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Acid, Ecstasy and Disneyland

Ask me the first time I let Michael into my heart?

I can tell you the steps, the baby steps, he made across the line into that first pumping valve. The first memory is taking him to see The Hollywood Stones in winter of 2012. The Hollywood Stones, once called Sticky Fingers, is the Rolling Stones cover band who first introduced me to the music back in 2001 in Pomona. I liked it. When I saw them last year on the Queen Mary, I had familiarized myself with the albums “Sticky Fingers” and “Let It Bleed” just because they ushered me through the door. I schedule my entire month around seeing them. As I once said to their saxophone player outside an Orange County steakhouse, “Hearing ‘Can’t You Hear Me Knockin’ live is just a gift.”

Dancing to the Stones

Once, the mentor, who broke my heart and leveled my self-esteem with her post-semester evaluation, invited me to her house for a reading in her Topanga home. It was the perfect opportunity to touch base with her again and give some credibility to my commitment as a writer. When I saw that The Hollywood Stones were playing the same night, I looked over at Michael. “Should I pretend to struggle over this decision?” I scratched out my old mentor’s event and wrote HOLLYWOOD STONES on my wall calendar. When I dance, when I dance to the music, it becomes my religion. That is when I feel the most alive.

The first night I took Michael to see them I knew that it would be a good indicator of where we would end up. Abe, my ex, would quickly run and hide during my dances. Was it out of fear or embarrassment? I never really figured it out.

Michael was ordering us drinks when the Stones hit their first song on stage. I was walking out of the bathroom and I felt the eyes of the band on me. It was a small venue. I am always the first to dance during the first song. And I am always alone.

I looked over to the bar and waved in Michael’s direction then started dancing. Michael creeped on the dance floor in my winter’s jacket. He was wearing it so I wouldn’t have to lug it around. I stopped to smile at him, as he sauntered on the floor towards me, sliding each sleeve up his forearm. I looked at the lead singer, Dick Swagger, and I watched him smile.

That was one of my favorite moments.

Another was on New Year’s Eve in a gay bar called Akbar. It was free and a last ditch effort during a busy dog walking season. Michael, Trent (my gay boyfriend) and myself all walked in knowing the DJs were usually hit and miss. This night it was Elton John, The Animals, The Monkees, The Black Keys, Jet and even Nancy Sinatra. We had a bag of cocaine on us and Michael was regularly excusing himself to the bathroom to take a few bumps.

“Does he know to take it easy on that stuff?” Trent asked.

“I don’t think he has had that heart stopping, ‘I am dying’, moment yet,” I said.

He never did. When Whitney Houston came on, Michael knew he couldn’t leave the dance floor, so he cleared the stage in front of the DJ and set up lines for himself in front of everyone. I admire that fearlessness. I worry, but I still admire.

la bound

Another favorite moment of us, in this rather young relationship, is coming home from the AWP conference in Boston. It is a conference for writers and publishers. He picked me up from the airport. At the baggage claim, I watched him looking for me. As soon as he saw me, he grabbed my arm with such force it almost hurt. He yanked me in for a hard kiss. A real kiss. The kind you see on TV and convince yourself don’t really exist. I kissed him back, forgetting the department head and president of my school were there waiting for their baggage too. When I opened my eyes, his arm swung up in my face … with flowers.

There was the negative as well. Michael doesn’t understand why I maintain contact with my ex-boyfriends, ex-lovers. I told him, “I don’t know how you can be intimate with someone and not stay in touch. How can you stop caring?”

In fact, Michael was no longer in contact with the girl he was going to move back to Milwaukee for before we started seeing each other. I knew she was upset at him from various angry, bleeping text messages around the holidays. That always bugged me.

‘She blocked me, ok?” he defended.

Other things, as it did with other cohabitating partners, bothered me; eating cereal next to my head as he stood over me to read while I was writing, this tick of pulling and sniffing on his nostrils, and gagging himself with a toothbrush while brushing. The clanking of his spoon against the bowl. (That isn’t specific to him, my roommate Frank is creating the same jarring sound from the living room as I write this) His rearrangement of my garments in the dresser. Little things bothered me, but they never really contended with his undying love and devotion. Whenever you consolidate your life with someone else’s life, there is friction.

