Tag Archives: gay threesomes

Come on and Touch Me

Dear Readers, it has been about two weeks since my last blog . . .  (bad Catholic school reference)

Its been difficult finding the time to write and also drumming up enough confidence to put more of myself out there.

My new roommate has taken over my living room and all the mental space that comes with that room. Where I used to sit and stare quietly at a blank computer screen with dogs at my feet, now comes with the musical tinkerings and spotty small talk of a male, black actor with nowhere to live.

Laying on my couch one morning, he just woke up and said, “Maybe I should just give up and move back to the East coast.”

I said, “And do what?” That is my response to all “giving up” themed conversations.

He said, “I don’t know what. Maybe go to New York.”

I said, “Have you been to New York before?”

He said, “That’s where I started acting. I studied in New York and London.

I said, “You STUDIED in London!? You can’t give up. You are way more qualified than me to be an actor.”

I am a floater, someone who enjoys entertaining people. I am not a craftswoman in the art of theater or acting. I don’t mind that, in some ways that makes me more marketable, in others less deserving. Its just the world of entertainment.

He didn’t move to the east coast. He is still on my couch, occasionally complaining about how dirty I am or reiterating how quirky I am, as if I needed to be reminded. The truth is, I am not that dirty nor that quirky- and if I am, I have been curbing it a considerable amount since I started sharing my space. I just don’t understand the needling. Its not like I am moody, even when he does stupid fucking things like leave dog shit on the ground because its not his responsibility or leaving endless trash bags around the house for me to throw out.

I don’t raise my voice, and I don’t get frustrated. How in the world could I still qualify as crazy?

And the needling got to me. After a month of birth control pills and a Plan B pill . . . then losing Em, I felt like a skinned, raw version of myself. Every little comment at work or from a friend pinched a little too hard. I questioned whether or not I deserved to be heard on the blog, or on Facebook or at all. It did get that bad in my mind.

At Doggie Daycare, Jude, Camille and Swiss left to move on to other things. Those of the original cast of characters that still remain were promoted to other positions. I am left somewhere in the middle, seemingly by myself. I don’t want more responsibility, but I feel inadequate.

Though I might not let many people in to my inner world, I still get attached to them. I am very sad to lose them in my daily life.

Old, familiar feelings of considering what the point is of even living if I am going to be such a royal fuck-up spiked in my stomach.  I realize putting myself in a position of always struggling (financially or otherwise) turns me into a bit of a black hole. New friends want to help, they give inspirational speeches, sometimes cash, sometimes clothes . . . at some point, that does get old and exhausting. My greatest fear is watching that happen with Alan.

I could never kill myself, and as pathetic and unstable as THIS sounds, the truth is I am obligated to take care of my animals until they die. It seems weak, but it is enough of an excuse to force me to get through a period of depression.

So in the last couple weeks, I have visited old friends and new friends, just to find myself again; grab on to their affection for me and recognize a version of myself in their company. Em was so fucking harsh, I needed to recover from the beating.

I decided to visit my cowboy whore . . . Joel who was upset by my sudden disappearance and hard discovery of Alan on the blog.

JOEL

I was doing audience work in Culver and his French bar/restaurant was kitty corner to the studio, so I dropped by. I sipped a perfect martini while he hustled around me.

He ended his shift early and sat down to speak with me.

I said, “I know you are upset about the whole way this went down, and I am sorry. I never intended for that to be the way it happened.”

He said, “I was upset. WAS. I am over it. I have no interest in you whatsoever.”

Pause.

He looked away, “That’s not entirely true.”

I said, “I feel badly about the $100 and I feel badly that I met him so soon afterward.”

He said, “Don’t feel bad about the $100. That was my gift to you, as a friend. I just went back and read about how you looked at me and realized you really didn’t like me at all. I sound like a total asshole.”

I said, “Well, I kinda thought you were, but its just my perception of how things were. Its not who you are.”

He said, “I know that. And this guy, how’s it going with this new guy?”

I said, “Good. He um . . . makes me nervous.”

The vodka was making the flame on our table candle look like a fuzzy Christmas light.

I said, “I sometimes wonder if he is making me fall in love with him. Like he is manipulating me. I just  . . . think something is going on behind his eyes.”

Joel grabbed my hand, “No there is not. And there wasn’t with me either.”

I said, “I know I am having trust issues. And I am fully aware I am in another long distance relationship by my own doing.”

He looked me over, his eyes were softening.

I said, “I think I am having issues from Abe, you know, he just got up and left. And Alan could do that at any time, too. It makes me kind of crazy. Maybe this relationship is too close to Abe.”

Joel said, “Does your boyfriend know you are thinking about this other guy?”

I said, “I am not hung up on Abe romantically, I am just scared of it all happening all over again.”

Joel said, “I feel better. I am glad we talked.”

I think, and just because I think it does not make it so, but I think Joel was struggling with why Alan and not him; why he was the lover and not the boyfriend. We all have been in that place, I have. I had an affair with a married man who later divorced his wife and got a new girlfriend (who was not me). That still stings even though I could care less about the guy.

The truth is Joel is a good guy, and though I think I only had an affair with a manipulated version of him, he deserves someone that can love him and understand him. We didn’t fit. Alan and I fit.

We hugged goodbye in the parking garage and I could smell the Old Spice on him. I made a flirtatious joke and he thanked me again, offering to see me whenever I was on that side of town.

I drove home and don’t remember much of what I said, but I am fairly certain I had a terrible phone call with Alan. One of my fosters was missing from the bedroom, he popped the screen and took off, leaving me frazzled and neurotic.

I kept apologizing for bothering him and said I was sorry I called. Alan said in a low voice, “I hope you find the foster.”

Well, I did find the foster, he was in my yard. I seem to have extraordinary luck with dogs and cats coming back to me on their own accord.  I called Alan to tell him, no answer. I pinged him on IM, no answer. I texted him, no answer.

Drunk fears of it being Abe all over again erupted and I said we should take a break from the relationship and re-access at the end of the week.

The next morning, he pinged me, “you didn’t hurt anything.. im just caught up in my own BS.. but yea.. we’re fine.. just so you know though.. these conversations.. about whether you annoyed me or will annoy me at some point.. really fucking annoy me.. especially when we have them every few hours like we have the last two days.. “

I pinged back, “Ok.” And went off-line.

I am lucky enough to have a boyfriend who ignores my drunk efforts of self-sabotage. Even luckier to find in my inbox the next day a love song he sent me with the note:

“I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” MP3

This song nicely sums up how I feel right now.  😀

I miss you!”

ANGIE

Angie, the foster, had been with me for three weeks now. I drove her and two other fosters I cared for over the weekend to a transport at a truck stop in the Inland Empire. I decided to keep Brad. He was still following me room to room, looking up and smiling at me like he was . . .  proud. His attachment is still so intense, I knew it would be traumatic to leave him. I couldn’t do that to him. So with me he stays.

Angie was to go up to Canada to a new family, and as I waited to hand her off, I started weeping. I was going to try and control myself until after the transport showed up, but everything came pouring out of me. I don’t know if you are familiar with the weak, broken, relief of crying to yourself in the morning. Its nice, actually. A sacred relinquishment of everything before it even happens.

The guy handling the transport felt bad and kept apologizing. I told him it was fine. I just didn’t want Angie to think, “Why Brad and not me? Why is she sending me off?” Its hard not projecting human thought and emotion on animals who gain more intimacy with me than most people. I understand she is not capable of highly complicated ideas like one being chosen over the other, but studies do show dogs are conscious and aware of favoritism.

I just knew she would adjust to a new home better than Brad. Brad was . . . mine. He gave me no choice.

I grabbed a coffee at the Starbuck’s (in the Ralph’s) and kept weeping in public, because at this point I am really used to it. Most people ignored me, and as I waited in line for a new cashier to figure out how to void a $1,000 charge for someone ahead of me, a song popped on the speakers. “M-I-C K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E . . . Mickey Mouse . . .” I sniffled and laughed. The guy ahead of me turned around and smiled, despite my tears.

I said, “Why … just . . . why?”

He laughed, “Someone is laughing their ass off in the back room, somewhere.”

