Halloween

**Mom, don’t read this one**

I grab my phone out of the toilet and desperately suck the toilet water from its lower holes. I don’t even really think about the fact that I’m doing this in the moment, I don’t second guess my impulse to save my phone at any cost. The fact that I’ve pulled it out of a public toilet in a dive bar at 2am on Halloween night doesn’t really register.

Then I remember why I’m in the restroom in the first place and I try to mentally prepare for what’s to come. I put my phone on top of the toilet next to my purse which is still unzipped, it’s opening aimed at the water—the cause of the accident. I see that the lid to my lipstick is still floating in the bowl. I try not to think about the fact that my phone is probably dead. John the bartender enters and locks the door. He turns to me.

“I dropped my phone in the toilet,” I say, pointing to it, still wet beside my purse. As I point, I notice that my house key has landed in the no man’s land between the seat and the back of the toilet. I vow to remember to grab it later.

John doesn’t understand, or he doesn’t want to deal with this right now. He grabs my waist and pushes me up against the wall. We’re making out and his hand is up my dress and digging around inside my tights. That’s when I remember the bandages.

Earlier this morning I preemptively went to spinning class to “detox before retox,” as my instructor so eloquently put it. Not used to the incredible friction in my crotch area, I chafed something terrible and discovered later that the skin just inches from my outer labia was rubbed raw and actually peeling off in stinging sheets. I smeared on globs of Neosporin and bandaged the area. I vowed to not let any man anywhere near the region because all the bandages made it look like I had recently undergone labiaplasty. Not to mention additional rubbing would definitely hurt like hell. I decided my wounds would help me make better decisions, as I would have to weigh the man against the guaranteed pain involved in hooking up with him—would he be worth it? I didn’t consider as a real possibility that I would find myself in this dilemma with John. I just never imagined we would actually get to this point in our epic 11 month flirtation.

Earlier in the night, when I first arrive at the bar with my roommates in our matching understated yet elegant costumes of all black ensembles and masquerade masks, John greets me with a warm hug over the bar. I kiss his cheek and, when he says “Oh!” in a pleasantly surprised manner, I ask if I can have a real kiss later.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t get any more kisses,” he eyes me suggestively. I obviously know what he’s referring to—the last time I was here I went home with his brother. Why this trumps the fact that he still lives with his girlfriend, I'm not sure.

“Why?” I smile coyly.

“You know why,” says John. But he doesn’t look upset; he looks amused. I like this about him—he doesn’t seem to take it all too seriously. Underneath it all, he seems to understand that it’s just sex. Who cares that I fucked his brother and I still want to fuck him? He doesn’t slut shame me for it. He still wants me too. I find this incredibly hot.

I haven’t really been drinking lately so after a couple vodka sodas with a lemon and a lime (and a cherry that John adds without asking), I am completely hammered. I’m on the floor dirty dancing with a Jewish guy dressed as a Rasta. His dreadlocked hair keeps getting caught in my mask, so I take off my mask. I freak with the Rasta like I’m at a middle school dance, twerking my ass into his hips. He grabs my waist and tries to reach his hand into the top of my dress, grabbing at my boobs. I enjoy dancing with him—he’s fun and he can move (or at least I’m drunk enough, I think he can)—but I don’t want to fuck this guy and when he tries to kiss me, I hold my face away. When he tells me to come home with him to Pasadena, I laugh in his face and say, “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

I carry my friend’s vaporizer loaded up with weed to John at the bar and offer it to him. He takes it and puffs. I order a couple more drinks for my friends and “a shot of your choice” for John. I do this several times throughout the night but apparently he puts none of it on my tab because my bill comes out to $18 at the end of the night. When John hands me my drinks, I rub my fingers on his and we linger there for a moment. Later I make him lean in so I can tell him something and I lick his ear. Later still I suck on his fingers, which taste like lime. At some point, he declares, “You had sex with my brother.”

