One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [188]
“I want you inside me,” she said, touching the mound of his penis. “I want your fat cock in my wet pussy.”
The mere suggestion of this sex act was too much, and as he was trying to unzip his jeans, the inevitable happened. He came. “Damn,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” She sat up.
“I just…you know.” He slid his hand into his jeans and felt the tell-tale wetness. “Fuck!”
She got onto her knees behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only the first time.”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are so sweet,” he said. “You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.”
“Am I?” she said, jumping off the bed. She pulled on a pair of cashmere sweatpants. “James?” she asked in a syrupy voice. “Since you’re leaving and I won’t see you for a month…”
“Do you need some money?” he said. He reached into his pants pocket. “I’ve only got sixty dollars.”
“There’s an ATM in the deli around the corner. Do you mind? I owe the landlady two hundred dollars. For utilities. And you don’t want me to starve while you’re away.”
“I certainly don’t,” James said. “But you should try to get a job.”
“I will,” she reassured him. “But it’s hard.”
“I can’t support you forever,” he said, thinking about his aborted attempt at sex.
“I’m not asking you to,” she said. On the sidewalk, she took his hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He extracted five hundred dollars from the ATM and handed it to her. “I’ll miss you,” she said, flinging her arms around him. “Call me the minute you get back. We’ll get together. And next time it will work,” she called over her shoulder.
James stared after her, then set off down Ninth Avenue. Had he just been taken for a ride? No, he assured himself. Lola wasn’t like that. And she’d said she wanted to do it again. He strolled down Fifth Avenue full of confidence. By the time he reached One Fifth, he’d convinced himself it was a good thing he’d ejaculated prematurely. No fluids were exchanged, so it couldn’t really be called cheating.
20
Early that evening, on her way to Thayer Core’s place, Lola paused across the street from One Fifth and stared at the entrance. She often did this, hoping to run into Philip or Schiffer. The week before, they’d announced their engagement, and the news was all over the tabloids and on the entertainment programs, as if the union of two middle-aged people was not only a big deal but an inspiration for all lonely, still-single middle-aged women everywhere. Schiffer had gone on Oprah to promote Lady Superior, but really, Lola thought, to boast about her upcoming nuptials. Their marriage was part of a hot new trend, Oprah said, in which women and men were finding first loves from the past and realizing they were meant for each other all along. “But this time around, one is older and wiser—I hope!” Schiffer remarked, which drew knowing laughter from the audience. They had yet to set a date or a place but wanted to do something small and nontraditional. Schiffer had already picked out a dress—a short white sheath covered in silver bugle beads—which Oprah held up for the cameras. While the audience oohed and ahhed, Lola felt sick. It should have been her wedding Oprah was blathering on about, not Schiffer’s. And she would have chosen a better dress—something traditional, with lace and a train. Lola couldn’t stop thinking about the wedding; filled with envy and anger, she possessed a pernicious fantasy of confronting either Philip or Schiffer. Hence her occasional stakeouts of One Fifth. And yet she didn’t dare linger too long—she might encounter Philip or Schiffer but might as easily run into Enid.