It is difficult talking about how I love people. Last year, I was really hurt with many people. My  roommate hung himself and died. My ex-boyfriend broke up with me a few days before agreeing to move in with me and take me to his cousin’s wedding. My parents kicked me out with no money or shelter. All that happens to a broke girl is a kick into survival mode. You still have affection for people, but you don’t invite them into your soul anymore. It is a liability. And, at that point, it would be just plain stupid.

Michael’s mother gave us a timeshare for a Disneyland tower. I stocked up on my favorite drugs; MDMA, acid and Ecstasy. Acid, for some reason, is in low supply in Los Angeles. Luckily, my roommate Frank had two cubes of sugar he was saving in a friend’s freezer.

We arrived. I was in a pink sock hat, heart pajama bottoms and a Doors shirt with a Hunter S. Thompson biography and a stack of oreo cookies under my arm. I expected the Disney staff to either be over-serving in typical Corporate-Magic fashion or ignore us. Instead, the staff seemed to know exactly why we were there.

HST Flip Off

“That’s a great book,” the Bell Hop said.

“I know. It is blowing me away,” I said.

“They only use the words of people that knew Hunter S. Thompson. It is one of my favorites.”

What a pleasant surprise. They were kind, assuming a lower but friendly tone with us as we were escorted to our hotel room. We got in and watched the afternoon burn off. When we woke up in the middle of the night after beer, Taco Bell and a nap I wanted to take the acid. Michael was reluctant, wanting to wait until we were in the park. The drugs would hit me long and hard. My friends know that drugs hit me in “a weird way.” I don’t know if it is my brain chemistry or what exactly, but I get a bang for my buck no matter what. That is why I always dose low and slow. Even things like cough syrup and tylenol were given to me in minimal and controlled doses as a child.

I dosed and Michael followed soon after. One of my favorite things to do is watch old Looney Tunes episodes on psychedelics. We had the pleasure of an old Sylvester the cat episode. When acid kicks in, you know. The colors start getting strong. So strong they almost leap out of your television set. You laugh so hard you start uncontrollably cackling until tears cool down your face. All of this happened in the course of one hour, but not with Michael.

Sylvester is after the mouse, but somehow the mouse was able to substitute himself for a kangaroo.  Of course, the house bull dog has no sympathy for Sylvester. Scared over a mouse? Get in there and do your job! Sylvester gets the shit kicked out of him, and when the bull dog sees the kangaroo, he grabs Sylvester by the scruff and drops them both on the back of the truck. “When you start seeing a 5-foot mouse, then its time to jump on the water wagon.” Both Sylvester and the dog look defeated as they are carted away.

This was hysterical, and I couldn’t stop laughing. How things happened and in what order I am not sure. I accidentally hit a switch on the wall, and our bed boards lit up with electronic fireworks and a lit Disney castle to the hard, strained chords of a music box orchestra. We were both astonished.

I had to leave for a cigarette and be by myself. I know Michael wasn’t feeling it and was quite disappointed. So I walked outside and smoked next to a few potted trees in a huge,empty, concrete parking lot. It was 4am so no one was there but the night crew.

I looked at a bush next to the ashtray. “You just want to be free to grow, huh? I understand.” Everything seemed so controlled and fake. Sectioned and tarred. I smoked two cigarettes and watched the night time sprinklers go on. I watched the leaves dance for water and touched their pointing tips to feel some life in this endless parking lot. “I am sorry,” I whispered.

I walked back into the hotel and got in the elevator with a Hispanic man from the cleaning crew. My pupils were the size of dimes. “These graveyard shifts will shorten your lifespan, man,” I said. He giggled.

The elevator doors opened to Michael, waving his arms. He was worried about me. After huffing and puffing, he took off down the hallway to our room. “Have a good night,” the night man smiled.

We got back in the room and I laughed off his tantrum. I was only gone for 20 minutes, the acid was expanding his time. “I was really worried about you. Like, where were you, man?” He was adopting my dated vocabulary.

“I was outside. Those plants don’t like it out there.”

He calmed down after 10 or 15 minutes of panting and complaining. We hugged and kissed. When he had to poop, I dragged the chair into the bathroom and sat outside the toilet door because I didn’t want to be alone. It wasn’t just that. Something is vulnerable about a man on the shitter. He kept the door closed but we giggled so hard, I toppled over on the chair as it rocked clumsily between bathroom tiles on the floor.

