Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir Read Online Free
Author: Stephanie Klein
Tags: Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography
warm popsicle stick. “Clean as a vistle. All done,” she chanted as she spread warm baby oil over my swollen hoo-hoo, legs, and ass crack. Done. Thank the good Lord; there was more cleaning to do. I hoped David was worth all this new religion.
At home I realized my armpits smelled fine, but my apartment was a mess. I began with the bedside table—it speaks volumes. It’s like your choice of shoes. I rearranged my bedside table book arrangement, placing the French soapbox filled with condoms to the top of the stack. Some might check the book titles for anything scary: Father Hunger , Overcoming Overeating , The Needy and Greedy , and be quick to shove them in the sock drawer. But since I’m frighteningly open, I left them on display. A vase with Gerber daisies, a carafe of drinking water, my eye mask, and the pill were now somehow orderly. Dusting wouldn’t hurt. I was naked cleaning my apartment. I couldn’t decide what to wear, but I knew I couldn’t even think wardrobe until the apartment was tidy. I wouldn’t invite him in unless the place was representative of the me I wanted to be.
Random bits of mail were shoved in a bag, DVDs in their sleeves, fuck music cued in the player. Fresh-cut flowers arranged in the living room, beside the bed, and yes, even in a Tiffany tissue vase, compliments of my wedding registry, in the bathroom beside the matches. I was ready for a sleepover. Well almost. I was running late.
Late meant Frizz-Ease and a hair clip. It meant one eye shadow, no time for a duo. It meant brushing my teeth and washing my vaja . There was no time for a shower and full makeup. See, there’s an attitude to being put together in a hurry—it’s a good one. All women should know how to do this. Febreze, fresh flowers, Frizz-Ease, a quick vagina cleaning, some sexy unmentionables, and you’re ready. Okay, some gloss out the door. Oh, yeah, perfume, but how French whore…I’d skip it. Okay, maybe I’d add a little.
Sometimes, you like the guy a lot, or you want to because he’s thoughtful and a gentleman. David was that “sometimes.” On our previous dates, our evenings would end with waitstaff clearing throats and glancing at watches. We’d outstay our welcome, chatting on until 1 A.M . without noticing the time. When he walked me home, he’d insist on buying Gray’s Papaya hot dogs for Linus. This was his power move. Show her you’re into her dog and you’re guaranteed rank in the pair and spare lineup.
I really wanted to be into him—he was great on paper. Management Consultant, Ivy grad, lived alone and had a terrace, parents still married. David liked wine, my hair, and yes, even my dog. That whole half-stand thing when he pushes himself up from the table is overblown. I hear women add it to the retelling of their dates. They do it because they think it’s what other women will respond to. He did it, but who cares? He’d e-mail often, everything from articles concerning the re-org of my parent company, to town histories about Sag Harbor because he knew I’d have a share house there in the summer. His links to Citysearch write-ups on 5 Ninth, a hip new restaurant in the Meatpacking District, were much more impressive than any half-stand number. He could even kiss, although he improved once I put him on a regimented tongue-training program. Someone had to cure him from the world of small bird peck circles. Finally, he learned to hold my face with both hands, definitely shows you’re into it, and stick it in properly. I know. I’m a martyr.
SO WHY? WHY COULDN’T I BE INTO MISTER GREAT ON PAPER?
Because you don’t fuck paper.
Still, if there were a promise of a passionate sex life, it would all change. So enough talk. I needed to test his action.
“He’s showed such restraint, particularly when faced with three-hundred-dollar perfume quite literally made for a queen,” my friend Hannah told me when I complained I’d yet to size up one Mr. David
At home I realized my armpits smelled fine, but my apartment was a mess. I began with the bedside table—it speaks volumes. It’s like your choice of shoes. I rearranged my bedside table book arrangement, placing the French soapbox filled with condoms to the top of the stack. Some might check the book titles for anything scary: Father Hunger , Overcoming Overeating , The Needy and Greedy , and be quick to shove them in the sock drawer. But since I’m frighteningly open, I left them on display. A vase with Gerber daisies, a carafe of drinking water, my eye mask, and the pill were now somehow orderly. Dusting wouldn’t hurt. I was naked cleaning my apartment. I couldn’t decide what to wear, but I knew I couldn’t even think wardrobe until the apartment was tidy. I wouldn’t invite him in unless the place was representative of the me I wanted to be.
Random bits of mail were shoved in a bag, DVDs in their sleeves, fuck music cued in the player. Fresh-cut flowers arranged in the living room, beside the bed, and yes, even in a Tiffany tissue vase, compliments of my wedding registry, in the bathroom beside the matches. I was ready for a sleepover. Well almost. I was running late.
Late meant Frizz-Ease and a hair clip. It meant one eye shadow, no time for a duo. It meant brushing my teeth and washing my vaja . There was no time for a shower and full makeup. See, there’s an attitude to being put together in a hurry—it’s a good one. All women should know how to do this. Febreze, fresh flowers, Frizz-Ease, a quick vagina cleaning, some sexy unmentionables, and you’re ready. Okay, some gloss out the door. Oh, yeah, perfume, but how French whore…I’d skip it. Okay, maybe I’d add a little.
Sometimes, you like the guy a lot, or you want to because he’s thoughtful and a gentleman. David was that “sometimes.” On our previous dates, our evenings would end with waitstaff clearing throats and glancing at watches. We’d outstay our welcome, chatting on until 1 A.M . without noticing the time. When he walked me home, he’d insist on buying Gray’s Papaya hot dogs for Linus. This was his power move. Show her you’re into her dog and you’re guaranteed rank in the pair and spare lineup.
I really wanted to be into him—he was great on paper. Management Consultant, Ivy grad, lived alone and had a terrace, parents still married. David liked wine, my hair, and yes, even my dog. That whole half-stand thing when he pushes himself up from the table is overblown. I hear women add it to the retelling of their dates. They do it because they think it’s what other women will respond to. He did it, but who cares? He’d e-mail often, everything from articles concerning the re-org of my parent company, to town histories about Sag Harbor because he knew I’d have a share house there in the summer. His links to Citysearch write-ups on 5 Ninth, a hip new restaurant in the Meatpacking District, were much more impressive than any half-stand number. He could even kiss, although he improved once I put him on a regimented tongue-training program. Someone had to cure him from the world of small bird peck circles. Finally, he learned to hold my face with both hands, definitely shows you’re into it, and stick it in properly. I know. I’m a martyr.
SO WHY? WHY COULDN’T I BE INTO MISTER GREAT ON PAPER?
Because you don’t fuck paper.
Still, if there were a promise of a passionate sex life, it would all change. So enough talk. I needed to test his action.
“He’s showed such restraint, particularly when faced with three-hundred-dollar perfume quite literally made for a queen,” my friend Hannah told me when I complained I’d yet to size up one Mr. David
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