I took care of some business at the FedEx nearby and filtered any contact with Alan. I was feeling far too sensitive to engage with my new, long distance boyfriend. It was a disaster waiting to happen. So I protected him . . . and me.

TRENT & KENT

The next Tuesday, I went over to hang out with Trent and Kent who I had not seen in several weeks.

It was summer vacation for Kent, the high school biology teacher, and Trent was still too injured to work at Doggie Daycare. In fact, both Trent and Kent had injured their right hand on separate occasions, and both were in casts. It is frickin’ adorable. Both get their casts taken off on August 1st. As Huey Lewis sings “That’s the Power of Love.”

Trent and Kent were enjoying a gram of cocaine while I nibbled a healthy portion of my psychedelic mushroom. We decided to put on “Across The Universe”, since Alan’s love song came from the film. When I told Alan of my impending trip and we said goodnight, he wrote, “See you on the other side.”

Even though I hadn’t seen Trent or Kent in a while, strutting into their 1 bedroom apartment felt inviting. I was relaxed.

Trent said, “Can I read you this? Do you know Dorothy Parker?”

I said, ‘I know of her, but I haven’t read her.”

Trent (reading) “Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.’ Isn’t that funny? She tried to kill herself so many times unsuccessfully she just gave up and said, might as well keep living. She failed with suicide and failed with life, so its kind of the same.”

Sounds like me.

I sat down in my usual massage chair, parallel to the bed.

Kent, “Hey can I ask you something? Have you ever been woken up in your sleep by a fart so terrible, it actually burned your nose hairs.”?

I laughed, “Um, I don’t think so.”

Kent, “Its happened to me twice. TWICE!”

Trent laughed, “You eat the same things.”

Kent, “Your farts wake me up.”

When shrooms take hold, your stomach feels very warm and heavy, you think you are going to throw up, then pee, then throw up, your head gets light and then off you go, into the stars.

I crawled away from the massage chair towards the TV set, which got bigger and brighter. The song, “If I Fell” came on as two new lovers watched each other across the room. The music swallowed me.

Alan says he always likes to know what he is looking for before he trips. In this case, the trip found me.

♪ ♫ If I fell in love with you,
Would you promise to be true,
And help me understand.

‘Cause I’ve been in love before,
And I found that love was more,
Than just holding hands.

If I give my heart to you,
I must be sure,
From the very start,
That you would love me more than her. ♪ ♫

I fell to the ground in front of the TV set, tears streaming down my face and I felt the music inside of me, like I had eaten the song, not the shroom.

Trent was on top of Kent and they were gazing into each others eyes singing.

I crawled into the bathroom to blow my nose and caught my reflection in the mirror. One thing I learned in Undergrad was never look in the mirror when you are on psychedelics. Its just too . . . much.

My face was pink, bags were forming under my red eyes, forcing the tears to spread out on my face. I bowed down on the tile floor and heard the lyrics.

♪ ♫ If I trust in you, oh please,
Don’t run and hide.
If I love you too, oh please,
Don’t hurt my pride like her.
Cause’ I couldn’t stand the pain,
And I would be sad if our new love was in vain. ♪ ♫

The tenderness in her voice was echoing in my head. The tiles on the floor spread out and vibrated like they were the fret dots on a guitar.

I texted Alan, “I am singing to you, can you hear me?”

Several minutes later, Alan texted, “Something made me wake up and go get my phone. Its on silent too. Nice trick. :)”

I crawled back out on the floor and in between the bed and their night stand, where only a few lines of cocaine remained, I bowed in front of the speaker and wept. It felt like everything wonderful was pouring out of me.

Kent asked if I was ok, and I said “They are tears of joy. This feels good, I am sorry. I am sorry you have to see this.”

Trent said, “Don’t apologize, its ok.”

I said, “I am just in this moment learning to trust him with my heart. I am letting go of it and I am going to have to trust him.”

Trent, “Who Alan?”

I mumbled, “Yes” My forehead was pressed against my clasped hands like I was praying.

Trent said more things, something about you have to learn to trust to love. Everything was going to be ok.

What do you say to someone crying at the foot of your bed because they are in love?

♪ ♫ So I hope you see that I
would love to love you
And that she will cry
When she learns we are two . . . ♪ ♫

The light from a warm, floor lamp was parallel to the speakers. I put my hand against the light and saw all the warmth and love of the Beatles flood the spaces between my fingers. That was Alan. The light between my fingers.

The universe was going to protect me.

I collected myself and said, “I am just remembering that my father sang and played some early Beatles music on guitar- and recorded it for my mother when he was in Vietnam. He mailed her the recordings. I remember listening to them when I was little.”

I would sit in my father’s study and listen to his music, including the recordings from Vietnam. He sounded like a different person. When Agent Orange settled into his thyroid, my father lost his voice. Since I have known my father, it has been difficult for him to speak. Now he takes injections in his throat so he can speak clearly without great effort. However, he has never been able to sing in my lifetime.

My song came on. In the film, the song isn’t about lust but the draft for the Vietnam war. An interesting take, not particularly romantic. The film version of the song is heavier, bluesier, and I think sexier.

Kent said, “Here’s your song. Here it is!”

♪ ♫ I want you,
I want you so bad,
I want you so bad its driving me mad,
Its driving me mad. ♪ ♫

Kent’s carpet was dancing underneath me to my song.

In the film, there were moments of Civil Rights protests and beatings, then war sequences I couldn’t handle. I asked them to turn it off and play real Beatles music til I got my mind back.

When I listened to the Beatles sing to me, I wondered how this music can exist for so long, and everyone can love it but we still make the same mistakes. They are letting us know what life can be, what we are apart of, that everything’s gonna be alright. And I believe them.

We put the movie back on, and Sexy Sadie (a character in the film) slowly grew into a terrible characterization of Janis Joplin. Trent and I are huge Janis fans and we just had a strong reaction to a cheeseball, broad stroke representation of one of the most phenomenal female vocalists of all time.

Sadie broke up with her band. She was drinking whiskey out of the bottle. She had big hair. Blah blah blah.

Every time she came up to sing, Trent and I groaned.

Trent, “I have to go feed my cat.”

Kent, “I think she does a good job.”

Trent, “No one can do Janis, its just so obvious.”

Kent, “Well its supposed to be obvious.”

Trent, “You just don’t understand. You don’t love Janis like we do.”

Kent left with a cigarette when Sadie came on again.

Trent chased his drugs with an energy drink, “Augh, I want to throw my Monster at her.”

The movie was a Glam MTV version of the 60s, forcing morbid visuals on light ballads of hope. I didn’t really care for that. I can say, that night the Beatles became more apart of me. They were the sliver of light I needed to guide my mind on its way.

♪ ♫ Words are flying out like,
Endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass,,
They slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow,
Waves of Joy,
Are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me ♪ ♫

♪ ♫ Jai Guru Deva Om,
Nothing’s gonna change my world. ♪ ♫

I felt their harmony grab my chest and squeeze. My reality and my world is precious. I have to protect it from the fear that I am worthless.

The fear that Alan would dislike me, that Em and her husband were right about what an embarrassment I was, that my mother and father were correct to think I am drawing out a lifetime of failure . . . all of this garbage was washing off me in drops of rhythm and melody, and draining through the floor boards.

♪ ♫ Nothing’s gonna change my world. ♪ ♫

The Beatles saved me, from myself.

Now, Trent and Kent were coming down from coke. If you haven’t done coke before, you may not know the chase of desperation in keeping the high. For the first time, I was around coke and I didn’t want to partake. I didn’t want to feel desperate that night, I wanted to get back in my life without feeling guilty or inadequate.

While they were coming down, the liquor stores closed and Kent was ansy for something to sink his mind back into.

We only had a granola bar, water, some chips left but they were squashed and broken up in very small pieces and a bottle of gin.

Trent made Kent a drink with what we had. He handed it to Kent.

Kent, “What’s in it?”

Trent, “Just some Gin and sweet & low and some other stuff.”

Kent sipped, “Eugh! Where is the ice, where is the water? You call this a cocktail?”

Trent grabbed the glass, stuck his nose in the air and turned back towards the kitchen.

Kent, “Its not a cocktail without ICE.”

His eyebrows were frozen in huge arches over his eyes.