I say, “So? I like both you guys.”

He asks, “Was he good to you?” I think this is a classy question. Also kinky. I wonder not for the first time if these are the kind of Irish twins that would fuck the same girl in the same room at the same time. If this is a possibility, I need to do everything in my power to make it happen.

Suddenly, it’s 2am and the lights are coming on, the heavy metal designed to thin the crowd blasting out of the speakers. John comes around to sit in his usual spot at the bar to do the tip out on his computer. Naturally, I plop down next to him, and this is when things take a turn. I try to kiss him and he pushes his face into my neck and says, “I want to bury myself in you.” I try to get his number, asking if we can be friends. He says, “How am I supposed to be your friend when all I want is to fuck you?” I guess that’s a fair question. I can see that he’s struggling. He punches his number into my phone anyway.

He tells me I’m causing problems in his relationship. I tell him it’s not me. He doesn’t understand what I mean. I want to point out that if it weren’t me, it would be some other girl. He’s just not monogamous, at least not at this stage in his life. I decide not to get into it. Instead, I run my fingers down his back and along the top of his pants to the front. He grabs my hand and puts it on his fly. He’s hard. He reaches under my dress and grips my crotch.

“Now that just kills me.” He seems to be referring to the heat coming off me. He lifts his hand away from my crotch and runs it under his nose, along his lips. It's about this time that the DJ says, "This one's for you, John," and proceeds to play Britney Spears' Toxic.

John won’t kiss me but seems to want me to keep grabbing his dick. I guess because it’s under the bar and he thinks his coworkers aren’t seeing what’s going on between us. I ask, “Why can I do this but you won’t kiss me? Because it’s under the bar?” He nods. “So, do you want me to get under the bar and suck your dick?” I ask. He nods, slower this time. Wow, he actually thinks that we are being stealth enough to get away with this. I’m so drunk I actually consider it.

My friends are ready to hit the taco truck, so I bid John farewell. He looks disappointed, like he always does when I leave, and I want to say, “Make up your damn mind!”

“Do you need to go to the bathroom before you go?” He asks.

At first I don’t register what he’s really asking and I almost say no. Then I realize the meaning of this.

“Yes,” I answer and grab my purse. I march towards the restroom.

Inside, the first thing I do is put my purse down on top of the toilet, and then a couple seconds later register that I’ve dumped the entire contents into the toilet. I fish out my phone, lipstick, Altoids. Thinking at the time that all of these items are salvageable, even the mints. This is when I suck the toilet water out of my phone and immediately turn it off, remembering the advice I received the last time I dropped my phone in the toilet. That phone didn’t make it.

With John’s hand up my dress, I remember my bandages and I really don’t want to have to explain them to him. Instead, I move down and unbutton his jeans, squatting on the ground. I take his penis in my mouth. As I’m sucking on him, I reach into my tights and rip off the medical tape and gauze strips covering my outer vagina wounds. I drop these on the floor beside discarded bits of toilet paper.

Naturally, as I suck John’s dick, I can’t resist comparisons to his brother. I notice immediately that his brother was in much better physical shape and therefore (as is my experience) his dick got bigger and harder. John’s is hard but could probably be harder if he hadn’t been drinking so much. He’s been working long sweaty hours and there’s a faint smell of BO emanating from his nether regions. It’s not that bad and I don’t mind it. He’s smiling down at me in a very appreciative manner—that’s nice.

I’m not getting anywhere with his dick in my mouth, so I stand up and pull down my tights and underwear and turn away from him, putting my hands on the wall and pushing my ass into his crotch. I fumble for his penis, willing it to stay hard for just a little while longer.

“I can’t have sex with you without a condom,” he says in a moment of sudden clarity. I respect this decision, for his girlfriend’s sake. And because sex without condoms is a bad habit I need to stop. For some reason I haven’t brought one with me, probably because I really had no intention of bringing my vagina out tonight.

