the chance to do it all over again? You have to understand that up until this point in my life, the part of my brain devoted to Sexual Regret was populated entirely with people I
didn’t
go to bed with. If I’d broken down and had sex with Lance Bateman, for example, when I was seventeen and desperately wanted to, I’m convinced that my entire life would have turned out differently. I say this not because I’m under some sort of delusion about Lance’s sexual prowess, but because sleeping with him would have gotten me over the hump, so to speak, and then I would have gone on through my life and slept with all the other people I regret not sleeping with, or most of them anyway, and I’d be a little harder now, and a little more damaged, and sort of a slut—but I’d be wiser, too. I’d be a wise slut.
I find I’m trying to explain how it is that Henry ended up back at my apartment.
I think one of the reasons I’ve had sex with so few people is because it took me so long to figure one simple thing out: men ask once. They don’t even ask, really. They try. Men try once. That’s why Holly Hunter was so upset when she got stuck at Albert Brooks’s house and couldn’t go have sex with William Hurt after he’d groped her left breast in front of the Jefferson Monument. She knew she might not get a second chance. And she was right—she didn’t get a second chance, because the plot got in the way. A part of me knew that if I didn’t go ahead and go home with Henry that first night, then it was never going to happen between us. The window of opportunity would close forever. And so, when Henry asked if he could come up and see my apartment after he walked me home, I said yes.
When we got inside, I went into the kitchen to get us some drinks. I could hear Henry poking around in the other room.
“Beer okay?” I called.
“Perfect,” said Henry.
“Good.”
“You play golf?” he said.
“No. Do you?”
“A little.”
Henry materialized in the doorway to the kitchen. He leaned against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest and looked at me.
“You have a brother who plays golf who by chance stores his clubs in your entry hall?”
“No,” I said.
“I’m starting to get the feeling that maybe I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“He’s been gone, what, a week?”
Was it that obvious?
“Longer than that,” I said.
“No man who golfs often enough to keep his clubs in the entryway would leave them for much more than a week.”
“He hasn’t been gone for very long, but it’s been over for a while.”
“Ah.”
“You with your ahs.”
“They give me time to think,” Henry said.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m just wondering when you’re going to write about it.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to.”
“It seems like just the sort of thing you write about.”
“I’m going to write about the Chinese restaurants and the tiramisu.”
“I think you’re not going to write about it until you’re sure it’s over.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Which means you’re not sure it’s over,” Henry said. “Which means I should probably go.”
“I’m not sure that’s absolutely necessary,” I said, throatily. The second the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Maybe he was looking for a graceful way out, and I’d just made that impossible. Maybe I’d blocked his escape route. “If you want to leave, you should go,” I said, and then, in a panic—fearing that he might now think I
wanted
him to leave—I amended it with this: “But don’t not stay because of, you know, him.”
Okay, people: this is what I’m talking about. If you don’t have sex somewhere between the ages of, say, sixteen and twenty-two, it seems to me that you miss out on some very important things. There’s a whole lot of crucial stuff I never learned, like, for example, how you get from a meaningful stare over the tiramisu into bed without completely humiliating
didn’t
go to bed with. If I’d broken down and had sex with Lance Bateman, for example, when I was seventeen and desperately wanted to, I’m convinced that my entire life would have turned out differently. I say this not because I’m under some sort of delusion about Lance’s sexual prowess, but because sleeping with him would have gotten me over the hump, so to speak, and then I would have gone on through my life and slept with all the other people I regret not sleeping with, or most of them anyway, and I’d be a little harder now, and a little more damaged, and sort of a slut—but I’d be wiser, too. I’d be a wise slut.
I find I’m trying to explain how it is that Henry ended up back at my apartment.
I think one of the reasons I’ve had sex with so few people is because it took me so long to figure one simple thing out: men ask once. They don’t even ask, really. They try. Men try once. That’s why Holly Hunter was so upset when she got stuck at Albert Brooks’s house and couldn’t go have sex with William Hurt after he’d groped her left breast in front of the Jefferson Monument. She knew she might not get a second chance. And she was right—she didn’t get a second chance, because the plot got in the way. A part of me knew that if I didn’t go ahead and go home with Henry that first night, then it was never going to happen between us. The window of opportunity would close forever. And so, when Henry asked if he could come up and see my apartment after he walked me home, I said yes.
When we got inside, I went into the kitchen to get us some drinks. I could hear Henry poking around in the other room.
“Beer okay?” I called.
“Perfect,” said Henry.
“Good.”
“You play golf?” he said.
“No. Do you?”
“A little.”
Henry materialized in the doorway to the kitchen. He leaned against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest and looked at me.
“You have a brother who plays golf who by chance stores his clubs in your entry hall?”
“No,” I said.
“I’m starting to get the feeling that maybe I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“He’s been gone, what, a week?”
Was it that obvious?
“Longer than that,” I said.
“No man who golfs often enough to keep his clubs in the entryway would leave them for much more than a week.”
“He hasn’t been gone for very long, but it’s been over for a while.”
“Ah.”
“You with your ahs.”
“They give me time to think,” Henry said.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m just wondering when you’re going to write about it.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to.”
“It seems like just the sort of thing you write about.”
“I’m going to write about the Chinese restaurants and the tiramisu.”
“I think you’re not going to write about it until you’re sure it’s over.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Which means you’re not sure it’s over,” Henry said. “Which means I should probably go.”
“I’m not sure that’s absolutely necessary,” I said, throatily. The second the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Maybe he was looking for a graceful way out, and I’d just made that impossible. Maybe I’d blocked his escape route. “If you want to leave, you should go,” I said, and then, in a panic—fearing that he might now think I
wanted
him to leave—I amended it with this: “But don’t not stay because of, you know, him.”
Okay, people: this is what I’m talking about. If you don’t have sex somewhere between the ages of, say, sixteen and twenty-two, it seems to me that you miss out on some very important things. There’s a whole lot of crucial stuff I never learned, like, for example, how you get from a meaningful stare over the tiramisu into bed without completely humiliating
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