Body Heat

April 9, 2012

“Sex is emotion in motion.” -Mae West

Tonight, The Writer and I are attending a Murder Mystery dinner. From what I gather, we will be fed and served booze while we witness talented-but-struggling actors perform a theatrical act of homicide. Then, as audience participants, it will be our job to use clues from scenes intermittently put on between the dinner’s courses to deduce which character is the murderer.

When I arrive at The Writer’s house, I notice his jacket, the one that I’ve been harboring, on my passenger seat. I’m not ready to give it back just yet. Unsure of who will be driving, I roll it up and put it in the back seat, hiding it beneath another jacket. I climb the steps just like I always do and knock on the door like I have a hundred times before. I turn to look at the sky and notice grey clouds rolling in. He answers and gives me a strange look. “Are we supposed to get dressed up for this?” He asks. I’m wearing a black and white thinly checkered button-down with black pants and a skinny tie. “You don’t have to, but the tickets say ‘Invitation to the Millionaires Club’ and that guests should be encouraged to dress in character,” I reply…not that any of the millionaires I know dress like this.

I follow him into the house, and he begins searching for something—probably his keys. I hear someone else shuffling around by the bedrooms, but his roommate’s car isn’t parked out front, so I practice my detective skills and surmise that it must be Dalton.

“Hey,” I say, poking my head in the bedroom. “Hey, man. What’s up?” Dalton replies with a much more cheery demeanor than the last time I saw him. “Nothing much, just going to this dinner thing. What about you?” I watch him stuff clothes and a few other items into a backpack. “I’m headed to San Diego for a friend’s birthday. I was supposed to leave yesterday, but I missed my ride.” “Oh, fun,” I say with my coolest nonchalance. “Yeah, it should be a good time.”

Just then we hear a honk from outside. Dalton collects a few more items and rushes past me. “See ya!” He shouts to The Writer as he opens the front door. Alone in The Writer’s bedroom, I look around. I remember that feeling I used to get from this room, all of the promises I was naive enough to believe it held. I space out for a moment, getting lost in the crumpled receipts, the stacks of papers, the mounds of clothes.

“Did Dalton just leave?” My eyes flutter, and I turn around to see The Writer. “Yeah,” I answer a little breathless. “You find what you were looking for?” I ask. “Yeah, I had to find a pain pill. My back is killing me.”

We decide to take my car, which probably isn’t the best idea, considering we’re late, and I’m a slower drive. That, and my car doesn’t exactly have the best track record with, you know, getting to its destination. “I like these glasses,” The Writer says, picking up my hot pink wayfarer sunglasses. Read the rest of this entry »

Advertisements

Meant For Each Other. Except…

April 13, 2011

“But a kiss can be even deadlier if you mean it.” -Catwoman

I wake up the next morning at a somewhat decent hour with my arm draped over The Writer. I smile and decide to leave him alone but inch a little closer. I love this. But by noon, I’m starving so I poke him. “I’m sooo hungry,” I bemoan. “Five more minutes,” his typical response. So I wrap my leg around his and squeeze his torso and we lie there for fifteen more minutes. “Get up! Get up! Get Up!” I demand playfully, but he just rolls over. “Fine!” I noisily exit my bed and head into the kitchen to brew some Java, hoping the steaming grinds will lure him out of bed like some 50s cartoon floating through the air incited by the scent of bacon. My attempts are once more met with utter failure, so I violently jump onto the bed and flip The unflinching Writer onto his stomach. Position myself on his lower back, I reach up to his shoulders and give them a tight squeeze, massaging him. “Mmmm,” he moans. Finally! I think to myself. I love The Writer’s body–he says he used to be more built, and he definitely has some muscle but with slightest bit of doughiness to him, so that he’s both firm and soft. Sometimes I fall asleep with my head on his chest, which, if positioned just right, is better than a pillow. And I can listen to his heartbeat. “You’re really good at massages,” he says. “Where did you learn how to do that?” “At the ‘Happy Endings Spa’ in Chinatown back in my New York days,” I retort. “They taught you well,” he laughs. “I do what I can,” I tell him. “Well don’t stop,” he says. “Alright, but when I’m done you have to get up. I’m starving!” “Okay, okay,” he complies, so I finish my work. Happy Ending-less.

The Writer and I head to a rather vacant diner for a would-be lunch (although I don’t think it qualifies as such at 4PM). The sky is apocalyptic grey today, clouds swirling. Looking out the diner window, I notice a small circular hole that penetrates the thick glass with a cauterized border. We debate on how the hole got there without shattering the pane, and The Writer decides it’s a bullet hole. “That’s why it’s so empty in here,” I joke. When the waitress comes to take our order, The Writer orders his coffee with milk, but she brings it black. “Oh, can I have some milk with this?” He asks. “Sure darlin’,” she says sweetly and returns a few minutes later with a tall glass milk. We snicker, and The Writer attempts to pour the milk into his coffee without spilling it, but he’s unsuccessful. We get some work done, and I help him brainstorm on some script ideas he’s been working on. I have a few good notes, and he gets really excited about the characters and situations, which does something to me although I’m not exactly sure what. I have an appointment with my new psychiatrist at 7, so I drive The Writer back to my place to retrieve his car.

The psychiatrist, who I’ve only seen once, asks me about my personal life–sex and friends. When I first met with him, I was concerned about not connecting to anyone in my new city. I didn’t have anyone I could confide in or truly relate to. I tell him that I’m sexually active, but I can’t find the words to tell him about The Writer. “I think I’ve made one friend,” I say. “That’s excellent,” the doc tells me. “He uh…is a writer–” “Something you have in common,” he chimes in as though he’s reassuring me of something very important. I tell him a few more details about The Writer, including his age, which garners a slightly suspicious response from the doc. He then asks, ever so delicately, about the nature of our relationship, and I am a little floored, not knowing how to answer. I do my best to stumble through the story of how we met (select details only) at a party and how The Writer knows my cousin, but I find myself slightly bewildered by my inability to piece together what the implications fr my relations with The Writer really mean, so I change the subject.

When I get home, I message The Writer: “I kind of want to get really fucked up Read the rest of this entry »


%d bloggers like this: