Story of My Life by Jay McInerney Page B

sweater. Even though she’s not going out, Jeannie brushes her hair and touches up her eyes before he comes over. She gives him the eye and I can tell what she’s thinking. It kills her that I went out with Frank, and she develops these weird physical crushes on any guy I go out with but I doubt she even realizes it. I think she’d like to sleep with all my boyfriends. Partly it’s like a revenge fantasy, but also its because she loves me and looks up to me and sympathizes totally with me, you know, and automatically likes a guy if he’s passed my selection process. Reminds me of my sister Carol, who never liked the clothes she bought for herself and only wanted to wear stuff from my closet. I guess it’s a compliment. With Jeannie, it’s kind of like, we share sweaters and shoes and dresses so why not men? At least, I sometimes think that’s what’s going on in her head when she starts flirting with my guys, though probably not consciously. It’s sort of a great idea, sharing a lover with someone you love. But it’s too weird, really.
    Did I mention about Jeannie and Alex, my old boyfriend? Somewhere in Jeannie’s mind there’s this doubt about marriage and domestic bliss with Frank, this little cloud floatingaround—it’s like, picture a perfectly clear sky and that’s probably a pretty good picture of Jeannie’s mind—I love her but I definitely wouldn’t let her take my law boards for me. Anyway there’s this little thing she has going over the phone with Alex, he calls up for me but sometimes she picks up or else I’m not home and they’ve developed this incredible flirtation where they’re talking about sex and teasing each other and they’ve never even met. I told you about Jeannie and my boyfriends. In a way I’m kind of irritated but in another way I’m like, great, I hope Jeannie sleeps with Alex because if she does she’ll have a hard time settling for the notion of a lifetime of sleeping with Frank, who is not exactly Valentino in bed. I think it would be good for her, and anyway, this marriage idea is kind of bogus. . . .
    So Dean and I are in this frantic place on Second Avenue packed with well-groomed gringos getting sloppy on margaritas.
    Popular place, I go.
    Dean says, these people are all bankers trying to improve the balance of payments with Mexico and prevent default. That’s the only way I can think of, he goes, to explain the popularity of Third World food on the Upper East Side.
    Most of them look like they could use some spice, I say. Not that Dean is exactly the hairy barbarian himself. I mean, it seems like his idea of wild is argyle socks. But it’s okay, Ilike straight guys, I’d never go out with anybody who’s as irresponsible as me. Most of the guys I know have really high-powered jobs and make up for lost time when they’re not in the office. The Berserk After Work Club. I seem to attract them in a big way, all these boys in Paul Stuart suits with six-figure salaries and hellfire on a dimmer switch in their eyes.
    The waiter knows Dean and he keeps bringing us free margaritas so I get really blasted. Not blasted exactly. I just get really horny. Story of my life, right? I mean, who needs tequila? But then I remember my little problem, which makes me a mondo unhappy unit.
    Dean’s like, you want to come over? and I’m like, sure, yeah, but basically I’m still out of commission. He says that’s okay, sex isn’t the only thing he ever thinks about, and I’m like, well, I hope it’s near the top of the list, anyway. He cracks up.
    So we get to Dean’s house and the phone is ringing. I don’t know why I say house, it’s an apartment. It’s like, living in New York never really seems normal, you keep thinking of the world as a place where people live in houses and drive cars to the 7-Eleven.
    Somebody called Didi for you, Dean goes, handing me the phone.
    Didi’s just bought her stash for the night and she wants to come over. God, I don’t know. A couple