I lean with my back against the wall, underwear down, tit sticking out the top of my dress. John stands at the sink, staring at me and jerking off. He ravages me with his eyes. I can’t remember who decides we’re done here. Probably he says, “I should get back.” I pull up my underwear and tights but leave my tit out.

“Put that away,” he instructs before taking it in his mouth.

Then he’s gone. My roommate appears in the doorway.

“I just sucked John’s dick,” I declare. “And I dropped my phone in the toilet.”

It’s time to hit the taco truck.

After I order my nachos, I text John, “Hey John, it’s me. Let’s be friends.” With a winky face.

Him: “What”

Me: “What what”

Him: “Ok. Yes.”

Me: “Yes what?”

Him: “I don’t know”

“Our interactions are like a Pinter play,” I declare to my friends.

“What’s that?” They ask.

I tell my best friend Sadie about this experience and she asks why I want to fuck John. She thinks my story doesn’t sound very passion-driven and feels more like a challenge I’ve set for myself. She wonders if by fucking his brother, I simply upped the ante in this game of trying to fuck John—actually making it harder for myself, adding a new level to the game. I tell her I find the combination of John’s inability to have sex with me and his desire to do so incredibly hot. I wonder aloud if people who don’t know me would think my mission in life is to home wreck happy relationships. She doesn’t think so—she thinks it’s clear from my perspective on infidelity and monogamy that I don’t consider myself the cause of these men’s relationship problems. I’m a symptom.

Sadie says it sounds to her like I’m bored, that if there were anyone more exciting to come along, I wouldn’t be interested in John anymore.

“Well, of course. But isn’t that always the way it is? You mess around with people that aren’t the real thing until something more interesting comes along?”

She concedes this is probably true.

“If John said he was leaving his girlfriend and wanted to fuck you all the time, would you want that?” She asks. Probably not, but there are a thousand what ifs I could go through that have nothing to do with the actual situation.

“What will probably happen is it will turn out that John’s girlfriend is like your blog’s biggest fan.”

I laugh, “That’s what happens in the movie version of my life.”

“The brother will fall in love with you,” she goes on, “and you’ll fuck both of them and get pregnant and won’t know which one of theirs it is and you’ll all end up raising the baby together.”

I tell her about how I’ve made plans to see John’s brother over Thanksgiving when I’m up in the Bay Area visiting my parents.

“I wonder if he won’t want to see me anymore if John tells him I sucked his dick,” I muse.

She bursts out laughing.

“You are building yourself a fucking garbage fire.” Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am bored.

Grandma's Got a Boyfriend... and I Don't

“How’s your love life?”

“Not as exciting as yours, Grandma.”

My grandmother is 86 years old and she has a long distance boyfriend. She’s just been telling me about how every night at 8 pm her time and 10 pm his time (she lives in New Mexico, he lives in New Jersey), he calls her and asks, “Ready to pour?”

They drink one gin and tonic and talk for an hour before bed. This happens every night. She tells me that he’s started calling in the mornings too, “Just to say Good Morning.” I ask how they constantly find things to talk about.

“I don’t know, honey, we just do. We talk about politics and the people we used to know. We tell each other about what we did that day.”

I remember that feeling of wanting to tell a partner everything—purposefully remembering things from your day just so you could tell them about it later, every mundane little detail. I had that with Mr. Intimidated, which is how I knew I actually really liked him. Grandma tells me that her boyfriend admitted to making notes throughout his day so he wouldn't forget to tell her things.

“He makes me feel like a girl,” she tells me earnestly. “I never thought I’d feel that way again.”

My grandmother and her boyfriend, Bob, grew up together in the same tiny New Jersey town where he still lives. They knew all the same people, most of whom are now dead. Bob remembers more than she does about their high school days together—he remembers things about my grandmother that she doesn’t remember herself. Like about that time they were playing tennis in gym class and she got a cramp in her leg and had to sit down and the gym teacher came over and asked Bob, “What did you do to her?” Or when she fainted outside the school and knocked down a professor.

