Queen of Babble

“Um,” I say, thinking fast. Which is hard to do when I’m so tired. And horny. “No. But, um, I might have one. You never know.”

“Oh,” Andrew says with a chuckle. “Right. You? Never. You’re too sweet.” And he goes back to nuzzling my neck.

Which is very nice. But he still hasn’t answered my question.

“Well?” I ask. “Have you got one?”

“For God’s sake, Liz,” Andrew says, sitting up. He fumbles around and finally produces a Trojan from the pocket of his waiter pants, which are wadded up at the end of the bed. “Happy now?”

“Yes,” I say. Because I am. Happy, I mean. Even though my boyfriend apparently goes to work with a condom in his pocket, which might make one ask oneself, if one were of a suspicious nature (which I am not), just what he intended to do with said condom. I mean, considering that his girlfriend is at home, and not at his place of work.

But that is not the point. The point is that he has a condom, and now we can get down to business.

Which we proceed to do without further delay.

Except.

Well, things are going the way I suppose they should, given that my experience in these matters is pretty much limited to some awkward fumblings in an extralong dorm bed with Jeff, my only long-term boyfriend (three months), whom I dated sophomore year and who later that semester tearfully confessed that he was in love with his roommate, Jim.

Still, I have read enough issues of Cosmo to know every girl is responsible for her own orgasm-just like every guest is responsible for her own good time at a party…no hostess can control EVERYTHING! I mean, you really can’t leave this kind of thing up to a guy. He’s just going to mess it up or, worse, not even bother to give it a try (unless, of course, he’s like Jeff, who was very interested in my orgasms…just as he was very interested in my circa 1950 Herbert Levine pumps with the rhinestone buckle, as I discovered when I caught him admiring himself in them).

But while I might have taken care of my own good time, Andrew is apparently having some trouble with his own. He’s abruptly stopped what he was doing and has flopped back onto the bed.

“Um, Andrew,” I say, filled with concern, “is everything all right?”

“I can’t fucking come,” is his romantic reply. “It’s this fucking bed. There’s not enough room.”

I am, to put it mildly, astonished. I have never heard of a man who can’t come. While I know that to some people-Shari, for instance-a man who is perpetually hard would be a godsend, for me it is merely inconvenient. I have already taken care of my own good time, as Cosmo advised. The truth is, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out down there. I’m starting to chafe.

Still, it’s wrong to think of yourself when the person next to you is in so much agony and pain. I can’t imagine how Andrew must be feeling.

Feeling very bad for him, I kiss him and ask, “Well, is there anything I can do to help?”

I soon learn that there is. At least if the way Andrew starts pushing my head in a southerly direction is any indication.

The thing is, I’ve never given one of those before. I’m not even sure I know how…although that girl Bria

Still. This is really not how I pictured the two of us consummating our relationship.

And yet these are the kinds of things you do for the people you love when they are in need.

I make him change the condom first, though. I don’t love anybody THAT much. Not even Andrew.

The Crusades weren’t all about one culture trying to inflict their religious views on another. They were also about fashion! Returning Crusaders brought back to their womenfolk not only their vanquished enemy’s gold, but also beauty tips from the ladies of the Orient, including pubic shaving (not heard of in most parts of Europe since the age of the early Roman Empire).

Whether or not English ladies adopted this practice from their sisters in the Far East can be left to the imagination of the reader, but we do know from portraits of that era that many of them took matters a little too far, plucking and shaving all the hair from their heads-including eyelashes and eyebrows. As most of them could not read or write at the time, it is no small wonder they got the message wrong.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

7

Keep your own secret, and get out other people’s.

– Philip Dormer Stanhope, fourth Earl of Chesterfield (1694-1773),

British statesman

Iwake up with a feeling of deep and utter contentment, even though I’m sleeping alone, Andrew having stumbled to his own bed after an attempt at sleeping together in the narrow MDF bed failed miserably, thanks to his long legs and my tendency to sleep with my knees curled up to my chest.

Still, he left grateful and happy. I saw to that. I may be a begi

As I stretch, I replay the night before over in my head. Andrew is lovely. Well, not lovely, because you can’t really call a guy lovely. But sweet. All that worry over him thinking I was fat…I can’t believe I wasted so much time over something so silly! Of course he never thought I was fat, or said anything about that to his family. His brother probably got me mixed up with some other girl.

No, Andrew is the perfect boyfriend. And I’ll soon have him weaned off the red leather jacket. Maybe, to make it up to him, I’ll even get him a new one while we’re out shopping today-because this is what Andrew had promised me (during our postcoital chitchat last night) that we’d do today-shop and see the sights (once he’d completed a quick errand he had to do in the city).

Of course, the sights I’m most interested in seeing-besides Andrew, of course-are the Oxfams where I can find some undiscovered treasure, and maybe this place I’ve heard about called Topshop, which is like the British equivalent of T.J. Maxx, or maybe H amp;M, which we don’t actually have in Michigan, but that I’ve heard about, of course, as a fashion lover’s mecca.

Only I don’t mention this to Andrew, because of course I want to seem more intellectual than that. I should be interested in his country’s history, which is incredibly rich and goes back many thousands of years…or at least two hundred, as far as interesting fashion goes. Andrew is so sweet. All of his family has been so lovely, fatty remark aside-I wish there were some way I could show my appreciation for their kindness to me…

And then it comes to me, as I’m shaving my legs in the bathtub a little while later, Andrew not being up yet, and the rest of the family appearing to have gone off to their various jobs: I’ll do it with food! Yes! Tonight I’ll show my appreciation to the Marshall family for all their hospitality by making them my mother’s famous spaghetti due! I’m sure they probably have all the ingredients right here in the house-it’s just pasta, garlic, oil, Parmesan, and hot pepper flakes, after all.

And if there’s something they don’t have-like a nice crusty baguette, which you really need, to sop up the delicious oil-Andrew and I can stop on our way home from sightseeing to pick it up!

Imagine how surprised and happy Mr. and Mrs. Marshall will be to come home from a long day of work to find supper already waiting for them!

Superpleased with my scheme, I put on my makeup, and am just applying an extra layer of topcoat to my pedicure-since I’ll be traipsing around the city in open-toed shoes, and I want to protect my French tips-when Andrew finally stumbles down the stairs, blinking groggily. We have a very nice good-morning lovemaking session in the MDF bed before I throw on my fun 1960s Alex Colman sundress with the leaf pattern (I have a cashmere sweater that matches…thank God I brought it along at the last minute, since I’m going to need it) and urge Andrew to get dressed so we can get started on our many activities for the day. I still have to change money, and he has his appointment downtown.