I sat up. He sat up. We stared at each other.
He had blond hair sticking out every which way, bloodshot blue eyes, and a chin stubbled with red-gold bristles. He also had a very nice chest and muscular shoulders, which were all bronzed and tanned.
We were in my bed in my apartment and the New Year's party that had raged all night in the living room was finally quiet. We were both stark naked.
I had no clue who he was.
He said, "Unh."
I said, "Oh, God."
He scrambled out of bed, holding part of the sheet over him. I got a wonderful view of his chest and arms and lower abdomen, that slice between the belly button and what a nice girl shouldn't want to see.
He grabbed his clothes. He held them over himself and dropped the sheet. Then he ran.
He had the nicest butt I'd ever seen in my life.
I sat there, bewildered and in pain. I, Brenda Scott, mousy, quiet, never-rocks-the-boat Brenda had just slept with a beautiful-bodied blond man whose name she didn't know.
And I didn't remember anything about it.
* * *
The day before, December 31, my boss Tony Beale, the owner of KCLP FM, had decided that the best way for him to get a ratings bounce was to see how high he could make the DJs bounce.
He drove all of us to Coronado Bridge to set up a remote broadcast in the freezing wind from San Diego Bay.
"This will work, Brenda," he said, rubbing his hands. His eyes lit with that fanatic glow it got when he was excited about one of his crazy ideas. "This is going to be great."
"Sure, Tony," I said, my teeth chattering.
Tony was always trying to get KCLP get into the top five ranked stations in the city, and he had idea after stupid idea to help us claw our way up. None of them ever worked, of course.
Today, he'd decided to hook up the DJs with wireless mikes, strap them to bungee cords, and throw them over the side of the Coronado Bridge. He didn't throw me over because I wasn't one of the stars. All I had to do was stand at the top, shivering, and describe the scene.
So, I told San Diego which DJ was going over, then I turned off the mike and cried, because that morning, my boyfriend, Mr. Perfect, had called me and said, "This isn't going to work, Brenda."
He meant that he wanted to break up with me but couldn't think of a good excuse why. The truth was that he, Larry Bryant, one of the richest men in southern California, had gotten tired of mousy, nobody little Brenda Scott.
I'd seen the breakup coming. Larry Bryant, perfect man with a perfect career, a perfect life, a perfect house, and perfect looks had expected his girlfriend to be perfect, too.
I'm not perfect. I'm five foot four and have red hair that mostly sticks out. My eyes are blue, kind of a washed-out blue, not deep, dark, and soulful. I have a good nose, but it's freckled. I wear a size eight, and that's all I'm going to say about that.
I suppose Larry wanted me to get tucked and sucked and lifted until I was five nine with a great figure and glowing blonde hair. I wouldn't, I couldn't, and so he didn't want me around any more.
Tony, when he'd found out about the breakup, had been livid. "For God's sake, Brenda, get him back! He's our best advertiser."
Larry was one of the few businessmen that bothered to advertise with KCLP. Probably because our rates were so cheap, and Tony gave him extra spots for free. That's how I'd met Larry; he had come to the station to talk to Tony about landing the choicest times for his spots. Larry's family owned a successful local chain of sporting goods stores, and he was ready to open branches in Los Angeles. Yes, that Larry Bryant.
"I know you're upset," Mr. Perfect had said that morning in his I-know-what's best-for-you voice. "You tell Tony you need a little time to pull yourself together, then you'll be all right."
I'd hung up on him.
Tony had decided that the breakup had been my fault and refused to give me any sympathy.
Out on the bridge, the morning show host, Tim, refused to jump. Tony got him finally shoved into place, turned on Tim's microphone, and told him to jump. Tim wouldn't do it, so Tony pushed him over.
The people of San Diego got to hear scream after terrified scream as Tim went down, down, down-and then- nothing. They got to hear me stand up top bleating, "There goes Tim. Sounds like he's having fun." And then "Oh, God."
And then silence. Dead air is one of the scariest things for radio stations. According to the engineers back in the studio and the FCC, I treated greater San Diego to one minute and twelve seconds of dead air before I finally said, shakily, "He's still breathing, isn't he?"
