Sarah answers the phone and Matt, thinking it is Ginger,
launches into one of his custom obscene phone calls in
which he describes in drooling detail the pleasures he
intends to inflict in her pliant flesh. Sarah,
suppressing her laughter, gives him enough rope to hang
himself and then sternly asks who it is.
Matt is grovellingly apologetic, and asks politely to
speak to Ginger. When she takes the phone he begins the
breathy monologue again. Ginger, with a conspiratorial
wink at Sarah says "Oh, hi Steve."
Wounded voice: "This is Matt. Who's Steve?"

The girls are weak from laughter when the doorbell heralds
the arrival of Sarah's mystery date. Enter Stan Morsky:
aggressive, clean-cut law student with an upwardly mobile
smile and an I'm-so-smooth-I-hardly-believe-it-myself
style that instantly spells schmuck.

He makes a big hit with Sarah by spending 80 percent of
the time looking at Ginger until she gets him coaxed out
the door. Needless to say he drives a Porsche.

The phone rings in the dark apartment, triggering the
loony phone message the girls have recorded on their
machine. In the bedroom the recorded voices are muffled,
and largely drowned out by Ginger's moans as she and Matt
heave strenuously in the throes of lovemaking. Ginger is
still wearing her Walkman earphones and Matt, reaching out
to the night table without breaking rhythm, thumbs the
volume higher so she won't be distracted by the call.

Ginger seems to enjoy his sure touch on her volume
control.

Stan Morsky's silver Porsche roars to the curb in front of
Sarah's building and, killing the engine, he turns to her
expectantly. He invites himself up for a drink, but Sarah
declines gracefully, saying that her room-mate has company
and with a one-bedroom apartment it's her night on the
couch.
Undaunted, Stan invites her over to his place for a
night-cap but she begs off, citing a long and fatiguing
day.
She breaks off their goodnight kiss when he shows no sign
of doing so and thanks him for dinner with an edge in her
voice.
Stan asks petulantly what's wrong. Didn't they have a
nice dinner? Don't they have a lot in common? Don't they
both like dogs and swing-era jazz? He doesn't get it.

Sarah sighs, abandoning graciousness, and turns on him
with a vengeance. Why does something have to be wrong?
Does she have to be defective in some way to not want to
leap into bed with a guy she has known for three hours,
two of which he spent telling her how much money he's
going to make when he joins his father's firm and the
other spent driving like Mario Andretti on diet pills?

Sarah enters the apartment, alone, and trudges to the
refrigerator, taking out a pint of ice-cream. She sits
down beside Pugsley, lets him out and plunges the spoon
into the ice-cream.
"Rum raisin," she sighs, "It ain't love but nine out of
ten doctors surveyed recommend it as a substitute for
orgasm."

VOICE
(recorded)
Hi, Sarah...Stan Morsky.
Uh, something's come up and it looks like I won't be able to make it tonight.
I'm really sorry.  Call you in a day or so.
Sorry.  'Bye.

Sarah stands still, crestfallen.

GINGER
That bum.  So what if he has a Porsche, he can't treat you like that...
it's Friday night for crissakes.

SARAH
(slumping)
I'll live.

GINGER
I'll break his kneecaps.

Sarah resignedly slips Pugsley off her shoulders.

SARAH
You still love me, don't you, Pugsley?