Lily’s girls start giggling, and then chattering amongst themselves in a language we don’t understand.
“Simmer down there, sailor,” I say, removing my forearm from Ireland’s clutches. I grab my half-finished mimosa from the armrest.
Ireland leans toward me. “And he gets it right every time,” she whispers.
I let the bubbly linger on my tongue. Every woman knows the impact of that statement.
“I don’t want to hear this right now,” I say, the wound of The Conversation with Mr. Smyth still fresh. I gulp my mimosa down and motion for a refill too.
“I thought you said he wasn’t even into oral.” Ireland bites into a fresh chocolate chip cookie, also complimentary at Lily’s ’til 2:00 p.m. every day.
It’s true. I’d confessed to Ireland that Mr. Smyth was perfect—except that…right before our last night of hot lovemaking, I decided to tantalize him with some oral foreplay. But when I turned around for a little simultaneous stimulation, his lips never touched mine—at least not the ones that counted. There I was, stuck in a Patient 68, hoping he’d eventually get the hint. But no such luck. I’d deemed it a generational mishap—that night.
I look at Ireland defensively. “We only had three dates.”
As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Smyth is still perfect—with or without the oral tendency. “What if he was about to whip that out on date four?”
Still pining for more orange-infused alcohol bubbly to numb the pain, I wave again at Lily’s girl with the large pitcher.
Lily’s girl who has just put the finishing touches on Ireland’s leopard-print toe pattern tells her to get up. Ireland carefully pulls her flip-flops over her newly manicured toes.
“You need to find a man who shows his true colors from the beginning—like Tony,” she says as she’s led away to the manicure table. “He’s got oral fever.”
I ponder Ireland’s statement as one of Lily’s girls tops off my glass yet again. Very few men had oral fever. They wanted to receive but not give. They wanted to touch but not taste. They wanted to sample but not dine. And if they did dine, the experience was usually more like going to MacDonald’s than to Chateau Marmont: it was sloppy and quick, and you were rarely asked if you wanted to order something different from the menu.
I had to admit, I had yet to be with a man who had “oral fever.” Not even The Ex got it right every time. He was moody when it came to oral sex. But, I smile to myself, if you got him on a good day, he was like Buck Rogers discovering the wonders of space.
“You have very nice feet.” The cute young Asian girl with the low-cut top, huge lips, and heavy accent says, looking up from my toes, now the shade of Merry Midnight.
I smile and thank her. She slides my flip-flops carefully onto my feet, and then stands up, takes my arm, and leads me in the direction of the manicure tables. “You want extra massage in back?” she asks, rubbing my forearm.
I consider the gesture…but politely decline.
#
One mani-pedi, four mimosas, two new BioFit uplift bras, and half a joint later, Ireland and I walk into Chloe—the new upscale bisexual boutique lounge in West Hollywood. The concept is not that new for West Hollywood: a sexually ambiguous crowd pecking at expensive tapas served on small plates fit to feed lap dogs.
Ireland and I survey the revolving door of typically attractive L.A. fashionistas that all new venues attract for the first eight weekends, as we walk up the stairs for the private “coming-out” party of Nisha Patil.
Ireland and I met Nisha in a poli-sci class at USC. Nisha was the most Amazonian-proportioned women I’d ever met; loud, overbearing, and very opinionated about things like women’s lib and most men being worthless—except, of course, her quiet, squat, third-generation Filipino boyfriend from the O.C., who smiled a lot and agreed with everything she had to say.
Nisha grew up in Mumbai and was betrothed from age thirteen. But by the time she was supposed to wed, she had other ideas about what she wanted to do with her life. So instead of going through with the nuptials, she paid a con woman to tell her father that the man’s family was cursed, and that anyone marrying into it would lose their life’s fortune. Nisha’s father immediately called off the wedding and sent Nisha to America, where Nisha spent her days parading around with her “boyfriend,” Willy, and her nights…romping around with every Trina, Daphne, and Heidi.
I wasn’t surprised that eight years later we were celebrating her inner lesbian.
Read all of Chapter 13: Oral Fixation by becoming a SLH Book Club Member .