Suddenly famished, we ordered room service (something we couldn’t afford) and the cart never made it as far as the beds before we fed off the table in the hallway. It was a great first night. He enjoyed a California omelet. I inhaled fresh fruit and oatmeal. “I can understand now how someone like Lindsay Lohan can blow all her money in a hotel.” When we were done, the sun was rising and we decided it was no better time to unleash ourselves into the park. We were allotted early entrance as Disney residents.

It was a special day, we walked into baby ducks marching towards us with trust and confidence. “Is this real?” Michael asked.

I always hit Storybookland first. Mr. Toad and his Wild Ride. Sleeping Beauty. Snow White. Pinocchio. And Peter Pan. Jesus, those rides are like flipping through old library pages in the early 80s. In the 2010s, themes of crystals and the occult are evident. On acid, it is a lift to the curtain. Instead of the characters coming alive, I was more aware of the squeaky wheels under the ride. The flimsy cardboard as each sun-bleached character clumsily stumbled towards us before spinning away. The paint on the wall was of someone with talent but not allowed artistry. On acid, in Disneyland, you would like to believe everything comes alive. It doesn’t. Everything is revealed as it truly is: a farce.It was easier to surrender my imagination sober. Under the influence of psychedelics, all I could see was man instead of imagination.

It wasn’t as if this ruined my time however. We bought cotton candy.

“My parents never let me have cotton candy,” I said, feeling pink sugar dissolve on my tongue and teeth. “This is the best thing man ever invented.”

“Whenever you tell me about your childhood, I just feel sad,” Michael said.

Disneyland (2) Disneyland (1)

My mother worked at a dentistry school in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I was never allowed to eat a cookie without a glass of milk. To this day, the association of sugar without a cleaning entity leaves me feeling dirty. Cotton candy, sugar cereal and cookies were among the many offenders of bad teeth.

We rode the Merry-Go-Round. We happened across a horse drawn cart. I saw the horse and felt an immediate kinship. “I want to touch that horse.”

“I don’t think you can, baby,” Michael said, holding on to my wrist as if holding down a helium balloon.

“I think it wants me to pet it.”

The horse driver slowly stepped towards us, smiling but cautious. “I don’t think you can, baby.”

I sighed. “I love you,” I called to the horse. It bucked it’s head and vanilla mane towards me like it understood. I stomped away on the cobblestone path to Buffalo Bill’s Wild, Wild West. The Petting Zoo was closed.

Disneyland (4)Disneyland (3) Disneyland (5)

We hit the Pirates of the Caribbean and I watched as the pirate chasing women was now changed to pirates chasing each other while holding a stolen treasure. The “Buy A Wife” still remains, with one woman in a brazen, red dress eager for purchase. A child cried. “It’s ok,” I said, “It just called sex slavery.”

The lecherous pirate chasing a teenage girl (hiding in a barrel) chanting “”It’s sore I be to hoist me colors upon the likes of that shy little wench” was changed to “I be looking for a fine pork loin, I be” and (now) a cat peeking its head out of the barrel.

We hit the Haunted Mansion, which was the one time I was not able to carry myself. It was completely dark and the pathway started moving. I asked Michael to hold on to me so I wouldn’t fall. “Are you freaking out?” he asked.

“No, I am just disoriented. Hold on to me, please.”

Afterward, Michael had to smoke, so all the smokers huddled in a corner by Autotopia to suck on cancer sticks. I wasn’t interested. “Are you not feeling it?” I said.

“No. But I have already come to peace with the fact that I can just enjoy you feeling it,” Michael said.

“Well, let’s take the Ecstasy.”

“Now?” he asked.

I gave him his pill 20 minutes before giving in on mine. I was still on the tail coats of acid but there was no denying it was a weak dose. The ecstasy hit him on The Matterhorn. I was sitting behind him in a bumpy bobsled.  A white, hairy creature would sometimes coast out on rickety rails and clinking wheels with his hands raised in claws and his eyes burning red. As we whipped around snow-capped mountains, I watched Michael raise both hands as they gracefully lowered to either side of him, middle fingertip pressed to thumb in some kind of meditation pose. I will never forget that. I knew the ecstasy hit him as soon as he reached zen on the Matterhorn. I chuckled even though he couldn’t hear me on the rattling ride as we swept through, under and over mountains modeled poorly after the Swiss Alps.

