ALL ROADS LEAD TO BABY DOLL

After the bridal shower, and after checking in on the phone with her new boyfriend, Mr. Big, Carrie went to Bowery Bar. Samantha Jones, the fortyish movie producer was there. Carrie's best friend. Sometimes.

Barkley, the twenty-five-year-old up-and-coming artist and model chaser, had inserted himself at Samantha's table.

"I'd love it if you'd stop by my loft sometime," Barkley said, flipping his blond hair out of his eyes.

Samantha was smoking a Cuban cigar. She took a drag and blew the thick smoke in Barkley's face. "I'll bet you would. But what makes you think I'd like your little paintings."

"Well, you don't have to like my paintings," Barkley said. "You could just like me."

Samantha grinned evilly. "I don't bother with men under thirty— five. They're not experienced enough for my tastes."

"Try me," Barkley said. "If not, at least buy me a drink."

"We're leaving," Samantha said. "We have to find a new hangout."

They found one. The Baby Doll Lounge. Strip joint in TriBeCa. They couldn't shake Barkley, so they let him come along. It might be good to have a guy with them at a topless bar. Plus, he had smoke. They smoked in the cab, and when they got out at the Baby Doll Lounge, Sam grabbed Carrie's arm (Sam almost never did stuff hke that) and said, "I really want to know about Mr. Big. I'm not sure he's the right man for you."

Carrie had to think about whether she wanted to answer or not, because it was always hke this between her and Sam. Just when she was happy with a man, Sam would come along and insert those doubts, hke driving a crowbar between two pieces of wood. She said, "I don't know. I think I'm crazy about him."

Sam said, "But does he really know how great you are? How great I think you are?"

Carrie thought, "Someday, Sam and I will sleep with the same man at once, but not tonight."

The bartender, a woman, came over and said, "It's so nice to see women in here again," and began pouring them free drinks. That was always a problem. Then Barkley was trying to have a discussion. About how he really wanted to be a director and how that was what all the artists were doing anyway, so why shouldn't he just skip the boring artist part and start directing?

Two girls were dancing on the stage. They looked like real women, and they didn't look so good—small saggy breasts and big bottoms. By now, Barkley was screaming, "But I'm better than David Salle! I'm a fucking genius!"

"Oh, yeah? Says who?" Sam screamed back.

"We're all fucking geniuses," Carrie said. Then she went to the bathroom.

You had to walk through a tiny slot in between the two stages, and then downstairs. The bathroom had a gray wooden door that wouldn't shut properly, and broken tiles. She thought about Greenwich. Marriage. Kids.

"I'm not ready," she thought.

She went upstairs, and she took her clothes off and got up on the stage and started to dance. Samantha was staring at her, laughing, but by the time the b? tender came over and politely told her to get down, Sam wasn't laughing anymore.

The next morning, Mr. Big called at eight a.m. He was going to play golf. He sounded tense. "When did you get home?" he asked. "What did you do?"

"Not much," she said. "Went to Bowery. And then this other place. The Baby Doll Lounge."

"Oh yeah? Do anything special there?"

"Had too much to drink." She laughed.

"Nothing else you want to tell me?"

"No, not really," Carrie said in the little-girl voice she used when she wanted to soothe him. "What about you?"

"I got a phone call this morning," he said. "Someone said they saw you dancing topless at the Baby Doll Lounge."

"Oh. Really?" she said. "How did they know it was me?"

"They knew."

"Are you mad?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. "Are

you mad?"

"I'm mad you didn't tell me. How can you have a relationship if you can't be honest?"

"But how do I know I can trust you?" she asked. "Believe me,"

he said. "I'm the one person you can trust." And he hung up.

Carrie took all their pictures from Jamaica (how happy they looked, just discovering each other), and cut out the ones of

Mr. Big smoking his cigar. She thought about what it was hke sleeping with him, how she would sleep curled around his back.

She wanted to take the pictures and glue them to a piece of construction paper and write "Portrait of Mr. Big with His Cigar," across the top and then, "I miss you," with lots of kisses at the bottom.

She stared at the pictures for a long time. And then she did nothing.

12. Skipper and Mr. Marvelous Seek Hot Sex in Southampton Hedges

Maybe it's just the indisputable fact that most people really do look better with a tan. Or maybe it's proof that the sex drive is stronger than ambition, even for New Yorkers. In any case, there is something about the Hamptons that lends itself to meaningless sexual encounters, the kind of embarrassingly brief couplings that most people don't necessarily want to acknowledge in the morning.

Call it a combination of skin (the topless women on Media Beach), geography (it takes sooooo long to drive from Southampton to East Hampton, especially if it's four in the morning), and topography (all those high hedges where couples can hide).

But figuring out how to work all those elements to one's advantage, especially if you're a man, can take some finesse. And youth is not necessarily an advantage. You have to know the ropes and how to get out of them gracefully afterward. Otherwise, you'll end up with something, but it might not be what you expected.

Here's a cautionary tale about three hopeful bachelors in the Hamptons during Fourth of July weekend.

But first, meet our contestants.

Bachelor No. i: Skipper Johnson, twenty-five. Preppy. Entertainment law. Boy wonder. Plans to run one of the big studios someday, which he says will be in New York. Beach toys: small Mercedes, Brooks Brothers clothing ("I have a Brooks Brothers body"), and cellular phone, of which he makes constant use. Recently, friends complained that Skipper spent two hours in the

parking lot at the beach, on the phone, doing a deal. "It's such a waste of time going to the beach," Skipper says. "Besides, I don't like getting sandy." Is worried about his recent lack of sexual success. "Do women think I'm gay?" he asks, earnestly.

Bachelor No. 2: Mr. Marvelous, sixty-five, says he's sixty. Square jaw, silver hair, bright blue eyes, athletic—all parts work on demand. Married (and divorced) five times. Twelve kids—wives number two, three, and four all good friends. Buddies wonder what his secret is. Beach toys: none. But can talk about penthouse apartment on Park Avenue, house in Bedford, apartment in Palm Beach. Staying with friends for the weekend on Further Lane in East Hampton. Considering buying a place.

Bachelor No. 3: Stanford Blatch, thirty-seven. Screenwriter. The next Joe Eszterhas. Gay but prefers straight guys. Long, dark, curly hair; refuses to cut it or put it in a ponytail. Will probably get married and have kids someday. Stays in Grandmother's house on Halsey Neck Lane in Southampton; Grandma lives in Palm Beach. Beach toys: doesn't drive, so convinces family chauffeur to come out on weekends to drive him around. Best beach toy: has known everybody worth knowing since he was a child, so he doesn't have to prove it.

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 889