Is There Still Sex in the City?

That Guy. You remember That Guy. I couldn’t remember That Guy’s name, but I remembered other things about him. Like how I’d always been curious about That Guy. He was very tall and kind of aloof.

People said he was smart. Kitty had taken me to a party at his house years ago and he’d taken me on a tour and I remembered that he talked to me like I was a real person. But then Kitty said he only dated other really tall, beautiful women from countries like Sweden.

And now here he was standing in the comforting yellow light of the house. He must have recognized me because he was smiling.

Tonight, for some reason, That Guy was awfully happy to see me. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was actually happy to see me or if it was because he didn’t know anyone else either.

No matter. We began chatting enthusiastically. About what we were doing this summer and where we lived. About the dinner party we both happened to be invited to the next night at the home of the F. Scotts’.

This coincidence seemed to delight him. He had someone take a picture of us, which he then sent to the F. Scotts, with the sentiment that we were looking forward to seeing them tomorrow.

He showed me the picture and I groaned. When I’d left my house, I’d been under some kind of mistaken impression that I looked sexy.

I did not. My hair needed a trim. I looked, as Kitty would later say, “boring.”

And then, because I knew I was going to see him the next night anyway, I excused myself and went back to the bar, where I looked around and was once again struck by how much I didn’t know these people. Like, not even enough to have friends of friends in common.

That Guy materialized at my side. “Can I get you a glass of champagne?” He had a deep, soothing voice, like an old-timey radio announcer.

“Thanks. But you really don’t have to.”

“I think I do,” he said, with the nicest smile.

After that, MNB did not leave my side. He held my drink as I went through the buffet line and made sure I had my cutlery. He found us a table, sitting next to the actual billionaire who owned the house, who was from Chicago and was with his two college-student daughters, who took us on a tour of the house. It had fifteen bedrooms and was appointed like a boutique hotel. There was a large gym, sauna and steam rooms, massage and treatment room, a hair and makeup room, and a home theater that could fit a hundred people. The kitchen had its own pastry and ice-cream chef.

That’s the thing about rich people. They can have anything they want but like everyone else, they all just want ice cream.

We went into another room, which was set up like a disco. MNB and I danced. He was a pretty good dancer. Then MNB heard about another party that was close to my house, so we decided to go there. But first I needed to find Max to tell him I was leaving.

We discovered him on his hands and knees in the grass, acting like a dog. “Pet me. Pet me!” he said.

“Max!” I said sharply.

I tried to introduce the two men, but Max wasn’t having it. He began howling at the moon.

I gave up.

“Is he okay? Should we do something?” MNB asked.

“He’ll be fine. I guess he’s in a K-hole. Apparently he gets into K-holes all the time.”

“I don’t get it,” MNB said. “Did you really date that guy?”

“It was . . .” I did the math. “Fifteen, twenty years ago? In any case, he was different back then.”

MNB had a car and driver. On the way to the next party, we started making out. MNB was a good kisser and he made me feel like I was a good kisser, too. I hadn’t kissed anyone for a while, so this gave me hope.

Later, when he dropped me off at my house, he said the strangest thing. He said, “I really like you. I have instincts about people and I’m not often wrong. I think you and I could be really good together.”

“Ha. Get out of here,” I said, pushing him out the door. “You don’t even know me.”

As I got into bed, I wondered if maybe I wasn’t out of the relationship game after all.

* * *

I woke up to a text from MNB saying he hoped I’d slept well and sending me the info about the car service pickup that evening, which he’d arranged so that I wouldn’t have to drive to the F. Scotts’ and back. This was slightly embarrassing. I didn’t even know him and he was sending a car to pick me up.

I went over to Kitty’s. “You won’t believe what happened. I made out with this guy.”