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Sloane: It's so hard to tell these days. And what about these? (Stroking his abs.) You're telling me you haven't had anything done? How about here? My God. I thought that was padding!
Chris: Please, that is . . . I don't really feel comfortable.
Sloane: No, actually, if I'm not mistaken, you're starting to feel hard.
Chris: I can't . . . I'm . . .
Sloane: So is this all you, or have you had the procedure?
Chris: Of course not.
Sloane: I don't know why you say "of course not." Two-thirds of the men I've slept with have had it. I mean, I'm not necessarily complaining. In the old days it was kind of like rolling the dice, you never knew what you were going to get. A girl ran the risk of being seriously underwhelmed by a new beau. She even ran the risk of being knocked up for nine months if she wasn't careful. It's hard to imagine carrying a fetus around inside of you for nine months, but that's what our mothers did. So you're telling me this is all you?
Chris: Please . . . don't.
Sloane: Your lips say, "no," but this . . . this says, "yes." This says, "please." I'm pretty fluent in Johnsonian, and I'd say this is saying, "Put me somewhere warm and wet."
"Did you put something in my drink?"
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Chris: Stop it. Let go. That's not fair.
Sloane: I don't think you really mean that. You don't feel like you really mean that.
Chris: Did you put something in my drink? Oh my God, you did, didn't you? You put something in my drink!
Sloane: What makes you think I put something in your drink? Do you normally have trouble in this area? Do you have erectile dysfunction? Why would you be surprised to find yourself aroused? Are you implying that I'm not attractive enough to stimulate you?
Do you find me so unappealing?
Chris: No, it's not that.
Sloane: It's inconceivable to you that you could be turned on by me? You think I'm too old?
Chris: I don't think you're too old. I think you're very attractive. And not old.
Sloane: And yet you find it inexplicable that you would respond to me without some kind of pharmaceutical help.
Chris: I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean . . . please, don't do that . . . Oh, God. Oh my God.
Sloane: Mmmmmm . . .
Chris: Oh, Jesus.
Sloane: Ummn hmmm . . . I love spearmint.
Chris: No, really. Don't. Stop.
Sloane: Don't stop?
Chris: No. Stop.
"You know, for a guy who's all prudish, you sure dress like a slut."
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Sloane: Well, that's a first.
Chris: I'm sorry. It's just . . . I have a girlfriend.
Sloane: So do I. Maybe we should call her.
Chris: I'm just not comfortable with . . . I don't know . . .
Sloane: You know, for a guy who's all prudish, you sure dress like a slut. I mean, if those shorts were any tighter . . . And likewise the shirt. Are you really going to stand there and tell me you're not flaunting it?
Chris: I dress for myself. This is how I like to dress. I'm not trying to provoke anyone.
Sloane: Right. You're telling me that those shorts are actually comfortable. Face it, you dress for us. You dress to please. You're showing off the equipment. And then you act all innocent when someone actually answers your little personal ad. Well, don't worry. Your virtue is safe with me, Chris. And your job is safe. Though I honestly don't see you rising very far in this organization.
Chris: Not many men do, as far as I can see.
Sloane: When they do, they end up quitting as soon as they get married.
n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Jay McInerney is the author of the novels Bright Lights, Big City;
Ransom; Story of My Life; Brightness Falls; The Last of the Savages;
and, most recently, The Good Life.
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©2006 Jay McInerney and Nerve.com |
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