’re too tight and finally they’re off and I slump on top of Steve. “My feet are in serious pain. I’ll give you a thousand dollars to rub them.”

The women on TV moan as Steve rubs little circles into the soles of my feet. “Packages from Stark’s were delivered.”

“Oh, good. I got a ton of new clothes for the show.”

He runs his hand down my tight baby-blue dress and then up my leg. “What you’re wearing now is hot.”

“Thanks. I am so tired, you have no idea. They made us dance for hours on top of a bar and I thought I was going
to fall off. Then they made us do a hundred shots of tequila.”

“What? Did you pass out? I’ve never seen you do more than two shots without slurring your words.”

“The first one was real. Lick the salt off your hand, do the shot and then suck a lime. But then Howard thought it was too boring, so he made us lick the salt off each other’s necks and then down the tequila. Michelle, one of the other girls on the show, almost puked, so Tania suggested we shoot apple juice instead, but make a tequila face at the end. Then they filmed us hailing cabs on the street. They wouldn’t let us get into the cab, they just filmed us hailing them, which really pissed off the cab drivers when they stopped. And then we had to change outfits and redo our makeup and our hair and we went to a dance club, as if we hadn’t done enough dancing for one night. Princess, the club’s called. Have you ever been there? Everyone in the bar had to sign a waiver in case they end up on the show. They made us dance for another half hour. And then they made us do more shots. Then they got one of the guys to give us all body shots. Basically, he licked the salt off our—”

Steve’s eyebrows gather together. Abort discussion! Abort discussion! Perhaps the story regarding the male model licking salt off our necks, biting a shot glass from our cleavage and then sucking a lime out of our lips is not a good story to share. Since they’re only going to use one of those shots in the final commercial, what’s the chance that my inferior cleavage is chosen?

“Yes? Off where?” Steve says.

“—off Erin’s neck. One of the other girls. She might be a bit psycho. She had two nose jobs. Two.”

“Who is she, Michael Jackson?”

“Possibly. And she made a big deal about warning me about Michelle, saying she’s a bitch, but I actually like Michelle the best.” I start laughing. “She couldn’t hold up the shot glass because she’s so flat-chested and the apple juice spilled down her shirt.”

“Erin or Michelle?”

“It was, it was, it was just…” A thought occurs to me. He’s not concerned about the four of us girls all gyrating against one another and licking the salt off each other’s skin, but he practically blows a circuit when he thinks other guys are involved. Why do men not seem to think of their girlfriends engaging in a lesbian experience as cheating?

I’m too tired for this. “Why don’t we go to bed?”

“Bed. Yes, bed.” His face brightens. Is it me who put the hopeful look in his eyes, or what he’s been watching on the Hot ’n Sexy channel?

I follow him into the bedroom. I’m being silly. Of course it’s me he wants. He loves me, doesn’t he? I lift the blue dress over my head. My new Betsey Johnson dress. As I start removing my thong I feel a minor problem. Half of my pubic region has been waxed and the other half remains nicely carpeted. Crap.

Can I tell him it’s the new style? The Jekyll and Hyde?

He’s naked and changing the CD. “How about Barry White?”

“I just want to jump in the shower,” I say. I’ll be fast. I’ll shave it off. He won’t be able to tell. “I’m all grungy from the bars. Two minutes. Not even. Start thinking nasty thoughts and when I get back I have a surprise for you.”

Before he can react, I scurry into the bathroom, close the door and turn on the shower. I quickly wash my hair—where is my hair? There’s no hair left to shampoo. Then I soap myself, cover my bikini area in shaving cream and timidly bring the razor down south.

This is worse than brain surgery. One wrong move and it’s a clitorectomy.

I slowly and carefully shave off as much of the offending strands as I can. All clean.

I pose in my most provocative lean in front of the light switch. “What do you think?”

Steve recoils. “What happened to your pussy?”

Excuse me? “It’s a Brazilian.” I stomp over to the bed and hide my head under the covers. “I thought you’d like it. Excuse me for trying.”

“I do like it, let me see.” He tugs the covers off me and lightly touches. “It looks like a hairless cat.”

I yank the covers back up. “A Sphinx? You think I look like a Sphinx? That’s the last time I endure excruciating pain for your viewing pleasure.”

“I like hairless cats,” he says. “Let me see it again.”

I pull down the covers. “Wo-ow,” he says. “Very hot. Very sexy.” He continues stroking me and I feel myself getting turned on. After a few minutes of fooling around I climb on top of him and we start having sex.

