From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (Chapter 1: New Year’s Ex)
I am going to seduce my boyfriend.
We’re supposed to go to this glossy New Year’s Eve Party at the Beverly Hills hotel my boyfriend manages. He’s supposed to pick me up at seven. It’s six twenty-three. I’m not planning on getting dressed. I lift my vodka cocktail off the bathroom counter and take a sip.
Tensions have been running high in our relationship. This is nothing new. After five and a half years together, no more than five months have ever gone by without some kind of drama, incident, or break-up. But we are going to make it. We’ve been together way too long to not make it. I fidget with my garter belt, trying to figure out what’s supposed to sit left, right, and center.
I need us to make it. I’m done fucking around. I’m twenty-eight and I don’t want to be single.
And I do not want to be like my older sister who has no direction or aspiration. And never wakes up before noon. And devotes all her affections to three birds and a cat. I unroll each thigh-high and try to attach the hooks evenly. I take another sip of my cocktail.
My parents expect us to make it. Actually, after five and a half years they expect us to get married—just like they expected my sister to marry her high school sweetheart. But she ran off with a wealthy sixty-six-year-old CEO, who also happened to be our father’s boss. On her wedding day.
After rocking my parents’ esteemed northwest Chicago suburb social status, my sister and her scandalous suitor traveled the world for a year and then settled in Montreal. A month after they finished unpacking, he died. And my sister inherited enough money to never need direction or aspiration again.
This all happened when I was ten. Ever since, I’ve been The Upstanding Daughter. Following my first week of high school, my father sat me down to discuss all the colleges and universities I would be applying to. He strongly “encouraged” me to get any ideas about eloping or traveling the world out of my head. But really, I’m not bitter.
I stuff extra padding into my tight lacy bodice to give a greater impression of cleavage; unfortunately, I need it. At least I’m skinny. I’d rather be skinny and flat than voluptuous and fat. Skinny chicks can always move to L.A., get boob jobs, and start dating young, hot, model/actor types—even when they’re forty and divorced with three kids. I slide into the trampy compartment and go to the kitchen to fix myself another drink.
If we get married I can quit my job. My job pays great money, but I hate it. Planning these perfect little communities for these perfect little families whose greatest level of stress is building a perfect little itinerary for the next holiday or birthday party. Talk about suburbia hell. I sip more vodka.
Of course, I could be one of those wives. One of those bright, cheery, manicured, pampered women who drive their daily three blocks in an expensive gas-guzzling SUV to go shopping. I could probably even get us a steal on one of those houses, if I start sucking up to my boss. My boss, who is always suggestively mentioning the hip, young church he’s just joined with his hip, young wife—in one of the hip new neighborhoods we’ve just finished building. But I tell him I’m doing just fine in my small guesthouse in Santa Monica—for now. I walk back into my closet to dig out the highest pair of black stiletto heels I can find.
I’m buzzed. To wear this outfit you have to be. To once again save this relationship you have to be. I know a night of hot sex will get things back on track. After five and a half years together, sex still grabs the spotlight.
Over the Christmas holidays, we flew to Chicago to visit my parents, and take advantage of another fabulous free hotel stay. One night we went out with some friends from my old stomping grounds, and I was ordering drinks for Pete—whom I hadn’t seen since karate class in the tenth grade. My boyfriend started in on his usual jealous, immature, off-kilter remarks-then told me he was leaving. I ignored him and continued partying.
Eventually, I took a cab back to our hotel, ordered pay-per-view porn, crawled under the covers, and gave him a mind-numbing blow job. We were fine the next morning.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2007 by Dorota Skrzypek.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.
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