When we got off, I turned to him and said, “So, what? Are the people of Switzerland terrorized by a large, white, snow bound monster?”

“I think it is modeled after the Abominable Snowman,” he said with lazy eyes.

We went to Indiana Jones, which is still one of the best rides at Disneyland. We still ducked when feeling the air from blow darts. The rock rolling towards us still felt believable in the second before the ride drops below it.

We took Mark Twain’s Riverboat to Tom Sawyer’s Island. We got over there and all we could do was sit in the sunshine and kiss. “Ewwww” a little girl screamed, pointing. We both turned to her and laughed. It was just a lovely afternoon. Ecstasy gives you a bigger lift than Molly (MDMA). You feel like you could fly with laughter, like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory.

Back on the Mainland (Disneyland), there wasn’t much left to do. We made an appearance at Tomorrowland, though Space Mountain was more than I could admittedly deal with. Alice in Wonderland was a much needed stop. It’s a Small World. The Ecstasy had triggered strong maternal feelings and I was kissing the air within a few feet of stranger’s children. I am not sure I want children, but I can tell you they are amazing human beings.

They wore their pajamas. They ate their lollipops without inhibition, often leaving hard candy raindrops on their face and pants. They smiled when I smiled at them and cried only to their parents. All of them were carted in strollers, which was a bizarre sight. Children, all the way up to 10 years of age, were being carted around in rented strollers … not for fatigue but for speed and efficiency in the parents’ best interest. Stumbling on stroller parking was still one of the most bizarre sights I have seen. It seems we are rapidly approaching the life and times of Wall-E.

Stroller parking

Could children not walk anymore? Or could parents not be bothered with their short stride?

It was mid-afternoon when we took the tram back to our hotel room for lovemaking. Of course, the drugs had stripped me of all disguise and left me much like a little girl abandoned in a grocery store. I cried in the middle of lovemaking, walked to the other side of the suite and returned to Michael. This happened about four or five times in succession. Michael was patient.

“Work it out, baby,” he said, laying on the bed naked. His head pressed against the headboard with his thick, black hair brushed up and over his head like an Outsider from the 50s. His Italian eyes I once thought looked sad. Now, they looked heavy with seduction.

When I told my sister I was dating a full-blooded American-Italian she typed, “Yuck. Latin lovers are the worst.”

Those eyes brought me back, though. His arm was hung around the back of his head, stretching his biceps, almost forlornly watching. He didn’t try to wrangle me or cajole me back to the bed. He just watched me, feeling bad when I cried and satisfied when I returned. Recently, I watched “Scarface” and realized Michael had AL Pacino’s eyes. He knew I would be back and gave me the space to mourn my loss. When I wept, I don’t know what he thought I was thinking of or feeling. I can tell you the recurring memory was my parents kicking me out. If my parents can abandon me, anyone can. I had to cry it out, pathetically, naked, alone, next to the ice box and empty champagne bottle. I needed to work it out.

“Work it out, baby.”

al-pacino-20 al-pacino-20-1

To start my new family, I needed to mourn the old one. I cried and I came back to him.

We made love. We watched the Princess Story Time on the Resident Only Disney Channel. “Why is she using that voice? Doesn’t she know kids don’t like being condescended to? I can’t bear this.”

I took an MDMA pill. My serotonin was already depleted from the Ecstasy. However, I was launched into a world of floating pillows and white bed sheets like Jasmine the Agrabah princess. I couldn’t raise my physical senses any higher, but napped and levitated until the sun set.

a dreama dream 2


A lover of 5 years confessed to making out with his 1st cousin as a child and described walking into his father’s hospital room, while he was dying of lung cancer, then leaving immediately without saying a word. His father died before he could find the courage to speak.

Another lover of several months once described a moment where his birth mother accused him of being a “faggot” before abandoning him as an adolescent.

Love for a women is immediate. She opens her body to pregnancy and disease on the word of a man. She sacrifices her pulse and movement to a man, as he enters her. Men don’t experience this, though themselves are made of flesh, blood and bone. Words, you see, amount to nothing.


