Read Online What I Was Doing While You Were Breeding by Kristin Newman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristin Newman
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flow in a spontaneous, non-uptight way if you stumble into something amazing that will bump some plan off the day’s schedule. So you missed the freakin’ waterfall—you got invited to a Bahamian family’s post-Christening barbecue where you danced with three generations of locals in a backyard under flower-strewn balconies. You won. Shut the hell up about the waterfall.
Sally did not adhere to any rule from the above list. She never ate or slept or moved when Emma and I did. She was not constitutionally capable of noticing what anyonearound her wanted or needed. She fought with every person with whom she came in contact, in hotels and train stations, in cabs and museums. We spent the entire two-week trip apologizing for her.
But we had high hopes when we landed in London, where we would pass a few days warming up for New Year’s Eve in Paris. We spent those days primarily just trying to get Sally out of bed. She had awful jetlag, but insisted on going without the sleeping aids Emma and I popped until she had tossed and turned for several hours … which meant that she was taking an eight-hour sleeping pill just before Emma and I were waking up. After giving her a couple of hours while we got dressed and ate breakfast, we would try to quietly leave her to sleep. But she would wake up and insist on coming with us just as we were ready to slip out the door. So we would take off our coats and get comfortable while Sally ran a nice long bath, and our days would get started in the early afternoon.
One night, a couple of hours after Sally woke up, we went out to dinner in Soho to a Thai restaurant that sat parties at communal tables. We were seated with a group of six people from Mauritius, which, it turns out, is an island nation in the Indian Ocean, about twelve hundred miles east of Africa. The country is a mix of Indian, African, and French descendants, and if this little table of gorgeously colored people was any indication, the mix is a good one. They were all twenty- and thirtysomething, and most of them were “barristers” in London. Isn’t it funny how when people tell you they’re a “lawyer” it’s super boring, but when they tell you they’re a “barrister” it feels likeyou’re meeting Colin Firth? As John Travolta said, “It’s the little differences.”
One of the female barristers was there with her younger brother, a pretty, twenty-year-old, effete fashion-industry type who was living in New York City. We all made friends over dinner, and I made eyes with one particularly handsome, dark-eyed twenty-four-year-old named Nicolas, who said he wanted his picture taken kissing my cheek. I thought that was a great idea. After dinner, he invited us to come dancing with them.
Nicolas suggested a club nearby that he said had a fantastic DJ, and which he said was mixed—both gay and straight. That sounded perfect since we were so clearly a mixed group—or, at least, a group of straight people with the one obviously gay young brother from New York. So our new posse of nine spilled down the wet streets arm in arm and piled into the club, which was filled with rainbow disco lights; mirrored floors, ceilings, and walls; and exclusively tan, waxed, shirtless men whose thongs were showing above their white jeans. This club was as “mixed” as the Village People. But the DJ was indeed fantastic, and so I grabbed my barrister and hit the dance floor.
The nice thing about a gay club is there is no possible way to be the sluttiest person in the room. Nicolas was a hell of a dancer, and our bodies were moving really well, and really close. It didn’t take long for some kissing and groping to spring out of this fertile soil. He tasted like orange-vanilla lollipop, and it was all pretty sexy. If there is one thing that is my favorite thing in the world, it’s making out on a dance floor. Of course, it’s not always the mostladylike thing to be caught doing. I have more pictures from college than I’d like
Sally did not adhere to any rule from the above list. She never ate or slept or moved when Emma and I did. She was not constitutionally capable of noticing what anyonearound her wanted or needed. She fought with every person with whom she came in contact, in hotels and train stations, in cabs and museums. We spent the entire two-week trip apologizing for her.
But we had high hopes when we landed in London, where we would pass a few days warming up for New Year’s Eve in Paris. We spent those days primarily just trying to get Sally out of bed. She had awful jetlag, but insisted on going without the sleeping aids Emma and I popped until she had tossed and turned for several hours … which meant that she was taking an eight-hour sleeping pill just before Emma and I were waking up. After giving her a couple of hours while we got dressed and ate breakfast, we would try to quietly leave her to sleep. But she would wake up and insist on coming with us just as we were ready to slip out the door. So we would take off our coats and get comfortable while Sally ran a nice long bath, and our days would get started in the early afternoon.
One night, a couple of hours after Sally woke up, we went out to dinner in Soho to a Thai restaurant that sat parties at communal tables. We were seated with a group of six people from Mauritius, which, it turns out, is an island nation in the Indian Ocean, about twelve hundred miles east of Africa. The country is a mix of Indian, African, and French descendants, and if this little table of gorgeously colored people was any indication, the mix is a good one. They were all twenty- and thirtysomething, and most of them were “barristers” in London. Isn’t it funny how when people tell you they’re a “lawyer” it’s super boring, but when they tell you they’re a “barrister” it feels likeyou’re meeting Colin Firth? As John Travolta said, “It’s the little differences.”
One of the female barristers was there with her younger brother, a pretty, twenty-year-old, effete fashion-industry type who was living in New York City. We all made friends over dinner, and I made eyes with one particularly handsome, dark-eyed twenty-four-year-old named Nicolas, who said he wanted his picture taken kissing my cheek. I thought that was a great idea. After dinner, he invited us to come dancing with them.
Nicolas suggested a club nearby that he said had a fantastic DJ, and which he said was mixed—both gay and straight. That sounded perfect since we were so clearly a mixed group—or, at least, a group of straight people with the one obviously gay young brother from New York. So our new posse of nine spilled down the wet streets arm in arm and piled into the club, which was filled with rainbow disco lights; mirrored floors, ceilings, and walls; and exclusively tan, waxed, shirtless men whose thongs were showing above their white jeans. This club was as “mixed” as the Village People. But the DJ was indeed fantastic, and so I grabbed my barrister and hit the dance floor.
The nice thing about a gay club is there is no possible way to be the sluttiest person in the room. Nicolas was a hell of a dancer, and our bodies were moving really well, and really close. It didn’t take long for some kissing and groping to spring out of this fertile soil. He tasted like orange-vanilla lollipop, and it was all pretty sexy. If there is one thing that is my favorite thing in the world, it’s making out on a dance floor. Of course, it’s not always the mostladylike thing to be caught doing. I have more pictures from college than I’d like
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