Unwifeable(57)

Elizabeth reads over my shoulder a little bit and then lashes out at me in disgust.

“What the fuck?” she yells. “What is this Sex and the City bullshit you’re writing? You wouldn’t say this! You would never say this! This needs to be trashy, sexy, in your face! What is this right here . . . a semicolon? You would never use a fucking semicolon!”

My eyes glaze over as I watch this dominatrix really take my punctuation to task.

“Hey . . . so, uh, do you guys want to, like, actually dominate me?” I ask.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, and I see my pupils are the size of Alaska.

“Showtime,” Edward says, standing above me.

To prepare to dominate me, Edward looks around the room and ignores the $2,000 of assorted porn props they have brought, and instead grabs my Sporty Spice neon yellow bike jacket, which I bought during a brief healthy-living phase. He ties it around my eyes. Then Elizabeth pulls off my pink Victoria’s Secret lace panties and stuffs them in my mouth. It’s a nice touch, I must admit.

“Do you think you’re a little starlet?” Elizabeth hisses as she spanks me. “You think you’re a little star, don’t you?”

I find this entire dynamic hilarious. This is pretty much the opposite way to dominate me.

“Yes!” I agree enthusiastically. “Totally!”

But now Edward is trying to get in on the action.

“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you with my huge cock,” he snarls, and then leans into my ear to whisper so only I can hear, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

That sobers me up—a little. I strip off the blindfold to see him standing there, revealing his sad, flaccid coke-dick. For once, I am so grateful to the gods of impotence. Thank you, Jesus.

“Edward, we have to go,” Elizabeth says, disgusted. “We have the shoot tomorrow.”

It is now 4:30 a.m., and in their rush to leave, some of their porn props are still scattered around my apartment, which is also littered with empty beer cans and cigarettes. When they’re gone, I am pacing the room, ready to jump out my window. I log onto Craigslist and post an ad on Casual Encounters. “Need to get fucked now,” it reads.

A million replies flood my in-box, and I click on one that catches my eye. Ken, an engineer, includes a link to his professional website. I watch a reel that attests to his professionalism and work ethic. Yeah, this is the guy.

Before Ken arrives, I light a red-and-gold glitter Wiccan love-potion candle I’ve purchased to help me find my soul mate and fix my love life. Seems to be working so far!

I change into some black sheer Wolford thigh-highs and dance around to Weezer until the doorbell rings. When Ken arrives, I answer the door wearing only the stockings.

“Oh, hey, let me do, like, a fashion show for you,” I tell my new suitor, pulling Ken into my living room before digging through my closet to try on various Halloween costumes. I change into my slutty nurse outfit. Then my slutty pilot one. Then my slutty Sacagawea.

Before I can find slutty nuclear physicist or whatever comes next, Ken lifts me up to carry me to my bed. But my feet stretch out and knock over the Wiccan candle, splattering red and gold wax all over my cream carpet.

“Fuck!” I say. “That’s my love-potion thingy. I need that.”

Ken shrugs and sets me down on my bed, but as he does, something catches his eye. Ken looks a little freaked out. I look over and see what he is seeing.

“What the hell?” he says.

One of the porn props Edward and Elizabeth left behind that fell out of their bag is the most enormous dildo you’ve ever seen in your life.

Ken picks it up off the ground with a sly smile.

“Oh, that’s not mine,” I say by way of explanation. “It belongs to this S&M couple who were over here earlier. We had a failed three-way, and I did coke for the first time.”

“Sure,” Ken says, shaking his head in disbelief. “That makes sense.”

As debauched and ridiculous as the evening is, I love the debauchery and ridiculousness of it all. I tell myself I am a sort of modern Hunter S. Thompson with a vagina. I tell myself these stories are gold. I tell myself that I’m in control because I’m the one doing this. But there is no control. I’m just lost.

Not long after, I have a few more Casual Encounters with men who are seeking “snow bunnies” (women to do coke with) or “girls to show off.” I even answer an ad where the guy offers “100 roses,” which means dollars. But I can’t bring myself to take the cash at the end of it. So instead we watch Apollo 13, and I lecture him on “repetition compulsion theory” and how I totally know what I’m doing with all of these seedy sexual encounters before I leave.

Another night, I go to a high-rolling Post party where I arrive stoned, and a lawyer plucks me right off the vine, kisses me, and takes me back to his place. He orders coke, and I do it off a plate while he watches patiently before carrying me into his bedroom. When I leave, I don’t want the night to end, so I answer an ad on Craigslist from a guy who posts only a JPEG of his dick.

It’s like “Choose Your Own Adventure: Sex Death Wish Edition.” He lives at a Central Park West address, and when I arrive I think we are each somewhat relieved that we are both fairly normal. He’s an investment banker (of course he is). Only when I tell him what I do, he starts to get nervous about how high I am already and how much of his coke I want to do.