It was much later in our relationship, in June, when I was having a nervous breakdown about residency, about love, life and rejection, that Michael invited me into the bathroom. “Do you want to watch me poop? Would that make you feel better?”

“Yeah,” I whimpered. It would. And it did.

I pulled a chair into our tiny bathroom and sat there holding his hand when I heard the first plop. I was crying all night and suddenly smiled. He could reveal as much of himself as I needed to … in order to love again.

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Home is Where the O Is

My week of rock n roll helped me sail through my heart break, but after nearing orgasm with an unsuitable suitor, my body and all of its various parts were revived and wanting to open for business.


I was longing for sexual satisfaction but didn’t want to go back to San Diego.

Mostly, because gas prices were astronomical. My feelings on the matter are best described in an exchange I had with a middle-aged black man over a pump:

Man, at Pump “How are you doing over there?”

Me, “Just fine, I am getting really good at this.”

Man at Pump, “You’re telling me. Gas is ridiculous.”

Me, “And I know its just a way to influence the election, like any of us are going to vote for Romney. PLEASE!”

Man at Pump, “I can’t stand that man.”

Me, “I know he must have a publicist advising him, but the patronizing shit that comes out of his mouth.”

Man at Pump, “What did he say? ‘‘I like being able to fire people.’ What the hell?”

Me, “He thinks we are impressed by that. He is so used to people around him being impressed by it, that he thinks we are going to be impressed by it. Go fuck yourself!”

Man at Pump, “That’s Right” (high five) “Have a Happy Sunday.”

Me, “You too.”


The other reason was I felt like Alan was forcing himself to be sexual with me. I don’t take it personally, since I believe he wants to have sex with me. But for whatever reason, his body is not keeping up and, as my friend Jerry puts it, “No one wants to push rope.”

Perhaps its because the fetish is now off-limits for me, and for him it remains essential, despite our verbal decision to go without.

I did have that conversation with myself, “Self control is what separates us from the beasts.” But then I thought about where I would be 10 years from now, when my sex drive putters out. I thought about where I will be in a month, stranded in Washington with no sexual outlet- just the corner of my bed pillow.


My day off was coming up, and I hadn’t recovered from my night of Sham Rock N Roll aboard the Queen Mary. I was exhausted. My neck still had a kink in it. I hadn’t sat down for a proper meal I could enjoy in some time.

So, on my day off, I drove down to Costa Mesa.

I am not proud of this, and I thought about excluding it from my blog. The point of the blog, however, is to be honest- no matter how pitifully human I am.

I called Abe, over and over. There was no answer.

I knew he would see me, so I fought through afternoon traffic and arrived at his apartment around 7pm.

I knocked on the door, his roommate answered and seemed happy to see me. I just noticed, for the first time, that he had freckles.

Abe opened his bedroom door and saw me standing at the front door.

I said, “Dude, do you know how to use a phone?”

He said, “Um. Yeah. I know how to use a phone.”

I said, “You pick it up and answer it.”

He looked at his phone, “Oh. Its on silent. Why didn’t you leave a message?”

I said, “I did!”

He said, “Oh . . . huh. Whats going on?”

I said, “I just quit smoking and I need a cigarette. I just spent three hours in traffic.”

He ushered me out the front door and handed me a cigarette.

He said, “So how long have you quit smoking? Two weeks?”

As I popped a fresh cigarette into my dry mouth, I said, “No, a day.”

Then he said, “Good to see you.”

I said, “Yeah yeah yeah. I need food. I am starving.”

He said, “I . . . uh . . . got band practice.”

I said, “Come on! That’s why you have to answer your phone.”

Abe, “Oh, well . . . I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

Me, “I know, I am disappointed in myself. But I need sex and food, like immediately.”

Abe, “So you just came down here to . . . lay me?”

Me, “Um, yeah. I need to keep my focus around everyone else and not get into trouble. So I can use you as an outlet to quell my frustration.”

Abe, “That doesn’t seem normal.”

Me, “Its called a booty call. Except I want a bath, a massage and food, too.”

He leaned over his steering wheel and laughed.

Abe, “And you just think that I will give all these things to you.”

Me, “Yeah.”

Abe parked the car, “Ok, I have to talk to you about something I have been thinking about. The tablets, the sacred tablets look like this (he scribbled on a piece of paper) and there are layers to the tablets, Fa, So, La and Te. It goes up like this . . .