I said, “Wow, look at that expression.”

He said, “Its the same expression I give to my brother when he brings me a cup of black coffee in the morning. No sugar, no cream . . . just black. I hold it up and say ‘What is this? You did NOT just bring me a cup of black coffee.”

Frozen arched eyebrows.

Kent and Trent were back on their late night routine of reviewing on-line profiles for a third in a possible threesome.

Trent, “I hate sleeping. I just sit here alone while he sleeps.”

Kent, “And then I wake up and there is someone ugly and fat with a small dick at my front door . . . with braces.”

I laughed.

Kent, “I am always open and friendly with these guys, but Trent is so mean. It scares them off. He tells them crazy shit like he is an orphan.”

Trent, “Yeah, I tell them I am an orphan from Germany. I tell them all sorts of shit, and they just sit there and go, ‘oh. Cool.’”

Kent, “Of course they leave, you make them uncomfortable.”

Trent, “That last guy? He gave me attitude. He gave me this head wiggle. And once he gave me that! I was done.”

Kent, “He was cute.”

Trent swallowed a laugh, “No, he wasn’t. You thought you saw him at Vons. (to me) He points at this tall black guy in produce and says, ‘Is that the guy that came up to have a threesome with us?’ I said, ‘Uh, no. THAT guy is cute. The guy that came over was NOT.”

Kent, “No one is good enough for him. He invites these guys over and doesn’t think any of them are cute. I don’t need a threesome. I don’t care. I am happy with just him. But he says, ‘Hey Kent, you want to get blown or plow this guy?’ And I say, ‘Yeah ok.” I haven’t been blown or plowed ANYONE yet. NO ONE.”

I said, “Wait, all this time you guys invite men over and you have never succeeded in a threesome?”

Kent, “No. Not once. Trent invites them over, drills them and then rejects them. Meanwhile, I don’t get anything.”

Frozen arched eye brows.

Me, “Wow. Its your black coffee look.”

Kent laughed, “You understand my frustration. Nothing ever happens.”

Trent, “I am sorry they don’t get my sharp wit, ok? There I said it. I am sorry I am  . . .not stupid.”

Me, “Wait, is this what all your late nights are like? Sitting around at 4am arguing over threesomes that never happen.”

Kent, “Pretty much.”

ABE

Out of the blue one night, I got an email from Abe.

Abe: Wed, Jul 20, 2011 at 10:44 PM
Thought about chatting with you.  Ask how you doin? I dont want to upset you.  Hope all is well.

Me: Thu, Jul 21, 2011 at 3:51 PM
All is well. Don’t worry about upsetting me, I am at peace with everything.

I am in a relationship with someone special now, so it seems it all worked out for the best.

Thanks for the brief note, I wish you lots of luck and happiness.

Goodbye.

Abe: Thu, Jul 21, 2011 at 8:10 PM
Good news is good news 🙂

Abe:  Thu, Jul 21, 2011 at 10:30 PM
I don’t know of will ever communicate in future.

Sometime it takes time for me to understand certain things.  I’ve thought about many things that I learnd from you.  When you were with me, it felt like livin.  I felt alive.  V 22 4 7.  Won’t forget the good times, and the bad.  I remember bleeding, I remember peace, I remember Love, I remember You.  YOU who showed me that I can live.  I was so terribly alone, then you came a showed me there is still life in me.   I miss you, I know I shouldn’t be writing you that, this, but I want to  and I don’t know If I can write you in the future, or assuming you wouldn’t want me to

You deserve to Be well and live the life.  You really do.  You do.

Thanks for the note, Wishing you much Luck, and even more happiness

GoodBye

I never answered him.

ALAN

Alan found time to come up and visit me that weekend, which was unexpected. We planned for him to stay down in San Diego and study for the entire trimester.

He came up and we had our usual two days of taboo sex, Captn’ Crunch and thrift store shopping.

At my computer, looking for a doggie gate for his new place on Craigslist, he said, “You know, in a year, when my lease is up, we could move to a place like Oceanside. I like Oceanside. I could finish school there but I wouldn’t be able to afford a good enough place.”

I looked up, hopeful, and said, “Thats ok, I don’t need a good place.”

He motioned to the dogs, “I mean . . . for them.”

I hunched, “Oh, right.” Now I have three dogs and his, would make four.

He said, “You could get a job just for a year to save up enough to get a place with me.”

I said, “I don’t belong in regular jobs. You don’t understand, its soul crushing until I sabotage myself and get fired.”

He said, “Thats ok, its just to save up.”

I said, “I can’t do it again. Every time I look at admin jobs my skin crawls. My last job, every day, they tried to make me cry. They wanted me to cry.” A couple times they succeeded.

He said, “Not everyone is like that.”

I said, “I know . . . “

I had a glimpse of my future in Oceanside, supporting my boyfriend’s graduate education and career in law while I submit to an office job. Isolated from the grit and unpredictability of Los Angeles. Away from my friends. Away from Doggie Daycare. Away from everything that makes me who I am right now.

Just a year, then probably another in Oceanside. That’s two years of looking young and not auditioning. That’s two more years of resignation from my lifestyle. I won’t be me anymore, and who knows if he will love who ever I become.

It is a fair proposition. I must bring something more to the relationship than dogs and debt.

JERRY

Jerry is someone I worked with at a dot com years ago. He stayed in touch with me, honestly I am not sure why. We were never close buddies in the flesh, but on-line he has become a sort of confidant and guardian angel.

He gave me money when my phone was turned off so I could be back on-line and get work. My parents refused to loan the money in exchange for a post-dated check.

He took me clothes shopping with his tax refund and waited outside the dressing room like a gentleman.

He helps me with my computer when ever I have an inevitable meltdown.

He has never hit on me or made me uncomfortable. With all his help and advice, I must say, I don’t feel like I know him very well.

We met at the 101 CoffeeShop yesterday.

I told  him I was feeling depressed about a few things, and mentioned Em. He follows my blog regularly and said, “Yeah that was weird. You know when people say things to hurt you, you don’t react the way most people do. When you have a mother who dumps a load of shit on you in 5 minutes of conversation over the phone, some of it out of left field and then hangs up on you . . .”

Me, “That’s me. Did you know that’s me?”

Jerry, “That’s what I am talking about. See, you’re laughing about it. So you lean back and kind of look at people with this puppy dog look.  Like you’re over there, watching yourself or a scene in a movie. You don’t give them the reaction they want and it drives them fucking crazy.”

This was the first time anyone articulated this to me. I had no idea Jerry really knew me this well.

Jerry, “When you hurt someone and you say things with the intention to get a reaction, its the end of the road for that relationship. You don’t cry or breakdown or give them anything to reach out to. You just have the wall and they have to figure out how to get around that. Its hard.”

I nodded over my black coffee and partial grapefruit. He was right. I wondered how I have been friends with someone for four years and had no concept of how wise or perceptive they are.

He also spoke to me about why men who become smitten with my on-line character end up so sour and frustrated over our non-relationships. I am going to save that one for a later blog.

PAUL

Paul is a DJ for a classic rock station in Los Angeles. He and I have never met before, but I took a chance and emailed him asking about Doors tickets for the Whiskey A-Go-Go … now sold out (shoot me). We struck up a Facebook/GChat friendship and agreed to rendezvous at some point.

Several weeks later, we decided on the original Barney’s Beanery since I read recently it was Jim Morrison’s favorite place to eat and I know Janis Joplin recorded the background to “Turtle Blues” there. I swear there is another song . . . I can’t remember what it is.

I got there before he did and used the restroom. In my bathroom stall was a tall picture of Janis, handwritten on her shoulder, “RIP Janis Joplin’s Last Meal: Screwdriver@Barney’s.” I smiled at her and said, “Hey babe.”

Barney's Beanery- West Hollywood

I came out and met Paul, who was tall. That rhymes.

We both confessed that we were nervous for no good reason, and he gave me a t-shirt and a few other radio station trinkets.

The conversation was about introductions. Me and my boyfriend. He and his wife. What our lives are like.

We each had about 3 pints of beer and grew more comfortable.

Paul, “So what are you doing after this?”

I said, “I have an audition for a Christian film.”

