介绍:
Babes Flee Land of Wives
for Night of Topless Fun
Bad things can happen to city women when they come back from
visiting their newly married-with-children friends in the suburbs.
The morning after Carrie, Miranda, Belle, and Sarah returned
from a bridal shower in Greenwich, there were phone calls.
Sarah had broken her ankle rollerblading at four in the morning.
Miranda had had sex with some guy in a closet at a party, and they
didn't use condoms. Carrie had done something so ridiculous she
was sure her short relationship with Mr. Big was over. And no one
could find Belle.
THE BOLD FELLOW
Miranda hadn't meant to go nuts at the party, to go into what she
calls "my Glenn Close imitation."
"I was just going to go home and get a good night's sleep and
wake up and work on Sunday." That was the great thing about not
being married, not having kids, being alone. You could work on
Sunday.
But Sarah made her go to the party. "There could be good
contacts there," Sarah had said. Sarah, with her own PR company,
was constantly on the lookout for "contacts," which could also
translate to "dates." The party was on East 64th Street. Some rich
old guy's town house. Women in their thirties wearing black dresses
and all with practically the same color blond hair. That type of
woman always went to parties at rich old guys' houses, and they
file://D:\Bushnell, Candace -Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
Page 60 of 156 60 of 156
always brought their girlfriends, so there were squadrons of these
women looking for men and pretending not to.
Sarah disappeared into the throng. Miranda was left standing by
the bar. She had dark, wavy hair, and she was wearing leggings with
the boot part sewn in, so she stuck out.
Two girls walked by her, and Miranda—maybe she is a httle
paranoid—swore that one of them said, "That's that girl, Miranda
Hobbes. She's a total bitch."
So Miranda said, out loud, but so no one could hear, "That's
right, I am a real bitch, honey, but thank God I'm not like you."
Then she remembered how at the end of the long afternoon in the
suburbs, the low-fat carrot cake with low-fat cream cheese frosting
had been served with tiny sterling forks with prongs so sharp they
could break the skin.
A man came up to her. Expensively tailored suit. Okay, he wasn't
exactly a man because he was only about thirty-five. But he was
trying. She was making the bartender give her a double vodka tonic,
and the man said, "Thirsty, eh?"
"No. What I really want is a steak. Okay?"
"I will get you one," the man said, and it turned out he had a
French accent.
"I will let you know," she said, and tried to walk away. She didn't
want to have anything to do with the party. She was tired of feeling
like she didn't fit in, but she didn't want to go home, either, because
she was tired of being lonely and she was a httle drunk.
"My name is Guy," he said. "I own a gallery on 79th Street."
She sighed and said, "Of course you do."
"Perhaps you have heard of it." "Listen, Guy . .
.," she said. "Yes?" he asked eagerly.
"Can you touch your asshole with your dick?"
Guy smiled slyly. He moved closer. Put his hand on her
shoulder. "But of course."
"Then I suggest you go fuck yourself."
"A come-on!" Guy said, and Miranda wondered if he was really
that stupid, or if he just seemed stupid because he was French. He
grabbed her hand and began pulling her up the stairs; she went
along because she figured that any guy who could keep his cool
after being insulted couldn't be that bad. They ended up in the rich
old guy's bedroom, which had a red silk cover on the bed, and then
this Guy character had some cocaine. And then, somehow, they
ended up kissing. People kept coming in and out of the bedroom.
