March 3, 2012

“But you and I, we know the truth. We know something about real life, don’t we?” -Sex and the City

Following my revelation, I start seeing The Writer less. He is offered a job on the TV show he’s been trying to get on but earlier than planned. He has to rush to turn in the sample script he’s been putting off, before the offer is official. So I stay up all night writing half of his script with him and call in sick the next morning to help him edit it. My kickass temp job soon becomes my kickass full-time job, and he visits me during lunch once or twice. I bump into him at parties, and he enthusiastically introduces me to people, who I suppose are meant to be important. He begins calling me pet names–babe, pumpks. In return, I become increasingly sassy in the way I speak to him. But it only makes things harder. My sass turns to aggression, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. I’ve become like a little dog that won’t stop snapping. And I can’t seem to shake the thought that’s been echoing through my mind over and over since the concert: My life would be better if we were together. It’s not something I want to believe, not at all. But I do believe it.

So I decide to make a choice. I’ll seek refuge in distance, stay away from him and give my heart some space. I already have a long weekend planned to visit my family, and I book a week long trip to New York. When I go back to my city, I realize how much I’ve changed, how much I’ve compromised. When I return to L.A., I find myself unable to write, so I bury myself in work instead.

I start seeing someone else. His name is Drew. I take it slow with him at first, but then things become very fast-paced.

“You have these walls up like I’ve never seen in anyone,” he tells me after a few weeks. “I’ve been hurt before,” I tell him. He sees me differently than anyone else does. That is the quality that I find most appealing in a partner. It’s the fastest and most constant way to make someone feel special–just see them differently from the rest of the world. The Writer did that, too.

Drew and I have great chemistry–our relationship quickly becomes very physical. It’s not like what I had with The Writer. It’s more brutal. Brutally comforting or brutally sorrowful. “I miss you always,” I whisper to him, crying quietly one night when we’re out, and I’m too drunk to be conscious. He just laughs at me and gives me a squeeze, and the next day I laugh about it, too. He is never bothered by truth the way everyone else seems to be.

I cook him dinners, and he spends the night. While we fall asleep, he presses his nose into my hair and whispers to me in the dark. In the morning, he goes out on my balcony for a cigarette. It’s cold, so I sit between his legs, and he holds me while he smokes.

The playing field is more even with Drew. When our lips part after a kiss, he looks into my eyes with endless Read the rest of this entry »

The Writer’s Tail

March 13, 2011

“Welcome to the age of un-innocence. No one has breakfast at Tiffany’s, and no one has affairs to remember. Instead, we have breakfast at 7AM, and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.” -Carrie Bradshaw

Right. So, I’m leaning against the dishwasher with a glass of water in my hand thinking, Well fuck. I’m definitely drunk, but not drunk enough to make up my mind about what’s going on here, especially having received all of the attention I had from the night. “You’re really, really cute,” he says, still transfixed. “Thanks. So are you,” I tell him uncertainly. After about 10 seconds I realize that I have to be a big boy and make up my mind. But actually I don’t because The Writer lunges at me, pulls my leg up and starts kissing me ferociously against the clanking dishwasher door. This is fun for a minute, but the clanking door is really starting to irritate me, and as fun as it would be to recount having such a ferocious make out session that I destroyed a set of dishes, I thought better of it and shoved him to the counter on the other side. After another minute, I stopped and said, “Wait…I can’t have sex with you.” Why, oh why, did I say this? Well a few reasons. For one, I really didn’t want to have sex with him that night. Also, I’m just kind of a prude, so I tell him the undies are staying on. “That’s OK,” he replies reassuringly. Now, there are several clever responses around the undies that I probably would have caved to, (like I did the last time I slept with someone in New York,) but he only made direct attempts to de-clothe me. Besides, every time I’ve porked on a first date or first date-alternative, it’s gone horribly wrong. (One guy became a coke dealer and then told me he was going to defriend me on Facebook if I didn’t hook up with him again. Boy, do I know how to pick ’em!) Also, I’m new in town, and I don’t want to be branded as an easy piece of tail.

So what happens next? We moved to his bedroom, lights off, a little humping, grinding, and some surprisingly clean albeit aggressive kissing. I generally hate sloppy kissers, you know, the ones whose tongues are so unwieldy that they end up in your nostrils, and your face is completely dripping with slobber. But The Writer kissed in the complete opposite fashion–sparing tongue and almost no biting. Although he did ask me to bite him. Which made me laugh a little, but then I did. Now comes the embarrassing part, so I’ll remind you once more that I was drunk and also no lights had been turned on in house since we returned. “Want to know a secret?” I offered. “What?” he asked. “I’m Read the rest of this entry »

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