Bob remembers these details because he’s been in love with my grandmother for 60 years. My grandfather died three years ago and this man—a widower himself—waited a respectable two years before swooping in on the long lost love of his life. She wasn’t sure at first and she resisted him for several months—I think she felt some moral obligation about being faithful to the memory of my grandfather. But Bob just kept on coming, undeterred by her reticence.

“I feel silly now about resisting him,” she admits.

When Bob came to visit her in Santa Fe several months ago, my grandmother laid down the ground rules: “Hopper seat down” (she calls the toilet a hopper), “you have to help with the cooking, and... NO SEX.” Her boyfriend joked: “If you wanted to have sex, I’d have to bring someone in.” At first I interpreted this to mean a prostitute and I was momentarily shocked. Then my grandmother laughed, apparently charmed by his little joke. I guess he meant a doctor or something. Someone to administer the Viagra? I don’t know.

One of her favorite things about Bob is the fact that he can keep the names of her three daughters straight. The fact that he remembers that her granddaughter lives in Los Angeles.

“He has a good memory and he obviously cares about you,” I say.

I consider telling her about the guy I had been chatting with on OKCupid for a couple weeks who then, a year later when I got back on the site, opened with the same pick up line he’d used on me the first time around. I remembered the line and I remembered him. We had gone so far as to exchange numbers and had texted on a daily basis—we were pretty close to actually meeting in person before it fizzled out. He’d apparently forgotten all these details and was starting from zero with me. I wondered if he still had my number in his phone. I consider telling her about the chef I was chatting with recently and was really excited to meet. We had made a date, he had to cancel at the last minute, he wanted to reschedule. I said okay and then never heard from him again.

When my grandmother asks about my love life, I’m tempted to mention the fact that I recently deleted all my dating apps after reading a particularly depressing article about Tinder in Vanity Fair. Midway through the article, I grabbed my phone and promptly deleted ALL the apps: Tinder, OKC, Hinge, Happn, even Bumble. I decided I didn’t want to feed into this culture that was turning men into sociopathic pussy-monsters and women into simpering attention whores. I decided I would meet someone the old fashioned way: IRL.

I can’t explain any of this to my grandmother because it simply wouldn’t make sense to her. On a fundamental level, her generation doesn’t understand having a game on your phone where you swipe through millions of human faces trying to find someone to have sex with. Her boyfriend has been in love with her for 60 goddamn years! They talk on the phone every night. She’s living in some nostalgic Nora Ephron romance flick from the 90s. Every time she tells me about Bob, I get off the phone and quickly jot down some notes.

“I have to write this story!” I tell myself. It’s too good to be true. This isn’t real life. It’s some relic from a sweet unattainable past.

I remember my grandmother watching this short film I made in which the three young women gather in the kitchen explicitly talking about sex and masturbation. I had been nervous to show it to her, but her reaction was amazing.

“Do you girls really talk like that?” She asked, intrigued.

“Yeah, we do,” I told her.

“That’s really great,” she said to my surprise, “In my day you simply didn’t talk about that stuff.”

I think about the fact that my grandmother has only had sex with one man her entire life. The fact that she got married right out of high school, didn’t go to college, and had three daughters. I think about how she was the star of all her school plays, a real beauty, but didn’t have enough belief in herself or encouragement from her parents to pursue a career in acting. The fact that she is also a poet and a painter, and considers these talents to be just hobbies. And that she never really liked to cook—my grandfather was the one who loved being in the kitchen. My grandmother grew up in a generation where women were expected to stay home and bare children. And that’s it. And I think if my grandmother had been born of my generation, she wouldn’t have chosen that path. She probably would have been an artist. Maybe an actress. She would have had a choice.

When I ask my grandmother if she has any plans to visit Bob in New Jersey, she says she doesn’t have any desire to, that she really doesn’t want to stay with him. She insinuates it’s because she doesn’t want to have sex.

