Faking It (15 page)

"Hey, Andi."

I gave him the same look as I gave Mags when she swallowed her foot whole.

"Hey."

"What's up?"

"You tell me."

"I'm working. What are you doing?"

"I'm kicking back after a kick-ass orientation."

"So, it went well? That's great. I know you worked hard planning it. Hey, you free tomorrow? That new Woody Allen movie is out, and I thought you'd wanna see it." Jayce conspicuously listened to every word, while Della watched him talk to me with the same jealous rage in her eyes as in mine. I darted my eyes to see who was watching and leaned into him.

"Get away from me and don't talk to me for the rest of the night."

"What is wrong with you?"

"I am with my
colleagues
, here!"

"Half of whom are my clients, as you probably already know."

"Not me--I am
not
going to be subject to this guilt-by-association. Just go back to your client--who has as much knowledge about rhetoric and composition theory as a rhesus monkey, by the way--and tell her how beautiful she is, 'cause I think she needs to hear it."

His sienna eyes pierced through me, only this time they weren't alluring or consoling, but rather disconcerting, as if to issue a warning.

"I'll call you tomorrow."

Before I could respond, he moved to the other end of the bar and ordered two drinks. Still holding my glass, I drank a few ice chips and crunched forcefully, my whole body trembling from an invisible chill. Jayce sidled to me and casually draped her arm around my shoulder.

"So--how long has
this
been goin' on?" she asked, her voice light and airy and inoffensive.

"Nothing's goin' on, Jayce."

"Come on! I know you're seeing him!"

"We're just friends, okay?"

"
Friends
?" she gasped, as if the notion was absurd: who befriends an escort?

"Jayce, if you spread this around, so help me, I'll find a way to fuck up your life."

I could almost see my brother Tony in his leather jacket, giving me a thumb's up approval as if I were standing up to the bully who used to take my milk money. But she wasn't a bully--she was my friend, and she looked hurt.

"Look, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. Actually, I think it's kinda cool that you're--"

"I gotta go..."

I grabbed my purse from the bar stool and whisked past the small bunch of Brooklyn University faculty, most of whom were already pretty well soused, and Devin and Della, who just lit a cigarette and had a look of satisfaction on her face from the mere anticipation of what she was gonna get from him as soon as she could get him out of there.

At that moment, I knew how Allison and Wanda and the others felt (even Della) every time they see Devin with another woman. All time stops. The dream is over. Sure, they may exchange knowing glances with each other. They may look unaffected--I'm sure they've learned to fake it and play it cool; but inside, they cannot escape their home truths. Inside, they all crave him for themselves. He makes us feel special for the moment, and then we see we're not all that special after all. And that letdown is worse than if he'd actually been ours in the first place and we lost him to another woman. He belongs to no one.

Chapter Fourteen

D
EVIN CALLED ME THE NEXT DAY, KEEPING HIS WORD. I swallowed hard and took in a deep breath before speaking.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," I said.

"It's okay."

"It was the first time I saw you in mixed company since we started this arrangement. It took me by surprise."

"I shouldn't have approached you. It was completely unprofessional of me. I never acknowledge my clients unless they acknowledge me first."

His reference to me as a "client" troubled me. What had we been doing for the last six weeks at his apartment and the last three weeks at museums and coffeebars and bookshops? Surely I couldn't be compared to his other clients. Had I spoken incorrectly when I told Jayce we were friends? There didn't seem to be another word.

I didn't take notice of the silence that dominated the phone line.

"So," he resumed, "you wanna see that movie? Got three and a half stars in
Newsday
."

I listened to him, baffled. I hadn't expected the phone call, much less the follow-through on the invitation. If anything, I thought he was going to assert that it would be best for us not to see each other anymore, even though we had one meeting left, officially. That we'd both gotten too personal and violated the contract and rather than pay the fines we should just go our separate ways. Instead, he read off movie times. Geez, he'd even called the theatre in advance: he was anticipating us going together--hell, planning it all along, as if I'd never freaked out the day before. I was not accustomed to a man sticking around, especially in the wake of my insecurity.

