Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (19 page)

“Like, maybe we could be together in New York and be happy?”

“I love the sound of that.”

Almost on cue, the sky started to dump snow on Charlie and me as we kissed again. It was like one of those bad Kate Hudson movies that make you think you actually like her and Matthew McConaughey together. But this was real life, and Charlie and I aren’t annoying slores.

I
’d been in New York City for about four weeks when a truly bizarre and surprising thought popped into my head:
I think I’m happy.
I was lying in bed, staring out of Charlie’s West Village bedroom window at the cobblestones on Jane Street, and it occurred to me that I had actually settled into a normal life for maybe the first time since rehab.

Charlie Dean had turned out to be so much more than I’d expected him to be. Never had a guy let me be myself so fully. I mean, I get it. I can be a lot to handle on occasion, but from Charlie’s reactions to me, you’d never know it. He was actually a mega-workaholic, but I was fine with that. Most finance guys are. I really feature a boyfriend who is completely amazing, but only around in small increments. I’ve done the actor/DJ/artist thing and it gets old fast. Why the fuck would I want to be
with any one person all day long? That sounds terrible. Charlie’s busy work schedule allowed for me to be with me all day long, and then, if he wasn’t out of town for a business trip, he’d come home at night for dinner. He would eat, we would laugh, I’d tell him about my day, and he’d tell me about hedge fund stuff and leveraging distressed debt or whatever, and then we’d talk about when we were kids. It was literally super cute.

New York had become my home again. Back when I was in college at Parsons, I’d lived here for a year and I was obsessed. I would’ve stayed had it not been for my horrible breakup with Robert. Regardless of how much I adore LA, there’s something about the way Manhattan makes me feel that can’t be replicated in California. Maybe I was finally ready to live here for good, or maybe it was that Charlie’s apartment was so incredibly cozy that it made NYC feel like a safe place for me again.

It was classic West Village: sensible and vintage-y, all the while maintaining a good sense of humor. I’m talking high ceilings, original moldings, classic New York charm, chic. The whole apartment (including the bedroom) had original wide-planked wood floors, and huge windows that peered out onto the street just above the tree line. In addition to being an ode to antique tile, the master bathroom was also massive—two sinks, and a separate room for the toilet, thank God. The walk-in closet scenario in the master bedroom was equally as impressive, and the kitchen was light-filled and completely open. The living room, which overlooked the Hudson, was cool with dashes of warmth. A neutral color story that accented Charlie’s great art collection, with some huge potted majesty palms hanging out in the corners. Charlie (or maybe his interior designer?) seemed to favor
emerging New York artists’ work (huge prints/bright colors) and really expensive cashmere throws. There was also a heated balcony off the living room that was perfect for smoking my biweekly Marlboro Light. His apartment was so comfortable that I felt like I was actually at home, even though I totally wasn’t. It was almost like I wanted his apartment to adopt me.

Of course I’d purchased a few things to make “his” place more of “our” place. The usual suspects: a free-radical-neutralizing filtration system for the faucet, a proper spinach rinser, and all new silverware, dishes, pots, pans, etc. (for decoration only, of course). I was learning to accept that New York Babe was a little bit more “eclectic” than LA Babe. Upon first glance, I’d thought that Charlie’s brownstone-lined street was going to be a little too Carrie Bradshaw for my tastes, but I was actually loving it.

On a chilly Monday morning, I woke up after Charlie left for work and made myself a cup of tea, spiked it with a touch of scotch, wrapped myself in a few throws, and sat on the windowsill and wrote for about an hour. I’d started a blog that I posted on a couple times a week in order to share my thoughts, feelings, and emotions with the world. I finished an article about how hair color directly correlates to confidence level and sent some very productive emails. Then I went back to sleep for about an hour, got up again, took a taxi to Aqua on Franklin in TriBeCa (underwater spin class . . . life-changing), grabbed a delicious turmeric juice and dandelion kale salad from Organic Avenue on Hudson, and then returned to Charlie’s place on Jane, where I showered, stretched, moisturized, and meditated.