Tim was still breathing when they pulled him back up to the bridge. His cord hadn't been too long, he hadn't hit his head or banged into the side of the bridge, or any of those things I'd feared. He'd passed out from terror. He woke up as they pulled him back over the side, snarling every foul word he knew at Tony Beale. His mike was still on. The engineers were laughing so hard that no one thought to cut him off the air.
More FCC fines for KCLP.
The day dragged on, the sun went down, the weather grew colder, and still I stood on the bridge while the DJs joked and laughed and pushed each other over the side.
I missed lunch, then I missed dinner. Someone brought sub sandwiches, but the jumpers ate them all while I kept up the on-air chatter.
My stomach growled, the hours went by and I thought of the New Year's party my roommate would be throwing. I had planned to spend New Year's Eve at an expensive restaurant with Mr. Perfect. Instead, I'd be spending it at home with my weird roommate and her even weirder friends.
Finally the day was over. Marty the producer wrapped up the mike cords, and I hurried to my car, hoping the heater would work.
Tony caught up to me as I unlocked my car. Tony, at fifty, had round eyes, a good paunch, and barely any hair on the top of his head. "Talk to Larry, Brenda," he said. "That's a good girl. You tell him you're sorry for whatever you did and that you won't do it again."
"Mind your own business, Tony," I growled.
"It is my business. I want his money."
I got into my car. "Happy New Year," I said.
He leaned down and called through the window. "I'll expect good news on Monday, Brenda."
I started the car and gunned it. Tony jumped out of the way, and I peeled out and slid into traffic heading back toward San Diego.
By the time I got home, it was dark and Clarissa's crowded, ear-splitting party was in full swing. My living room was crammed with people I didn't know, many looking like they could try out for parts in a bondage flick. As I dragged myself in, a dominatrix-looking woman handed me a martini.
I downed it. It burned all the way to my stomach, almost straight vodka. I headed for the food, which was mostly gone except for a few tortilla chips and the remnants of salsa that smelled like stale onions.
Before I could eat even that, someone put another martini into my hand. I drank it while I yelled over the music to Clarissa, making up some excuse why I'd decided to come instead of going out with Larry. She looked at me with her eyeliner-black eyes and smiled. I have no idea if she even heard me.
I could have lived with the dominatrixes and the music and the lack of food. I could have shut myself in my bedroom with my martini to have a private cry. But the next time I looked up, I saw Larry walk in.
I jumped. What was he doing here? Had he not had enough of humiliating me that he had to come and give me some more in person?
He scanned the crowd, looking for me, probably. I grabbed martini number three and hid myself behind two guys with very white faces wearing black leather and chains.
As Larry made his way through the teeming crowd, the third martini went down the hatch, and then all pain went away.
And so did I. At least the conscious part of me. As far as I know I went over like a tree in a high wind.
The next thing I remember is waking up next to my tight-butted blond man, who took one look at me and fled into the dawn.
I grabbed my clothes and jerked them on, leaving off half my underwear. I stumbled out of the room-and straight into Mr. Perfect.
To this day, I have no clue what he was doing there, why he'd come back. Clarissa shouldn't have let him in. He was shaved and dressed and looked like he was ready to go to work-on New Year's Day when the rest of the world was still climbing out of its fuzzy cocoon and going, "hunh?"
I knew by his expression that he'd seen my mystery man run out of the room. He gazed down at me, baffled, his perfect brows arched. "Brenda?"
I stood there, my mouth open, my panties in my hand while Larry stared at me in a mixture of horror and fascination. "Brenda? What do you think you're doing?"
I don't know where it came from. Brenda Scott had always been quiet, shy, and mousy. I did what I was told, showed up to work on time, laughed at everyone's jokes. I had been the obedient and obliging girlfriend, going to parties I didn't want to go to and talking to people I didn't want to talk to, to make my boyfriend look good.
But standing there with my stockings falling down and my shirt half-buttoned, while Mr. Perfect gave me the what-has-my-stupid-girlfriend-gotten-herself-into-now look, a new Brenda Scott woke up.
This Brenda Scott threw back martinis and slept with men she didn't know. This Brenda Scott was wild, sexy, and daring-this Brenda was a woman who could do anything.
I looked Mr. Perfect right in the eye.
"Hey, Larry," I said. "Hand me my bra, will you?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Confessions of a Lingerie Addict by Jennifer Ashley Copyright © 2005 by Jennifer Ashley. Excerpted by permission.
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