Bedding Down, A Collection of Winter Erotica by Rachel Krame Bussel Page B
Authors: Rachel Krame Bussel
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weather,” I said into Carolyn’s meaningful radio silence.
“It’s not the weather that’s the problem,” Carolyn said em-
phatically before ending the call.
I knew she thought I should cut my losses and move on. But
I’d moved on quickly my whole life, my relationship history a
I t’s N ot the W eather
97
colorful blur like a ride on a whirligig at an amusement park. I’d sworn after my last devastating break-up that I’d give my next
relationship a chance. Twelve months to succeed or fail. With
100 pecent of my effort, windchill factor or no.
As I rounded the loop and turned back toward home, I devel-
oped a new idea. Perhaps if I could make Roger see how lovely
a sun-drenched winter could be, I’d be able convert him. Maybe
he could turn his back on his beloved East Coast, become an
expatriate, like Hemingway in the Paris of the 1920s. Only in-
stead of sitting in precious French cafés smoking Gitanes and
drinking absinthe, he would grow his hair long, buy some board
shorts, wear a Sex-Wax T-shirt
I cruised into the apartment like hell on wheels.
“Fuck me on my blades,” I begged. “Pretend you’re doing Mrs.
Claus, if that will help you any.” But Roger didn’t even glance my way. He was staring fixedly at a movie on his computer.
“Come on, Rog,” I urged. “You can spin me any way you
want. You can do me up against the window, and let people
watch. All you have to do is pull the ties on my bikini, and I’ll be naked.”
No response.
When I got closer, I saw that he was watching Alive, watching with a look of utter dreaminess, as if this were a travel in-fomercial for Aspen rather than a tragic tale of cannibalism in the Andes. Peeking over his shoulder, I followed along with
him for a moment, and a real shiver worked it’s way down my
spine. Roger didn’t notice. He seemed totally mesmerized by
the scenario.
“Look,” he said softly. “Look at all that snow.”
98
A lison T yler
*
*
*
“What is it about the winter?” I asked Roger the next day.
“Women are all dressed up. You don’t know what they look
like underneath. Here in L.A., it’s like a skin parade twenty-four-hours a day. There’s no mystery. No wishful thinking about spring when the short skirts come out, when the girls strip off those outer layers and let their real selves show through.”
Wow. Here was the first man I’d ever met who didn’t like
women displaying their bodies. He was unique. That’s what I
told myself. He was special.
“There’s no cuddling by the fire. No hot chocolate or hot
toddies. No chestnuts, Shelly. There’s no fucking chestnuts.”
His deep blue eyes pleaded with me to understand.
So I tried again. I borrowed winter gear from Carolyn, who
likes to go to cold places as much as I like to stay in warm ones.
I dressed myself up in layers upon layers, ending with a purpleand-orange stripy scarf and a hat with earflaps. I checked myself from all angles. I’ve dated my fill of kinky players in the past, but this was a whole new appearance for me. I no longer looked
like Michelle. I looked like the Michelin Man.
I put the finishing touches on the apartment and waited for
Roger to arrive. While I stood there, flushed all over, the sweat pooling at the base of my spine, I thought about what would
happen when Roger arrived: I would open the door. Roger
would see me all bundled up. He would undress me slowly, care-
fully, unzipping my down jacket, unwrapping the scarf from
around my neck, pulling the turtleneck over my head, removing
the heavy outerwear until he discovered the cotton-candy pink
bikini beneath all of that wool. That was my way of remaining
I t’s N ot the W eather
99
true to myself—the bathing suit under the winter gear, like a
pearl inside a Gore-Tex-wrapped oyster.
The thought got me wet. Did Roger have a point? Maybe
L.A. women are too loose with their bodies. Maybe mystery was the way to go. After all of those years of
“It’s not the weather that’s the problem,” Carolyn said em-
phatically before ending the call.
I knew she thought I should cut my losses and move on. But
I’d moved on quickly my whole life, my relationship history a
I t’s N ot the W eather
97
colorful blur like a ride on a whirligig at an amusement park. I’d sworn after my last devastating break-up that I’d give my next
relationship a chance. Twelve months to succeed or fail. With
100 pecent of my effort, windchill factor or no.
As I rounded the loop and turned back toward home, I devel-
oped a new idea. Perhaps if I could make Roger see how lovely
a sun-drenched winter could be, I’d be able convert him. Maybe
he could turn his back on his beloved East Coast, become an
expatriate, like Hemingway in the Paris of the 1920s. Only in-
stead of sitting in precious French cafés smoking Gitanes and
drinking absinthe, he would grow his hair long, buy some board
shorts, wear a Sex-Wax T-shirt
I cruised into the apartment like hell on wheels.
“Fuck me on my blades,” I begged. “Pretend you’re doing Mrs.
Claus, if that will help you any.” But Roger didn’t even glance my way. He was staring fixedly at a movie on his computer.
“Come on, Rog,” I urged. “You can spin me any way you
want. You can do me up against the window, and let people
watch. All you have to do is pull the ties on my bikini, and I’ll be naked.”
No response.
When I got closer, I saw that he was watching Alive, watching with a look of utter dreaminess, as if this were a travel in-fomercial for Aspen rather than a tragic tale of cannibalism in the Andes. Peeking over his shoulder, I followed along with
him for a moment, and a real shiver worked it’s way down my
spine. Roger didn’t notice. He seemed totally mesmerized by
the scenario.
“Look,” he said softly. “Look at all that snow.”
98
A lison T yler
*
*
*
“What is it about the winter?” I asked Roger the next day.
“Women are all dressed up. You don’t know what they look
like underneath. Here in L.A., it’s like a skin parade twenty-four-hours a day. There’s no mystery. No wishful thinking about spring when the short skirts come out, when the girls strip off those outer layers and let their real selves show through.”
Wow. Here was the first man I’d ever met who didn’t like
women displaying their bodies. He was unique. That’s what I
told myself. He was special.
“There’s no cuddling by the fire. No hot chocolate or hot
toddies. No chestnuts, Shelly. There’s no fucking chestnuts.”
His deep blue eyes pleaded with me to understand.
So I tried again. I borrowed winter gear from Carolyn, who
likes to go to cold places as much as I like to stay in warm ones.
I dressed myself up in layers upon layers, ending with a purpleand-orange stripy scarf and a hat with earflaps. I checked myself from all angles. I’ve dated my fill of kinky players in the past, but this was a whole new appearance for me. I no longer looked
like Michelle. I looked like the Michelin Man.
I put the finishing touches on the apartment and waited for
Roger to arrive. While I stood there, flushed all over, the sweat pooling at the base of my spine, I thought about what would
happen when Roger arrived: I would open the door. Roger
would see me all bundled up. He would undress me slowly, care-
fully, unzipping my down jacket, unwrapping the scarf from
around my neck, pulling the turtleneck over my head, removing
the heavy outerwear until he discovered the cotton-candy pink
bikini beneath all of that wool. That was my way of remaining
I t’s N ot the W eather
99
true to myself—the bathing suit under the winter gear, like a
pearl inside a Gore-Tex-wrapped oyster.
The thought got me wet. Did Roger have a point? Maybe
L.A. women are too loose with their bodies. Maybe mystery was the way to go. After all of those years of
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