“Carrie,” she said.
“Carrie . . . ?” Ray asked. “Have I met you?”
“No,” Amalita said. “She’s a great girl. One of us. But an intellectual. A writer.”
“You gotta write my story,” Ray said. “I’m telling you, my life would be a best-seller. So much stuff has happened to me. I’m a survivor.” She looked to Amalita for affirmation. “Look at us. We’re both survivors. The other girls like us . . . Sandra . . .”
“She’s in A.A. and works all the time and never goes out,” Amalita said.
“Gabriella . . .”
“Call girl.”
“Marit . . .”
“Went crazy. Detox, then Silver Hill.”
“Tell me about it,” Ray said. “I heard she freaked out on your couch and you had to take her to the bughouse.”
“She’s out now. Has a job. PR.”
“Poor Relations, I call it,” Ray said. “They want to use her for her social connections, but her eyes are so glazed over you can’t hardly talk to her. She just sits there like a bug while they paw through her Rolodex.”
Carrie couldn’t help it. She laughed.
Ray glared at her. “Well, it ain’t funny. You know?”
8
Manhattan Ménage! Seven Men
Pop the Inevitable Question
I’m at dinner with a man. We’re into a second bottle of 1982 Château Latour. Maybe it’s our third date, maybe our tenth. It doesn’t matter. Because, eventually, it always comes up. The Inevitable.
“Errrrrr,” he begins.
“Yes?” I ask, leaning forward. He rests his hand on my thigh. Perhaps he’s going to
“pop the question.” It’s not likely, but then again, what is?
He begins again. “Have you ever . . .”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever . . . wanted to . . .”
“What?”
“Have you ever wanted to . . . have sex with another woman?” he asks, triumphant.
I’m still smiling. But there it is, sitting on the table like a puddle of vomit. I already know what’s coming next.
“With me, of course,” he says. “You know, a threesome.” Then comes the kicker: “We could maybe get one of your friends.”
“Why would I want to do that?” I ask. I don’t even bother inquiring why he thinks one of my friends might be interested.
“Well, I would like it,” he says. “And besides, you might like it, too.”