Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (20 page)

Non-Dicks

This makes me sad, but there are some guys out there sporting 1 to 2 inches, or what I will now be referring to as a “Deen” (Dean + peen). The signs are there from the start, but you will want to ignore them because it’s just too crazy to imagine that God would curse a grown man with a baby’s penis. But it’s real and it happens. Case in point: Monsieur Charlie.

The whole situation was torturous. Charlie was perfect in every way except for his lack of dick. I was so traumatized by the thought of facing his Deen again that I avoided having sex with him for a whole month. One week I said my vagina was sore from spin class. The next week I told him that my new spiritual guide, Courtney Love, told me not to have sex for fourteen days because resisting sexual urges gives you “a natural high.” This was obviously a lie. The week after that, I had my period. Another lie. I haven’t had my period since I was twenty-two.

To make matters worse, Charlie didn’t seem to care that we weren’t boning. He was happy as a clam. He was in and out of town due to work, and when he was home he was totally content to go down on me for hours and expect nothing in return. But I felt so bad about the state of his private parts that I eventually opted to fuck him. Once a week. With no blow jobs or hand jobs, because I couldn’t bear the thought of touching the Deen with anything other than my vag.

As bleak as the whole “Charlie’s penis” situation was, there was no getting around the fact he was actually an amazing lesbian/boyfriend. All the little things he did for me were adding up and making me realize how much he truly cared. One night I had a horrible nightmare that I was a piece of arugula and Thalia was trying to eat me with a giant fork. I woke up screaming her name. Charlie obviously knew about the Thalia situation and stayed up all night with me, rubbing my back and letting me cry it out. He told me that the stuff with my stalker had brought us together, in a way. He had a calming energy about him. I couldn’t give that up at this point, no matter how tiny he was.

Another night, after being gone for a week on a business trip, Charlie presented me with four different Cartier Love bracelets so I could choose which one I liked best, and didn’t even bat a lash when I decided to keep them all. He also didn’t enable me to be the kind of Babe who was unmotivated and drank smoothies all day. Far from it. I admired how passionate Charlie was about his work, and it gave me drive to seek out the same kind of fulfillment. I started to realize that I kind of wanted a job.

On the other hand, I found myself reveling in the safety of domesticity. I even began cooking a few times a week. We had his parents over for dinner when they were in town. We’d stay in and watch movies. He loved to watch
Real Housewives
with me, calling them “crazy, inspiring bitches.” So basically Charlie just got me. And I got him. I wanted to do nice things for him, like make him dinner sometimes, and go out to eat at non-sushi restaurants, and watch the boring History Channel shows that he was obsessed with.

My feelings for Charlie became clear to me during a conversation I had while on a shopping spree at Babeland, a serendipitously named sex shop on the Lower East Side.

“Can I live the rest of my life with someone who can’t actually penetrate me?” I asked the salesgirl (who looked like Jennifer Aniston if Jennifer Aniston had a ton of facial piercings, jet-black hair, and had never gotten a nose job) as she rang up the price on several vibrators and a strap-on that I’d decided to purchase.

“Lots of ladies give up penetration for someone they love,” she said nonchalantly.

“Is it love, though?” I asked, inspecting a massive black dildo. “I mean, I care deeply for Charlie, and I know Charlie’s head over heels for me, but I don’t know if I’m the kind of girl who can be in love with someone who can’t really give it to me hard.”

“I hear that. See this suction cup?” She pointed to the bottom of the dildo in my hands. “You can stick that thing anywhere with a smooth surface, like the wall in your shower or your coffee table, and just go to town.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, dude. It’s the best. My girlfriend and I use it all the time and we love it. Totally solves the whole penetration problem.”

“You know what? Ring it up.” I tossed the dildo over to her. “Charlie’s the one for me. The Ellen to my Portia. We talk about our feelings all the time, and there’s a lot of chic menswear involved. I can deal with never getting fucked by a real dick again.” I slid my Amex across the counter.

“Charlie sounds pretty rad,” she said, running my card and giving me the receipt to sign.

“Charlie is the best. I don’t even know why I’m questioning this relationship anymore. Who needs dicks anyway? Blow jobs and hand jobs are so overrated.”

“Exactly,” she agreed, handing me my shopping bag full of goodies.

“Thank you for being my sex shaman.”

“No problem. Good luck with your girl.”

“My girl?”

“Charlie . . . ?”

“Oh. No, Charlie’s my boyfriend. But I love him, and I respect his lifelong struggle of having a micro penis. God, this is great. I’m in love again!” And with that, I promptly returned to Charlie’s apartment and fucked the shit out of myself with the dildo I’d just bought.

I
t was 6:30 a.m. and I was propped up in bed watching Charlie pack for a three-week business trip to China.

“Are you sure you don’t want to meet me in Beijing? We can still get you a first-class ticket . . .” Charlie asked, folding a suit into his luggage.

“As much as I want to know what China smells like, the smog doesn’t sound very pore-conscious.”

I coughed to drive my point home.

“Plus, I have my second interview at
Vogue
tomorrow.”

Charlie zipped up his suitcase and came to sit on the edge of the bed next to me.

“It’s going to be very lonely at the Four Seasons without you,” he said huskily, kissing my collarbone and up my neck.

“I know,” I whispered, brushing back his hair. He kissed me on the lips.

“I have a surprise for you when I get back.”

“What is it?” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I prayed that it would be state-of-the-art penis enlargement surgery, then felt horribly guilty, and then felt kind of turned on, then reminded myself to google penis enlargement surgeons.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He tugged the bedsheet down, exposing my breasts. A boyish smile spread across his face.

Suddenly his cell phone rang, interrupting our almost-sex moment.