He spit out his beer laughing and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why that’s so funny.”

I said, “Because is weird and random.”

I poorly handled a few compliments. He offered to show me the plaque for Jim’s spot at the bar. (sidenote* He also urinated on this particular bar)

Barney's Beanery- West Hollywood

I don’t know why it took me so long to make it to this place. My obsession with the Doors is strong enough that I’ve read about three books and noted all the places that mattered. I have been to where they thought Jim lived on Speedway in Venice. I have been to Robby Krieger’s parents place in the marina where they started recording. I walked into the Whiskey the first week I landed in Los Angeles. I wandered in during the middle of the day and asked to just touch the walls.

I had no idea there was a plaque and a stool where Jim sat.

The bartender asked what I wanted, so I googled Jim’s favorite drink and got this recipe:

1/2 oz Jack Daniel’s® Tennessee whiskey
1/2 oz Jim Beam® bourbon whiskey
1/2 oz Wild Turkey® bourbon whiskey
1/2 oz Seagram’s® 7 whisky

I showed her my iPhone screen and said, “I want this.”

She took my phone, walked around behind the bar and put it together.

I said, “I can’t believe no one has ever asked for this before. It should be on the menu.”

Paul said, “You are in a niche. Not many people go this far.”

I took the drink and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey straight. Good Lord. Kind of sweet.

Paul took a few sips and I walked him out to the parking lot where we said goodbye, giggling and flirting a little. As I surrendered Jim’s seat, a large man with flip flops and a backwards baseball cap took it over.

I said, “This is a sacred spot. This is where Jim Morrison used to sit, so treat it kindly.”

He said, “Oh. Cool.”

. . . fucking . . . flip flop … backwards baseball cap . . . douche.

Paul asked what I was going to do now, and I said, “Maybe go back inside and honor Janis this time. Get a screwdriver.”

He said, “Really?”

I said, “Yeah. Why not?”

He said, “I can’t believe you are going back in there.”

We hugged and pecked a kiss goodbye. I hopped, skipped and jumped back in through the doors and found someone sitting in my . . . I’m sorry, I mean Jim’s spot. Flip flop douche. So I took the seat next to him and ordered a screwdriver.

Barney's Beanery- Wesy Hollywood

I went outside and spoke to some guitarist approaching his 60s, who ended every sentence in “man” and told me Guns N Roses stories. Oh how my heart aches.

Flip flop douche man ended up in the street slapping the glasses off of a hipster guy. When they started throwing punches, men circled them but wouldn’t physically get between them. I was drunk and I am a girl, so I got between them and just said, “This isn’t worth it. This is a place of peace, man. Don’t hurt anyone.”

I was focused on flip flops since he was clearly monstrously jockish and could really hurt the little black rimmed glasses hipster.  He threw my arm off, but I wasn’t hurt. I just walked him back and kept saying, “This isn’t worth violence, come on, man. Think clearly.”

He said, “That dude called me an asshole.”

I said, “We are all called assholes, all the time, just not out loud.”

Without taking his eyes of said hipster, he popped change into the parking meter and went back in for another drink.

He apologized to me without looking me in the eye.

I said, “Thats ok, you had a surge of testosterone that clouded your judgement.”

I said goodbye to my old rock dude, and started talking to a prop master, also in his early 60s but married.

We spoke about monogamy and his relationship.

I asked, “Are you soul mates?”

He said, “I don’t know, I don’t think so but we have a great relationship. No one is as close to me as she is.”

I said, “You are best friends.”

He said, “Definitely.”

He said men that fuck around just lack self discipline. He goes to strip clubs but always comes home to his wife afterward.

Me, “Do you feel cheated in life, being married to a woman that you don’t consider a soul mate?”

Him, “Um . . . Well, I am not like other men. I consider myself a Libertine.”

I asked, “What does she do for a living?”

He said, “Well, she is a mother.”

He told me earlier so I knew, “To a 20 year old?”

He said, “Yeah, there is really nothing else she does.”

This was kind of the pattern with Paul’s wife too, who does other things that are more like hobbies than a life, but focuses on the one college-aged child.

I thought about Oceanside again, being Alan’s companion, having one child and going bat shit crazy when he/she went to college. Meanwhile, Alan would be flirting with his interns and falling for younger women who were pursuing their dreams instead of living a comfortable, uneventful life.

I would be flipping through catalogs and wondering where I went wrong.

Fucking depressing, man. And totally possible.

I confided in the drunk Prop Master about my career and what I wanted from life, how I was feeling lost and discouraged. He said, “Google this, ‘Kid’s inspirational speech after riding bike for the first time.

So I did.

The father asks the little boy how he feels.

The boy says, “I feel  . . . I feel . . .”

Father, “You feel alive?”

The boy, “I feel happy with myself. “

The father asks, “Do you have any words of wisdom, for the other kids trying to learn how to ride a bike?”

He says, “Everybody, I know you can believe in yourself. If you believe in yourself, you’ll know how to ride a bike. If you don’t, you just keep practicing. You will get the hang of it, I know it. And then you will get better and better at it. Thumbs up everybody, for rock n’ roll.”

It was 5pm, and I had to get to my Christian film audition.

GOD

My audition was from 3pm-6pm.

At 6pm on the dot, I stuck my head into a small Christian perish buried between a mechanic shop and a thrift store Alan and I went to earlier that week in Pasadena.

I threw up my Aviator sunglasses, in a ridiculously short, denim mini skirt, tie-dyed tank top with whiskey on my breath and said, “One more? Can you see one more?” Its a paid gig.

I read the scene and its about a female doctor (yay) who is grappling with whether or not she can save her young patient’s soul by forcing him to accept Jesus Christ in his heart (boo).   I read the scene twice for three black men and one white woman who looked like she has been around . . . the wheels of my car.

We got to talking about whether or not I had accepted Jesus Christ into my heart. Now . . . the thought did occur to me whether or not this was a ploy to rope in Hollywood actresses for their perish. However, we spent an hour talking about it, which would have been impossible with the 15 or so other actresses who signed in on the roster.

I said, “I don’t talk about my relationship with God or Jesus Christ very much. But I grew up Catholic and its sacred, its very personal.”

The director had large dark eyes, and spoke with a lot of conviction. When he finished a sentence, he would step forward towards me, nostrils a-blazing.

He said, “Is Jesus Christ a part of your daily life?”

I said, “I have the sacred heart tattooed on my body . . .”

He said, “Ok, what about the Bible? Do you believe you are going to heaven?”

Now, up to this point I was still trying to get the part, but when someone asks me point blank questions, I am going to answer them.

I said, “Honestly? I don’t believe in simplified realities like heaven and hell.”

He said, “You don’t believe in hell?”

I said, “No.”

He said, “What about terrible people who kill babies? What do you think happens to them?”

I said, “I think they are reincarnated into lower life forms.”

He said, “No, God damns them to hell.”

I said, “I don’t think he does.”

He said, “Why not?”

I said, “Because I believe deep down inside, every person is good.”

He shook his head, the others were chiming into the conversation now, but I can handle myself. I think about things every day.

He said, “They are not. That is the Devil confusing you. Have you paid for your sins?”

I said, “I pay every day for my sins.”

He said, “No, answer the question, how will you PAY for your sins?”

I said, “I reflect on my sins everyday and pay in my own way. Its between me and God.”

He said, “Where do you get your information?”

I said, “Various sources, but usually I follow my gut.”

He held up the Bible, “This is the only source of information you should be following, not some piece of chicken you had for lunch.”

I said, “I follow my GUT not my stomach.”

He said, “Do you believe everything this book says?”

I said, “Honestly, no. It is corrupted text.”

Everyone gasped.

He said, “No, whats in here, is what God intended us to follow.”

I said, “There are so many different versions, then Martin Luther translated it and edited portions of it. Others threw out books that were originally included. Who knows what the original text said, since then, its just had too much outside influence.”

He said, “If a book wasn’t included in the final version, God did not intend for it to be included.”

I said, “There is a book from Mary Magdalene and the Virgin Mary who I think probably have a more relevant perspective considering they were the only ones that stuck by Jesus’ side all the way through the crucifixion and buried him while the other disciples ran and hid like cowards. You think THEIR opinions matter more. Please!”

