(Happy Birthday)
Talk about a throwback to the Seventies. When I was still in my frilly, beribboned best attending kiddie birthday parties in the feudal, landscaped, and manicured lawn paradise that was Manila, with the nanny in the starched white uniform in tow, Felipe was in his perpetually suntanned prime, celebrating the dawning of the age of Aquarius, complete with the tight trousers, the pectorals-baring shirt, and the requisite blinding gold chain dangling from his neck, and some beauty queen or other perched on his arm.
When I met him in South Africa close to four decades later—he was visiting friends; I was, for all intents and purposes, the Betty Mahmoudy of South Africa, screaming “Not without my daughters!” while condemned to indefinite incarceration in the vague prison that was joint custody—Felipe was pretty much working the same look, give or take a tiger’s eye bracelet or two. Someone evidently forgot to send him the memo that the Seventies had ended. So had the Eighties. Wearing sleeveless V-neck muscle shirts and high-waisted faded blue jeans in the twenty-first century was definitely high on the list of grave crimes against fashion. So was the dark, wavy, almost-to-the-shoulders mane. I had held out for Bryan Ferry, but got Yanni instead. Very rock star past his sell-by date.
Sometimes I just wanted to throw my hands up in the air and chant, “It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.!”
Sartorially, we were so not in sync, except, I suppose, when we were both naked. Clothed, however, his idea of classy clashed with mine. For instance, once, at a corporate poolside event with his business associates in attendance, Felipe insisted I wear short shorts, a mere wisp of a chiffon top whose sheer fabric did little to conceal my nipples, and high-heeled strappy sandals. Pair that ensemble with long, straight hair bleached blonde, gold hoop earrings, and killer tanned legs, and I was transformed into one of Charlie’s Angels who had gotten mixed up with Miami Vice along the way. The only thing missing was a .45 caliber pistol. Which was just as well, because I would have aimed it straight at Felipe’s chauvinistic, stuck-in-the-Seventies sexist brain.
He, on the other hand, was dressed in a navy polo shirt tucked into olive drab cargo pants whose waist was just a teeny bit too high, but tolerable. What was unacceptable was the fact that he’d rolled up the sleeves of his short-sleeved shirt so that they fell right where his biceps began to bulge.
Dude—and believe me, this was not the time for any of that mi amor bullshit—the Village People called. They want their biceps back!
I mean, really. Getting ready to go out, whether it was for grocery shopping, a dinner, or a party, turned into a kind of pantomime. It involved him adjusting my décolleté as low as it could go without actually baring my breasts, after which I’d coax my neckline back up to more modest levels. I’d then unfold the sleeves of his shirt only to have him roll them right back up again to bicep-enhancing heights. We’d leave his place looking like we were dressed for a costume ball whose theme was vintage porn, Latino edition. In snooty and staid Geneva, for heaven’s sake!
Banished were my chic, timeless little Chanel jackets, hoarded during my Hong Kong career-woman days and worth a small fortune in the secondhand market by now, and go-anywhere Diane von Furstenberg outfits. Instead, I had to parade in sheer, floaty tops worn as dresses, lacy little blouses worn without a bra, and necklines that plunged to new lows appropriately accessorized with high, high heels, full make-up, and my cringing embarrassment.
Yeah, I know. Real classy. Even my dry cleaner said to me once, “Miss Maxine, I’m starting to have my doubts about you.”
I was starting to have my doubts about me, too.
Sometimes I did get my way, and off I’d go, dressed in a demure, below-the-knee pencil skirt teamed with a tailored shirt and peep-toe heels. Like when we went to his company’s corporate headquarters where we were scheduled to have lunch with the CEO of a multinational electronics company. As far as I was concerned, the dress code was classy, not trashy. Especially at half past eleven in the morning.
“Why are you wearing that?” Felipe had said that morning, as we were getting ready to leave.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I smoothed down my skirt.
“Es que you look so serious. Your skirt is too long. The shirt is so boring. Como una vieja.”
I glanced at his rolled-to-the-biceps sleeves. “Oh, please. I so do not look like an old lady. And I’m not changing. What I’m wearing is perfect. It’s chic.”
He grumbled all the way to the office, for a change. Usually it would be me in a foul mood because he’d have insisted on me wearing another shorts and top combination straight from Hoochie-Mama Ville, complete with my nipples straining against the fabric for all to gaze upon—or so he believed—with desire and envy.
At the company headquarters, we were ushered into the CEO’s office, and Nicolas gallantly took my hand and raised it to his lips, saying in his heavily accented English, “How lovely to see you again, Maxine. You are the very picture of elegance and beauty this morning.”
“Why thank you, Nicolas. It’s wonderful to see you, too,” I replied demurely. “You should tell Felipe that.”
Yes! Maxine, 1; Felipe, 0.
Naturally, Felipe gloried in what he took to be envious glances thrown his way by his friends, colleagues, and even strangers on the street whenever we were together. After all, here was this South American sexagenarian with a fabled playboy past who not only was in pretty good shape physically, he had a desirable younger woman by his side with whom he was obviously having sexual relations. I was the fountain of youth, the trophy girlfriend, the prized testament to his undiminished virility.
He worried that people would think that he was too old for me. Papi, I wanted to tell him, I worry that people might think that you’re my pimp.
For Felipe, I was apparently the ideal woman—a lady in society, a chef in the kitchen, and a puta in bed, who also happened to be beautiful and intelligent. Es como sacarse en la lotería. With me, he had hit the jackpot, he crowed. What more could he want, aside from me shedding five more pounds and stuffing some silicone into my breasts? I was destined to be the last great love of his life, C-cup be damned.