I am trying to explain this . . .  but I am really stoned right now.

. . . and the palm trees bend like this, which looks like the top of the tablets. And the pope’s hat looks like the top of these tablets.”

Me, “Um, I am trying to stay focused, but can we just make out?”

Abe, “No, we can not. I have to explain this to you.”

Me, “I need vegan cheeseburger pizza!! Come on . . . “

Abe, “She wants pizza. Ok.”

He started the car and drove us over to Native Foods, where we were for my birthday. The parking lot was full.

We waited to pass a large black SUV.

I snorted through my Midwestern septum, “Get out of the way!!!!”

Abe, “Ok, calm down.”

I said, “This isn’t a parking spot. You can’t just park in the middle of the lot.”

He drove around, there were no spots.

We circled around again, and he pulled to the side to wait for a large SUV with its lights on to back out.

I said, “Seriously, I am really hungry. If I don’t eat immediately, I am going to lose my mind.”

Abe, “Be calm. We can’t go anywhere, so we should just wait right where we are.”

Me, “We can go somewhere else. Anywhere else. I don’t care, I just need to eat.”

Abe, “Hold on.”

We sat there.

Me, “That car isn’t moving.”

Abe, “I know. They aren’t leaving, they are doing something else.”

Me, “If you know that, then why are we parked here?”

Abe, “Because another spot will open up. Just wait.”

Me, “Ughhh, lets go to valet. I will pay for it, please.”

He circled around to the other side and backed into a small section of parked cars.

Abe, “Maybe if I turn out my lights, the spot will appear.”

Me, “Oh my God.”

Abe, “Be patient. A spot will open up.”

We waited.

A car passed us and pulled in front of us, waiting with its lights on.

A parked car pulled out of a spot in front of us, and that car easily pulled in for that spot.

Me, “We have our lights off. That person just took our spot.”

Abe, “Thats ok. Another spot will open up.”

Me, “Are you fucking with me?”

Abe, “No, its only been about 8 minutes. I am sure another spot will open up soon.”

We sat there.

Another SUV pulled in front of us with its lights on and engine running. From the other end, a car pulled in, also with its lights on and engine running.

Abe, “Uh oh, a stand off.”

Me, “We are not going to get a spot.”

Abe, “Yes we will.”

Me, “We are waiting for a spot and so far three cars have pulled ahead of us with their lights on and engine running. How are we going to get a spot, when everyone keeps pulling in and grabbing a spot?”

Abe, “ . . . hahaha”

Two women came out of the complex holding yoga mats. Each went to a different car.

Abe, “Hold on”

Lights came on.

Reverse lights popped on.

Cars started moving out of their spots at the same time.

Abe, “Whoa, double time. Pulling out at the same time.”

Both cars, now ahead of us waiting, pulled into those spots, just as a third person came out with her yoga mat and popped in her vehicle.

Abe, “There it is, there is our spot.”

And sure enough, it was.


I ordered my pizza and a beer. Abe got a beer as well with chicken fingers and we sat across from each other as I devoured the pizza.

Around us, yuppies shopped and chatted. They waved their freshly painted nails in the air and walked out of yoga class without one bead of sweat or one strand of hair out of place.

Two men walked by.

Me, “Pretentious assholes” then I belched a cloud of gas that shook our table.

They looked over at me.

Abe, “Good job.”

Me, “Thanks.”

Abe sat across from me in the dark and watched me. I told him about the Hollywood Stones and the Queen Mary, work, whatever came to mind.

I wasn’t angry at first. I was just happy to have my friend back.

We went back to his place and he ran a bath for me. As I disrobed he said, “Hold on, wait a second! I found something. (combing through my hair) There it is!”


I said, “A grey hair?”

He held it up happily, “Yup!”

Me, “Bring it on. I have been waiting for you.”

I slipped into the bath and he sat next to me, but was restless.

He said, “What did your Mom say?”

I said, “She said you are the type who would leave me at the alter.”

He groaned an “aww.”

I said, “I am moving back to Washington at the end of next month anyway.”

He hushed a “What if I didn’t want you to move back?”

I coldly responded, “You have lost all right to speak on that matter.”


I felt hot and tired, so I got out and went to bed. He dried me off, as I sleepily and restlessly fought to climb under the covers.

