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Miranda finishes her beer and immediately orders another. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you tell if you’ve even had this supposed orgasm?”
L’il laughs.
“Yeah.” I gulp. “How?”
L’il slides back in her chair and puts on a teacherly face. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not,” I say, looking at Miranda. Her face is closed, as if she doesn’t want to hear this.
“You have to know your own body,” L’il says cryptically.
“Meaning?”
“Masturbation.”
“Eeeeewwww.” Miranda puts her hands over ears.
“Masturbation is not a dirty word,” L’il scolds. “It’s part of a healthy sexuality.”
“And I suppose your mother told you this, too?” Miranda demands.
L’il shrugs. “My mother’s a nurse. She doesn’t believe in mincing words when it comes to health. She says healthy sex is simply a part of a healthy life.”
“Well.” I’m impressed.
“And she did all that consciousness-raising stuff,” L’il continues. “In the early seventies. When the women sit around in a circle with mirrors—”
“Aha.” This, I suppose, explains everything.
“She’s a lesbian now,” L’il says casually.
Miranda’s mouth opens as if she’s about to speak, but suddenly thinks better of it. For once, she has nothing to say.
After dinner, L’il begs off the party, claiming a headache. Miranda doesn’t want to go either, but I point out if she goes home, she’ll look like she’s sulking.
The party is on Broadway and Seventeenth Street in a building that was once a bank. A security guard tells us to take the elevator to the fourth floor. I figure this must be a big party if the guard is letting people in so easily.
The elevator opens into a white space with crazy art on the walls. As we’re taking it in, a small, rotund man with hair the color of butter bustles over, beaming.
“I’m Bobby,” he says, extending his hand to me.
“Carrie Bradshaw. And Miranda Hobbes.” Miranda gives Bobby a stiff smile while Bobby squints, summing us up.
“Carrie Bradshaw,” he says, like he’s delighted to meet me. “And what do you do?”
“Why is that always the first question out of everyone’s mouth?” Miranda mutters.
I glance at her so she knows I agree, and say boldly, “I’m a playwright.”
“A playwright!” Bobby exclaims. “That’s good. I love writers. Everyone loves writers. I used to be a writer before I became an artist.”
“You’re an artist?” Miranda asks, as if this can’t possibly be true.
Bobby ignores her. “You must tell me the names of your plays. Perhaps I’ve seen one—”
“I doubt it,” I falter, never expecting he’d assume I’d actually written a play. But now that I’ve said it, I can’t take it back.
“Because she hasn’t written any,” Miranda blurts out.