“If I were your age maybe I’d want to visit him…. You can guess what I mean.” She laughs. I laugh too. Last time I saw my grandmother she declared that she’d never have sex again. I just stared at her, mouth dropped open, like ‘how could you ever say that?’ Especially after having had sex with the same man for my entire life, I feel like I’d be chomping at the bit to see what else was out there.

“I just don’t want to anymore,” she said at the time, resigned. I guess it makes sense. Biologically speaking it makes no sense at all for a woman to still want sex at age 86. Still, I can’t imagine myself ever saying the words, I’ll never have sex again. Maybe on my deathbed.

Considering the generation my grandmother grew up in, it’s not totally inconceivable that she never actually enjoyed sex in the first place. It’s even possible she’s never had an orgasm. When I sent her a DVD of the first season of Masters of Sex for her birthday, her response was that she found it “silly to even study these things.” I explained to her that before the studies of Masters and Johnson, female sexuality was cloaked in shame and misunderstanding and that, although imperfect, even just the fact of their study was a step in the right direction. Despite finding it silly, she still said, “I’ll probably watch the rest of the seasons.”

Although I don’t idealize my grandmother’s generation and I certainly wouldn’t want to go back to a time when women had no sexual freedom to speak of, I think something has been lost in this age of endless choice. I’m nostalgic for a time when, if you wanted to talk to the person you had a crush on, you had to call them on the phone or drive to their house. You couldn’t just send them a text or stalk them on Facebook. There was more risk involved, and therefore more investment. You couldn’t swipe through a hundred potential dates a night. You had to talk to one person at a time and risk actually liking that person. Is romance dead? No. But it’s definitely old and potentially dying. 

The Bartender's Brother

On Saturday night I find myself all riled up with nowhere to go. I’ve just had a couple drinks with some friends in Hollywood. One of these friends is a DILF on whom I’ve had a persistent crush for quite awhile. The crush remains because there’s just enough flirtation to keep it going and yet absolutely nothing can be done about it because he’s in a committed relationship and has, well, kids.  So the crush just lingers weakly in the background and flares up from time to time when conditions are right. This particular night, emboldened by alcohol, I find myself pulling his hair, leaning into him, and generally taking it a little too far.

That chapter ends without incident and I drive home, energized and not at all sleepy. I come to a fork in the road where I can either take a right to my house and my bed, or left to the local dive bar where I always make poor decisions. I head left. I park and purposefully walk into the bar. It is last call and the lights are coming up. The drunk crowd is streaming out. I blow past my friend the doorman and swim upstream towards the bar. The bartender I tried and failed to make out with on New Year’s Eve (he also lives with his gf) is working and I make a beeline for him. He looks happy to see me.

“Where have you been?” He beams.

“Hey John, you still live with your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” he says, “but my brother doesn’t.” He gestures to the bar where his brother sits drinking a beer. I smile and sit down, introducing myself with the line, “I tried to make out with John on New Year’s but he was very resistant.” I laugh. John shrugs.

“Don’t you know that kissing doesn’t count as cheating?” (Side Note: this is something my mom told me when I was 18 and I’ve been using it to my advantage ever since.)

His brother smiles, unperturbed by my verbal diarrhea—I like him already. He is built like a brick shit house, big muscular arms and a wide torso. He tells me he used to work at this same bar, now he’s a trainer in San Francisco. My haven’t-had-sex-in-over-a-month self is happy to see him.

John makes us some delicious lime-tasting shots and the three of us throw them back. The crowd has thinned to real locals and friends of the bartenders. Aggressively loud wall-of-noise death metal blasts from the speakers. One of the bartenders has stripped down to his underwear and is smashing glasses on the floor. I’m not sure why any of this is happening but it’s pretty hilarious. As John counts the night’s tips, I canoodle with his brother. I feel on his arms and put my hands on his chest and back. I ask if I’m bothering him and he assures me I’m not, smiling.