I’m not sure if it’s because of the lack of hair barrier, but I’m much wetter than usual and I feel an orgasm coming on.

“You are so juicy,” he tells me. “Your pussy is so juicy like this.”

I wish he would stop saying
pussy
. And
juicy.
I was already having a hard time getting rid of the image of the Sphinx. Now I’m picturing a slobbering Sphinx.

“I’m going to come,” I tell him and continue thrusting on top of him. He’s holding me by the waist and helping me move.

“Me, too,” he says. “Tell me when.”

“Any second,” I say. Almost there…almost there…Steve is a wonderful lover. A considerate lover. He never allows himself to come until he’s sure I already did. Or I at least tell him I did.

I orgasm and then he orgasms and then I stop and lie on the soft brown hairs of his chest and fall asleep.

Later I wake up and remind myself that if I don’t pee right after sex I’ll get a bladder infection.

Hey there, I think to my vagina while I’m peeing. I haven’t seen it bald since I was eleven. I’ve forgotten what it looked like. I pat it and the sensation feels both smooth and bizarre. I flush, wash my hands, brush my teeth, then go back to bed.

H
e cocks his trigger.

In spite of my fascination with Detective Derrick’s trigger, I feel an immediate affinity with the villain. The gap-toothed killer, who looks like a geriatric (wrinkled, hunched) twelve-year-old (blond, skinny, short), grins at Derrick, revealing a space between his bottom front teeth, as wide as an empty mall parking lot.

I had similar smile issues before my braces. I tried to close the gap by binding the wayward teeth with a twist tie, which I unintentionally swallowed when it broke. Now a wire is glued to the inside of my bottom teeth, holding them together. I remember it’s there only when it traps nuggets of food.

Derrick is still pointing his gun. His chiseled chin and coifed black hair make him look magnificent and stoic, like the statue of Michelangelo’s David with gelled Ken-doll hair. Before he was Derrick, Matt Rowler played the sexy teenage son on the
family sitcom
Close-Knit,
for about six years. I fell in love with Matt (our relationship was, of course, on a first-name basis) after reading in
Teen Beat
that he was a major
Star Wars
fan. He said if he could choose any role to play, it would be Luke Skywalker. Way, way, way before I met Steve, when I should have been too young to know of these things, Matt had played the star role in my sneak-in-through-the-window, stroke-my-body, make-me-orgasm-with-his-tongue fantasy.

“Tell me where Mary and Jane are,” he demands, his jawbone tensing.

The gap-toothed killer runs his fingers through his mullet-shaped blond hair. “Do you want to know why I did it?”

Enter background sinister organ music. The sun glints off Derrick’s gun and black rimless sunglasses. “Why?” he asks.

“Every time a woman gets into her car, she checks the back seat, wondering if I’m waiting to slit her throat. I’m not the kind of guy who doesn’t live up to a woman’s expectations.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m infamous.” The killer lisps his S, the way I used to before my dad sent me to speech therapy.

“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right…”

The image switches to a joyful man in plaid as he places a TV dinner into the microwave. “I can make chicken Alfredo when my wife is stuck late at work,” he says with pride. “And it’s so easy!”

I now know the TRS morning lineup by heart. At nine there’s
American Sunrise,
starring fluffy-haired Betty and serious-looking John. I think I love Betty. She reminds me of what I always wanted my grandmother to be like. She’s extremely articulate, always fair and even brings banana bread in for the crew (I read that somewhere, I don’t actually see the banana bread).

The scheduled show after
American Sunrise
is the cooking show
Mature Palate,
and then the soap opera,
To Love and To Hold;
the news; the soap opera,
Long Days, Lonely Nights;
some kind of
The Price is Right
knockoff except the prizes are food baskets; then reruns of TRS’s cops and robbers show,
NYChase.

I never used to watch
NYChase,
but seeing Matt Rowler as Detective Derrick is like discovering a twenty-dollar bill in a forgotten purse. I’d forgotten about him.

Why am I up so early today? I am hunting for the
Party Girls
commercial.

On Tuesday Carrie called to tell me that she just saw the fifteen-second promo and I looked fantastic. Of course, I was in the bathroom and missed the message and the commercial and now I have no idea when it will be on again.

By Wednesday Steve is losing patience. “Can’t you call someone and ask them when it’s going to be on?” he says when I refuse to change the channel for the sixth consecutive hour. He puts his feet up on the couch and lays his head on my lap.