"Sure," I responded, sounding somewhat dazed.

Chapter Fifteen

Final Week of the Arrangement

W
E HAD CONCLUDED THE WRITING INSTRUCTION THE day before. Devin submitted a final portfolio containing his memoir, the commentary, the literacy narrative I'd assigned him at our first meeting, five journal entries, and a brief reflective essay not unlike the ones I require of my students to submit with their final portfolios.

I learned that my strength in writing is my patience. I let the process guide me rather than trying to force something to happen. And yet, I'm often surprised by what comes out. Oftentimes it takes a couple of drafts for me to uncover what I really want to say. I like being descriptive and using imagery. Language is not unlike art in that words contain values of lights and darks, hues and tonalities, texture and sensuality. Words can paint complex pictures.

My weakness would have to be writing persuasively. Again, I think this has to do with taking time to uncover my meaning. By the time I find my claim and get to the point, I've distracted the reader with information not necessarily pertinent to the argument itself. I am certain that by studying more examples and with practice, I could improve. I also want to improve my critical reading of a text, much like I can do with a visual.

The pleasant surprise is how much I enjoyed myself and the process. I'm reading a lot more (although, I have to admit, the Greek Classics were not my taste--perhaps I'll try the Romans sometime), and I noticed I'm
seeing
things differently. That's something I never would've expected. Not only that, but I'm thinking about what I'm seeing. I also recalled a lot of memories--some pleasant, some not so pleasant, that offered a new perspective. I understand
context
so much more now. Overall, I think I did well, and I'm grateful to have had a teacher who was thoughtful, challenging, and talented.

I could almost see him winking at me as I read the last words. In response, I wrote a final evaluation to him:

Devin,

This portfolio demonstrates that you've not only accomplished a variety of writing tasks, but that you are able to adapt your writing voice and style to accommodate your purpose and/or audience. I am particularly impressed by your use of metaphor and description. Your descriptions are detailed, your words energetic, your sentences rhythmic; each of these elements paint a panoramic view of meaning. You also have an excellent command of vocabulary. I like your voice.

I agree with your self-assessment regarding argument; however, you've shown me that you take time to think about your topic, and you have an ability to see multiple sides of an issue. Your journal pieces get better and better--you have a knack for recalling details and a critical eye, no doubt the result of your art training (the account of the Matisse exhibit read much like a review to me). Overall, you've embraced the concept of revision as a process that is constantly unfolding and nonlinear. You've been open to the process, willing to explore, and I derive so much pleasure from seeing the results of that willingness on the page. Indeed, you are a
writer
.

***

My "final" was a date with Devin the Escort. We met at night and at my place, and he instructed me to wear something sexy. The week before, I blew over two hundred dollars on satin and lace bras, panties, teddies, hosiery, and vanilla body lotion at Victoria's Secret. I opened the door to see him in his usual Versace, and I saw his eyes immediately scan the black cocktail dress and thigh-high sheers I was wearing. My feet were already killing me in three-inch, sling-back heels. With that one look, he gasped and exclaimed, "Bellisima!" blowing an Italian kiss with his fingers while his eyes shot off fireworks.

I beamed.

He brought chilled sparkling cider and strawberries in sterling silver buckets and set them out for me. I carefully sipped the cider from a crystal Mikasa flute and dipped one of the strawberries in a bowl of melted chocolate. The sensation of the flavors mixing in my mouth shot currents down my back.

"You know," he started, "I always meant to ask: how come you don't drink?"

"I can't stomach it," I replied. "Like the way some people are with dairy."

"Do you miss it?"

"Alcohol? Never."

"How come?"

"I never liked it. I've been in too many bars and clubs, watching my brothers perform, to see its effects, not to mention knowing some once-brilliant professors whose intellect have just withered away in the slosh of booze. It's sad, really."

"Hmm."