The woman said, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

I said, “Yes.”

She said, “Do you have a problem submitting to authority?”

I said, “Yes.”

She said, “Have you been hurt by a man in your past?”

I said, “Yes.”

She said, “A man hurt you?”

Faded memories swished around my mind.

I said, “Yes.”

She said, “Was it abuse?”

I said, “Its relative.”

She said, “I was molested so I know what its like to be hurt by a man, and right now that is hurting your perspective on things. You need to submit.”

I probably smirked here. I appreciate her courage and blunt assertion but . . . one woman telling another to submit is a little too Afghan for me.

The director took the floor again and said, “The devil is confusing you.”

I said, “Well, I apologize but I think heaven and hell are far too simplified of a concept to be taken seriously. Its just meant to scare people into doing good things through fear and hope for personal reward.”

He said, “Without hell, why would you do anything good?”

I said, “Because my gut tells me its the right thing to do. I do good things because they are good things, and that seems more about enlightenment than your heaven and hell theory.”

They all sighed.

It got circular around here.

“Why do you think the Bible is the most widely sold book in the world?”

I said, “I think it has divine inspiration, but there are other sacred texts and ideas we can draw from like the Koran and Buddhism. You can’t tell me Buddhists are going to hell, that would be ridiculous.”

They said, “No, the other parts of world and their cultures are not what Jesus intended us to learn from.”

I said, “Well, pardon me but . . . I believe Buddha and Jesus were the same person.”

Gasp.

It ended with, “I appreciate you staying here and talking to us for an hour. You are a great actress, so I would like to see you again anyway, but I hope you think about what we talked about here. Do you think you just stumbled in here by chance, 6pm, the last audition of the day without God intending you to talk to us?”

I nodded slowly and said, “I can see where you are coming from.”

The whiskey and bummed cigarettes throbbed over my right eye.

They invited me back to their parish anytime, blah blah blah . . . I like talking candidly to people about things they feel passionately about. I enjoyed that hour.

On my way back to my car I got a text from Alan, ‘What the hell are you talking about? Why would I want to do that unless you were there involved?”

Oops, I must have drunk texted him.

I scrolled up to see what I texted, “I love you and I forgive you if your primal instinct forces you to spread your seed with another woman. I understand. I have no said instinct.”

I stopped in front of a house for sale I liked and took a picture. Then I texted, “Oh, I was drunk and talking to married men at a bar. I found a house for us (attached pic)”

I went home to my dogs and my cat.  I smoked some weed, I drank some water and I collapsed on my bed.

Love, Rock n’ Roll and God.

My church.

My life.

Don’t let me forget it, no matter how poor, lonely or desperate I get.

I don’t want to lose myself.

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Modeling, Narcotics and Gay Porn

Two weeks ago, I had a model audition. I hate those auditions. Models are like actresses but cattier and not interesting. My model booking service always sends me to the same studio for auditions, I don’t think it’s the only company they work with, but it’s the only company that calls me in. The studio is very clean, a large big screen plasma TV, a white shag rug and lots of glass. Glass walls, glass doors, glass tables.

Last time I was there for an audition, I saw two people walk into the waiting room and scope out the girls, pinch their faces in disappointment and shake their heads. Shortly thereafter, I was told by a red haired woman with a pointy face that she couldn’t work with my hair type and excused me in a room full of bitches. Other girls were excused before me, but something about the moment turned me off to those casting calls. I am not a model, I can’t walk, and the only knowledge I have of modeling is from watching every episode of America’s Next Top Model at least once. (Yes, I have.)

So that particular morning, I thought about skipping the audition. The studio is all the way out in bumfuck Woodland Hills, it takes gas to go out and be rejected in person. Its part of the business, I get it, but it reminds me a little bit too much of picking teams in gym class. Though I was the most athletic girl, I was the least popular. They never let me forget it. Here I am again, updating my Facebook status, leaning up against the back wall trying to stay upright on heels.

We were called back and the clacking of high heels on linoleum filled the building. Then, we were pulled into a presentation room and a very sweet Latina gestured towards me first. Me? First!

She asked me to step aside with one other girl, and then we were asked if we would agree to a specific haircut and color. She showed me a spread called Glamazon featuring an Asian woman with long flowing hair and bleach ends. I said, “Yeah, I am fine with that.”

Immediately, the two of us were ushered into a salon parlor where I had to sit on my bony ass for 4 hours as my hair was cut and dyed while being forced to listen to bad pop music. The other model was friendly enough; she had very short hair that was being chopped even shorter. She said, “I book these jobs often enough to make good money, but I am a commercial actress and they always give me hair cuts that aren’t very marketable.” They cut one side of her hair at a strict angle over her ear, left the other side long and dyed portions of her bangs green, purple and frosty blonde. The rest of her hair was a deep black. I loved her look.

She was reading a book and didn’t talk much.

The beautiful Latina working on my hair was conducting a live webinar on the 2 styles- both looks for the fall.

She cut my hair and asked, “When was the last time your hair was worked on?”

I said, “Here on another job in January. I can’t afford haircuts. Well, I can at Supercuts but I don’t know what’s so God damn abstract about asking to look like Lindsay Lohan. Billowing layers. They always only give me two, long bangs and a trim.”

She said, “Well this is better, getting paid to get your hair cut.”

I said, “Yes, its ideal.”

She said, “I chose you in the waiting room. I wanted you as soon as I saw you. If you were here for another casting call, I was going to wait around and try to nab you.”

I blushed.

We discussed dating.

She said, “Anywhere else in the country and I would have a boyfriend. But dating in LA sucks.”

This hair stylist was gorgeous, I mean, she looked like a softer Jennifer Lopez.

She continued, “Now I am finally at that age where I can date someone in their mid-40s and not feel weird about it.”

I said, “Where are all the guys our age?”

She said, “I don’t know where they are.”

I booked this job for $400. That’s the most I have ever made on one job before. Of course, I don’t get paid for 60 days.

When my hair was blown dry, I looked in the mirror and looked different, almost elegant. I have never been that pretty before.

I updated my Facebook status, “Don’t believe what the media tells you about age. I just looked in the mirror and am prettier now at 33 than ever before.”

We were fitted for wardrobe, and the other model came out in a jet-black bob and a black vintage dress, I said, “Wow, you look amazing.”

She was suddenly cold with me, barely looked over and said curtly “Thank you.” Swiftly, she turned around and walked out. Jesus, don’t hate me for being beautiful.

When I drove home, I was high on the whole thing. I knew that eventually I would start getting jobs. There have been some great, well paying prospects calling, auditioning.  . . But no bookings. Sooner or later, I had to book something.

I called my parents. My mother didn’t pick up. She’s mad at me.

Two week before, she was pushing me into moving back to Washington again. What would I do there? My life is HERE.

She said, “But you are miserable there.”

I said, “I am not miserable, I am heartbroken. I was heartbroken up there too. I was miserable when I was stuck in a lease with a boyfriend who was beating me up and my bosses were torturing me. I asked to move back then. You said, ‘Tough Love.’ TOUGH LOVE. I started over on my own and I am not going to give that up.”

She said, “Oh, I see. You are going to bring this up. We gave you that car years ago and I send a couple hundred a year when I can. I . . . I have a headache. I have to lie down.”

I was tipsy but WTF . . . if Jennifer Lopez can move into her father-in-law’s ranch in some Robert Redford movie, I SHOULD BE ABLE TO GO SOMEWHERE TOO. She wasn’t there for me. That is when I stopped calling my mother once a day, and stopped caring what she thought.

She pushed me into grad school. She pushed me into getting married. She pushed me into office jobs. She pushes . . . with no foresight. When I reach for her, she lets go entirely.  I can’t take that anymore.

So here I was, with great news and she was going to turn her back on me again. She and Abe have a lot in common.

I called Alan and left a voicemail. He was in the process of buying a car and finding a new apartment. It seems like everyone is in a major transitional shift. I left a message on my sister’s voicemail and then I rushed over to Trent’s to take him to the doctor.

