along M Street, past the pizza carriers, and rush up to an empty apartment to have a quick half hour of sex before he would have to dash out for a cocktail party or dinner with a reporter or an evening of television with his family in Chevy Chase.
I had no real friends, because when I moved to Washington, my life had centered only on my job and Barry. Women did not flock to my side to be pals when I became separated. In fact, since most of the women I met had the same sort of professional and social life I had, all of us spent our late evenings plugged into hot rollers and douche bags; we were too tired, too frightened, and probably too competitive for confidences.
When I moved back to New York after my divorce in 1969, I saw my cousin Barbara, but she could manage only lunches. Her evenings were spent with her husband and sons. She offered to arrange dates for me with her husband’s colleagues, but for some reason I considered accepting a blind date with a professor of law more humiliating than going to bed with a walleyed, buck-toothed, second-string politician whose underwear was suspiciously gray.
Not all men were vile, of course. Arthur Golden, Deputy Police Commissioner for Public Information, was actually nice. He proposed on our first evening together. We were in his parents’ double bed in Flatbush. They were in Fort Lauderdale, looking at condominiums. “Let’s get married,” he said, as we lay side by side, the mahogany headboard having finally stopped its rhythmic slapping against the wall.
“No. No thank you, Arthur.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“It was fine. Wonderful. You were terrific.”
“So?”
“I just don’t want to get married again.”
“Why not?”
I wanted Jerry. I strode out of the ladies’ room and over to the small, horseshoe-shaped table which held the place cards. Jerry, I discovered, had taken care of himself, because only Morvillo and Magill remained under the M’s. I found myself, Ms. M. Green, Table 74, half buried by Mr. & Mrs. Stanley Golub. I tossed them aside and then, conscience-stricken, reached to retrieve their card. But I was unable to because a hand covered my eyes.
“Guess who?”
I knew the voice, naturally. “I can’t,” I lied. The hand pressed harder on my eyes, pulling me until my back leaned hard against a firm body. I smelled a strong musk cologne.
“Sure you can.” And he gave me a friendly reminder too; he leaned down and began to suck my earlobe.
“Stop it.” I leaned far to the left, but my lobe remained captive in his mouth. The suction hurt. “Please.”
Surprisingly, he let go, like a vacuum cleaner suddenly shut off, and my lobe, sore and wet, fell back into place. But my eyes remained masked. “I’ll let you go if you tell me my name.” Even Rumpelstiltskin had more class. “Who am I? I know you know.”
Partially because I knew the inevitability of my defeat and partially because I was curious to see how many people had witnessed my public earlobe assault, I said, “Lyle.” The hand drew away from my eyes slowly, traveled gently over my forehead, and laconically passed through the thick of my hair.
“I knew you knew,” he said, his voice silky with triumph. “I didn’t think you’d forget me so fast.” I turned and faced him. Lyle LoBello had learned a lot from James d’Avonne Gresham. He had learned to abjure polyester shirts. He understood that gentlemen do not wear tie clips. He no doubt bequeathed his gold link bracelet to his cousin Sal in Red Hook. But he was too neat, too well-packaged; he lacked the governor’s scruffy appeal. “Well, say something, Marcia,” he commanded, looking properly authoritative but a little indecently muscular in a perfectly tailored navy suit. “You’re the speech writer.” Even the black mole under his left (brown) eye gleamed at me, as though he had remembered to keep it polished.
“I’m sorry about the governor, Lyle. I know how close—”
“Thanks,” he said
I had no real friends, because when I moved to Washington, my life had centered only on my job and Barry. Women did not flock to my side to be pals when I became separated. In fact, since most of the women I met had the same sort of professional and social life I had, all of us spent our late evenings plugged into hot rollers and douche bags; we were too tired, too frightened, and probably too competitive for confidences.
When I moved back to New York after my divorce in 1969, I saw my cousin Barbara, but she could manage only lunches. Her evenings were spent with her husband and sons. She offered to arrange dates for me with her husband’s colleagues, but for some reason I considered accepting a blind date with a professor of law more humiliating than going to bed with a walleyed, buck-toothed, second-string politician whose underwear was suspiciously gray.
Not all men were vile, of course. Arthur Golden, Deputy Police Commissioner for Public Information, was actually nice. He proposed on our first evening together. We were in his parents’ double bed in Flatbush. They were in Fort Lauderdale, looking at condominiums. “Let’s get married,” he said, as we lay side by side, the mahogany headboard having finally stopped its rhythmic slapping against the wall.
“No. No thank you, Arthur.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“It was fine. Wonderful. You were terrific.”
“So?”
“I just don’t want to get married again.”
“Why not?”
I wanted Jerry. I strode out of the ladies’ room and over to the small, horseshoe-shaped table which held the place cards. Jerry, I discovered, had taken care of himself, because only Morvillo and Magill remained under the M’s. I found myself, Ms. M. Green, Table 74, half buried by Mr. & Mrs. Stanley Golub. I tossed them aside and then, conscience-stricken, reached to retrieve their card. But I was unable to because a hand covered my eyes.
“Guess who?”
I knew the voice, naturally. “I can’t,” I lied. The hand pressed harder on my eyes, pulling me until my back leaned hard against a firm body. I smelled a strong musk cologne.
“Sure you can.” And he gave me a friendly reminder too; he leaned down and began to suck my earlobe.
“Stop it.” I leaned far to the left, but my lobe remained captive in his mouth. The suction hurt. “Please.”
Surprisingly, he let go, like a vacuum cleaner suddenly shut off, and my lobe, sore and wet, fell back into place. But my eyes remained masked. “I’ll let you go if you tell me my name.” Even Rumpelstiltskin had more class. “Who am I? I know you know.”
Partially because I knew the inevitability of my defeat and partially because I was curious to see how many people had witnessed my public earlobe assault, I said, “Lyle.” The hand drew away from my eyes slowly, traveled gently over my forehead, and laconically passed through the thick of my hair.
“I knew you knew,” he said, his voice silky with triumph. “I didn’t think you’d forget me so fast.” I turned and faced him. Lyle LoBello had learned a lot from James d’Avonne Gresham. He had learned to abjure polyester shirts. He understood that gentlemen do not wear tie clips. He no doubt bequeathed his gold link bracelet to his cousin Sal in Red Hook. But he was too neat, too well-packaged; he lacked the governor’s scruffy appeal. “Well, say something, Marcia,” he commanded, looking properly authoritative but a little indecently muscular in a perfectly tailored navy suit. “You’re the speech writer.” Even the black mole under his left (brown) eye gleamed at me, as though he had remembered to keep it polished.
“I’m sorry about the governor, Lyle. I know how close—”
“Thanks,” he said
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