Disgust and Desire chapter 3

A novel, chapter 3

3.

Laura waited until the sixth ring to answer Dylan’s call. She rolled her eyes. Oh, boy.

​“Hello,” she said.

​“Baby?”

​“I’m not your baby. Don’t call me that. We broke up five months ago, remember.”

​Dylan breathed heavily over the line. “Baby. Laura. C’mon. This is ridiculous. We love each other. Let’s get back together. You’re just playing hard to get.”

​Dylan Lansky had captured her with his perfect everything: He was 6’2, had a six-pack, a full head of wavy, brunette hair, a square jaw, and bright white teeth. He was a venture capitalist (First Mark Capital). Dylan came from real money. His father had worked in the department of labor under the first Bush administration and had invested well in the stock market. He did his undergrad at Duke, and got his master’s—in business analytics—from Harvard Business School. And of course the next logical place for him to live had been Manhattan. Where else? So he moved into a 3,500-square-foot two bedroom all to himself in Chelsea on West 24th and 10th Ave, right by the Highline.

​It was true that, superficially, he had it all. But there’d been one major flaw: He was awful in bed. And…he could be an asshole. He was selfish to the point of narcissism. He talked about himself endlessly. He constantly tried to impress her. And he could be mean. They’d dated for nine-and-a-half months…and then she couldn’t stand him anymore and broke it off. That was five months ago.

​She sipped the last bit of her wine. She stood up and walked to the kitchen to pour another glass. She sensed that very minuscule buzz sensation which she loved. She pictured Dylan standing in his giant flat, eight stories up, his gargantuan square windows which faced the Hudson River and the Hudson Parkway and the piers. He ran on the Parkway sometimes, another one of those shirtless, perfectly sculpted guys with glistening sweat and taut muscles. That image made her tinglemomentarily between the thighs. God the man was gorgeous.

​“I am not playing hard to get, Dylan. We’ve talked about this. It’s over.”

​“Is it someone else?”

​She snorted, her nose deep into her glass, smelling the wine. That earthy, oak wood scent. She drank.

​“Not that it’s any of your business. But…no. I’m still single. By choice.”

​He laughed. His voice was somewhat high but masculine. She envisioned him naked. That hard-as-stone stomach, the way she used to run her palm along it in semi-ecstasy. He often struggled to get and then stay hard. It started to feel exhausting, like work. He rarely got her off. A selfish lover. (Most men were.) He took forever. Sometimes she’d just say, “Baby, baby let’s take a break.” He’d be determined though and would keep going and going and going until, sometimes, he just collapsed on top of her and fell asleep, that acrid body odor of his.

​“Listen. Baby. Sorry: Laura. Meet me tomorrow. Will you? Please? I’ve been thinking about everything. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I made the wrong choice.”

​She sipped. “Maybe you were wrong? Honey: I was the one who broke up with you, remember?”

​“I know. I just mean, you know, maybe I was wrong to not treat you better.”

​What was the deal with men? What did they ever actually want? It always seemed like the goal was simply sex…but then they got emotionally bonded and it was like dealing with a fucking child. The only man she’d ever truly loved and respected was her father. Charles DiLane. She remembered him reading Goodnight, Moon to her when she was a kid. She’d be in bed and smiling up at him and there’d he’d be, Dad, with his dark brown mustache and his suit still on, the red loosened tie around his neck.

​“Well, you got that part right,” she said.

​“Laura. Baby. C’mon. I wasn’t that bad. Cut me some slack.”

​She wanted to say, Did you ever make me cum? Did you ever ask me what was going on in MY life? Did you ever once think of my family, or my needs?

​But instead she said, “Alright. Fine. I admit it. You weren’t that bad.”

​He chuckled. “You bitch.”

​“Whatever. You think you’re so goddamn hot.”

​She could practically hear him smile. She knew he knew he was winning. “Am I not?”

​“Brat.” She swigged some wine.

​He cackled. “Well. Hey. I worked hard for these abs, baby.”

​“I know you did.”

​“Laura. Meet me.”

​She flipped a chunk of hair off her shoulder. She was tired of arguing. He’d never give up. It wasn’t his style. She needed a hot shower. She wanted to call her mom, check in. They talked almost every day.

​“Where?”

​“Yes!!! Baby: You won’t regret this.”

​“I better not. You get one chance.”

​“Alright alright, you’ve made your point. Meet me tomorrow at 3PM at Bottega. Italian place on East 70 and 2nd.”

​Tomorrow was Sunday so that worked. She didn’t have plans. Restaurants were open for outdoor seating.

​“I know where the place is, Dylan. I live two blocks from there. You know that.” She hesitated. “Don’t think you’re coming home with me after.”

​“Calm down, calm down. It’s a nice place. We’re just going to eat and chat. No expectations.”

​“Alright, Dylan,” she sighed out loud. “You win.”