“Mile High Club?”
“Totally overrated. It’s right up there with ‘road head.’”
“If you’re giving the ‘I have a headache’ excuse, it’s time to either end things or seriously kick-start your relationship with some intensive role playing. Like, out in public, not just naked in bed, in your standard positions, talking about how ‘I meet you in a meeting and don’t know you. Everyone leaves the conference room, but you notice one of the pages of the agreement isn’t signed. You’re thumbing through the documents, leaning over the table and I take you from behind.”
“Yeah, you have to step it up and publicly play the part.”
This is when I chimed in with my wig story, sharing with some girlfriends how I’d called my boyfriend and asked him to meet me at a bar after work. He was heading off to London on business, and I wanted to give him something he’d remember.
Namely, I wanted to give him Vanessa.
I sat on a bar stool in a crowded restaurant, my back to the door, fitted in a blond wig, with turquoise contacts, foreign perfume, and cheap jewelry I’d never wear, in clothes he’d never seen. I introduced myself as V and said Stephanie had sent me as a going away “gift.”
“Holy shit, Stephanie! How do you think of this stuff?”
“How do you not?”
The truth is, your partner has to let you know that s/he’s open to those kinds of things. No one wants to be judged by a lover. We all want to be free to be ourselves, or in this case, someone else. The thing is, I knew he’d appreciate all the effort, that it would totally do it for him. There have been relationships since where I haven’t felt that comfortable sexually, believing that my partner would feel uncomfortable instead of flattered. Knowing what we do about our desire for “new,” “other,” or a “piece of strange,” I’ve always welcomed mixing things up, so long as the mix didn’t involve excrement anywhere or semen in my face.
My then-boyfriend wanted to rip into me on spot, but I made a night of it, complete with small talk, asking elementary questions about his job, things I already knew, asking if he had any siblings. With an hour and bottle of wine behind us, he leaned across the table and yanked my wig straight off!
I gasped, trying to reattach it. “What are you doing?!” I scanned the restaurant to see if any of the patrons or staff had seen.
“I want Stephanie back! I miss her. I want her!”
I was wearing a wig cap, which for those unfamiliar to the bank robber condom of a contraption: I looked like Samson before a swim. I, too, felt betrayed.
As it turns out, it’s just as the cow study claims: you cannot doll up dolly, hoping to fool a bull. If he wants a piece of strange, it doesn’t necessarily mean you should be the one to act strange. Sometimes, different just means “someone other than you, no matter who you are.” But it still makes life lusty and fun. I’d totally do it again. And again.