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 Fabulous Ken Starr

May 26, 2011

“The truth is, I was dying to sleep with him. But isn’t delayed gratification the definition of maturity?” -Sex and the City

With no plans for the weekend, I decide to see what my one-time fondler Ken Starr is up to. “I’m out of town this weekend, but let’s do next week.” “Great,” I respond. “So are we having just dinner…or dinner and sex?” He asks nonchalantly. My face yells ‘uh…seriously…’ but I say, “I mean, just dinner.” On Monday, I give him a call, which goes to voicemail–“It’s your dear friend, calling to see if we’re still on for dinner this week. Give me a call.” I don’t get a response for a couple of days, but as fortune should have it, I run into Ken. “I owe you a phone call,” he says with too much charm for words, not that it comes across as compensating. “Yes, you do,” I retort. “Let’s see,” he says with a smile, “Want to see this scary movie?” I hate scary movies, but I love this movie’s screenwriter, and it’s a really well done franchise. “I’d love to,” I say half biting my lip.

A couple nights later, I call to confirm that we’re still on. “I’m working a little late. Is it okay if we skip dinner and just see the movie?” He asks. I’m fine with it but am really unsure what to expect from the night. Thanks to my abundant lack of elegance, I get lost trying to find the entrance to the theater’s parking garage and ride around the block four times. I park and race across the plaza then slow down and check myself in front of the doors. I look decent besides a small blemish on my left side, so I go in and find Ken chatting with someone–probably a total stranger. Spotting me, he turns and flashes that smile of his: “hey.” “Hi,” I says as he grabs me into a hug. He’s dressed down from the usual, wearing a hoodie, but so am I. I try to stand so that he’s not facing the blemished side of my face, not that it matters because we’ll be spending most of the next two hours in a big dark room. After our tickets are scanned, I offer to pay my share, but he won’t have it. This is perhaps the first time I see a bump in his flawless smooth–guys like this are driven mad when I offer to pay for stuff. I know not why, but I find it wildly entertaining.

Next we make our way to concessions and he again addresses me by name way more than usual. “What would you like to drink?” “I’m indifferent,” I assure him. He turns to the cashier: “We’ll have a large Coke Zero with two straws and medium popcorn.” When she turns away to get the popcorn, he makes suggestive gestures at me with his tongue. I slap his arm and roll my eyes, but really I think he’s kind of funny. When the woman returns, she ring us up, and this time I don’t offer to pay. “That will be $16,” she says. As we walk away, I comment how crazy the prices are. “You work right?” He asks. “Yeah, but I make next to nothing, and I think I’m going to quit soon,” I say. “Have you thought about becoming an escort?” He asks with no hint of context or motivation. “No!” I exclaim while trying to hold onto my cool. A few moments later, I perk up and turn to ask, “Why? Do you think I should be an escort?” “No,” he says with a smile. He just chews a piece of gum looking at me for a few seconds, then looks at the screen. “I had dinner with this kid who was an escort the other week. It was fascinating. Once he told me, I had to know everything.” My first thought is to ask did you ask him if he caught any diseases? But I decide to watch the funny commercial instead.

Facing the screen, I notice that Ken is staring at my head. For a second I freak, thinking he’s looking at the blemish, but I realize it’s on the other side. “What?” I say, smiling. “I bet you’d look good in a hat,” he says. “Thanks?” I say confused. “Sometimes I have boys come over and tell them to bring a hat, then make them wear it while we fuck,” he says. “What type of hats?” I inquire. “Are we talking baseball caps or something more formal like a top hat or trashy trucker hats.” Ken laughs that my mind would go there. “I’ve only had baseball hats, but you could wear whatever kind of hat you’d like.” Just then the lights dim all the way to black as the sound comes up for the movie. “Hey,” he says poking me, “can I ask you a favor?” “Sure,” I answer inquisitively. “Can I hold your balls if I get scared during the movie?” I laugh shaking my head…”We’ll see,” I tell him.

As I said, I’m not a big fan of scary movies. I get tense and jump. A lot. After the first big twist, my butt lifts off my seat, and Ken cracks up at the sight. “Shut up!” I say blushing, but he snickers every time I jump, which is frequently. More than an hour into the movie, the killer pops out of somewhere I completely unexpected, causing me to jumpĀ  so high that Ken catches my back and both of my legs with his arms, then put my legs over his knees and strokes them. Surprisingly, he doesn’t try anything else during the movie or after. On our way out, he asks me if I liked the flick. “It was great,” I say. I tell him what a fan I am of the screenwriter, and he tells me they were just in Vegas together. “I’ll take you to dinner with him some time,” he says. We get in the parking garage elevator, and I think about asking him if he wants to get a drink, but I’m tired. Besides, a drink would be playing with fire. He hugs me goodnight, and I’m off.

A couple days later I ask Clark and Chase about Ken. “Stay away,” they say. “Really?” I ask, hoping for a better answer. “Way too intense,” Chase says. I don’t know how to interpret that, but I guess he would know.

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