Miranda goes into her room to change. I light a cigarette and idly survey the bookshelves, picking out a book by Andrea Dworkin. It falls open and I read the following: “just some wet, ratty, bedraggled thing, semen caked on you, his piss running down your legs…”

“What’s that?” Miranda asks, peering over my shoulder. “Oh. I love that book.”

“Really? I just read this part about semen caked on you-”

“And what about the part when it oozes out and runs down your leg?”

“Says here, it’s pee.”

“Semen, pee, what’s the difference?” Miranda shrugs. “It’s all gross.” She slings a brown saddlebag over her shoulder. “Did you see that guy after all?”

“‘That guy’ happens to have a name. Bernard. And yes, I did see him. I’m pretty crazy about him. We went furniture shopping.”

“So he’s already turned you into his slave.”

“We’re having fun,” I say pointedly.

“Has he tried to get you into bed?”

“No,” I say, somewhat defensively. “I need to go on the pill, first. And I’ve decided I’m not going to sleep with him until my eighteenth birthday.”

“I’ll be sure to mark it on my calendar. ‘Carrie’s birthday and lose-her-virginity day.’”

“Maybe you’d like to be there. For moral support.”

“Does Bernie have any idea you’re planning to use him as a stud service?”

“I believe the word ‘stud’ only applies if you’re planning on reproducing. Which I’m not.”

“In that case, ‘dud’ might be more appropriate.”

“Bernard is no dud,” I say threateningly. “He’s a famous playwright-”

“Yada yada yada.”

“And I’m sure his ‘sword’ is mightier than his word.”

“You’d better hope so,” Miranda says. She raises her index finger and slowly lowers it into a crook as we burst out laughing.

“I just love these prices,” L’il says, scanning the menu.

“I know.” Miranda nods, pleased. “You can get a whole meal for three dollars.”

“And a whole beer for fifty cents,” I add.

We’re seated at a table in the Indian restaurant Miranda kept telling us about, although it wasn’t so easy to find. We walked up and down the block three times past nearly identical restaurants until Miranda insisted this was the place, recognizable by the three peacock feathers in a vase in the window. The tablecloths are red-and-white-checkered plastic; the knives and forks tinny. The air is musty and sweet.

“This reminds me of home,” L’il says.

“You live in India?” Miranda asks, astonished.

“No, silly. North Carolina.” She gestures around the restaurant. “This is exactly like one of those barbecue places tucked off the freeway.”

“Freeway?” Miranda queries.

“Highway,” I translate.

I hope the whole dinner isn’t like this. Miranda and L’il are both intense in their own way, so I assumed they’d like each other. And I need them to get along. I miss having a group of friends. Sometimes it feels like every part of my life is so different, I’m constantly visiting another planet.

“You’re a poet?” Miranda asks L’il.

“Indeed,” she replies. “What about you?”

I jump in. “Miranda’s majoring in Women’s Studies.”

L’il smiles. “No offense, but what can you do with that?”

“Anything.” Miranda glares. She’s probably wondering what you can do with a poetry degree.

“Miranda is doing very important work. Protesting against pornography. And she volunteers at a women’s shelter,” I say.

“You’re a feminist.” L’il nods.

“I wouldn’t consider being anything else.”

“I’m a feminist,” I volunteer. “I think every woman should be a feminist-”

“But it means you hate men.” L’il takes a sip of her beer, and stares straight across the table at Miranda.

“What if I do?” Miranda says.

This is not going well. “I don’t hate all men. Just some men,” I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Especially men whom I like and they don’t like me back.”

L’il gives me a sharp look, meaning she’s determined to lock horns with Miranda. “If you hate men, how can you ever marry? Have babies?”

“I guess if you truly believe a woman’s only purpose in life is to marry and have children-” Miranda breaks off and gives L’il a superior smile.

“I never said that,” L’il replies calmly. “Just because you’re married and have children doesn’t mean it’s the only point to your life. You can do all kinds of things and have children.”

“Good answer,” I say.

“I happen to think it’s wrong to bring a child into this patriarchal society,” Miranda replies swiftly. And just as the conversation is about to go completely haywire, our samosas arrive.

I quickly grab one of the pastries, dip it into a red sauce, and pop it into my mouth. “Fantastic,” I exclaim, as my eyes begin to water and my tongue burns. I frantically wave my hand in front of my face, reaching for a glass of water, as Miranda and L’il laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me that sauce was hot?”

“Why didn’t you ask?” Miranda giggles. “You dove right in. I figured you knew what you were doing.”

