Candace Bushnell: Summer and the City

She pauses, and with a glittering smile asks, “Don’t you think it’s time to go home ?”

I am trying to get drunk and not succeeding.

I’m a total failure. I can’t even win at inebriation.

“Carrie,” Bernard cautions.

“What?” I ask, lifting a purloined bottle of champagne to my lips. I snuck it out of the party in my carpenter’s bag. I knew that bag would come in handy someday.

“You could hurt yourself.” Bernard wrenches the bottle away from me. “The cab could stop short and you could knock out your teeth.”

I pull the bottle back, clinging to it tightly. “It’s my birthday.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you going to say happy birthday?”

“I have. Several times. Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

“Did you get me a present?”

“Yes. Now look,” he says becoming stern. “Maybe I should drop you at your apartment. There’s no reason to do this tonight.”

“But I want my present,” I wail. “And it’s my birthday. It has to be done on the day or it doesn’t count.”

“Technically, it’s not your birthday anymore. It’s after two.”

“Technically my birthday didn’t start until after two last night. So it still counts.”

“It’s going to be okay, kiddo.” He pats my leg.

“You didn’t like it, did you?” I take another swig and look out the open window, feeling the stinky summer air whooshing across my face.

“Like what?” he asks.

Jeez. What does he think I’m talking about? Is he really that thick? Is everyone this thick and I just never noticed before? “My play . You said you liked it but you didn’t.”

“You said you rewrote it.”

“Only because I had to. If Miranda-”

“Come on, kiddo,” he says, reassuringly. “These things happen.”

“To me. Only to me. Not to you or anyone else.”

It seems Bernard has had enough of my histrionics. He folds his arms.

His gesture scares some sense into me. I can’t lose him, too. Not tonight. “Please,” I say. “Let’s not fight.”

“I didn’t know we were fighting.”

“We’re not.” I put down the bottle and cling to him like a limpet.

“Awwww, kiddo.” He strokes my cheek. “I know you had a rough night. But that’s the way it is when you put something out there.”

“Really?” I sniff.

“It’s all about rewriting. You’ll rework the play, and it’ll be great. You’ll see.”

“I hate rewriting,” I grumble. “Why can’t the world come out right the first time?”

“What would be the fun in that?”

“Oh, Bernard.” I sigh. “I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you, too, kitten.”

“Honest? At two in the morning? On Madison Avenue? You love me?”

He smiles.

“What’s my present?” I coo.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a present, now, would it?”

“I’m giving you a present,” I slur.

“You don’t have to give me a present.”

“Oh, but I do,” I say cryptically. Even if my play was a disaster, losing my virginity could salvage it.

“Here!” Bernard says, triumphantly, handing me a perfectly wrapped box in shiny black paper complete with a big black bow.

“Oh my God.” I sink to my knees on the carpet in his living room. “Is it really what I think it is?”

“I hope so,” he says nervously.

“I already love it.” I look at him with shining eyes.

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

“Oh, but I do,” I cry out in excitement, tearing away the paper and fingering the raised white lettering on the box. CHANEL.

Bernard looks slightly uncomfortable with my overwhelming demonstrance. “Teensie thought you’d like it.”

“Teensie? You asked Teensie what to get me? I thought she hated me.”

“She said you needed something nice.”

“Oh, Bernard.” I lift the cover from the box and gently open the tissue paper. And there it is: my first Chanel handbag.

I lift it out and cradle it in my arms.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“I love it,” I say solemnly. I hold it for a few seconds more, savoring the soft leather. With sweet reluctance, I slip it back into its cotton pouch and carefully replace it in the box.

“Don’t you want to use it?” Bernard asks, perplexed by my actions.

“I want to save it.”

“Why?” he says.

“Because I always want it to be… perfect .” Because nothing ever is. “Thank you, Bernard.” I wonder if I’m going to cry.

“Hey, puddy tat. It’s only a purse.”

“I know, but-” I get up and curl next to him on the couch, stroking the back of his neck.

“Eager little beaver, aren’t you?” He kisses me and I kiss him back and as we’re starting to get into it, he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

This is it. And suddenly, I’m not so sure I’m ready.

I remind myself that this should not be a big deal. We’ve done everything but. We’ve spent the entire night together a dozen times. But knowing what’s to come makes it feel different. Even kissing is awkward. Like we barely know each other.

“I need a drink,” I say.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Bernard looks worried.

“No-I mean a drink of water,” I lie. I grab one of his shirts to cover myself and race into the kitchen. There’s a bottle of vodka on the counter. I close my eyes, brace myself, and take a gulp. I quickly rinse my mouth with water.

“Okay. I’m ready,” I announce, standing in the doorway.

I feel all jumbly again. I’m trying to be sexy, but I don’t know how. Everything feels so false and artificial, including myself. Maybe you have to learn how to be sexy in the bedroom. Or maybe it’s something you have to be born with. Like Samantha. Sexiness comes naturally to her. With me, it would be easier to be a plumber right now.

“Come here,” Bernard laughs, patting the bed. “And don’t get any ideas about stealing that shirt. Margie used to take my shirts.”

“Margie?”

“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”

We start making out again, but now it feels like Margie is in the room. I try to banish her, telling myself that Bernard is mine now. But it only makes me feel more diminished in comparison. Maybe after we get it over with, it’ll be better. “Let’s just do it, okay?” I say.

He raises his head. “Don’t you like this?”

“No. I love it. But I just want to do it.”

“I can’t just-”

“Bernard. Please .”

Miranda was right. This is terrible. Why didn’t I get this over with a long time ago? At least I’d know what to expect.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He lies on top of me. He wriggles around a bit. Then he wriggles some more.

“Has it happened?” I’m confused. Boy, Miranda wasn’t kidding. It really is nothing.

“No. I-” He breaks off. “Look. I’m going to need you to help me a little.”

Help him? What is he talking about? No one told me “help” was part of the program.

Why can’t he just do it?

And there we are, naked. Naked in our skins. But naked mostly in our emotions. I wasn’t prepared for this . The raw, unfortunate intimacy.

“Could you just-?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

I do my best, but it isn’t enough. Then he tries. Then it seems he’s finally ready. He gets on top of me. Okay, let’s go, buddy, I think. He makes a few thrusting motions. He puts his hand down there to help himself.

“Is it supposed to be like this?” I ask.

“What do you think?” he says.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I’ve never done it before.”

“What!” He draws back in shock.