Part I. New York
No, I had never actively sought out a call girl, and it was not helping that she had to have unique qualities. She had to be pretty, young, experienced, smart, and bisexual, a combination that excluded everyone I knew—so far.
Should I ever find her, my outlandish idea was to use her as a springboard to jump-start my brain's storybook. Frankly, I doubted she existed. Such plots tend to be complex and filled with nuance. Still, the thought stalked me.
Do not misunderstand; having lived in New York, I recognized there was no shortage of bisexual women, and once the ad appeared on Facebook, they oozed from the pores of Manhattan's tedious brickwork. The hourly rate proved an attraction, but I soon realized I could not use an east coast girl; they did not fit my strict guidelines, the ones I had conjured for the story's central character.
The more I thought about it, the more I was attracted to a west coast theme. I needed someone different—contrasting. Until I found her, the concept slow-cooked, leaving me stuck.
The book, should it ever mature to something readable, would be my twenty-first. Known for past success, I found myself facing lofty promotional targets set by my publisher. Accomplishment, you see, comes at a price for those of us putting words to paper.
Achievement and contentment do not necessarily go hand in hand. Three bestsellers, a movie option, and an endorsement from Oprah gave me a license to print money. Happiness was another matter. You see, although writing was central to my identity, it was not its cornerstone—Russell was.
Having met in a high school English class, we fell madly in love. His Grecian looks and muscular body took me by storm, our epic, the talk of Roosevelt High.
The affair was deliciously lurid, sweltering. In retrospect, I was so predictably typical. Determined to hold onto Russell, on our first date, I let him finger me.
From there, it was a short hop to steamy nights, hurriedly fumbled mutual masturbation, oral delights, and finally—finally— we did it.
Despite Russell's pleadings, and though I let him come in my mouth, I refused to swallow. Instead, and naively, I reserved it; my thinking, that a girl should save that little trick for marriage.
A few miles separated us through our college years, but I managed to find my way to him almost every weekend. Once together, I fucked like a wild woman.
Through the four years, I allowed no one else access to my body; instead, I saved myself exclusively for him. It was, I felt, a noteworthy accomplishment by anyone's standard.
What's more, I not only saved myself for him, I saved some of myself for later. No anal—well, for the sake of full disclosure, when he insisted I allowed him to insert a thumb—but as I said, no swallowing. The latter rule survived only until the end of freshman year; in the end, I caved. If I did not do it, I reasoned, someone else would. Anyway, as a woman learns, making a cock her own is the mother of all challenges.
My girlfriends, on the other hand, hooked up with whomever. I was not envious but felt a bit out of place in the budding world of female sexuality. Other girls looked upon my loyalty to Russ with mild disdain. To me, however, excluding other men from my body was wonderfully romantic.
Soon after graduation, Russ and I took jobs in the city. On Wall Street, he invested, at Elle, I wrote. We had it all, or so it seemed.
However, Russell grew restive. He worked late, which, given market volatility, seemed understandable. The problem was, it continued after the volatility smoothed. I knew something was up, especially since his sexual interest in me waned. One day, he walked in and said, "I'm not doing this anymore."
"Not doing what?" I asked, a lightning freeze ascending my spine.
"I can't be married, Heather. I'm not going to argue or discuss it—I'm leaving." The explicitness in his voice collapsed my insides. Tossing a few things into a bag—poof—he departed my life.
Not knowing what to do without him, I crashed. Scurrying hither and yon like a cornered animal, I retreated to writing—and developed writer's block. I lost weight, not through choice, but via bulimia; I cut my long red hair just above the shoulder because it looked shoddy. I broadcast depression. I was a mess.
I shaved—Yuk! Russell preferred me natural, but the world had changed, and at forty-one, I became part of something I intentionally skipped in the first place.
But, even taking into consideration my so-called 'improvements,' I found myself lost. New York felt foreign. I hated everything.
My editor, Peter Willett, saw through it—and into my soul. He detected every pathetic phase of my misery, his discerning eyes, everywhere. A kind and patient man, he proved a steadying hand through my years of writing and more so with Russell gone. At a private meeting three weeks ago, he confronted me.
"You're crumbling, Heather. I'm worried." His words burned into me. "It shows in your writing, or I should say, in your failure to write. You're not eating, you've missed two deadlines for the Playboy article, worse, you're removed, even from me."
