Is There Still Sex in the City?

“Who?” she demanded.

“You know him,” I said, by way of explanation. “That Guy.”

“That Guy?” Kitty was gobsmacked. Then she started laughing. “You made out with That Guy?”

“What’s so funny?”

“You and That Guy. I would never in a million years put you two together.”

“Well we saw each other at a party and we made out. And he gave me a ride home. And he’s sending me a car to take me to the F. Scotts’.”

“That’s great,” Kitty said. “Then we can go together.”

I’d forgotten that Kitty was going to the F. Scotts’, too.

?

??Can’t,” I said, remembering. “I’ve got that thing at the library first.”

The “thing at the library” was a panel discussion with Erica Jong and Gail Sheehy. It was one of those events they do every month at the Bridgehampton Library. Originally it was called Three Women Writers, but Erica thought that was sexist so now it was called, simply, Three Writers. I hadn’t told any of my friends about it because the evening was going to be cold and rainy, the event was held outdoors, and the audience would mostly consist of informed senior citizens. But I’d made the mistake of telling MNB about it and now he was coming.

In fact, he’d constructed a complicated arrangement in which the car would pick me up and take me to Bridgehampton, then would pick him up in Southampton and take him back to Bridgehampton, where he would meet me at the library. Then we were going to go across the street to meet Marilyn and her sister, and then the car was going to take us to Water Mill for the F. Scotts’ dinner.

I couldn’t imagine how Kitty was going to fit into this scheme. “We’ll give you a ride home, okay?” I said.

* * *

The library event was as miserable as I’d predicted. The temperature had dropped, and not one of us was prepared for the weather, so we were sporting various coats and wraps that had been procured for us from the audience.

MNB arrived toward the end. He stood out not just for his height but also for the fact that he was one of the few men there. At that point, the conversation onstage had turned to the inevitable—men and how much they sucked but not all men.

As I was pointing out how maybe it wasn’t “all men” but it was certainly “enough men,” I saw MNB waylaid by a woman commonly described as a little old lady.

She turned to him and said, “You seem like a very nice, empathetic man. What are you doing here?”

MNB laughed. “I came to see her,” he said, indicating me.

Later, at the dinner, like we were already a couple, we told this story to the F. Scotts. “You could both do a lot worse,” they said.

And so began a whirlwind boyfriend experience. MNB did everything right. He did everything a woman should want when it comes to romance. He sent flowers. He took me to see Hello, Dolly! and walked me back home singing, “Hello, Candace!” He took me on island vacations. We had couple massages and did yoga. He said, “I know you haven’t been spoiled in a long time and I want to spoil you.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Because you deserve to be spoiled.”

In the mornings, I’d look down at the pretty bowl of cut-up fruit he’d prepared for me for breakfast and think, Why me?

“I don’t get it,” I said to Sassy. “How did I meet this great age-appropriate guy who has his own money and his own house and is really nice . . . and he wants to be my boyfriend?”

She said, “Honey, you’ve worked hard, you’ve done the work, and you deserve it.”

Perhaps I had, but we all know that just because a woman deserves something good, it doesn’t always mean she’s going to get it.

Did I deserve to be spoiled by a wonderful single man who didn’t appear to have anything glaringly wrong with him? Of course I did.

And so does every other woman. But how often does it happen? Almost never.

Why should the universe have singled me out for this particular carnival ride?