Contact Below the Waist


I met Leah at a party. She was pretty, but her nose was shiny. We shared a mutual friend, though we had never met. We talked about nothing and then the conversation moved on to books. It turned out that we both liked F. Scott Fitzgerald. We had an excited conversation about his work, about his obsession with the wealthy class, and I forgot about the shine on her nose. I suddenly became aware that she had beautiful eyes.

She did mention that Fitzgerald was handsome. This made me feel insecure, so I let it slip out that I was occasionally a writer myself.

"Have you published anything?" she asked.

The was the question I was waiting for. In a humble whisper I said, "Oh, yeah, I published a novel that failed last year and some dozen short stories and articles." I shrugged my shoulders as if it were nothing, but my intention was to hit her with it like a dozen roses. Long-stemmed, no less.

But it was a risk to mention my book. It was published in the fall of the previous year and was selling at the ignominious rate of three copies a week and I've been a failure at coming up with anything else through the winter and early spring. I had read in Time that women are attracted to successful males and I was counting on a

failed book to put me in that category. Luckily, it did. She hadn't heard of my book, but she was duly impressed. So I asked her to dance.

I then lost all my published-author cachet by moving terribly to the fast-paced music. I figured that she was thinking, If he dances like that he must be lousy in bed, even if he did write a book. Then a slow tune came on and I went to held her hands as if to waltz, but she put her arms around my neck and pressed her body close to mine. I immediately became aroused. I didn't want to offend her so I tried to limit our contact below the waist. But she only pressed closer. I thought, Maybe she doesn't notice. There were two slow tunes in a row and I thought to myself, She has to notice, and I don't think she minds. At the end of the second dance I brushed her hair with my lips.

When the fast music came back on I got us off the dance floor. I didn't want to lose the ground I had just gained. We were both shy after embracing like that, slow dancing so soon after meeting one another, and to break the silence I asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm wondering if you want my number," she said.

I got her number and I thought to myself, She must really think I'm a successful male.

On the fourth date I gave her the biography of Fitzgerald as a present as

a way to show that we were ready to sleep with each other. We were in bed and I felt gassy. I thought to myself, Why do I always feel gassy the first time I'm going to sleep with someone? It's a curse! Maybe it was the ice cream we had for dessert, I don't know. Anyhow, I willed my gas away by forgiving myself for being human. Just before making love I had to make my excuses, like before playing racquet ball. I said, "I might come right away, because it's the first time."

"Oh, that's all right," Leah said, very sweet and understanding.

"It's because I'll be so excited . . . but then I get better," I said. But what I didn't tell Leah was that I was so nervous about premature ejaculation that I was afraid I might not get an erection at all. I've never failed yet, but I am getting closer to forty years and I've seen articles about impotence on the covers of women's magazines as I stand in line at the grocery store.

Then Leah asked me why I hadn't brought her copy of my book as I had promised. I had given her the Fitzgerald biography instead. I didn't tell her, but it was because I didn't want her to read it. It had been my initial attractive feature, but I was afraid that if she read the book that she'd have and thought I knew all about backstreet abortions and drugs, I thought hats hanging on semi-erect penises were funny and assume I plaigerized the ending of my book from an old Kate Chopin novel -- the usual reaction to my one book.

I wanted to put off this reaction as long as possible. So I said to her, "I still

have to order a copy, and you'll like this Fitzgerald bio better. And so I picked up

the hardcover biography that we had left on the bed and sat down on the edge. I said,

"He's good looking, isn't he?" She sat down next to me and looked at the picture on the back of the book.

She smiled and I relaxed a little bit. It worked. His good looks had distracted her a little. It bought me some time.