They make recording machines that can be programmed not to tape the commercials, don’t they? Why don’t they make recorders that zap through the shows and tape only the commercials? “I don’t know who’s in charge of the show’s marketing,” I tell Steve. But mainly, I don’t want to be
that
girl. The pain-in-the-ass who calls up producers at all hours, asking ridiculous questions. I’m mature. And patient. And I’ll just watch hours of television. What else do I have to do?

Steve points to the television. “Is that it?”

There I am.

On TV.

I’m dancing. My hair looks fantastic. I will always wear red. I will never buy clothing in any other color. Erin, Michelle and Brittany are also dancing. We are all dancing on the bar. A faster dance version of “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” pumps through our living room. A panoramic shot of nighttime Manhattan is superimposed behind us and then there’s Erin. She’s smiling seductively at the camera. Her name is spelled at the bottom of the screen in a white font that I vaguely recognize
as Comic Sans from Microsoft Word. Her breasts perk towards the camera. I never want to look that slutty. There’s Michelle. That hair is incredible. Her name flashes under her face. She blows a kiss at the camera and then laughs. Now me?

No. Brittany. Brittany from a side view, a profile, her massive breasts peeking out the side. Never mind peek. Those things are climaxing out. She flicks her hair with her hand and I’m next, I’m next, I’m next!

And there I am, smiling.

“Hey, that’s you!” Steve says.

My hair looks gorgeous, my eyebrows sophisticated, my upper lip mustache-less. I love Carrie.

Erin giving a body shot to some guy. Thankfully that wasn’t me.

And there’s me giving a body shot.

Oh-oh. Through the corner of my eye I watch as Steve’s face drains of color.

I was just totally busted.

“They’re sexy, they’re single, they’re wild,” a sultry voice announces.

Another panoramic shot of a lit-up Manhattan. “And they party in the city that never sleeps.”

Shot of us dancing at Princess. “This Sunday at 9:30 p.m., watch what these PARTY GIRLS were up to the night before…”

Erin and Michelle dirty dancing.

“And move to the music with TRS’s new reality series…
Party Girls.
”

Party Girls!
^™
, TRS, SUNDAY 9:30 flashes across the screen and
To Love and To Hold
resumes.

A twinkly-eyed woman in a full-length ball gown sobs on screen. “Oh, what will I do? Arnold Mackenzie III is the secret father of my child!”

I sit shell-shocked on the couch.

“I was on TV,” I say.

“You looked um…very sexy,” Steve says. “You didn’t tell me that…um…” His voice trails off. He better not ruin my mo
ment with male jealousy. I think he senses my eyes narrowing and instead says, “You’re a star.”

Yes, I am. I was on TV. And it wasn’t a home video. I was on cable. Oh, my. Anyone could have seen that. TV stars. Movie people. Tom Cruise. Julia Roberts. These people watch TV, don’t they? They could easily have turned it on a few minutes ago and seen me. I’m sure someone I know saw it. Maybe someone I went to high school with. Maybe someone saw it and is going to call right now.

I stare at the phone. It doesn’t ring.

Steve takes my hand and kisses it. The red polish is all chipped. I definitely have to schedule myself a manicure before Saturday. Can’t looked chipped, can I?

It’s Saturday. Saturday. Saturday!

At two-thirty, I leave Zodiac Nails with a French manicure. Thought I’d try something a little different. Michelle had one and it looked cool, natural but better. I’m wearing my boots again tonight, so there’s no need for a pedicure. I stop at a Duane Reade pharmacy and buy a pair of tweezers. Unwanted hairs are starting to sprout around my eyebrows and I think my own pair is too blunt. On one side of the aisle are tweezers for two dollars apiece. On the other side they’re ten.

I opt for the ten. What if the cheap ones screw my face up?

I am trying to occupy my thoughts with superficialities so I don’t hyperventilate. All I’ve had to eat all day is half a bagel with margarine. I’m afraid anything else will come back up. I stop at an Au Bon Pain and pick up a cheese sandwich. I have to force myself to eat something, otherwise my drinks tonight will definitely come back up.

At three, when I get home and check my messages, there’s one from Carrie. “Hi, hon! Hope you’re excited! Car service is picking you up at three-thirty to take you to Tribeca’s Bolton Hotel. Bring whatever you’re planning to wear tonight and whatever you’ll need to get ready.”

I’m supposed to be ready in thirty minutes? Why does no
one mention these things? I call Carrie, panicked. “In a half an hour? I just got home! What if I wasn’t home yet? They’re shooting us getting ready?” At a hotel? “I thought you said someone’s doing my hair and makeup?” I will not panic. I will not panic. I am panicking.

