As Seen on TV (19 page)

Not counting a short break for dinner, or another brief catchup conversation with Millie (“You were awesome, Sunny! That was by far one of the best reality shows I’ve ever seen, no kidding. You looked hot.”), or another when I greet Steve after hearing his key in the door, I spend the rest of the night reading the rest of the threads and anything else that is reality TV related.

At ten Steve pokes his head into the room. “What are you doing in here, busy bee?”

“Research,” I say, head lost in the screen. “I’ll be ten minutes, tops.”

At twelve I hear him calling for me from the other room. “Sunny? Come to bed already!”

If Steve were all over the Internet, he would make me help him search for his name. At least I’m not being annoying. I tear myself away from the screen. My eyes feel bloated.

I can see how people got a lot more work done
before
the World Wide Web.

On Thursday morning I wake up realizing that I haven’t taken my birth control pills in two nights.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Or rather, no fuck, no fuck, no fuck.

That’s Tuesday and Wednesday night.

I’ve never forgotten to take a pill before, never mind two. What’s wrong with me?

I can’t get pregnant, can I? I didn’t have sex Tuesday or even last night.

I log back onto the Internet to find out what to do.

Apparently I’m supposed to take two pills today and two pills tomorrow and then one for the rest of my cycle. Also, if I have sex in the next seven days without using another form of birth control I MAY BECOME PREGNANT. I am disheartened at the use of the caps in the message.

Great. Condoms. I’m sure Steve will be thrilled. He once
said that making love with a condom is like peeing through your underwear.

A poet he’s not.

Steve nudges me awake Friday at noon. “It’s gorgeous out,” he says. “I’m going to shower and then let’s go for a long walk.”

I nod facedown into the pillow.

He turns the lights on as he leaves the room. Was that really necessary? Couldn’t he have let me sleep the last precious minutes?

Ten minutes later he sprints across the bedroom, butt naked. “I don’t know where my towel is,” he says, shivering and wet.

“On the kitchen chair,” I mumble.

As soon as I’m naked and under the stream of hot water, I notice that there is no soap. It was down to its last measly flakes yesterday, and apparently he finished it off without replacing it. He never replaces anything. Orange juice—empty carton still in the fridge. Toilet paper—brown cardboard leftover, mocking me. Toilet seat—obviously never goes down, as if he’s oblivious to the ugliness of the open canyon. At least twice, I’ve fallen right in.

I think I would forgive it all if he could just answer me this one question: How on earth does he
miss
the bowl? It’s right there. Steady. Aim. Go.

We walk through the West Village toward the pier and spend an hour strolling up the boardwalk. If it weren’t for the skyscrapers in the distance, when I watch the ripples of the water I think I could forget what city I’m in.

The cold air blows through my coat, but Steve warms me by putting his arm around me. When we reach Chelsea, we turn back into the island. When we pass a magazine store, I pull him inside.

“I just want to check for something,” I say.

He rummages through the sports and news magazines and I poke around the entertainment ones. I just want to check in case there’s anything about the show. What if
there is something and no one saw? Jennifer Aniston, J.Lo, Eminem, blah, blah blah—why is no one writing about
Party Girls?

A teenager is watching me from behind a
Cosmopolitan
magazine.

“Sun, can we go now?” Steve asks, impatiently.

“In a sec,” I mouth.

I bet she recognizes me. Maybe she’ll say something. She could come up to me and ask me if I’m one of the stars on
Party Girls.
Maybe she recognizes me but can’t place where she’s seen me. I’m surprised no one has approached me yet. Do I look that different in real life? When will I have to start wearing Jackie O sunglasses and wraparound scarves?

She’s still staring at me. Uh-oh. I’m not exactly in movie-star attire. I’m wearing jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, sneakers and an un-glam very windblown ponytail.

What if a tabloid reporter snaps my picture?

“Sunny, let’s go.”

The girl pays for her
Cosmo
and leaves the store without giving me a second glance.

That night, when I exit the bathroom after washing up, Steve is spread-eagle on the bed, in his boxers. A cooler containing a bottle of Dom Perignon and two champagne glasses is on the floor.

Last night, because of the pill fiasco, I avoided sex by pretending to fall asleep while the TV was still on.

He pops the champagne and pours it into the glasses.

“We have champagne glasses?”

“Borrowed them from the restaurant.”

“And the champagne?”

“Borrowed that, too.”

“I bought you a present, but you’re not going to like it.” I take a box of condoms out of my underwear drawer (purchased earlier in case avoidance didn’t work) and place them on the bedspread.

He recoils in horror. “What…why?”