“I have a pretty girl touching me.” Then he adds this feminist-adjacent sentiment, “God knows we objectify you guys [women] enough.” He’s really batting a thousand with me.

John keeps refilling our beers as he counts his cash. At some point I grab his brother’s face and start making out with him. After this first kiss, he looks at John and flips him off.

“Fuck you, man,” he says, laughing.

I join in, also flipping off John. It isn’t very nice but I’m really enjoying this game. Despite the pissing-contest-ness of this moment, the brothers obviously have genuine love and affection for one another. There is the sense that John is happy for his brother in this moment, even if he does have mixed feelings about the scenario. I express this to them, saying that if I had a sibling, this is how I imagine we would be. We would share men and be cool about it.

At some point, John plops down next to me so I’m now sitting between the two brothers who are a year apart in age and both ridiculously good-looking. This night has really taken an excellent turn. John occasionally glances at us sideways, watching us make out, and when I catch his eye sometimes he smiles and sometimes he looks playfully hurt. When his brother walks off to go to the bathroom or to get cash from the ATM for John’s tip jar, John grabs my leg under the bar. I suppose still wanting to stake some claim. I was here first. I really don’t mind.

Both of the boys enjoy dancing and I enjoy watching them. John goes off to take the mini-stage with some of the other bartenders who have now connected a mic to the speaker system and are singing along to music that vacillates between abrasive metal and 90s hip hop. John’s brother stays with me at his seat and dances with his muscular little arms over his head like a go-go boy. It’s absolutely adorable.

While his brother is off peeing or something, I turn to John and ask how he’s doing. He starts talking about the night of New Year’s.

“You know, just because I didn’t make out with you doesn’t mean I didn’t want to,” he says. I know this already but it’s satisfying to hear him say it. I ask how things are going with his girlfriend.

“I’m trying to get her into other girls,” he says. I try to school him that this is not the direct path to what he wants.

“You need to be honest with her,” I say.

“I don’t know if monogamy is for me,” he states the obvious. I ask how long they’ve been together. Two years.

“And you already feel this way?” I want to tell him this is not something that’s going to get better with time.

I tell him, “John, this is my jam. I will be here for you as a friend.” I might be a little drunk.

But then he says, “But I wouldn’t want her to do the same thing.” Wait, what?

“So, you want freedom in the relationship but you don’t want her to have the same?”

He nods.

“Well then, go fuck yourself.” I pat his back. I’ve encountered this before. Men who want to fuck around but can’t deal with the idea of their partner doing the same. The obvious hypocrisy and need for control is infuriating. How do they expect their women to be open-minded about this if they refuse to be?

I return to his brother. We keep making out and now I’m feeling on his crotch. He is very hard in his jeans. He cups my ass and puts his hand up my shirt. I lift my bra so he can slip beneath it. I take his finger in my mouth and suck on it—this is apparently too much for him and he holds me back, which only makes me want to do it more. He suggests we leave and go back to my place. Why not John’s? I want to say this as a joke but think better of it.

For some reason I’m not sure I want to take him home. I’m enjoying the dynamic of making out at the bar with John watching and I’m thinking about the uphill walk to my house. And then there’s the fact that I’m trying to cool it on the one night stands. But he’s leaving on Monday and if I want to have sex, this is probably my only chance. I’m on the fence, trying to decide what I want. I’m not sure why what comes out of my mouth is, “I’m not sure if we should have sex. I actually like you.” He looks confused.

“I mean, I don’t know you that well but I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says, diplomatically. Then he turns away to talk to another bartender and I think I’ve blown it. Why did I say that? I guess what I meant to say was, “I’m trying not to have sex with strange men because my female body and brain sometimes create attachment feelings that take a lot of energy for me to deal with.” Or, "If I have sex now after having not had sex for so long, I feel like the dam will burst and I’ll need it all the time. And you don't live in town and I am currently without a reliable slam piece. If I just keep not having sex, I won’t need it and will be able to stay more focused on the other, more important things in my life. I’ve got shit to do! And the longer I don’t have it, the less I need it. Also, I haven’t been grooming my lady bits really at all lately."