“They will, but they want it to look like you’re doing it yourself. You’re supposed to be everyday party girls. You can’t have people doing your makeup. Don’t worry, just bring your stuff and you’ll be filmed putting it on and we’ll turn off the camera and the makeup artist will fix it up. Same with your hair. How do you want to wear it?”

“I don’t know. Straight with the layers curled around my face? So I shouldn’t shower here? I don’t have a ton of makeup.”

“No, I told you, you’re getting ready at the hotel. Don’t freak.”

Thirty minutes later I’m plucked and packed and waiting downstairs, my heart exploding in my chest. A black sedan pulls up to my building. The back window opens and Erin’s face pops out.

“Sit in the front, you’re the last one to be picked up.”

I hate sitting shotgun in a hired car. I always feel compelled to make small talk with the driver. I climb into the front seat and smile at the other girls.

They ignore me and continue their conversation.

“I’m surprised they even sent us a car,” Erin says. “I was expecting them to tell us to find our way over there. When they’re not filming, they don’t care if we’re dressed in garbage bags.”

They could have managed a hello.

Brittany nods. “They’re so cheap. We’re the stars, but do they treat us like stars? No.”

Michelle seems to be ignoring them as well, so I don’t take her snub personally. She’s filing her nails.

“We’re already prima donnas before we film our first show?” I say. The problem with sitting in the front is that by
the end of the drive, my neck will be in severe pain from constant twisting. I turn to the driver. “How are you?” I ask.

He grunts.

“You’re new to all this, you’ll see,” Erin says to me. “They couldn’t give a shit about us. We’re completely replaceable.”

“One of us was already replaced,” Brittany says. “I think you’d better realize right here and now who your real friends are. You never know what can happen.”

Real friends? I’ve known her for one week. “Excuse me for breaking up the team,” I say and spend the rest of the cab ride staring at the bumper of the taxi in front of us. I’m not straining my neck for them if they consider me a scab.

When we pull up to the hotel, a porter comes to take our bags and we follow him through the brass door onto the lobby’s marble floor.

Carrie scurries toward us, arms flying. “Hi, girls! All ready?” she asks and kisses us each on the cheek. “Here’s the plan. We’ve got four rooms. Are you excited?”

We squish into the already crowded elevator. “Can you press twelve?” Carrie asks Brittany, since she’s closest to the number pad.

Brittany’s hands are full, with bags she didn’t trust with the porter, but she bends down and tries to press it with her chin.

Instead she hits eleven and twelve. “Oops. My chin is worse than Jay Leno’s.”

“You don’t have a big chin,” Carrie says.

“Yes, I do,” she answers. “There’s nothing I can do about it, so I’ve accepted it. What am I going to do, get chin liposuction?”

“Erin would,” Michelle says, raising an eyebrow.

Brittany squishes her massive chest. “Do you think I should get a breast reduction?”

Erin smirks. “I think Michelle could take your leftovers.”

“I’m told that after you’ve breast-fed they go down in size by themselves,” I offer.

Brittany and Erin look at me as though I’ve just told a joke
but omitted the punch line. I feel my cheeks grow hot. Was that a stupid thing to say?

I suddenly feel uncomfortable in my own skin, like I’m too pale, and trying on too-tight bikinis that cause protruding stomach and hip flab. Who are these people? How did I end up in this claustrophobic elevator?

The doors open at the eleventh floor and everyone giggles. I contemplate making a run for it. I think I’m going to be sick.

The doors close.

“Can someone explain to me why we’re at a hotel and not in our own apartments?” Michelle asks. “Aren’t we supposed to live in New York?”

Carrie pats me on the shoulder again. “It’s because the budget only allows for two cameramen. They couldn’t be at all four of your apartments at once. This way they can film all of you getting ready at the same time, and they can hire one beautician and one hair stylist who works on you all. And I think M.U. owns the hotel.”

The doors open again on the twelfth floor. We shuffle out. The hallway is a madhouse. Pete, Dirk, Tania, Howard and other people I don’t know are running back and forth between four rooms, two on each side of the hall, with cameras and clipboards.

It looks like a scene in a movie about people making a movie.

“Brittany and Erin,” Howard says, waving. “Your connecting rooms are here.” He points to the doors on his right. “Sunny and Miche have the connecting rooms on the other side. Good luck.”

Carrie’s cell phone rings and she reaches in her purse to answer it.

Howard is deep in discussion with Dirk.

The four of us don’t move. What are we supposed to be
doing?