Poetic, no?
Growing up, I always took this as a straightforward, chauvinistic, cautionary tale, warning men to be weary of the hypnotic powers of a beautiful woman. But was that really the moral of the story? Is it that women cannot be trusted? Is it that men cannot be without weakness? Or is something more complicated than that? Because if you take it just one step beyond the poor warrior who dies for a kiss, you are left with the image of a beautiful young woman who will surely be killed for her treason by his guards mere moments later.
So maybe the point isn’t that men should be wary of women with inviting lips. Maybe Raj should have known better than to let me blind him with a brand-new bra and reign him in for the emotional kill. Maybe the flare of his nostrils wasn’t directed entirely at me because he was really just angry that he let himself be lured back into my web. Or maybe, the point is that any man who thinks himself beyond reproach should fear what temptation might reveal to him about himself. And that an otherwise good woman, who decides she is looking for trouble, is ultimately likely to wreak far more havoc on herself than on anyone else.
They say that the older you get the better you know yourself. But if that were true, then unlike a jilted teenager, I would have been smart enough to have myself chained to the radiator, instead of letting loose and playing with fire that night. Experience had taught me by now that I always end up getting burned.
Always.
When I realized that Raj was gone, it was a little bit too much for me to take. Should I wait for him to come back, or should I go after him? If and when I caught up to him, should I explain myself or wait for an apology? Did I really even want him to come back, or did I just want to want him to come back?
I figured that Sheila might have the answer to that question. But I knew she had problems of her own. And even if she wanted to give me a glimpse into the reality of my own psyche, I really didn’t want to hear it. Not that night.
So I called Cassie instead.
Or more accurately…after twenty minutes of pacing my apartment and talking to myself while biting my fingernails…followed by a long shower during which I nearly scrubbed all of the hair off of my own head…followed by the realization that staying in the apartment that evening would necessitate engaging my mother in conversation at some point…I called Cassie.
“What are you doing?” I asked, chewing on the edge of my lip.
“Hello to you, too,” she answered lazily.
“Dude, I’m…I need to do something tonight.” I knew I sounded like I was about to have a panic attack. “I need to get out of my apartment. What are you doing?”
“I was having a cup of tea, actually,” she said. “It’s white pomegranate. I just love it.”
“What? Yeah, that’s great, Cassie…”
“It’s really very calming,” she continued. “And you sound like you could use some.”
“Fascinating. Listen, I meant what are you doing tonight?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it. I just need to go out. Now.”
I blame George Michael. I don’t know if it’s the silky voice, the permanent tan, or the lingering hint of a carefree-1980s feather in his hair, but George Michael songs always make me feel invincible. And everybody knows that the notion of one’s own invincibility is best left in high school. Along with dry-humping and wine-in-a-box. But they were playing “Fastlove” on the speakers in the bathroom of The Skybar that night, so on some level, they were setting me up.
Who are they? I don’t know. Try to keep up.
So what if I was wearing a backless, sequined top that also introduced anyone who was interested to my navel? My fiancé had stormed out of my apartment mere hours earlier without mustering up so much as an elevated tone. What was I supposed to do: take up needlepoint?
Yes, I said sequined. Deal with it. Unlike today’s college girls, at least I had the decency not to try to resurrect legwarmers.
“You look hot tonight!” Cassie told me before swiveling around to check out the reflection of her nonexistent butt in the mirror. “Whatever it is that’s pissed you off, I’m glad.”
“It’s Raj,” I said, unscrewing my lipgloss and yanking out the wand. “I think it’s over.”
“What?” She stopped.
“I don’t want to talk about it now.” I puckered.
“But Monica…”
“If you make me talk about him, then I’ll make you talk about Jonathan,” I threatened, waving my wand at her. “So do you want to fight me, or do you want to have fun?”
“Masala magic?” She smirked, referring to her belief that two Indian women on the prowl possess special powers which no mere mortal can resist. As if we were some sort of Sexual Power Rangers.
I laughed. Two tall women emerged from the stalls, checked themselves in the mirror, and then walked out without washing their hands.
“Ieeeewww.” I shook my head. “They didn’t even run some water over their hands!”
“Maybe they were just snorting, not squatting,” she offered, powdering under her eyes.
“Well, in the scheme of things, I guess that’s better.” I slipped off my ring and dropped it into my purse before clasping it shut.
“The world is a cesspool,” she observed as nonchalantly as someone pulling out their dentures.
“So then,” I said, pleased at the idea of mocking Raj at a moment like that, “fancy a dip?”
“Sorry I’m late.” Some guy that reminded me of the lead singer of Midnight Oil slipped an arm around my shoulder and gazed out over the same view of West Hollywood that I had been admiring.