I don’t say any of these things out loud.

“Give me five minutes to decide,” I say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. He tells me he feels like a creep for pushing it. This is not the turn I wanted the conversation to take. We keep drinking and making out. Eventually, I decide we should probably just follow the natural projection of where this night is going.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” He heads for the door.

I turn to John and tell him I’m leaving. He makes a face.

“Why?”

“Because it’s time.”

I lean in to hug him and he grabs my face and tongue kisses me. He tastes like his brother. This is my favorite moment of the night. I turn to leave. His brother hasn’t seen the kiss. He is already outside, apparently without saying goodbye to John.

We walk to my house. He takes my hand but this weirdly feels too intimate and we eventually drop it. We walk up the monster hill I live on. Even though he lives in San Francisco, this is still a struggle for him. In my house, I pour us two glasses of ice water and turn on the fan in my room. I head for the bathroom, where I do some quick crotch grooming. Just a little bit. It’s a rush job so fortunately I have the lights set nice and low in my bedroom.

When I return to my room, he has set up the fan so it’s blasting from the foot of the bed. He is in his briefs. They are tight and accentuate the bulge of his crotch. He looks even better with his clothes off. I crawl on top of him and start kissing down his body. I take off my shirt and bra and run my nipples over his chest. I suck on him and he’s got a really nice penis. He doesn’t go down on me and that’s slightly disappointing. Again, as always, I’m tempted to ask why this is, but I don’t want to ruin the mood. He’s pretty good with his fingers. We have sex and it’s fun but I don’t come. Afterwards, I turn off the light and try to go to sleep. It’s five a.m.

At six a.m, the sky is already beginning to lighten and I’m woken from half-sleeping by him groping me from behind. He spoons me and slips it in. Then he rolls me over onto my stomach and finishes like that. I enjoy the spontaneity.

At nine a.m, I’m fully awake. And I have a splitting fucking headache. I get out of bed, put on my PJs, and head to the bathroom where I take two Advil. My mouth tastes like garbage so I brush my teeth and wash my face and remove my eye makeup. It’s rare that I don’t do this before bed, but I haven’t had that much to drink in awhile. I pound some water and return to bed where he has put on his briefs and is chewing gum and looking at his phone. I crawl in next to him and put my arm across his chest. He moves in closer to me. We start making out again. He lifts my shirt and sucks on my breasts. My PJ pants come off and he crawls on top of me. This time I do come. He’s really good at grinding on top of me in just the right way. He doesn’t do the jackrabbit pounding preferred by so many porn-raised dudes of 2015. The orgasm magically disappears my headache.

Afterwards, I ask if he wants any tea or coffee. He asks what kind of tea I have. I tell him about my hippie selection.

“I’ll take coffee,” he says. I put on my PJs again and head for the kitchen.

I ask if he wants a piece of toast.

“No, thanks. But that’s nice,” he says. I know I’m breaking one night stand etiquette by offering to feed him. It’s an uncomfortable negotiation for everybody.

I return with the coffee and he scoots off the bed so as not to spill any on my sheets. He stands and peruses my walls. He asks about a painting of a woman’s naked body from behind.

“There’s a lot of naked people up here,” he says.
“I’m kind of obsessed with nudity,” I explain.

He asks about a calendar I have of three naked women in different shots doing various tasks backstage of a theatre. I explain that this calendar was a fundraiser I did for a theatre I’m involved with. I point myself out, topless and wearing a giant blond Afro wig. He tells me he too posed for a calendar, for one of his clients who is a drag queen. He takes out his phone and shows me the picture. He is dressed as Santa with his shirt open and is flocked by four drag queens dressed as the Golden Girls. One of them (presumably Blanche) is perched on his lap. He wins so many points with me in this moment.