By 3:30 I was ready to shop. Shopping in LA is easy, but the shopping scenario in NYC is truly tough to beat. I think the city
planned it that way to make up for the horrible fucking winters, which are not cute. I dropped in at Jeffrey, McQueen, Marni, Moschino, Theyskens’ Theory, A.P.C., Margiela, and Helmut Lang. I’d been shopping regularly, but on this particular day I went a little overboard. Five pairs of Margiela sneakers (all for Charlie), ten gray Helmut Lang sweaters, an insane suede shearling Marni coat, and a Moschino blazer that reinvigorated my love for blazers, which is saying a lot. The fact that I was buying so much for the cold weather made me realize just how comfortable I was feeling. I was actually starting to picture myself having a life with Charlie here in New York.

I stopped to rest my tired legs and drink an americano at Soho House, where I sat in an obscenely huge leather chair and thought about my old friend, the universe. I wondered if someone (or something) up there knew all along that I was destined to end up with the same boy with whom I shared my first kiss. Then I noticed my waiter looked kind of like Robert, and I kindly asked him to stay away from me. I wondered what Robert was doing for about two seconds before re-exiling him from my thoughts. I was happy with Charlie and I was determined to keep it that way. He wasn’t a fantasy lover like Robert. Yet.

We actually hadn’t had a chance to do more than cuddle and make out, thanks to Charlie’s hectic work schedule. In fact, he’d been going back to work for a few hours after dinner or out of town on business almost every night since we’d gotten to New York. But I was sure we’d get physical eventually and that it would be great. Charlie treated me well. He respected me, he thought I was funny, and he wore a lot of Paul Smith and owned more Moncler down jackets than anyone I’d ever met.

On the way home I stopped to pick up some pasta at Barbuto so that Charlie would have something to eat for dinner. He put in such crazy hours at the office, and my schedule was so loose, that I liked to have some food ready for him when he got home. I mean, there was no way in hell I was going to cook, because that would be a disaster, but he deserved to have a nice meal at the end of the day.

When Charlie walked in the door later that evening, there was an unusual fire behind his eyes. They were bluer than normal. He dropped his Valextra briefcase to the floor, took off his jacket, and began unbuttoning his shirt while staring right into my eyes.

“You look beautiful,” Charlie said softly from across the room.

His chest was so smooth, his face was ruddy from the cold, and his hair was ruffled and windblown. It was hard to resist him. He closed the distance between us and kissed me so passionately and so fully that I melted inside. Then he picked me up like I was a fucking feather and carried me into the bedroom. I knew what this was. We were finally about to fuck, and I couldn’t have been more excited.

Charlie threw me onto the bed and curled up alongside my body, spooning me. Actually, he spooned the fuck out of me. I wasn’t exactly clear on his plan. Did he want me from behind? Were we just going to spoon really, really passionately for a few hours? Whatever, it felt good. He pushed my hair away and kissed the back of my neck. Then he took my sweater off and pressed up against me, cupping my breasts and kissing my earlobe. His skin felt cold against the warmth of my naked back. I
wanted him inside of me. I arched my back, pressing my ass into his crotch. I turned around to face him. As we were making out, he slipped my underwear off in one slow motion.

“I want you so bad, Charlie.”

And with that he began kissing my chest and stomach as he descended to my lady parts and began performing magical, ecstasy-inducing oral sex. Charlie knew what he was doing in the oral department. I’ve been with guys whom I’d consider gifted, but this was on a whole different level. I’m talking about multiple orgasms. Writhing, screaming, begging for mercy, and physical joy to the point of literal confusion.

My body was doing things that it had never done before. I undulated on the bed as his tongue took me to places unknown and unimagined. When it was finally over, I was exhausted.

“Charlie. You are so good at that it’s disgusting.”

“I love to do it, darling. You seem to be having fun.”

“Oh, I am. But what about you?”