Then we had sex.

When a man gives you an orgasm or two before penetration, you close up like a virgin. So when he entered me with his head down, it felt like the first time again and again.

His kisses were dead, closed mouth pecks without my tongue, and without my trust. That said, my pelvis came alive and set fire to my breasts, my neck and every other part of my body.

We woke around 1am and I was satisfied. I remember climbing on him again for another round.

The way he crumpled his brow and his mouth fell open, it made me feel powerful. And when he breathlessly says, “I am going to cum” I wait for him to make me dismount, and he explodes alone, on his side of the bed.

It was that moment, when he whispered he was losing control, that brought me back to him two more times.

I had to go home to the dogs and he walked me out to my car. Since he is in a gated community, I drove him back to the entrance to save him a walk in the middle of the night. He forgot the clicker to open the gate, and ran back inside after a group of three kids.

When he came running back out, with a smile on his face, he jumped in my car.

He said, “You are back in my life and I am back to running around again.”

He meant it in a positive. I know when I am gone, his life slows down to a winter.

He said, “So those guys I passed, when I ran back in, the guy said, ‘Hey, is that your girl back there? Fuck her right tonight.” And then he laughed.

I said, “A stranger said that to you? Fuck her right tonight? And what did YOU say?”

He calmed down and shrugged his shoulders, “Ok.”

Me, “Men speak that way to each other? To men they don’t even know? Fuck her right? I should go back there and say, ‘Yo, I am gonna ride his cock ALL night long. That’s right, wax that pole like we are in a competition!’ How would that sound if I spoke like that?”

Abe giggled.

Me, “Funny? Ok, I guess its funny. I don’t like that. You should have told him not to speak about me that way.”

Abe quieted down, and then he started talking about the tablets again. It was 3am and I was exhausted.

I said, “I have to let you go, Abe. I am tired. I have to drive all the way back.”

He hung his head and nodded.

“Ok” and he reluctantly got out of my car.

2nd Booty Call

I arranged for Mitchell to stay with my dogs after my 48 hour Poor Girl Hollywood Marathon last week. I wanted to sleep in a bed where I could extend my legs and roll over without a 70lb pit bull sitting firmly in the way.

After over an hour in traffic, I arrived.

I took a bath.

And I fell asleep in his bed before he could finish his cigarette.

In the morning, we turned on the shower. He laid a towel on the floor and I hoisted my body just off the floor with my elbows and ankles.

He entered me from a sitting position and I was forced to look at him during intercourse. When he came, I felt myself start to cry.

Never in my life, have I cried more after orgasm than I have with Abe. I don’t really understand it.

I briefly googled it, and phrases like “hormonal fluctuations at orgasm” or “releases some form of cathartic emotion” or even:

“about one-third of women have had negative feelings after sex at one time or another, and it had nothing to do with how satisfactory the sex was. These were usually ‘feelings of melancholy, anxiety and tearfulness’ and they call it postcoital dysphoria.

They also only found limited correlations between past sexual abuse or psychological distress and postcoital dysphoria.”

A great deal of men, including Abe, associate crying with a negative. And even if you tell them it has nothing to do with a negative, nothing to do with pain or discomfort, bad memories or trauma, it doesn’t stick. They just can’t grasp tears of ranging emotion.

I can use my words here to describe what it is, but even then it would be free association: beauty, release, love . . . its a rush of emotion.

As our shower was running behind us, he came and I turned my head to hide the crackling of tears. He got up and didn’t notice.

We bathed each other and he asked me if I was alright.

I said I was.

He said I was different.

I said, “Well, of course I am different. You shattered my dreams. I use the word shattered only because that’s how my therapist describes it.”

He laughed, uncomfortably, and said, “I don’t know why you were so hurt by everything.”

I said, “Read the blog if you need a break down.”

He said, “No . . . I heard its . . . intense.”

I said, “You took everything away from me. If you can’t understand that then I just don’t know what to say.”

He scrubbed my back and I waited for something.

Does he pretend to be stupid to get a pass? Or is he really that stupid?

Abe will hide his head in the sand to avoid confrontation. He doesn’t pick up the phone when there is a job he can’t make it to, he doesn’t call when he is going to miss band practice to make love to me instead, and he doesn’t inform his family of when he is running late, much less pick up the phone when they call trying to find out how much longer they have to wait.