“Damn. That must be the car service.” He answered the phone. “Hello? Yep, will do. Be down in two shakes.” He turned back to me. “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to table this discussion until I return.”

“Bummer.” I smiled.

“Indeed. Total bummer. I’ll miss you horribly.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

“You know I love you.”

“I know.”

“S
o . . . Babe is your actual name?” asked a pencil-skirt-wearing woman named Kate, staring at me over a pair of tortoiseshell Oliver Peoples glasses, which were delicately perched atop her kind-of-cute nose job.

“Well, my name’s technically Barbara, but as you can see by the way I present, that name doesn’t really work.” I smiled
confidently. “People started calling me Babe the day I was born.”

Thanks to my ex-model-mom’s chic connections, I was in the final round of interviews for a position in
Vogue
’s new media department. Donna and I had been emailing for a while, and when I mentioned that I could see myself working in fashion, she decided to throw me a bone by setting up an interview for me with this “Kate” person. So far I felt like it was going well. I’d followed Donna’s instructions: neutral lip, buffed nails (no polish), straight hair, a good boot, and at least one Hermès accessory. I stayed engaged. I hadn’t yawned once, even when the HR woman in my first interview talked about “benefits” (unclear). I’d been maintaining strong eye contact and was selling myself to the best of my abilities. I still didn’t really know why I was actually applying for a job job, but I guess being settled down with Charlie made me feel like I should stabilize other areas of my life. And working for the top fashion magazine in the world, around a bunch of Adderall-popping psychos thinking about shoes twenty-four-seven, is about as stable as I can get without wanting to kill myself. Plus, I was back into paying attention to the universe, and I think it really wanted me to be a writer. So
Vogue
it was.

“Hmm.” Kate sighed passive-aggressively. “So . . .”

“So . . .”

“So . . .”

“So . . .”

“So, you wrote a book. That’s great. Haven’t read it, but I’m sure it’s fun.” Kate took an awkwardly long sip of her venti soy misto. “And you’re obsessed with fashion. And your mother’s Donna V., so that’s chic . . . And you seem to have a good handle
on all this social media bullshit. I don’t really get it. But obviously our HR team sees you as a strong candidate, as this is your second interview. So good job.”

“Thanks . . . ?”

“So why don’t you go ahead and tell me about what changes you’d implement if you were to manage our social media outlets.”

“Well, right now
Vogue
’s online voice is a little editorial and dry, so I would inject some much-needed personality into the brand. The
Vogue
reader wants to feel fabulous, rich, and expressive. Your online presence should reflect that. I mean, obviously I’d continue to link to your articles on Vogue.com, but I’d also tweet stuff that Anna says and capture general goings-on in the office. For instance, just this morning I rode the elevator with Olivier Theyskens and he was wearing his hoodie inside out. The world needs to know those details.”

“Alright, Babe, I don’t know the difference between a Twitter, an Instagram, and a Pinterest—”

“Oh, no one knows what Pinterest is.”

“But you seem like you almost know what you’re talking about, and you might very well be an acceptable fit for the job. We’ll call you in the next few days and let you know what we’ve decided.” Kate stood up and gave me a tight smile.

I popped up out of my chair. “Thanks, I’m confident you’ll do the right thing.”

W
alking through the
Vogue
offices felt like a turning point in my life. Working here didn’t sound like a terrible prospect, which represented a major shift for me. I mean, it was fucking
Vogue,
for god’s sakes. I got in the elevator after my interview and considered what life at
Vogue
would be like. Was it for me? Would I be happy coming to an office? Was I the next Grace Coddington: an angelic muse knocked from the sky, only to rise above the fashion industry like a phoenix? Could I deal with being around so many people, so much of the time?

I quickly exited the Condé Nast building and hailed a taxi. As I was getting into the cab, I swear to God I saw Thalia (or a Thalia look-alike) standing across the street, dressed in a full Haider Ackermann look, staring at me. It was creepy as shit, but I wasn’t going to freak out, because today was my day. So, I slammed the cab door and hightailed it to a facialist/manicurist/seaweed wrap-ist/hot rocks masseuse in ChiBeCa (Chinatown/TriBeCa), silently thanking God for giving me the foresight to make the appointment. Prepping for the interview had been so stressful that I knew I’d have to spa it out for at least four hours afterward.

I finished my spa sesh around 8:30 that evening and was in another cab on my way home when I noticed I had two missed calls and two voicemails. Both from NYC numbers I didn’t recognize. I pressed Play on the first one.

“Hi, um . . . Babe. It’s Kate. I just wanted to let you know we’ve decided to offer you the position. Please give me a call back at the office when you get this. Thanks and congrats.”

Holy fuck, I’d actually gotten a job. At
Vogue
! I mean, it wasn’t
Vogue Paris
or even
Vogue Nippon,
but it was still
Vogue.
My dad was going to be so happy.

“Very chic,” I said aloud, pressing Play on the next voicemail.

“Babe? It’s Robert. Listen—I’m sorry to call you out of the
blue like this. I just . . . I heard you’re living in New York now. Is that true? Please call me back. I’d really like to hear your voice.”

“Stop the car,” I said a little too loudly to the cabdriver. He pulled over.

“Ma’am, your stop is at the end of this block.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I just need to walk the rest of the way.”

And with that I handed the cabbie a twenty-dollar bill I found in the bottom of my bag, got out of the cab, and took a very cleansing, thirty-second walk to Charlie’s building, during which I decided that I was absolutely not going to call Robert back and deleted both his voicemail and his number from my call list. I had a life now. I worked at
Vogue
and was dating an amazing guy who didn’t drive me to absolute lunacy. Robert was my then, and Charlie was my now. After I washed my face and moisturized, I called Charlie in China to tell him the good news. We had phone sex, I came twice, and then I went to bed.