Two weeks before, Trent got in a fight with a taxi driver. The driver wouldn’t accept credit card for payment, so they were driving around for an ATM but Trent didn’t want to dish out extra cash for gas while they were looking, so tempers simmered. They found one; Trent was tossed on whiskey, wine and tequila. He ate a sandwich, got in a fight with the driver and smeared the sandwich all over the back seat of the car. Pushes came to shoves and they got in a fistfight.

Trent’s lip was split and his hand was swollen to three times its original size.

One week later, he was sitting on his boyfriend’s lap in the back of a car sharing the seatbelt. The car of intoxicated twenty-something’s erupted in an argument of sorts and the car smashed into a barrier off the freeway.

Trent’s wrist popped on his swollen hand.

He is beating himself up.

I told him I would drive him to the “free clinic” which is actually $40. I was late, trying to fit in a free lunch with fridge food back at my place in the middle. I fucked up.

As I was driving him, I said, “I am worried about the people you are hanging out with. I heard you were dragged by a car once a couple months ago . . .”

He said, “Oh. Yeah. Persian guy.”

Trent likes to seduce men who are on the fence with homosexuality. When he gets them to turn, he loses interest. I guess you could look at that as evil, but I think he is doing a public service. I mean, at least now they know they are gay.

We were 2 minutes late and they said the doctor left for the day.

I called around other clinics, but no one could give me a straight answer on whether or not Trent would have to pay, they all just referred us to Urgent Care which is at least $100.

We sat in my car and Trent told me not to worry about it. It was hard making an appointment, he hated the clinic and its the bureaucracy and would rather just drink a bottle or two of wine with me.

So that’s what we did. We grabbed a couple bottles of white at a liquor store and went back to his boyfriend’s place. Kent, the BF, is a high school teacher and wasn’t home from school yet.

Trent said, “At work we see how these boys hurt your feelings when they don’t call back or whatever. It hurts us. You are smart, gorgeous, and really funny. You can’t let them hurt you.”

I hung my head and gave a slight nod.

Trent said, “I really like the blog and I am a total snob. I think you are going to end up being one of those artists that isn’t appreciated until after you die, like Emily Dickinson.”

I said, “Yeah, I don’t really mind. I think it’s my calling to document a life of struggle right now, at this moment in time. And I have to live it to capture it.”

We exchanged some secrets, which easily rolled out of my mouth onto the bed where we sat. Trent smiled and nodded. I did the same. No tears or bursts of confession, we were just kicking in the drywall. We knew each other already, the details don’t matter. Its ok.

Kent came in, cute, early 30s, a little shorter with a full beard and glasses. I hadn’t met him yet, so when he walked in we were pleasant but studying each other from a cool distance.

Trent said, “She is like my soul mate.”

Kent said something to the effect of, “SHE’S your soul mate. Oh, then shall I leave you two alone . . .” or something. It was playful but not.

They invited me to a drug dealer’s house to pick up narcotics for the Gay Pride Parade in West Hollywood the next night. It’s a pretty big deal down here.

While Kent got ready and the boys kissed, I emailed Alan. Buzzing from cheap wine I wrote . . .

Me: June 10 at 8:08pm

“I just looked up how long it takes for all the body’s cells to regenerate because I don’t want Jaq’s vagina on my vagina. It’s 7 yrs. :-/ ” (Jaq is his ex-girlfriend and my ex-friend).

Alan: June 10 at 8:09pm

“Of all the arrangements of words I had not wanted to see tonight, I think that one might be at the top of the list.”

I wrote: June 10 at 8:32pm

“Let me redeem myself: I think about you all the time. Half the time I think about having lots of sex with you and even going down on you (which I never fantasize about) and the other half I am thinking about how to make you happy. Maybe I will learn how to cook.”

Alan: June 10 at 8:53pm

“Nicely done. And I saw your kitchen! You know how to cook! You just have to know how to cook for me. (hint: it involves a drive-thru) ”

Me: June 10 at 9:17pm

“Going to a hippie drug house soon. I want to slow dance with you. And eat Thai food. And be your girlfriend.

Does that scare you?”

Alan: June 10 at 9:22pm

“Well hippie drug houses scare me. Baths really don’t offend Mother Earth. Other than that, no.”

I followed them to this house, and a middle-aged woman in a short black bob, purple (almost stylish) short moo moo and knee high pink socks in pink converse greeted us at the door. The wall to my immediate right was full of vintage Barbie dolls, from floor to ceiling. A room straight ahead appeared to have a red couch in the middle of green walls.  She guided us to the kitchen, which was wall to wall of sci-fi toys still in their original packaging. All the toys were grouped by brand, “AstroBoy” “Jetsons” . . . stuff I never heard of. The toys were the wallpaper.

The ceiling had stars and planets painted as a backdrop with the occasional space ship toy hanging suspended in the air, facing off with another similar model craft. A few of those laser toy guns, like Flash Gordon, lined the wall over the doorway. It was extravagant.

The cabinets had no doors, so you could see vintage glasses and bowls from the 60s in perfect order. A Vintage B-Movie poster covered the entire fridge door.

The woman, Marcia, was nervous. She didn’t make eye contact but was very direct. “What do you want?”

They said xanax, cocaine, adderall and Mollys (pure MDMA). Trent offered to buy me something. I said I never tried adderall. He got me a pill.

We left and walked back to Kent’s apartment.

Once the second bottle of wine was opened, the mood changed. It became an emotional free for all.

I told them about a lover I had in college, and how once I asked him to wear his boy scout uniform and gave him one of the first blow jobs I had ever performed. Kent had a boyscout uniform, put it on and I took pictures of him making out with Trent. It all felt very natural in the moment.

 10pm

Trent, “Yeah I was in a porn. I was young, really young. I didn’t know what I was doing. You can see me though.”

I said, “Did you get paid well?”

Trent, “No, I accidentally left the check for $600 in the car when I argued with this guy on the film. I asked for the check back but he said that was it. So I didn’t get the money and now my ass is out there. Whatever.”

10:20pm

Kent, “My brother’s friends used to bully me all the time. I was forced to drink my brother’s urine.”

 10:33pm

Me, “I had sex when I was 14 with someone older, in his mid-twenties. It was horrible. It was a terrible experience. I was uncomfortable, there was this black light, it hurt and I didn’t know him very well. I ran into him when I was an adult and he asked me if I regretted it. I said I did. He said he didn’t because it was a beautiful thing. I shook my head. I wanted him to know that I hated what he did to me. 14 is young, you forget how young until you actually meet a 14 yr-old.”

I still tell people I lost my virginity at 16.

I never really tell that story because I am ashamed of it. Somehow with them, in this tiny little apartment, I felt like I could say anything and there would be no judgment. It would never be held over my head later. They just knew what I was talking about, in a way most women I know don’t.

We took half a pill of adderall and then I saw the beautiful white lines of coke lined up on the glass table. Kent offered me a line.

I looked down at it and said, “Hello, old friend.”

The snort of white powder tastes like aspirin. As it crawls through your nasal cavity into the back of your throat, your heart starts racing. The real high is about to hit as it slowly drops down the back of your throat into your heart.

I sat down in Kent’s massage chair, the only chair in this studio, which violently rolled into my back. It was painful but I thought it would help work out the kinks in my back. Unfortunately, thanks to the drugs, I sat there for 5 whole hours while my flesh was beaten into rubber cement. My mouth hung open in excruciating pain thinking and emailing. Oh God, the emails . . . WHY!?!? While the chemicals were still merging into my blood stream, I started emailing Alan.

Me: June 10 at 11:50pm

I want u

Me: June 10 at 11:52pm

I want to give u the best sex of Ur life. If I concentrate I think I can.

Alan: June 10 at 11:52pm

Me: June 11 at 12:06am

I am trying to learn about blow jobs for you.

Me: June 11 at 12:44am

You are beautiful. I want to make you a vegan milkshake, give you a Bj and then kiss you.

Alan: June 11 at 12:46am Report

My umm… tastes change with my mood. all of those tastes include you though. now I’m off to dream about you.

Me: June 11 at 12:47am

We are talking about genocide. I wish u were here. Or just awake. Law is more important than drug escapades with me. But u Are amazing enough to make this even more interesting.
Alan: June 11 at 1:18am

Woke up long enough to tell u I miss u already.. bed seems empty.. talk to you tomorrow.. take care of your gays 😀

Me: June 11 at 1:50am

I miss you. Stuck with the massage chair while they discuss higher intelligence and Mayan culture. Always thinking . . . about you.

