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It's so late, it's early. My friend Simone and I are at her ex-boyfriend's in Beverly Hills that autumn morning for some reason. Peter is your typical L.A. slasher: basketball player/model/actor/producer. He's sitting behind a huge oak desk on a leather chair with stacks of specs and paperwork in front of him, a huge bottle of Fiji looking proportionate in his large hand.
“When I last saw Simone, she was screaming—what were you saying? Oh! I remember,” Peter mimics, switching into a high-pitched voice: “Fuck you and your fake-ass girlfriend!”
“Why, is she hot?” I ask, leaning forward.
Peter exhales and picks up a frame from a shelf to his right and hands it to me. I look at the life-size Barbie next to him in the shot.
“Oh, Jesus,” I say. “She’s gorgeous.”
Peter looks absently at one of the stacks of paper on his desk.
“You see all this?” he asks. “This is paperwork for the dog.”
He's relocating to Tokyo.
“You’re really doing this,” says Simone. “And she’s going with you?”
“She’s coming with me.”
“You’re going to support her?”
“No, she’s doing her own thing, modeling, etc.,” he says, taking a sip of his water. He looks at me. “Are those real?”
“Pardon?”
“Your tits.” Point-blank. Like we're at a casting call.
“Yes.”
“My god,” he leans back in his chair. “You could put you on a street with Heidi Klum and all the models in those ads that are supposed to be sexy and they could never be as sexy as you because they just don’t—you’re the real deal.”
I feel like a specimen in a Petri dish. With big pores. You know, the stuff “real” women have. I'm somewhere between flattered and horrified. Leaning more closely toward the latter.
“They don’t make women like that anymore,” Peter says, finally.
I'll bite. “Like what?”
“Who like sex. You exude sex. You’re, like, in heat. But you sit there with that ring on your hand so naturally, it makes me crazy.”
A ring, both a decoy and deterrent, depending on how you use it.
“Do you want to come to bed with me?” Peter asks.
“I have this ring on my hand and you have a girlfriend.”
“I do,” he says, picking up the picture and looking at it. “I do, I do.”
“Jesus, what’s your problem?” Simone asks.
“She doesn’t like sex like I do,” he confesses. “You ever get in bed with someone who’s like, ‘OK, let’s just do this,’ but you can tell they’re not really into it? It’s not the same if they don’t want it like you want it. It makes you not want it.”
“Pete, why are you with her?” Simone asks, softening her voice.
“She’s a nice girl. She’s so sweet. She’s uncomplicated.”
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “She’s a Jackie.”
JACKIE AND MARILYN
My friend Sugar, a lover and connoisseur of men, has this theory about men and the women who plague them. These women, she says, can be divided into two categories: the Jackies and the Marilyns.
“Jackie O,” she says. “She's the woman who is the mother of your children. The woman who has dinner ready every night, does everything she commits to do and has sex with you every Friday night after the kids are in bed. She keeps the house in order, her career (if she refrains from housewifery) in check, and always compliments her husband on a job well-done.”
Jackie is patient; Jackie is kind. Jackie bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Jackie, without a doubt, is the woman a man marries.
And Marilyn?
“She’s gorgeous and hungry,” says Sugar with a laugh. “She whispers, 'I want to fuck,' in your ear while you sit next to her in a business meeting. And instead of 'let’s go get some lunch,' your lunch is Marilyn.”
I knew a man who married a Marilyn once. He couldn't keep up sexually after a few years and was nearly driven insane by her inability to function within a household as he expected.
“Run the dishwasher?” she asked him staring at the machine (in nothing but stilettos and ropes and ropes of pearls). “How?”
At first he thought it was cute. And at first, she was more than willing to learn all of these things and do them. It was so much fun to play housewife. It was kinky to cook in nothing but an apron and Louboutins. It was sexy to sit in lingerie on top of the washer reading trashy erotica during the spin cycle and playing with herself. It was delightful to go grocery shopping at midday among all the stay-at-home moms—wearing