Abe says, “You know me, I am always an hour behind.”

It’s the life of a child who will not take responsibility for his actions. And its the child in both of us that are still in love. But you can’t survive my life as just a child, so there is the shrew, the woman who is more a soldier than a lover.

And she could never respect Abe.

3rd Booty Call

After our morning together, I texted him that it was a bad idea we are still seeing each other. I missed him already.

He said he would come up for Thai Food that night.

We met for Thai Food and then rendezvoused back to my place. He brought three pints of Tecate, chips and rubbed my back.

I had him look at a spot on my back that has been bothering me for 4 months now, itching but instead of red and irritated, the skin is black and blue.

He said, “My Dad once had this hair growing out of a mole on his back. The hair was so thick, my mother had to go in-”

I said, “I can’t believe you are telling me this story for the third time.”

He said, “I have told it to you before?”

I said, “YES. The hair was thick and it left a hole when she pulled it out.”

Abe erupted in laughter. He said, “I can’t believe I have told you that story. There is no excuse for even telling you once. Oh my God, that hair was so thick, you could feel it between your fingers like bristles on a hair brush.”

We were getting familiar again. This was no longer a booty call. We were intimates. He rubbed the kink out of my neck the way I wanted Buddy to.

He laughed at my jokes the way I expected Buddy to. And I felt like this shitty little room on a hill was some kind of home for a night.

He confessed that his boss wasn’t happy with his performance. Abe used to brag that he could nap while videotaping legal depositions, and no one would notice. Well, they did notice and someone complained that he was unprofessional and didn’t want him on their depos anymore.

I confided that Dora united with the clique at work, and they were doing everything they could to alienate me and Sascha. Its petty and irrational, but it got under my skin whenever they invited everyone in the room out to a party and ignored me. I have very specific memories of childhood that were coming back in full color, listening to the bubbling joy of manipulative, little shits as they did their best to make me feel small over a social event I would rather skip anyway.

Abe said, “You have to stop feeling victimized by everything.”

I said, “I know. That’s a problem I have. I am trying. I just hate them, no matter how silly it is. It hit a nerve.”

My suspicion is that just as when I stopped driving Dora around and she made me uncomfortable where I lived, she was scared and resentful of my promise to move out and wanted to make me uncomfortable where I work, too.  I now hate my job just because of the people there. My only alliance is Sascha, and she only works there 3 days out of the week.

Dora has completely pushed me out of her life, when I believe the only intention she had was to punish me for not doing what she wanted me to.

Abe and I confided in our problems and comforted each other in the hue of my computer monitor, as the dogs snored and the scampering in the upstairs apartment slowed down and finally stopped.

We woke up and he suggested we try a position where he could rub my back and enter me from behind at the same time. He propped a pillow underneath my stomach and we made love while he rubbed my shoulders.

I had more control to squeeze and pull, and I felt him slowly ache, gently rocking in and out until he lost control. We both collapsed over each other, his eyes closed, mine open. The sex is always phenomenal.

I was having magical sex with a stupid kid who refused to grow up. Someone who made my walls warm with laughter and told me the same stories over and over again.

This had to end somehow.

I can’t go back again and again and pretend it’s about orgasms and back rubs, when the truth is it’s about having a home to visit.

I have been criticized for being a strong woman who is also addicted to men. I think that is a cosmetic diagnosis.

If I had my family to drop in on and visit when I was feeling down or sick, if I had a friend’s backyard to slip into and cry over a glass of wine with familiar company  (as I used to in Em) would I feel so desperate to have an intimate connection with a man? Probably not.

That said, my friends and family haven’t been as all accepting of my quirks and flaws as my lovers have. So, in a world of logic and pattern, for better or for worse, I can tell you with confidence that a lover is my safeplace.

There is nowhere for me to go and call home. Except with Abe. Wherever he goes, the color changes, I feel warm and well fed.

But, it’s an illusion. He will leave me again.

His texts messages grew from sexually playful to gloomy put downs, claiming “That’s all I am good for.”

And my chumminess towards him soured more and more into resentfulness for not being the man I needed.

The cycle needed to stop.

Time needed to stop.

And for one weekend, everything stopped . . . in Joshua Tree.

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