GAWD, did I send that? For SHAME.

Sometime after, Kent was on his phone, scrolling through a community website trying to recruit a boy for a threesome with Trent. They had tried a threesome earlier in the week, but Trent lost his erection when he realized that he was jealous and asked the boy to leave. The boy picked up his clothes and ran out. Kent thought it rude but this may be Trent’s first love. He must experiment to know what makes this affair different than the others. Experiments must come with failures.

Trent knew what Kent was doing on the phone while I typed away.

They got in an argument and I mediated.

I said, “Trent, what Kent is trying to say is that because the Prozac makes it difficult to keep an erection he wants to bring someone else in the mix so you are sexually satisfied.”

Trent said, “Really?”

Kent said, “Yeah.”

Trent, “I am sexually satisfied.”

I said, “Kent, Trent gets jealous in threesomes.”

Kent said, “Really!? I didn’t know that.”

I said, “Yes, Trent is in love with you.”

Kent said, “I know . . . ”

Trent said, “I love you.”

They kissed. I resumed emailing, but branched out to men I had unfinished mental business with.

To Cabby (my first love from 10th grade). June 11 at 3:21am: “Why did you really break up with me?”

To Atticus (one great date and no call back) June 11 at 3:22am: “Did you read the blog?”

To Kashul (two nice dates and no call back) June 11 at 3:23am: “Did you read the blog?”

To The Prophet. (the most intense love affair of my life) Sat, Jun 11, 2011 at 3:26 AM: “Do you read the blog?”

I didn’t email Abe, nor had any desire to. That’s when I knew I was really over him.

Kashul emailed me back right away, June 11 at 4:09am

“Send me the link… ”

I wrote, “June 11 at 4:35am

“Nah. Just checking. 🙂 ”

He wrote, June 11 at 4:35am

“Checking what…?”

Cabby wrote back, June 12 at 3:57am

“Social pressure amidst my delayed maturity the result of my first TBI.” (Traumatic Brain Injury) Cabby was hit by a car in the 7th grade and in a coma for two weeks. They actually had to staple the top of his head back on. When he woke up from the coma, he cruised through college, got his Bachelor’s Degree and resumed high school so he could be a normal kid and got caught up with me. He will never be normal.

Now he is a Registered Sexual Offender for initiating a sexual relationship with a high school student. I always joke he never got over me.

***

While Kent and Trent continued debating experiences with botched threesomes and their night in a sex club, stating who was jealous of who, and who wanted Kent and not Trent or Trent and not Kent- I would step out for a smoke.

One would follow me out and we would continue talking. Trent and I got on the subject of attempted suicides, we both had done it and were both institutionalized for it. We really do have a lot in common.

I said, “And what really sucked, is in the mental institution they wouldn’t give me vegan food.”

Trent, “That’s why in jail I exchanged apples for burritos.”

We went back inside, and we finished the coke. I thought about the Prophet, it is my only association with cocaine and part of why we bonded so intensely . . . just like Kent and Trent were bonding now, and I with them. Drugs can corrupt the mind, but they also bind souls.

Kent said, “You are so pretty.  So is Trent.  So pretty.  There is so much pretty in the room I can’t take it.”

I straddled Kent, squeezed his cheeks and said in a baby voice, “You are a cutie pie. Whose a cutie pie? You are. Yes you are.”

Kent asked to put on a video one of his students gave him, it was Pink Floyd Live. Trent didn’t want to watch a video of Pink Floyd, and I even think there was mention of who was jealous of which Pink Floyd band member. Trent wanted to put on gay porn and was describing a scene to me. I asked to watch it and crawled in bed with both of them, sitting at the end of the bed between their feet.

In went the DVD and I watched two scenes of men dominating and degrading each other. It was interesting; I hadn’t ever really seen men do it to each other.

Now watching porn isn’t exactly erotic for me. It’s more like watching Discovery channel but porn moves a little slower and offers less information. The men were angular and blocky with one incredibly feminine man; they call a Twink, always in the mix. Trent is a self-described “Twink.”

Via Wikipedia: “Twink or twinkie is a gay slang term describing a young or young-looking gay man (in his late teens or early twenties) with a slender, ectomorph build, little or no body hair, and no facial hair.  In some societies, the term chick or chicken is preferred. The related term twinkle-toes, which implies that a man is effeminate, tends to be used in a derogatory manner. The terms can be complimentary or pejorative.”

After two scenes, I waited it out until all three men orgasmed on the one guy and then said, “Ok, its 6am. I’ve got to go home.”

In unison they said, “Noooooo! Stay!”

Kent said, “You have a very calming energy.”

I wanted to go home and give myself a few orgasms before the coke wore off, and I would assume they would want to do that to each other. Not to mention, I had an audition in four hours.

Trent walked me to my car and said, “Now you are a really Hollywood starlet.”

I sniffed up one nostril and said, “I’m ready for my close-up.”

We laughed and I went home. I gave myself about 12 monster orgasms. And I don’t use that term lightly. Between masturbating, I played some Pink Floyd and flirted with Alan on-line some more. I don’t know when that kid sleeps.

I wrote: “Sorry about the emails. I didn’t promise you I would learn to cook, did I?

Then I wrote, “I’ve decided after this evening with my gays, that a couple just starting out in love should not go to sex clubs or have threesomes.”

The adderall remained after the cocaine was soaked up by the morning light. I felt worried about nothing in particular and I was shaking a little.

Alan wrote, “Yeah, you are going to want to do a lot of things, but your body will be useless for the rest of the day.”

He was right. I missed my audition, and from that point further, I promised myself never to let the drugs interfere with my career again.

It took me about two days to recover. I couldn’t sleep at all that night and I worked the day after, and then I had my modeling gig. I am getting to that age where looking tired could ruin my career. So I slept a lot, and drank lots of grapefruit juice.

Monday morning, I went in for my first modeling job. I couldn’t afford a latte and the coffee maker I bought for $2 at a second hand shop was broken already, so showing up at 6:30am uncaffeinated was brutal.

Then, to have to sit in a chair and stare at yourself for hours on end while two people whip your hair about … is maddening. I thought about sex to keep me alert.

The woman who rejected me at the last casting call because she couldn’t work with my “hair type” came in to help. She said she entered into a beauty contest to help give her a title, so it would be easier to book hair seminars. She kept saying, “I was way out of my league. One girl gave me something to keep my bathing suit from going up my butt and it was super glue. Another girl said, ‘Congrats on making the top ten. Oh yeah, you didn’t.’ And walked away. They were so mean. So I never did it again.”

That’s why she was so cold to us at that last audition. The thing is, we are all exposed to pretty bitches. It made her want to be one. It makes me not want to be one.

When I left to change into wardrobe, with my hair and make-up done, I looked in the mirror and said, “Never in a million years did I think you could look like this.”

We did the first webinar, which was sickeningly boring. I sat there and let someone display my hair with a very medium smile on my face. They asked for a soft, no teeth smile, keep our face relaxed and not look into the camera during the webinar because it makes viewers “uncomfortable.”

We didn’t rehearse, so during the live taping I was brought in with the other model to show off the final hair style. In heels, I am well over 6 feet and I couldn’t fit on the screen standing up.  So they gestured for me to crouch and hover over the other model.

We had two webinars with a three-hour break in between. We decided that I should not only do the next show barefoot, but also sit in the chair with the other model standing behind me.

During the break, I started talking about my sex life to keep my mind going and engage the others. The other model chugged a 5-hr energy shot and started turning red on any part of her body that was touching the seat or a surface. She had alabaster skin, so the red really freaked her out. I told her to drink some water and flush it out.

The Make-Up Guy became a confidant with the other model. I told them about the director who kissed me during the audition.

Other Model, “Ew, gross. I would never take that role. Ever. ”

I said, “I am taking it, I don’t know, as long as he isn’t the lead actor. I like the script and haven’t done a short in a while.”

Other Model, “Eugh, I don’t think it’s worth it.”