“I forgot to take my pill. We have to use a backup for seven days.”

“But I hate condoms,” he whines.

“No glove, no love, mister.”

He starts laughing. “But isn’t the whole point of a long-term relationship that I don’t have to wear condoms?”

I punch him in the stomach. Lightly.

“Ooh, I like it when you’re rough,” he says, and rolls on top of me. I can feel that he’s turned on and, after a few minutes of kissing and fondling, I take off the rest of my clothes and his boxers. I open the condom box, rip open the wrapper and slide it on him.

I’m surprised I haven’t forgotten how to put on one of these suckers. I guess it’s like riding a bicycle.

He puts his hands on my breasts and squeezes and thrusts into me. Once. Twice. Three times. Fouuuuuuuur.

Five doesn’t make it all the way in.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “It’s not working?”

“Apparently glove leads to no love.” I laugh and he rolls off the condom and deposits it on the floor. “Wanna sixty-nine?”

Groan. “Why don’t we have some bubbly first?”

“That would be lubbly.”

He pops the champagne, pours two glasses. We cuddle and turn on the TV.

I
try to ignore the camera, but it’s become my tail. Always up my behind.

Solution: Need to get drunker.

The problem so far on the taping of Episode Two is that Miche and I don’t know what to do with ourselves. Are we supposed to be hitting on guys? Dancing? Talking to strangers? Drinking? Howard complained that Miche and I didn’t flirt with enough guys last week. Excuse us for not wanting to appear trampy on television.

Instead of whoring ourselves out like we’re supposed to, we’ve elected to perch ourselves on two stools, huddling over a small table and apple martinis. I’m not usually a fan of any type of chair with no back or arms, and at the moment I’m even less of a fan as I’m very nervous about slouching on television. I’m also feeling bloated and cranky and I wish I didn’t look like a Vegas showgirl. I’m wearing an ankle-
length shimmering pale gold skirt and a tight, tarty, plunging, off-the-shoulder black camisole. The skirt is so tight that I needed to buy tummy control nylons. Choosing which ones to buy almost triggered a nervous breakdown. Nude stockings? Clear? Buff? Toeless? Body Control or Ultimate Shaping? Opaque, sheer, moisture enriched? Too many damn choices. I chose maximum control, sheer, toeless, nude for $27.99. Extravagant I know, but I can’t have them ripping in the middle of the episode. For this price I should be able to re-wear them. For this price I should be able to be buried in them.

My mike is clipped to the left side of my shirt, the side that isn’t bare.

The bar is called Salon. Last year it was a salon, this year it was converted into a bar. The bartenders are behind the hair-washing basins.

Photos of eighties’ hair models are the décor.

About seventy people are crowded into the small room. About thirty-five are blatantly staring at us. The remainder pretend to be unaware of us. Yeah, right. Pete and Dirk keep accidentally smashing them in the head, but what cameras?

Miche and I are drinking apple martinis, listening to the hip-hop music and watching Brittany do shots with two guys. She’s wearing a cowboy hat. I’m not sure what the deal is, but why is cowboy clothing cool? I don’t get it. Dirk has his camera trained on her. Pete is filming us.

“I can’t believe Brittany’s drinking again,” I say to Miche.

“Why are you surprised? She’s a lush.”

“Because when I saw her this afternoon, she went on and on about how embarrassed she was at her behavior last week. She said that she knows this show is a chance of a lifetime and she doesn’t want to blow it by making a fool of herself. And it doesn’t help that she has a low tolerance. But here she is getting drunk again.”

“Did she thank you for taking care of her?”

“Yeah.” I pause. Should I tell her not to drink again? Remind
her of what happened last time? I like being the conscientious one in the group, but I don’t want to be the nag. “Where’s Erin?”

“Grinding her crotch against some guy over there,” she says, pointing.

“That’s not the same guy as last week?”

“Nope. New night, new bar, new guy. Last week’s guy didn’t call her, so onto the next. Can you say walking STD?”

A guy with way too much eyebrow leans against our table and leers at Miche. “Hello,” he says, wagging the bushy line over his eyes. “I just moved to New York and I don’t know my way around. Do you think you could give me directions to your apartment?”

The two of us stare at him and burst out laughing. The camera is quivering, so I assume that Pete is laughing, too.

“I don’t think so,” Miche says.

Eyebrow Man shrugs and walks away.

“What the hell was that?” I ask.

She shrugs. “No idea.”

A few minutes later a sandy-haired surfer dude hovers near our table and leans toward me. “Nice pants,” he says. “Do you think I could get in them?”

