and at work he always had my back. The single detail I found most appealing about him was the fact that he was taller than me—at six foot two, I found it difficult to find men I could look up to. He wasn’t a bad kisser and the mood was perfect.
Slowly clothes came off: my shirt, bra, pants, panties. His fingers migrated subtly southward. I had made up my mind to finally get it over with. Quickly we moved from his tiny sofa to his king-size bed, a shiny brass affair that looked like some kind of sexy chariot. As his giant spear rose over me, I started backing away nervously.
“This is actually my first time,” I confessed.
“First time at what?”
“It!”
“Gladyss, are you kidding me!”
“I wish I were.”
“Wow! Not many virgins around nowadays,” he murmured.
“Why don’t I . . .” He slithered down and proceeded to lick me where I was already wet enough. I told him that now I was ready for the kill, and reached down to find that he had gone soft.
Suddenly my cellphone chimed. My brother Carl calling from California. Back then, he was the only person I’d always pick up for.
“Why don’t we take a break?” I suggested, since O’Ryan obviously needed a moment. I hadn’t spoken to Carl in a while and figured he just wanted to quickly wish me a Happy New Year. As Eddie headed into the bathroom, my brother launched into his rant of the day about “Bush’s rape of Iraq.” Soon I heard the toilet flush, and the door opened.
“You’re going to feel foolish when they do find Saddam’s cache,” I told Carl.
“Who?” O’Ryan mouthed.
Since my wallet was on the side table I held it up, showing him the plastic window with a photo of my brother and I hugging.
O’Ryan took the wallet out of my hand and gasped at it in amazement. He had never seen or met my twin, though I had told him about Carl’s anti-war sentiments.
“Is he back on his ‘leave it to the UN’ spiel?”
I didn’t respond. It was best just to let Carl exhaust himself, then I could say goodbye and O’Ryan and I could get back to the business at hand. But my would-be lover shouted out: “If Saddam really had nothing to hide, he’d just give the weapons inspectors full access!”
“Let me speak to that guy,” said Carl.
Within seconds, O’Ryan had my cell pressed to his face and the two were going back and forth about Iraq’s nuclear capabilities. “Saddam was within six months of weapons-grade production back in ’91!” O’Ryan yelled.
I vowed never to answer my brother’s calls again. I should’ve expected this. As twins, the closest thing Carl and I had to a psychic bond was his uncanny ability to call me at the worst possible moments. And yet I’d always answer—perhaps because he always seemed distressed.
I don’t remember falling asleep that night, but when I woke up early the next morning O’Ryan was passed out next to me, snoring loudly. When I delicately tried to revive him, he only rolled to the far side of the bed. For a couple of fidgety hours I tried to go back to sleep. Eventually, unable to get past his kazoo-like snoring, I quietly dressed and went home.
Later that day I decided that my continued virginity was officially Carl’s fault. I left a message on Eddie’s voice mail apologizing for tiptoeing out, adding that I had New Year’s chores awaiting me. I expected that he would quickly call me back, and we’d pick up where we left off, but the call never came. In fact, though I saw him every day at work, over the days and weeks that followed he didn’t say a single word about the aborted act—it was as if the evening had never happened.
I finally called Carl and complained about his phone call interruptus. Without apologizing, he said, “You know, this is exactly what I suspected would happen. I knew you’d go out and do something crazy on New Year’s Eve, and I was right!”
“Give me a break! You’re not my father!”
“No, I’m your older brother and . . .” He took a deep breath. “And you don’t need to rush into this, is all I’m saying.”
“I’m not rushing! I’m the last virgin in this city and Eddie O’Ryan happens to be a really good guy. We work together.”
“That’s no reason to jump in the sack with him.”
“We get along. In fact, he’s my most compatible sign—a Scorpio.”
“Trust me, I saved you from getting stung by a scorpion!” he said, compelling me to hang up on him.
Some winters New York got off easy, but that year it was unforgivably cold. In fact if it hadn’t been so damn cold, I probably would’ve requested a new assignment and a new partner, but the frost seemed to freeze all insecurities. With wind chills hitting minus ten, it was all I could do just to stay on the job. This was before we knew that global warming meant manic cold as well as hot weather. After a barrage of storms that dropped over four feet of snow in a single month, everything froze into mini glaciers. I’d always get a thrill when I heard that alternate side of the street parking had been suspended—it meant a day I didn’t have to write tickets. Unfortunately, those days were few.
I was in the habit of grabbing a venti cup of Starbucks chai when I started my morning tour. Usually I’d spot a violation before I was halfway through drinking it, and I’d have to toss the remainder so I could write the ticket. That day, still feeling a little sleepy, I made the mistake of ordering a coffee. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was able to down the entire twenty ounces without writing a single ticket and I soon found myself in desperate need of a bathroom. The only sanitary establishment on Forty-second between Ninth and Tenth was an expensive restaurant called DiCarlo’s, and I was pleasantly surprised to see it was open that early. I went in and asked the maitre d’ if I could use their facilities. She pointed to the rear.
As I headed back there, I overheard a waiter addressing the place’s only customer: “Sir, I truly regret having to ask, but cigarette smoking in New York restaurants is no longer permitted.”
When I returned a couple minutes later, I heard the maitre d’ saying, “I’d hate to have to ask you again . . .”
“All right, just one autograph.”
Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark room, I realized the customer in question was none other than motion picture star Noel Holden, sitting in a corner booth. Of all the celebrities in the pantheon of tabloid gods, he was the one my next door neighbor Maggie was most obsessed with. She had clipped photos of him from various magazines and taped them around the mirror above her armoire.
“It’s the cigar, sir,” the maitre d’ replied. “I believe the waiter just explained—”
“The waiter only said cigarette smoking was prohibited.”
“No smoking is allowed of any kind,” the maitre d’ said politely.
“Look, this is a hundred dollar cigar.” Holden held it up. “I can’t just put it out.”
“We’re