Then I told her about Joel and the $100 check. The Make-Up Guy, a big, black and very feminine man gave the old gay, closed mouth, “Nuh uhhhhhhh.”

Other Model, “What does he do?”

I said, “He is an actor but he also bartends.”

They both laughed and she said, “What is he going to pick up another Saturday night shift so you’ll be his girlfriend. That’s pathetic. Tell him, ‘Hey Asshole, I make more than that just so people can do my hair.”

I get that I was supposed to feel shame and outrage. Everything is complicated though. Joel liked me in a way that made him feel desperate enough for a grand gesture that had nothing to do with his heart and soul. And I felt badly about that.

Other Model, “Thank God I am not hot. I don’t have to deal with directors trying to kiss me or men paying me for sex.”

She thought I was hot? Please.

I said, “You are married. You are in a different category.”

She said, “I don’t bring my wedding band to auditions, but I guess that’s true.”

I said, “I think men can smell that I am vulnerable.”

The Make-Up Artist shook his head and said, “Its hard dating out here. Its because no one is called out on their behavior. You can be whoever you want to be.”

After the second show, I sadly took off the dress and left to deal with more audio grief on my project. It always seems like a waste of pretty to go home alone after a shoot.

The emails came back to haunt me. (Preface: Atticus sent me a puppy rescue story about a dog who shared my first name a week or two ago.)

Atticus emailed back: June 14 at 3:11pm

This may be a stupid question but what blog? Also I should probably mention I have a girlfriend at the moment, so after you tell me about this blog we should maybe go back to our no-talking-during-relationships situation. I know I know, I initiated this one, but that puppy story was just too cute.

***

I wrote: June 14 at 3:31pm

Oh if you don’t know it’s irrelevant. I was not of sound mind or body when I emailed you and a few others that night.

I figured you had a girlfriend. I am also dating someone but in my relationships emails aren’t a threat. Being adults and all.

Why don’t we do one better and defriend? That way you can feel much more secure in your relationship.

Atticus wrote: June 14 at 3:57pm

Dude, I’m an adult, come on now. I know emails aren’t a threat but I can imagine a saucy email exchange somehow biting me in the ass months later, so I dunno…just being courteous.

If you would like to defriend, no judgments. I have no desire to defriend you.

***

I wrote: June 14 at 11:09pm

I wanted to go home and smoke a bowl before responding to you.

A) I would not have a saucy email exchange with you because I am seeing someone I think is special, and out of respect for him and disinterest from me, there is no need.

B) Courtesy, Atticus . . . courtesy would NOT be taking a girl fresh off a break-up out on a date and then asking her to come home with you while having no intention whatsoever to call her. You were not forthright with me, and though it worked out for the best, I am seeing now that you didn’t respect me as a friend, as an individual or as a woman. For all I know, you had a girlfriend at the time.

I called you after my break-up to meet because the relationship made me feel cynical and lonely. I thought spending time with someone I connected with and was attracted to would remedy the emptiness. Your behavior only amplified it. And then to find out you miraculously recovered from heartbreak to form a relationship with someone else, when the truth is, you just wanted me for that night.

I am a girl with a heart and mind. And the “diss” I guess is the right word for it was burn on top of fucking gushing blood from Abe.

I spent a few days wondering what I did wrong and concluded you read my blog and didn’t contact me because of it. Which I would actually kind of understand.

As far as I am concerned, I dodged a bullet with you. I am glad I didn’t sleep with you and even happier I didn’t get to know you.

You are a douche bag, Atticus. The new guy is making up for it though, you are lucky. Otherwise, I would be really pissed off right now.

***

He wrote: June 15 at 1:01pm

Your contempt for me lies in the assumption that bringing a person home for some physical fun is somehow immoral, that good people, male and female, don’t do this all the time without assuming it’s somehow a precursor to a relationship. I resent the notion that this makes me a bad person. If I had somehow lied to you, that would be a different story. You told me you don’t have sex outside of committed relationships, and I respected your boundaries. (Not true, I was on my period, which is why we didn’t have sex)

You were respected. You know what a rebound is, and you know that everything about that night has the obvious markings of one. To quote you:

“I called you after my break-up to meet because the relationship made me

feel cynical and lonely. I thought spending time with someone I connected

with and was attracted to would remedy the emptiness.”

If you didn’t want it to be a rebound then don’t talk about your recent breakup, and don’t go home with your date. I owe you nothing but the respect a good person deserves, a respect you seem to think that I do not.

Very sorry to message you. I’m glad to hear you’re seeing someone who makes you happy.

***

I wrote: June 15 at 1:13pm

I have had a lover since and was open about what I wanted from that relationship before we got physical. That is the difference between you and me. Not the act, the means to achieve the act.

I liked you. You knew that. You blew me off.

Goodbye.

***

My email exchange with Cabby pretty much ended with his offer to buy me a plane ticket to Hawaii and give him a chance to sexually satisfy me. Something he failed at when he came to visit LA in 2006.

***

And then Joel, after not hearing from me in a week and change, he read my blog and wrote me a painful email. Per his request, I cannot include it in the blog. I felt badly though, and I think I owe him a conversation.

The blog continues to stack cross winds into a tornado of dry, hot emotion. My personal life was bloody last week, but at least my career was doing well.

***

My sister took leave from her 9th grade English class and came out for a Joyce conference in Pasadena to stay with me for two nights. I asked her about the man she was seeing, who she was so excited about during her last visit.

She said, “Something’s off. We have gone on 8 dates and not gotten passed first base. He always walks me to my car, is always the perfect gentleman . . . but I think he is either living with his ex or still married. Unless he is still too hurt about his last relationship to get physical.”

I said, “Men don’t work that way. Women do, but not men. Sex is their motivator for almost everything.”

This made me profoundly sad. My sister has not been in love for years and hasn’t had sex in four. Love is magic, when you don’t see it or feel it, you stop believing it exists.

I told her that I partied with a high school teacher who does cocaine. She said, “I don’t blame him. I drink every day, I have to or else I couldn’t bare my job. I gained back all the weight from the surgery.” (She went through two liposuction treatments, which were frankly grotesque. I nursed her back to health after the first one and I never want to see blood and fat ooze out of tiny holes in my sister again.) She said, “I gained back all of it. But I am going to keep drinking.”

That morning, she woke up suddenly and said, “I don’t know why I always have angry, violent dreams.”

She isn’t happy. God damn it.

Before work, she asked me to pick up some marijuana lollipops from the clinic. To my knowledge, my sister doesn’t smoke at all. I think it will do right by her, so I did.

She hated the conference and felt like it was a waste of time, so when I came home after work with the lollipops, there were 6 empty bottles of beer and Mick Jagger singing on my computer screen. I looked at her and she said, “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t find the remote.”

The next morning, I woke up from a dream where a strange man was pressing into my back hard like the massage chair. I said, ‘That hurts, stop!’ And then I was restrained while he pressed harder. The pain was unbearable. The thought I had in my dream was ‘Let go of your body and leave. Die.’ I woke up with a breathless gasp. My sister touched my arm and said, “It’s ok.”

She picked up her phone and scrolled through the news. Information before breakfast.

My Sister, “Looks like Weiner is stepping down.”

Me, “Its about time. Jesus.” He shouldn’t have lied, looking back; maybe he shouldn’t have resigned either.

My Sister, “And his wife should leave him, but she’s pregnant.”

Me, “So?”

Sister, “She should give it up for adoption. I wouldn’t want any connection with that piece of shit.”

Me, “A baby is more than a connection to the father, it’s a life growing inside of you.”

My Sister, “Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah-bah. I need a wash cloth so I can take a French whore’s bath.”

We got up and went for coffee at a local Starbuck’s, which is our ritual now when she comes to visit.

Walking back to her car, she spilled coffee on her sleeve while rustling through her purse.

Sister, “Damn it.”

Me, “Help is available to you. I have this whole other hand. You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”

Sister, “Apparently, I do. Apparently I will be dying alone while on your deathbed, you will still be getting angry emails from men.”

We said goodbye. I hugged her hard while she lightly patted my back. We are totally different people. She hasn’t discovered the secret. I can tell you, but you have to give yourself up to it 100% . . . “Fuck it all.  Live for your soul.”

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