Sam was having a big week. "Did you ever have one of those weeks when, I don't know how to explain it, you walk into a room and every guy wants to be with you?" she asked Carrie.
Sam went to a party where she bumped into a guy she hadn't seen for about seven years. He was one of those guys who, seven years ago, every woman on the Upper East Side
connected family, dated models. Now, he said, he was looking for a relationship.
At the party, Sam let him back her into a corner. He'd had a few drinks. "I always thought you were so beautiful," he said. "But I was scared of you."
"Scared? Of me?" Sam laughed.
"You were smart. And tough. I thought you'd rip me to shreds." "You're saying you thought I was a bitch." "Not a bitch. Just that I
thought I wouldn't be able to keep up." "And now?" "I don't know."
"I like it when men think I'm smarter than they are," Sam said. "Because it's usually true."
They went to dinner. More drinks. "God, Sam," he said. "I can't believe I'm with you."
"Why not?" Sam said, holding her cocktail glass high in the air.
"I kept reading about you in the papers. I kept wanting to get in touch with you. But I thought, She's famous now."
"I'm not famous," Sam said. "I don't even want to be famous," and they started making out.
Sam touched his unmentionable, and it was a big one. A really big one. "There's just something about those really, really big ones," she said later to Carrie. "They make you want to have sex."
"So did you?" Carrie asked.
"No," Sam said. "He said he wanted to go home. Then he called the next day. He wants to have a relationship. Can you believe that? It's just so silly."