husband-to-be, online in the www.xmachina.com chat room. Very shortly after they began dating, before they’d even met in the flesh, Meg and Joe started up a website on which they kept, and still keep, parallel diaries of their relationship. And it is here, amid the pixilated tales of their first phone sex encounters and so forth, that their wedding will be uploaded, live, for all to see.
“This one won’t be such an orgy of conventionality, now, will it?” Gabe’s mirror image looks back at me.
“I’m afraid not.” I stand behind him and rest my chin on his shoulder. Our faces waver together in reflection. “Oh, Gabe. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said yes—”
“Hush. It’s fine. I mean, of course I’d rather not go. But.” He shrugs. “Duty calls.”
“Zip me?” I ask. Gabriel turns and closes the zipper to my dress. He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him.
“You look beautiful, Red.” He pushes a strand of hair away from my forehead. “May I have this dance?”
“With pleasure.” I place my hand in his and we sway around the bedroom and into the living room, with Gabe humming in my ear. We are circling the coffee table when I feel his hands move up my back, and he tugs the zipper of my dress down again.
“Oops. Sorry about that.” He slips his hands inside the dress, and continues to dance, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my waist.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing.” His lips move against my neck, and his hands slide over my hips. “Just dancing. You’re a great dancer.”
“I’m not going to be dancing for much longer—you’re making my knees weak.”
“You’re not wearing underwear.”
“Yes, I am.” I laugh.
“Not anymore.” He lifts up the skirt of my dress, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my underpants, and eases them down. He leans to kiss me, looking smug as hell.
“Gabe,” I say through the kiss. “We’re going to be late.” Like I care, at this point. He straightens and pulls away.
“That would be terrible,” he says. And picks me up in his arms, and carries me into the bedroom.
G ABE AND I HAVE, I THINK , a pretty average sex life. A few times a week, nothing fancy, and no discussion about it, which is just right for me. I’m not a prude; I don’t have anyhang-ups about sex. I like it. But I like to have it, rather than talk about it. Talking about it seems weird and beside the point. Joan and Henry love sex. They
love
it. But I think even more than that, they love to
talk
about sex. Loudly. In public places. I don’t understand their obsession with it, or their fondness for chatting about it. It doesn’t bother me, particularly; I’m not embarrassed or squeamish or anything. I just don’t really have much to add to those discussions, or any pleasure to gain from them. Sex is sex. It’s fun. It’s fine. End of story.
G ABE IS STILL humming as we climb out of our cab and onto a grimy street in the meatpacking district. In the pale, rank twilight, the litter-strewn, industrial block swarms with couples in fancy outfits, picking their way down the cobblestone street past warehouses and storefronts with names like Joe’s Hamburger Quality Chopped Beef, interspersed with a few desperately chic stores and bars. A clutch of transvestite prostitutes looks on from the corner. One entrance is lit up and a red carpet lures and leads us in. We follow a laughing bunch of very young men and women into the building, and stand with them beside the door to a freight elevator.
“An industrial-strength wedding,” Gabe whispers. I punch him in the arm. “Ow. I wouldn’t steak my life on it. I didn’t know you were going to grill me.” The elevator arrives, an operator in black tie waves us in, the great steel doors slam closed on us, and we creak and rattle perilously upward. I examine something on the floor that looks like a bloodstain. Gabe makes quiet mooing noises. Two or three of the other couples
“This one won’t be such an orgy of conventionality, now, will it?” Gabe’s mirror image looks back at me.
“I’m afraid not.” I stand behind him and rest my chin on his shoulder. Our faces waver together in reflection. “Oh, Gabe. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said yes—”
“Hush. It’s fine. I mean, of course I’d rather not go. But.” He shrugs. “Duty calls.”
“Zip me?” I ask. Gabriel turns and closes the zipper to my dress. He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him.
“You look beautiful, Red.” He pushes a strand of hair away from my forehead. “May I have this dance?”
“With pleasure.” I place my hand in his and we sway around the bedroom and into the living room, with Gabe humming in my ear. We are circling the coffee table when I feel his hands move up my back, and he tugs the zipper of my dress down again.
“Oops. Sorry about that.” He slips his hands inside the dress, and continues to dance, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my waist.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing.” His lips move against my neck, and his hands slide over my hips. “Just dancing. You’re a great dancer.”
“I’m not going to be dancing for much longer—you’re making my knees weak.”
“You’re not wearing underwear.”
“Yes, I am.” I laugh.
“Not anymore.” He lifts up the skirt of my dress, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my underpants, and eases them down. He leans to kiss me, looking smug as hell.
“Gabe,” I say through the kiss. “We’re going to be late.” Like I care, at this point. He straightens and pulls away.
“That would be terrible,” he says. And picks me up in his arms, and carries me into the bedroom.
G ABE AND I HAVE, I THINK , a pretty average sex life. A few times a week, nothing fancy, and no discussion about it, which is just right for me. I’m not a prude; I don’t have anyhang-ups about sex. I like it. But I like to have it, rather than talk about it. Talking about it seems weird and beside the point. Joan and Henry love sex. They
love
it. But I think even more than that, they love to
talk
about sex. Loudly. In public places. I don’t understand their obsession with it, or their fondness for chatting about it. It doesn’t bother me, particularly; I’m not embarrassed or squeamish or anything. I just don’t really have much to add to those discussions, or any pleasure to gain from them. Sex is sex. It’s fun. It’s fine. End of story.
G ABE IS STILL humming as we climb out of our cab and onto a grimy street in the meatpacking district. In the pale, rank twilight, the litter-strewn, industrial block swarms with couples in fancy outfits, picking their way down the cobblestone street past warehouses and storefronts with names like Joe’s Hamburger Quality Chopped Beef, interspersed with a few desperately chic stores and bars. A clutch of transvestite prostitutes looks on from the corner. One entrance is lit up and a red carpet lures and leads us in. We follow a laughing bunch of very young men and women into the building, and stand with them beside the door to a freight elevator.
“An industrial-strength wedding,” Gabe whispers. I punch him in the arm. “Ow. I wouldn’t steak my life on it. I didn’t know you were going to grill me.” The elevator arrives, an operator in black tie waves us in, the great steel doors slam closed on us, and we creak and rattle perilously upward. I examine something on the floor that looks like a bloodstain. Gabe makes quiet mooing noises. Two or three of the other couples
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