“Are you kidding me?”

Miche is laughing so hard, she practically spits up her drink. Pete is now shaking. He’s never going to be able to use this footage.

What is going on? “Do you think you have a better chance of getting on television if you use bad pickup lines?” I ask the surfer hopeful.

“Some woman with orange hair told us that if we hit on you with creative come-on lines, our drinks would be on the house.”

Miche rolls her eyes. “Hilarious. We’re so pathetic that they have to send in ringers?”

“Apparently. Have a seat,” I tell Surfer and point to an empty bar stool. He’s pretty hot, actually. He has a big, wide smile with two dimples. I bet dimples would make even a convicted serial killer look like a little sweet boy.

He sits between Miche and me and immediately turns to Miche. “I’m Erik,” he says.

“Michelle,” she says, smiling. She twirls a strand of red around her fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Michelle.” He continues staring at Michelle, apparently lost in her curls.

Um, hello? Didn’t he come to hit on me? Wasn’t it my pants he was trying to get into?

He hasn’t introduced himself to me. He hasn’t even looked at me. Hello? Hello?

Michelle must realize that I’m feeling snubbed. “Erik, this is my friend, Sunny.”

“Hi,” he says, nodding quickly in my direction. He turns back to Miche. “Do you live in the city?”

The two converse while I feel horribly awkward and wish I was home. It’s embarrassing enough when this happens when you’re with a girlfriend. It’s exponentially awkward when a camera’s bright light is glaring in your face.

I see Carrie wandering around the bar, trying to look inconspicuous. When we were out for Thai food on Wednesday night, I had asked her if she knew what Miche’s father had died of. I suppose I could have asked Miche herself, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. Hey, I lost a parent to cancer. You?

“It was a huge scandal,” Carrie told me. “He was senior partner at the law firm Miles and Tore and had a heart attack when he was in bed, having an affair with the model Janna Mansen. Do you remember her? She was on the cover of
Vogue
a few times.”

I shook my head. “That’s horrible. He had a heart attack in his fifties? That’s so young.”

“Actually I think he was a bit older. Michelle’s mother was his second marriage.”

I wondered if Miche’s older/now absent father was the factor in her fifteen-year-older ex I saw at Stirred last week.

“You got Miche the job at
Party Girls,
right?” I asked Carrie.

“Yeah. She did some commercials when she was a preteen.
Character did the bookings. When I heard about the show, I pulled up her file. She’d been doing a little modeling during college, but nothing major. Did I tell you the gossip about the other girls?”

“No.”

“Brittany was molested by one of her mother’s boyfriends. Her parents are divorced. How gross is that?”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw her interview tape.”

“She said that?”

Carrie nodded. “Girls say everything on audition tapes. It’s like confession. She said she ran away at least four times, before telling her mother.”

“That’s horrible.”

“She came to me at the beginning of the year, wanting to be an actress. I don’t think she’s any good. I felt lucky she even got this.” She played with the rice on her plate. “I’m trying to think if I know any other goods.”

“What’s Erin’s story?”

Carrie shrugs. “I think she’s screwed up all on her own. Her parents are a little white-trashy. She grew up in some crappy suburb of Jersey. Her parents are still married. I think she’s an only child. Wants to be famous.”

I wondered what the goods on me were.

“Sunny,” Miche says, breaking me out of my reverie.

“What?”

“That guy is calling you. Do you know him?” She motions with her chin to a tall, dark-haired guy in a tight black shirt who is beckoning me over with his index finger.

“I don’t think so,” I say. I hop off my stool and stride over to where he’s standing. I feel the camera follow along. “Yeah?”

Pointing man smiles and drapes his muscled arm around my shoulders. “I made you come with one finger. Imagine what I could do with my whole hand.”

I pray that Steve doesn’t hear that tomorrow.

“Not sure. Jerk yourself off?” I disentangle myself from his groping arm and return to my stool. Humph.

Michelle is bright red and flustered. Her fingers are working overtime on their twirling. “Erik, sweetie, will you be the biggest doll ever and go get me another apple martini?” She taps her empty glass.

“Of course,” he says. “Sunny, can I get you another one, too?” How gallant. Yeah, whatever. You’re getting your drinks for free now, don’t look so smug.

When he’s out of earshot, I lean toward her. “What’s wrong?”

“You have a problem,” she says.

“What problem?”

She struggles to find the right words. Pete has the camera trained on our conversation. “A leakage problem.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Did I spill my drink on myself?” I look down at my lap. Great, just what I need. A big wet spot.

