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All the Bad Sex I’ve Had, a very, very, very long book (pt 9) |
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Written by Suzy Soro
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Tuesday, 23 December 2008 |
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  A continuation of Chapter 2 in Suzy Soro's unreleased book.
Scotty doesn't call Suzy that much their first summer apart and Suzy's mom reminds her of that. A fact Suzy denies had meaning. Then Mom explains the difference between men and women and how to handle men ...
We continue now with more of Chapter 2.
All the Bad Sex I’ve Had, a very, very, very long book (Part 9) I don't remember why it ended with Scotty; maybe I had died of being ignored and he couldn't get me on the phone anymore. It never occurred to me that it was because we didn't really love each other. I decided to fly to California to give the relationship CPR.
"Z, the man should come after you, not vice-versa," my mother said after I told her I was flying standby to San Francisco.
"Jesus, mom, that concept died a million years ago, now its okay for girls to go after boys."
"It's a bad plan, Z," my father said, "look at Magda." My sister Magda never went after any boy and there were always a handful of them after her at any given time.
"Her situation is different than mine."
"How's that?" my father asked as he lowered his reading glasses and peered at me over the edge of the New York Times.
"It just is," I mumbled. I didn't think it prudent to mention that Magda was still a virgin and all those boys around her were just trying to get into her pants.
So I arrived in Berkeley bearing gifts for my smoker fiancé: a carton of Pall Malls and a Bic lighter. I spent two nights sleeping next to Scotty not having numerical sex. What revenge. I won't sleep with someone who isn't attracted to me anymore. For two days I asked him why he called off the wedding and for two days he would just repeat over and over, "Go home, Z."
I had bragged to my friends that I was marrying a guy who adored me so on the flight home from California I prayed that the plane would crash. I didn't believe in suicide so I threw all my support behind Death by Pilot. I could never kill myself because I know suicide is probably like an Upper East Side party in Manhattan. You've sucked all the oxygen out of the place waiting for the cool people to show up and then you finally give up and go home. Then the next day you get a call from the hostess saying, "Right after you left? Robert de Niro showed up." That's how I imagined suicide would be. You'd get to Heaven and God would say, "Right after you left? I handed out Ferraris." And then He would send me back to earth as Chubby McFatso to punish me for my judgment of fat fatties, as I started calling them after years of being abused by them. I'm sorry I'm thin, okay?
I was momentarily buoyed by the thought that Scotty would be very, very sorry when my plane crashed. I daydreamed about dying because not only did it make me feel better but I could then picture Scotty heartbroken in his Berkeley apartment watching the six o'clock news and seeing a picture of me with a smile frozen on my face as I was beamed out to a saddened nation. I knew a girl who faked her own death to pay back a guy who had dumped her. They lived on opposite coasts and didn't have mutual friends so she thought she got away with it. Just when he decided that maybe he should get back together with her, he found out she was dead and called her mother. They did not get back together.
So as I'm romanticizing my demise the plane hit an air pocket and dropped nearly a half a mile straight down. I was amazed at my previously unknown super powers of willing things to come true. Trays flew through the air, food and pillows crashed into each other and I grabbed the hand of the man sitting next to me. The hand belonged to an elderly rabbi who got really pissed off when I excitedly told him that I had been praying for the plane to crash. After the rabbi re-pinned his yarmulke to the eighteen strands of grey hair he had left, he begged the flight attendant to change his seat. Like in case the plane did crash, sitting in 24 C would spare him the death he would have had in 33 A, next to me, Satan.(to be continued) |
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Suzy Soro