He wore a suit jacket over a tank top and a pair of jeans, and his sunglasses, which were rimmed entirely in silver, sat atop the shiniest bald head I had ever seen. He was oddly intriguing, much like a naughty version of Mr. Clean. Yet his lack of body fat had rendered him so lean that I probably could have snapped him in half and used him for kindling. Just in case you were wondering. Despite all of this, since it was The Skybar, and since Cassie was already engrossed in conversation with a wall of a man a few feet away, I decided to play along.
“Took you look enough!” I said, exasperatedly. “And where the hell is my vodka and cranberry?”
“I forgot!” He smiled and played up the part of the put-upon boyfriend. “I’m sorry! Damn, woman!”
“Well, go get it then!” I folded my arms across my chest and pulled a pouty expression.
“Fine!” he said, grinning while he pulled away and turned in the direction of the bar. “We’ve only been together for a year and already with the nag-nag-nagging!”
“You’ve always said I was worth the trouble,” I insisted.
“That’s true, gorgeous.” He paused and kissed the back of my hand before bouncing dutifully off in search of my libation. “I’ll be right back.”
Men are so easy.
Cassie wrinkled her brow as if to ask what’s going on with you and the pirate, over there?
I shrugged, winked and then pivoted to scan the bar. I thought I sensed someone staring at me, but before I could find any reason to be gone when my pirate returned, he found his way back, vodka and cranberry in hand. Or, more accurately, beer in one hand and vodka and cranberry in the other. Weaving through the growing crowd had jostled him enough to spill some of my drink onto his hand. After handing me my drink, he then took the opportunity to lick it off.
…With a tongue roughly the length of my arm. And he looked me in the eye for the duration of the lick.
Sure, it was kind of sleazy. Still, it took me a second to shake the feeling that someone was singing “The Look of Love” directly into my ear.
In the fifteen minutes that followed I found out that not only did he have that tongue, but he also had a place with a hot tub on the beach in Malibu that I was welcome to use any time. He also had a thing for Latina women (which he assumed I was, being a typically lazy and culturally oblivious native Los Angeleno), and that he
’d recently wrapped up a low-budget film that was being vetted for the Sundance Film Festival.
“It’s called Release, and it’s about inmates finding redemption internally,” he said pridefully. “I play the leader of the Aryan Nation gang in prison who has the biggest change of heart.”
“Of course you do,” I said, stirring my swizel stick around the ice remaining in my glass.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Just that a girl never runs the risk of meeting the normal guy who plays a social worker on Lifetime at a club in L.A. She only meets the guy who plays the incarcerated Head of the Aryan Nation.”
“So you’ve decided that I’m not normal.” He raised an eyebrow without moving any of the rest of his face. Maybe it was the ability to do that which allowed men to age so much better than women.
I made a mental note to learn how to do that, before returning my attention to the pirate.
“Who says that normal is necessarily better?” I answered.
“I knew I married you for a reason,” he said, slipping an arm around my waist in that intimate way that men do to force you to believe that your comfort zone includes them.
“So now we’re married?” I laughed.
“We are for tonight.”
“Then I’ll have to admit that I’ve been cheating on you,” I said.
“It’s understandable. I was locked up for years. A woman has needs.”
After a pause, we both cracked up. We were midgiggle when his phone beeped. He paused to check the text. I considered mixing drinks to speed along my ascent. George Michael gave way to Gwen Stefani, who was singing about bananas, I think.
“Damn it. I gotta take care of this. My buddy’s in line outside and I need to get him in. I’ll be back, okay? Don’t run off on me or anything.”
“Geez! I run off with one mailman for one weekend in Cabo and I’m paying for it for the rest of my life!”
“Oh, I’m gonna have fun with you,” he said, before walking off in the direction of the entrance, and taking his eyebrow with him.
And I thought I was going to let him have fun with me. At least a little bit. But then I saw who was lying on one of the platform beds spaced throughout the club just beyond where my pirate had been standing.
“So are you gonna kick me in the balls if I ask you to join me in bed?” Luke asked sheepishly.
“Not tonight, Luke.” I plopped down beside him and leaned onto a mountain of pillows. “Tonight I’m not kicking anyone. I’m a bit knackered, as the British say.”
“And was that scary-looking guy British?”
“Who, him? No. He’s a pirate.”
“A what?”
“At least in my mind he is. Don’t ruin my fantasy,” I slurred.
“Are you drunk?” he accused.
“Are you pushing forty in a leather jacket and a ponytail?” I shot back.
“Hey, I’m only 33,” he defended then let out a sigh. “But I know I have to start thinking about letting go of the eighties. I’m just not ready yet.”
“That’s okay. I’m not drunk yet, either. But maybe we can help each other with the transition.” I slurped at my drink before dropping it onto the tray of a perky waitress who had climbed into bed with us to take our order. “Can I get…umm…a glass of champagne?”
“Are we celebrating you learning to accept me and my ponytail?”
“Nope.”
“Are we celebrating you finally forgiving me?”