“I do!”

“Does that include sex?” Miranda asks wickedly.

“What is it with everyone and sex?”

“It’s very exciting,” L’il says.

“Ha,” I say. “She hates it.” I point to Miranda.

“Only the ‘intercourse’ part.” Miranda makes quotation marks with her fingers. “Why do they call it intercourse anyway? It makes it sound like it’s some kind of conversation. Which it isn’t. It’s penetration, pure and simple. There’s no give-and-take involved.”

Our curries arrive. One is white and creamy. The other two are brown and red, and look dangerous. I take a scoop of the white curry. L’il takes some of the brown and pushes it toward Miranda. “If you know how to do it properly, supposedly it is like a conversation,” she says.

“How?” Miranda asks, thoroughly unconvinced.

“The penis and vagina communicate.”

“No way,” I say.

“My mother told me,” L’il says. “It’s an act of love.”

“It’s an act of war,” Miranda objects, getting heated. “The penis is saying, ‘Let me in,’ and the vagina is saying, ‘Get the hell away from me, creep.’”

“Or maybe the vagina is saying, ‘Hurry up,’” I add.

L’il dabs at her mouth, and smiles. “That’s the problem. If you think it’s going to be terrible, it will be.”

“Why?” I dip my fork into the red curry to test it for hotness.

“Tension. If you tense up, it makes it more difficult. And painful. That’s why the woman should always have an orgasm first,” L’il says nonchalantly.

Miranda finishes her beer and immediately orders another. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you tell if you’ve even had this supposed orgasm?”

L’il laughs.

“Yeah.” I gulp. “How?”

L’il slides back in her chair and puts on a teacherly face. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not,” I say, looking at Miranda. Her face is closed, as if she doesn’t want to hear this.

“You have to know your own body,” L’il says cryptically.

“Meaning?”

“Masturbation.”

“Eeeeewwww.” Miranda puts her hands over ears.

“Masturbation is not a dirty word,” L’il scolds. “It’s part of a healthy sexuality.”

“And I suppose your mother told you this, too?” Miranda demands.

L’il shrugs. “My mother’s a nurse. She doesn’t believe in mincing words when it comes to health. She says healthy sex is simply a part of a healthy life.”

“Well.” I’m impressed.

“And she did all that consciousness-raising stuff,” L’il continues. “In the early seventies. When the women sit around in a circle with mirrors-”

“Aha.” This, I suppose, explains everything.

“She’s a lesbian now,” L’il says casually.

Miranda’s mouth opens as if she’s about to speak, but suddenly thinks better of it. For once, she has nothing to say.

After dinner, L’il begs off the party, claiming a headache. Miranda doesn’t want to go either, but I point out if she goes home, she’ll look like she’s sulking.

The party is on Broadway and Seventeenth Street in a building that was once a bank. A security guard tells us to take the elevator to the fourth floor. I figure this must be a big party if the guard is letting people in so easily.

The elevator opens into a white space with crazy art on the walls. As we’re taking it in, a small, rotund man with hair the color of butter bustles over, beaming.

“I’m Bobby,” he says, extending his hand to me.

“Carrie Bradshaw. And Miranda Hobbes.” Miranda gives Bobby a stiff smile while Bobby squints, summing us up.

“Carrie Bradshaw,” he says, like he’s delighted to meet me. “And what do you do?”

“Why is that always the first question out of everyone’s mouth?” Miranda mutters.

I glance at her so she knows I agree, and say boldly, “I’m a playwright.”

“A playwright!” Bobby exclaims. “That’s good. I love writers. Everyone loves writers. I used to be a writer before I became an artist.”

“You’re an artist?” Miranda asks, as if this can’t possibly be true.

Bobby ignores her. “You must tell me the names of your plays. Perhaps I’ve seen one-”

“I doubt it,” I falter, never expecting he’d assume I’d actually written a play. But now that I’ve said it, I can’t take it back.

“Because she hasn’t written any,” Miranda blurts out.

“Actually”-I give her a steely look-“I’m in the middle of writing one right now.”

“Wonderful,” Bobby cheers. “And when it’s finished, we can stage it here.”

“Really?” This Bobby must be some kind of crazy.

“Of course,” he says with a swagger, leading us farther into the room. “I’m doing all kinds of experimental productions. This is a nexus-a nexus,” he repeats, savoring the word, “of art, fashion, and photography. I haven’t done a play yet, but it seems exactly the right sort of thing. And we can get all kinds of people to come.”