“What about me?”

Weird response,
I thought.

“Charlie, it’s not fair for me to have all the fun.”

Charlie looked at me and smiled so sweetly.

“Babe, I appreciate your concern for me, but I’m fine. I love making you feel great.”

This was very nice, but I needed to give Charlie the same amount of pleasure he’d given me. So I decided to take charge of the situation. I straddled him and started kissing down his neck and chest, prepping him for the blow job of a lifetime. Not to sound like a whore or anything, but I give amazing head.
We’re going to fuck like the world is ending and probably fall in love
and get married and have two children via surrogate and adopt a third one from Africa,
I thought as I kissed and licked my way down his chest and abs. Then I pulled down his briefs, revealing a two-inch, uncircumcised, erect midget penis surrounded by a mass of reddish-brown pubic hair. It had the width of a normal dick but was missing about six inches of length.

A shudder racked my entire body.
Abort! Abort!
my brain screamed.

“Oh . . . wow,” I said, in an utter state of shock.

“I know. I’m so hard,” Charlie moaned.

“Let’s just make love!” I said a little too loudly, kissing my way back up Charlie’s chest and lying next to him.

“Mmm. Okay,” Charlie whispered huskily.

Before I knew it, he was on top of me, looking into my eyes and positioning his pelvis. He thrusted his hips forward and started moving them around rhythmically. It was weird, because he was acting like we were boning, but I felt nothing. Some humping was happening, some groaning was also happening, but I couldn’t tell if his dick was inside of me or not. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to play along, thinking that with the right encouragement his dick could be a grower.

“Oh, Charlie. Yes, yes. Fuck me hard, Charlie,” I cried out, silently begging God to let Charlie’s dick be the Chia Pet of dicks.

“Yes, Babe. Yes! God, you’re so sexy,” Charlie carried on, his face buried in my hair, moaning in ecstasy as if all was right with the world. But nothing was right. After forty-five minutes of trying every position possible, mixed with a certain type of Kegel clenching to make my vagina more shallow, I still had yet to feel Charlie’s dick inside of me. Finally, I gave him permission
to come, which he did, screaming my name and collapsing next to me, kissing my shoulder.

“You, Babe Walker, are sex personified,” he whispered. “Keep doing that to me and I’ll have no choice but to fall in love with you.”

Babe Walker on Male Anatomy
(with commentary)

I feel like it’s important to note the types of penises I’m okay with and those on which I’m unclear:

Monster

Everyone loves a big dick, but a monster cock (over 10 inches) is terrifying in more ways than one. For example, The Greek. The fact that Cal and I only fucked once ended up being a blessing in disguise. Firstly, there’s the issue of how a penis of that magnitude is even going to fit in a vagina/butt. Secondly, if said Monster does manage to get all the way in, there’s the issue of stretching, and I’m not trying to have my lady parts look like I just birthed an eleven-pound baby after two years of fucking the same person. Unless you’re content with doing at least 1,000 Kegels a day, the Godzilla penis is best suited for voyeuristic purposes, as opposed to regular sexual practices.

Husband Material

I consider dicks in the 7.5- to 10-inch range to be the kind of dicks you marry, have three kids with, grow to hate,
divorce, and then become great friends with once the alimony’s been paid and you’re both a little older and wiser. Robert’s was 8 inches. Obviously.

Boyfriend Dicks

Dicks 5 to 7 inches leave no lasting impression on me whatsoever, but can be great for a casual dating scenario. Packing a regular-size penis is fine, but I will probably cheat on a 5-incher within six months, and a 7-incher within two years. Sue me.

Makeout Dicks

Anything below 5 inches is what I like to call a “Makeout Dick,” which means you go on a date with a guy, kiss at the end, feel his boner, gauge that it’s not really your style, and never talk to him again. You can date a makeout dick for a few weeks, but it’s best not to get up close and personal with the package, lest you come face-to-face with the unsavory realization that his wiener will never satisfy your needs.