Although he clung to the illusion that he was the white knight who’d come into my life to deliver me from the despair of divorce, sadly, he was neither the ideal man for me nor the great love of my life. And, for the love of God, he had mixed tapes with Air Supply. There’s no way I’d ever introduce him to my parents or my children. I mean, my own father did have his Daddy Groovy period, when he’d allowed his hair to grow daringly past his ears and all the way to his nape, and wore python print shirts and an oversized medallion around his neck. But he wore all these during the appropriate decade. When it ended, Dad not only got the memo, he heeded it.
And yet my relationship with Felipe lasted three years. Go figure.
Maybe it was his all-consuming Latin ardor. There was something old-fashioned in the way Felipe romanced me—the little sparkly surprises under my pillow, the champagne brunches, the leisurely afternoon strolls along the French countryside—and I reveled in being romanced again, although to be honest, I could have done without the teddy bears and assorted stuffed animals. But I did like being the sole focus of someone’s life. The florid emails, the passionate declarations sprinkled with tender, teasing endearments … mi vida, queridita, amorcito, cosita rica, cielito lindo … Until, unfortunately, his passion turned into an obsession.
Ay ay ay ay, canta y no llores …
Maybe the fact that we lived on two different continents helped. Every couple of months, when my kids would be with their father on holiday, I would fly out to Europe to spend a few weeks with him, sometimes in Geneva, but mainly in his country house on the border between Switzerland and France. Life took on the air of an extended vacation, where we basked in the sun all day long, made love by the waterfalls of a hidden mountain lagoon, and sipped champagne in between. It was really quite blissful in the beginning, I admit. But in the end, it all became rather boring.
Even the sex became stale after a while, whether we were together or apart. Thanks to modern technology, we were virtually connected throughout the day through Skype. At first, we sent each other innocuous little missives, chatting away about mostly inconsequential things: how was your day, what are you doing for Easter, and last night I dreamt of you.
One night, with my kids at their dad’s for the weekend, I nonchalantly turned on the Skype videocam in the middle of conversation, lifted my T-shirt, and gave him a glimpse of my breasts, a brief flash of creamy flesh in the darkened room.
“What was that?” The excitement in his voice was unmistakable.
“It’s too hot in here.”
“So?”
“So I got undressed.” I shrugged, then turned off the video feed.
“Wait a minute, what happened to the video?”
Ah, the joys of living in the technologically imperfect third world. “I was just trying something out. Usually the Internet cuts off when I turn the video on. It’s really frustrating when I’m speaking to my parents back home. But that’s South Africa for you.” That part was true. “Then I have to reboot my laptop and reconnect to Skype. It’s always a mission.”
“Pues, try and get it fixed! You know what this means, don’t you?
I played coy. “Not really. Díme.”
“Querida, it means I can see you when we talk. Tu cara lindisima. And your sweet smile.”
“Aww, baby.”
“And also, you know … ”
“Sí?”
“You could also maybe do a little sexy strip show for me sometimes? Qué te parece?”
Fast forward to the first child-free opportunity, some nights later. Mentally, I went through the checklist:
By ten p.m., I had already downed four shots, and nervously stared at my watch, half hoping eleven p.m. would never come, and that the Internet would choose to be temperamental tonight of all nights. But a part of me, the part powered by tequila and fuck-it-let’s-get-it-on recklessness, was ready to put on the red light, baby, and take it all off.
You put your left foot in, you put your left foot out …
I’d practiced my amateurish routine at least half a dozen times, and each time more risible than the last. In my sloshed state, I was still lucid enough to fret over logistics. How was I going to cue the music, turn on the video, and position myself so that he would be able to see my face and body as I tantalizingly disrobed, one item of clothing at a time? What if I looked fat on his computer screen? And what if the Internet cut off?
When Skype rang shrilly to signal an incoming call, I pushed the tequila bottle away, wrapped a light cashmere shawl over my shoulders, and took a deep breath.
“Are you there?” Felipe asked.
“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” I crooned breathlessly, letting my hair cascade over one side of my face, feeling my inner Marilyn take over. “Happy birthday, Mr. President.” I let the shawl slip off one shoulder. “Happy birthda-a-a-a-a-y-y-y-y-y,” now the other shoulder, “Mr. Preside-e-e-e-e-e-nt,” and then I slithered out of my black lace teddy, reached for the bowl of whipped cream I’d prepared earlier, “Happy birthday-a-a-a-a-y-y-y-y,” I paused to lick a dollop of cream off my finger, “to-o-o-o-o-o-o,” I ran my tongue suggestively over my lips, “you-u-u-u-u-u-u,” and I blew him a kiss.
When Felipe finally spoke, his voice was ragged and uneven. “No one’s ever greeted me happy birthday that way.”
“Really?” My heart was pounding wildly in my chest. “There’s always a first time,” I said, still breathless.
“That was so sexy, baby. Wow.”
He didn’t have a camera hooked up to his computer, so I couldn’t see him, but clearly, he was turned on.
“Did that make you hard?”
“Sí.” And then more emphatically, “Sí! Now put some of that cream on your breasts. And then lick them off your nipples.”
I did as I was told, tracing circles around my breasts with the frothy cream before cupping my breasts and reaching for my nipples with my tongue, licking the cream off the left breast first, then the right. It was his birthday, after all.
I looked straight into the camera. “Te gusta? Is this how you like it?”
“Oh God, I’m going to come,” he groaned.
On opposites sides of the world, we were both left with a sticky mess to clean up.
Oh, and the Internet behaved impeccably, but there were many times after that night that I wished it hadn’t.