Loving Mr. Big

Mr. Joop cleverly ran out of champagne halfway through the party, and people were banging on the kitchen door and

Mr. Joop cleverly ran out of champagne halfway through the party, and people were banging on the kitchen door and begging the waiters for a glass of wine. A man walked by with a cigar in his mouth, and one of the men Carrie was talking to said, “Oooooh. Who is that? He looks like a younger, better-looking Ron Perelman.”

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“I know who it is,” Carrie said.

“Who?”
“Mr. Big.”

“I knew that. I always get Mr. Big and Perelman mixed up.”

Carrie had seen Mr. Big once before, but she didn’t think he’d remember her. She was in this office where she works sometimes and Inside Edition was interviewing her about something she wrote about Chihuahuas. Mr. Big came in and started talking to the cameraman about how all Chihuahuas were in Paris.

At the party, Mr. Big was sitting on the radiator in the living room. “Hi,” Carrie said. “Remember me?” She could tell by his eyes that he had no idea who she was, and she wondered if he was going to panic.

He twirled the cigar around the inside of his lips and took it out of his mouth. A high-testosterone male. He looked away to flick his ash, then looked back and said, “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Another Mr. Big (at Elaine’s)

Carrie didn’t run into Mr. Big again for several days. In the meantime, something was definitely happening. She bumped into a writer friend she hadn’t seen for two months and he said, “You look like Heather Locklear.”

“Yeah? Is that a problem?”
Then she was Elaine’s and a big writer, a big one, someone she’d never met, gave her the finger, and then sat down next to her and said, “You’re not as tough as you think you are.”
“Excuse me?”

“You walk around like you’re so fucking great in bed.”

She wanted to say, “I do?”—but instead she laughed, made a Fiorentino-esque face and said, “Well, maybe I am.”

Then she went to a party after one of those Peggy Siegal movie openings and met a big movie producer who impulsively gave her a ride in his car to Bowery Bar. Mr. Big was there.

Mr. Big slid into the banquette next her. Their sides were touching.

Mr. Big said, “So. What have you been doing lately? What do you do for work?”

“This is my work,” Carrie said. “I’m researching a story for a friend of mine about women who have sex like men. You know, that they have sex and afterwards they feel nothing.”

Mr. Big eyed her. “But you’re not like that,” he said.

“Aren’t you?” she asked.

“Not a drop. Not even half a drop,” he said.

Carrie looked at Mr. Big. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, I get it,” said Mr. Big. “You’ve never been in love.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And you have?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

 

Candace Bushnell began Sex and the City as a column in The New York Observer in 1994; it subsequently became a book and a series on HBO. She is also the author of Four Blondes, Trading Up and Lipstick Jungle, which is being filmed as a pilot for NBC starring Brooke Shields. Ms. Bushnell is also the host of Sex, Success and Sensibility, a live weekly talk show on Sirius Satellite Radio. She lives in Manhattan with her husband, New York City Ballet principal dancer Charles Askegard.

Loving Mr. Big