“Nope.” I was as resolute as a woman can be while she’s lying on a bed in a bar and yanking at her skirt in hopes of getting it back to the vicinity of a PG-rating.
“Seriously though.” He laughed. “Who was that guy?”
“He was my boyfriend. But we just broke up. You saw those silver sunglasses. It never would have worked.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And what does your…fiancé…think about it?”
“Oh, him?” In my haze I had forgotten that Luke knew I was engaged. “I don’t know. It’s sort of…off.”
I hiccupped and was in danger of actually thinking about that fact when the waitress came back with our drinks.
“You know you really do have a beautiful smile. Beautiful teeth.”
“That’s a new one,” I said.
“I’m a sucker for the details, I guess.”
“Well then don’t look at my nails, because I’ve bitten them down to the stubs.”
“Better small and real than big and fake.”
“Are we still talking about nails?” I whispered, gesturing with my chin at the well-endowed redhead who had draped herself across the next bed.
We were sharing a snicker at her expense when we were interrupted.
“So I leave you alone for a minute and now I find you in bed with another guy?” The pirate was back. And was trying to make light of the situation, since he probably couldn’t figure out what was going on between myself and Luke.
Fueled by the vodka, the champagne and the altitude of the hills, I swung a leg over Luke’s ankle and shrugged. “What can I say? A woman has needs. Right now I need to be with a man who has hair on his head. And then I see this guy, and his hair is almost as long as mine. There’s something very hot about that.”
“That’s cold,” the pirate said good-naturedly. “And after I stayed faithful to you even while I was locked up.”
“I’ll always love you for that, pirate guy.”
“Pirate guy?” he asked.
“Never mind.”
“You snooze, you loose, man,” Luke chimed in playfully.
“Not necessarily,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows when I spotted Cassie on her way over. “Have you met my friend Nina? She’s a stewardess for Air-Mexico, and she’s in town for two nights on a layover.”
“Where have you been all my life?” he asked her, before taking her by the hand and leading her off to admire the pool.
“Is that true?” Luke asked. “Is that friend of yours a stewardess?”
“Shh,” I told him. “Too much talking.”
“I’m confused.” He wrenched his gaze from my thigh back up to my eyes. “Are you single, or what?”
I took a deep breath, pulled my legs together, and mustered up what energy I had within me to address the reality. And it wasn’t even a very deep breath, considering how tightly the straps of that shirt bisected my back, making it so that I had to choose between wearing it and actually taking a complete breath all evening. Being the class act that I was, I chose the shirt over the oxygen. Which may have had something to do with my behavior in the moments that followed. But you’ll hear all about that soon enough.
This time, I blame Messieurs Moët & Chandon.
“Luke, I’m not in the mood to really get to know someone deeply tonight, all right?”
He laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head like I was adorable. “You just seem like such a nice girl…or…err…you know…a good girl. And then you say things like that and it seems like you have no idea how funny they seem coming out of your mouth.”
Oh, puke. I always resented the way that men presumed my innocence.
“Have we not already established that appearances can be deceiving?” I charged.
“Good point. So what are we gonna do about it?”
Dear God, why was it that when you wanted someone to take you seriously, there were only pirates as far as the eye could see, but when you wanted a little anonymity men always insisted on getting to know you? It was the curse of the nice girl, I thought. God’s way of reminding us that we are meant to be mothers one day and should think twice about doing whatever it is we were about to do.
And you know what the antidote to that sort of divine intervention is? Vodka with a champagne chaser.
“Why don’t we try something new?” I had a flashback to Alex’s screenplay and suddenly the words were ready to come spilling right out of my mouth.
“What did you ha
ve in mind?” Luke propped his head on his hand and gave me his full attention.
“Instead of telling me all about yourself, and where you grew up, and if you have a dog, and blah blah blah….” I flashed my most girlish smile. “Why don’t you just tell me more about my eyes?”
“Okay, you’re the best person ever,” he said, beaming.
“I know.”
A half hour and another champagne flute later, I wasn’t feeling so badly about Raj. In fact, I wasn’t feeling much of anything. Truth be told, I had kicked off my shoes, and was lying on my back next to Luke, looking up at the stars.
“And anyway, in my opinion reality TV isn’t the plague on society that it’s made out to be. In fact, it’s more like the mirror society is uncomfortable yet fascinated with having held up to its own bloated, puss-filled underbelly.”
“You sure know how to romance a girl.”
He rose up to hover above me. “I wasn’t sure that I was allowed to romance you. What with you hating me and all…”
I was drunk enough where I would have been equally satisfied getting lucky as I would have been going right to sleep. Well, almost as satisfied. I was numb enough where I wasn’t worried about bumping up against my feelings about Raj at any point that night. I was attracted enough to Luke to have noticed that he smelled like baby powder, that his camel-leather jacket brought out the flecks of gold in his eyes and that he wasn’t looking away. But I still wasn’t sure.
All Eyes on Her Page 20