“You were born to do this,” I tell him.

We finish our coffee and he gets dressed. He goes to the bathroom and I change into shorts and put on a bra under my T-shirt. We walk together down my hill, heading to retrieve my car. As we pass the bar from last night, a guy is opening the door and John’s brother knows him. He crosses the street and gives him a big hug. The guy takes us inside where there is glass all over the sticky floor. And a mirror over one of the booths is shattered. This guy is tasked with cleaning up the mess. We laugh at the wreckage and continue on our way.

I offer to drive him home (to John’s house).

“John’s going to be pissed at you for showing me where he lives,” I joke as I round a corner.

“Are you going to stalk him now? Don’t get weird,” he says, teasing me.

“Last night I thought I was going to roll in, have one drink at the bar, and head home. I had no intention of staying until 5 a.m. and then taking home John’s brother.” I laugh. He does too.

I pull up in front of John’s house and he gives me his number for when I’m next up in the Bay Area. We kiss goodbye and I drive off.

It is not lost on me the fact that I began this night lusting after one unattainable man, only to move on to another unattainable man, only to finally settle on an attainable man whom I wasn’t sure I wanted to sleep with. Why was I unsure about this third man? Because it was too easy I didn’t have to fight for it? Friends of mine have told me that I enjoy the chase, that I like the challenge of an unavailable man. But do I really? That’s not at all what I think I want. But then why is it so tempting for me to try to lure said man out of whatever current situation has him lusting after me and unable to do anything about it?

The last memorably good sex I had was with Burly Man in the elevator—because we both wanted it so badly and we knew we shouldn’t have it (again, his girlfriend), which only made us want it more until the tension built up to such a boiling point that when we finally did fuck, it was explosive. That is what I want—that level of passion and spontaneity that feels undeniable. I want my rational mind to be too overcome to get involved. I want to feel out of control. And what tends to come with that feeling of late is unattainable men in relationships.

When I ask John why he’s still with his girlfriend, he says, “She’s the best person.” Not, I’m so in love with her, or she’s my best friend. But, “She’s the best person.” Burly Man gave me a similar response when I asked about his relationship. And to me this sounds like each of these guys has put their respective woman on a pedestal where they can view her from below as this perfect being. And, not to take this analogy too far, but in this scenario, if she’s the Madonna, I’m definitely the Whore. I guess this justifies why John doesn’t want his girlfriend fucking other guys—if he sees her as this Madonna figure, the idea of her sleeping with other men would spoil her for him.

“I’m not a Madonna and I’m not a Whore. I’m your wife and I’m sexual and I love you.” Forgive me as I quote Sex and the City. When I went to look up the exact wording of this quote, I found that my memory of it was word perfect—either I have watched way too much Sex and the City or this phrase stuck in my mind for some reason. Probably it’s both. Charlotte says this to Trey as she’s trying to get him to have sex with her (he’s having trouble performing in bed, but likes to yank it to Playboy in the bathroom). This is an old story. In Masters of Sex, Bill Masters sees his wife as this perfect woman and the mother of his children—and he can’t bring himself to have sex with her. Meanwhile, he sleeps with flirtatious, sexually-liberated Virginia Johnson at every available opportunity. There’s always a sense in these illicit affairs that once it stops being illicit, the mistress becomes the wife and inevitably the free, spontaneous sex stops and “real life” begins. In this scenario, it is definitely more fun to be the woman outside the relationship tempting the man away from his quaint home life. But even as I’m playing the role of the Other Woman, I can relate to the wife/girlfriend back at home. I can see myself in her shoes and I wonder what’s her story, what are her fantasies? And I hope that she’s having some fun, that she’s taking care of her own needs. And my hope for myself is that when I am on the other side of this equation, I will be with someone who sees me not as a Madonna or a Whore, but as a multi-faceted person who has qualities of both these archetypes, and more.