Chapter 85

            The jitney out to the Hamptons was crappier than Romy thought its name implied, but once she saw Jonathan’s digs, it was all over.  She was hooked.  She had become envious of, nay, accustomed to the lifestyle of the rich without the means to attain such wealth herself.  It was tragic, really. 

            Well, that isn’t true.  She could always seduce this young man into marriage.  He wasn’t bad looking, and he certainly knew how to dress.  He was polite enough, though his charm imperfectly concealed a rather aggressive nature.  She didn’t doubt that he was capable of slugging a girl in the heat of an argument.  He almost looked like he went to West Point, or at least participated in a couple of sports.  Romy remembered reading an article in the paper about how women like manly, aggressive-looking men to fuck, and feminine, submissive men to love.  She wondered why they wasted money doing an experiment; it seemed perfectly logical to her.  She often played the dominant role in relationships and in bed, without at all meaning to, at least consciously, so it was nice to be dominated now and then.  With her ego, she knew she could never actually date a guy like Jonathan.  But she might be able to marry him anyway. 

            She barely had time to put her stuff in the beach house before he dragged her onto the (private) beach to go swimming.  She was hardly in the mood, but she gave in, and when she asked if she could change into her swimsuit, he stripped down to his boxers and waved to her.  She stripped down to her bra and panties and followed, kicking off her sandals with a flourish. 

            They went swimming and didn’t make out until the very end, when they were about to go back to shore.  They were cold and he pulled her in to warm her up, and even though the ocean floor freaked her the fuck out, Romy felt unbelievable lust and demanded out loud that Jonathan take her inside.  He carried her playfully underwater, and after they emerged he kept on carrying her.  He was a buff guy, she noticed.

            He took her inside and stripped off her wet clothing, then started making out with her.  She undressed him as well, and the rest you can imagine.  They got it on. 

            Afterwards, they took a sexy shower, then got dressed and went out to eat.  Jonathan knew about a seafood place on the water, and he’d made reservations on the off-chance that Romy enjoyed not only meat but also seafood.  Apparently, some girls were picky. 

            “Oh, no,” she said.  “In fact, I like the taste of fish!”  She laughed and laughed, to Jonathan’s confusion.  “I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s this awesome song that goes, “I want some seafood…” and so forth.”  She did a little dance to demonstrate, and Jonathan laughed and kissed her. 

            “You’re cute.”

            She wanted to say more, but played it cool.  “Let’s go eat, I’m starving.”

            They went to the restaurant and got a table on the patio, overlooking the beach.  They got some calamari to start, the kind that’s like a big calamari steak cut into strips, with some kind of white sauce.  They drank Sierra Nevadas and ate the calamari and as it started to get a little chilly, Romy put on a hoodie.  She smoked a cigarette (Jonathan smoked like a chimney, and Romy could never resist smoking when someone else was doing it in front of her) and looked out at the ocean and all that sand and the hills leading up from the beach into the town.  It smelled really good. She thought to herself that it felt great being allowed to have a wonderful beach date like this, even though she had a boyfriend.  She loved that she didn’t have to stop herself or censor her actions in any way.  If she felt inclined to fuck this boy’s brains out, as she had recently done, it was perfectly okay, at least in theory.  She’d see once she got home, she figured, but for now she was going to get drunk and have fun.  It made her like Andrew even more. 

            By the time they left the restaurant, Romy was good and trashed, and Jonathan was catching up.  They went to a bar, and Romy put a bunch of shitty songs on the jukebox, but it was mostly tourists in there anyway so it was no big deal.  Jonathan explained that it was his dad’s summer house, not his, and that he was a junior account something or other, something boring-sounding.  Romy decided that she must get a tattoo immediately, right in the middle of one of Jonathan’s anecdotes about the gang from the San Francisco office. 

            “Are you sure?  You aren’t just saying that because you’ve been drinking?” he slurred.

            “I’m positive.  I want to get an apple, for New York, and it’ll be so patriotic of me.  What’s the equivalent of ‘patriotic’ for cities?”

            “I don’t know, civic?  Metropolitan?”

            “Maybe.  Anyway, let’s go!  I know a place in Brooklyn that specializes in, like, indie tattoos, like cool vintage designs and stuff.  I want like a cool, Victorian-type sketchy picture of an apple!  You know?”

            “I don’t think the jitney’s running right now.”  He smoked his cigarette with his feet up, unmoved by Romy’s hyperactivity. 

            “It’s only 9!  Let’s take a car, come on!”

            “All right, if you really want to.”  He smiled, and Romy did a happy dance. 

            Once they actually figured out where the tattoo place was (thanks to Jonathan’s crazy personal organizer thingy, which was way nicer than Alex’s) and waited for the car and drove to the tattoo place, it was pretty goddamn late, but luckily, tattoos happen goddamn late, so it worked out fine. 

            Romy explained what she wanted, and the tattoo artist guy went through some books of Victorian clip art until he found an apple that was to Romy’s liking.  She waved to Jonathan and lifted her sleeve.  The artist shaved her upper arm, which made her look funny, then started the tattoo.  It felt like someone was rubbing an eraser on her arm really hard, or like she was being electrocuted, but not all that painful.  She was still glad when it was over. 

            Romy emerged from the tattoo shop with a bandaged arm, feeling like a teenaged rebel.  She wanted to quit her job then and there, but she thought, better to hold off on that plan until sobriety set in.