We danced to Diana Krall's cover of "The Look of Love" saying little, if anything, to each other. Even in my heels, I could just about reach around his shoulders, and let my hands touch his hair at the nape of his neck, while his hands brushed the small of my back like feathers. We locked in to each other's gaze and the world disappeared. Then Devin took me by the hand and led me to my bedroom. I had changed the bulbs in the reading lamps to soft pink, and bought creamy, fine percale sheets at Linens n Things. Vanilla scented votives burned unobtrusively on the dresser and nightstand and next to my reading chair.

"Nice," he approved, scanning the room.

He dipped and practically dropped me on the bed. By now the mantra was
have no fear
. Men like women who are neither too timid nor too forceful; who like to play; who aren't obsessing over their bodies. Just relax and have fun.

"Close your eyes," he instructed.

I did so.

"Okay: open them now." When I did, I spied a white box with a red ribbon wrapped around it, in his hand, extended to me.

I took the box, pulled off the ribbon, and opened it. Then I looked at it, then him, incredulously.

It was plastic and smooth and had a leopardskin pattern. It required two C batteries. It stood tall and erect and a condom could easily slip on and off it.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"I'm...a bit...surprised," I stammered.

"Haven't you ever used a vibrator before?"

I didn't respond.

"Haven't you ever
seen
one?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Well, this one's for you. I thought you'd like the leopardskin," he winked. I did. I removed it from the box and turned it on. The vibe made a soft, purring noise.

"The batteries are included," he remarked.

"What, no blinking lights? Does it also talk dirty to you?"

"No, but it'll call you tomorrow."

Devin turned out the lights and blew out all the candles except two. He switched the CD from Diana Krall to Tchaikovsky's
SwanLake
(they were both on my list of music that gets me in the mood). I stretched out on the bed, resting on my elbow. He sat on the bed next to me.

"Take off your shoes," he commanded. I loosened each sling-back with my foot and flung them off, one by one. He ran his fingers up my thigh and pulled each of the sheers down, one by one. He then unzipped and removed my dress, letting the fabric of my black satin, spaghetti-strapped slip slide along my skin, revealing satin, leopardskin print bikini panties

"Hey, they match!" he said, holding the vibrator next to the print. I tossed my head back and laughed freely, flirtatiously.

I started to sit up and wrap my arms around his shoulders and neck, but he took them away and gently pushed me so that I fell on my back, my head on the pillow. I could barely hear the music in the background, even though the volume was up. In a seemingly involuntary motion, I pressed my lips to his. He stopped me and fed me a strawberry instead, and then gave me a piece of cider-soaked ice to suck on. But this didn't satisfy me; I spat out the ice cube, shooting it against the wall, and kissed him again. This time, he gave in, swirling his tongue around mine. Finally. Oh God, it felt good--in fact, I don't remember a kiss ever feeling quite so...
lascivious
. His lips felt smooth and firm and moist all at the same time. We kissed some more, and I ran my fingers through his hair as he climbed on top of me and pinned me on the bed. I breathed heavily.

He slowly lowered my bikinis, and moved his hands around my waist, careful not to tickle me, showing me how to move. "Think of dancing," he whispered. "Relax." As he began to kiss my neck, a deluge of repressed memories rushed and submerged me in an instant:

...I am nine years old and announce that I am going to marry Shaun Cassidy. My brothers laugh at and tease me. "Why would Shaun Cassidy want to marry you? You're only nine." "He'll wait for me," I insist. "He doesn't even know you exist," Joey says. My father interjects: "
You're not marrying anyone
. For crying out loud, do you even know what you're saying?"

...I am ten years old and dress my Barbie doll in Daisy Duke shorts and a halter top, and do the best I can to position her and Ken's straight and stiff joints to hug and make out with each other. My mother sees this and reprimands me. "Play with your baby dolls instead." "I don't like them," I respond. "Then play something else. And change her clothes--she looks like a hooker." I don't know what a 'hooker' is, but from the tone of her voice, I know it's something bad. I look down to notice that I, too, am wearing cutoffs and a halter top...