“Not your drink.” She says. “It’s your—” She takes her index finger and taps purposefully on the table. Once, twice, three times.

“What are you talking about?”

She pulls a lip liner from her purse and opens a discarded matchbook on the table. She writes a few words on the flip-up cardboard and passes it to me.

“BLED THROUGH SKIRT,” I read.

I close the matchbox quickly. I might cry. I might laugh. I just got my period on national television. “Fuck,” I mouth. But I’m not supposed to get my period for another two weeks. How did that happen? Oh. The pills. It’s because I missed two of my pills. Fuck. Normally after I stop taking the last pill of the month, four days later, my period starts. The first pill I missed was on Tuesday and I must have tricked my body into thinking my period was supposed to start today. Why didn’t the Internet instructions mention the possibility of me getting my period? On national television? I would have worn a pad. Or at least not a skintight gold skirt.

And as an added annoyance, Monday is Steve and my eleventh-month anniversary. What kind of anniversary has no sex?

Not that we’ve been successful in the condom department.

Must think. Must plan. Can’t get up. How can I get up? I can never stand up again? Does Pete realize what’s going on? He’s not shaking, which means he’s not laughing, but the camera is watching.

“I don’t have anything,” I say.

Miche looks into her purse. “I do.”

“But I have to get there,” I say. I sound like I’m a Mafioso talking on my wiretapped phone.

Miche’s forehead scrunches. She must be deep in concentration. “What? You’re cold? Do you want to try on my sweater?” She passes me a black cardigan that was under her purse.

“Thanks,” I say. I tie the cardigan around my waist and let it fall off the stool behind me. I warily stand up. “I have to go to the ladies room,” I say.

“Me, too.” Miche hops off the stool. “Go ahead,” she says, and follows me closely.

Pete trails us across the room but along the way ditches us to follow Erin.

“We lost him,” Miche says, pushing open the bathroom door.

The bathroom is, thankfully, empty.

“Ohmigod,” Miche says.

We start laughing and are unable to stop. I hand her back her sweater, no seep-through blood, and try to get a glimpse of my butt in the mirror.

There’s a red stain the size of a quarter on the back of my skirt.

“Do you think I should write to some teen magazine? This has to go in one of those
It Happened to Me
columns.”

Miche can’t speak, she’s laughing so hard.

“What am I going to do? I can’t wear a cardigan for the rest of the night. I’m supposed to be trendy.”

“First of all, take this.” She pulls a tampon from her purse.
“Ooh. I have an idea.” She hands me the tampon. “Don’t go anywhere.” She retreats into the bar.

Where am I going? I can’t leave the bathroom. I lock myself in one of the stalls. I slip off my shoes, take off my nylons, throw them into the mini garbage. So much for re-wearable.

Miche returns. “Come out, I have a plan.”

She’s holding a pair of scissors. “Take off your skirt.”

“I can’t, I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

“Hmm. Okay, pull it up then.”

I pull up the skirt a few inches. “How high?”

“So that the stain part is above your waist.”

I inch the skirt up.

“How do you feel about knee-length?” she asks and starts chopping the top foot of the shimmery material off.

If I had paid for this with my own money I would be freaking out.

“I hope this doesn’t unravel.” With the last incision, she removes the block of material. “Here you go. New and untarnished. It’s adorable.”

The new, shorter skirt slips down my hips. “It’s too big. How can I make it stay up?”

Holding the skirt scraps, she cuts off the soiled section and wraps the remaining material around my waist as a belt. “Voila!”

Did she say knee-length? Crotch-length is a more apt description.

In the mirror it looks like a real skirt. Kind of. “I have to admit, Betsey Johnson, I’m impressed.”

“Ready to go back out there?”

“Ready,” I say, and reapply my lipstick. I smile at myself in the mirror. “Do you think anyone noticed?”

She shakes her head. “No way.”

As we walk back to our table, Erik and Come-With-One-Finger Man, along with everyone else is staring at one of the hair-washing basins. A hair-washing basin where there’s a
large crowd. A hair-washing basin on which Erin is dancing. A hair-washing basin on which Erin is dancing topless.

And I was worried about people noticing me.

After the taping, Michelle and I take a cab to Coffee Shop. My feet hurt and I need to sit. “Why is there a line at three in the morning?”

“The waitresses are really hot,” Michelle explains.

It’s true. All the waitresses have waiflike bodies, smooth hair, large breasts and are at least five foot nine. Weird. “It’s creepy. It’s like we’re in Barbie Twilight Zone.”

Miche walks straight to the front of the line, speaks to the hostess and returns to the door, where I’m standing. “Come, we have a table.”