Saying nothing, I just looked out the window. Gambling on passive defense, I hoped Peter would stop. From his twenty-second floor office in Manhattan's vertical world, I gazed silently at the slivers of blue sky filling the void between skyscrapers.
"Heather, are you listening? I'm losing you. If you don't break from your past—it's been a year; it's over with Russell. It's time to deal with it."
His continued verbal mugging startled me. Peter had always been such a gentleman. I paced his office. It was small, and my long legs made it feel smaller. I felt pent up, frustrated—as I had for a year. I struck back. In my most threatening tone, I attacked him for the impudence of his honesty. "It's not over!"
Crumpling into a seat across from his desk and fighting back tears, I covered my face with my hands. "He'll be back goddam it; I know it, Peter. Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm not doing it to you, Heather—Russell is. I raise concerns because they're true— because I'm worried about you." Then he drove the final stake of despair into my heart. "I saw Russ, last week and he was with that awful woman—Allison. I'm not stupid, Heather; he's serious about her. He's been seeing her for some time. Come on, honey, if you're not realistic about this, your life will stay stuck in a world that's gone away."
"Fuck you, Peter," I spat. Picking up my laptop and jacket, I stormed out and left the building. From there, sobbing, I trudged pointlessly through midtown.
My problem was he was right. Lonely in a place filled to the brim with a hundred thousand people per square block made it worse; its irony, haunting.
With sore feet, smeared makeup, and the remnants of my spirit in tow like damaged airport luggage, I shamefacedly returned to Peter's office.
Of all things, he was happy to see me; clearly, my words had not affected the unconditional respect embedded in the soul of our friendship. He was patient, and I, a bitch, wanted him to scream at me.
"I'm so sorry Peter, I..."
"...stop," he interrupted. "There's no need. It was something we both had to do. I'm worried, that's all. I'm afraid for you. I hope you can understand."
"Of course," I said. Then, admitting the self-evident, I blurted out the decision I had made weeks ago. "I have to get out of here, Peter, to leave New York. I'm going to work on that project I told you about."
Even though he represented dozens of other authors, he instantly recalled the shadowy scheme to which I referred. "The one about the girl?" he asked.
"The bisexual, yes."
"But you don't know who she is," he ventured, a look of puzzlement crossing his handsome face.
Assuming he thought I was about to run off on a wild-goose chase, I said, "I know that, Peter. I'll hunt for her in San Francisco. I need to get away right now, to find a woman, a young woman—one who lives a life contradicting my own—my opposite. If I can discover her, the rest will fall into place. I'll be able to write again."
Probing, he said, "Tell me what you want to accomplish, thematically, I mean."
Reflecting on my years at college, on my years of waiting and denying myself, I answered, "I want a girl who doesn't need men. I don't care if she likes men—I just want her to be as free of them as she chooses. She has to be young, beautiful, and openly sexual. I have to..."
"...you have to get into her head to learn what that world looks like through her eyes. Yes, I understand. Heather, in principle, I like the idea. It's fresh and will sell to a public interested in what motivates such women.
"But in the past, you've stood off to one side of your subject—objectively looking in. Given your emotional state, is that realistic now? What if you don't find a willing participant? She may not exist, and you might have to make her up. I don't want you to end up viewing your work as a literary corruption.
"Think about the risks," he continued. "If you find her, you will be asking a woman—a woman you don't know—to reveal her innermost thoughts. It's a longshot.
"I worry if she doesn't materialize, it will only contribute to your current descent to emotional doubt. See where this is going? Above all, I don't think you should view the project as a therapeutic resolution to the Russell problem. It has to stand on its own merits, Heather."
"I realize that, Peter," I insisted. "Trust me; it's not a crutch. I've been thinking about it for a long time. I just never found the girl and am too wrapped up in New York. I need new surroundings. I can do this." With his skepticism evident, he let the issue go.
"I'll be gone a year. I have saved enough from previous book sales to get by. I'll stay in touch with you, but probably not much. I need some time..."
"...I understand," he murmured. "Do what you think is best. I'll support you." The thought struck me that Peter had something else on his mind, and just then, his demeanor changed from one of a caring friend to that of a stern and unyielding father. "Heather, there's something you should know."
"What?"
"Well..."
"...don't keep me in suspense, Peter, tell me."
