Well, all I want is a woman who’ll fuck me happily and give me an occasional blow job without acting like she needs a Tetanus shot afterward. And I want her to do it for free.
Liana
All That Glitters
I never fell in love with a man the way I fell in love with California. After that astrologer had told me I could find happiness and success on the West Coast, I expected to like it, but I never knew that I would get to L.A. and discover that I had come home.
Ace picked me up at LAX and gave me a tour of the city on the way to his place in Brentwood. We stepped out into a glorious day with brilliant sunshine yet without heat because the undercurrent of wind was cool and soothing. I marveled at the endless expanse of blue sky and hula dancing palm trees. Ace drove and I gazed out the window at the miles and miles of street, trees, flowers, highways, and stores that made up Los Angeles, and made New York look light a sooty hulking dwarf in comparison. First he drove me up the coast to Malibu, where I was lulled by the waves and dazzled by the city light as they began to twinkle at the magic hour. We climbed up through Topanga Canyon with its amazing green hills and picturesque houses. Then we wound our way along the curves of Mulholland, a serpentine rollercoaster with views better than picture postcard perfect. Finally we ended up in Beverly Hills, where I saw all the shops and saw how profitable and chic such a little village atmosphere could be.
Ace insisted on showing me the Rodeo Collection, an amazing mall built of the most extravagant pink marble, and filled with the most deluxe shops. When we stopped in front of a shop that was being readied for a new occupant, I couldn’t believe it. There was our neon sign, our logo with its open hand cradling a read heart, “The Heart in Hand Gallery,” an exact duplicate of the sign one of our neon artists designed for us as a gift. At first I thought that someone had stolen our idea, but then looking at Ace and his cat who swallowed the canary expression, I realized that he had set this up for me.
That was how I became a Californian. During the weeks that followed I worked like a demon to get the store ready for its fall opening, hoping that we could make a tremendous profit during the Christmas season. Ace helped me by giving parties and inviting me to lunches and dinners with his most influential clients, most of whom were enchanted by the crystal jewelry and the concept that Sharon and I had created bit by bit over time and through experience in our little shop in New York. Sharon, meanwhile, was delighted. She agreed to run the New York store, while I would be in charge of the West Coast operation. We were bicoastal! Neither of us could believe it. Violet was safe and happy with her dad in New York for the rest of the school year, so I had the time to devote to getting organized in L.A.
Ace had just bought a flashy new sports car, so I had his Honda to drive, and it was easy to get used to, even after years of mainly walking or in extravagant moments, hailing a cab for transportation. By day I worked and by night I saw L.A. with Ace as my guide. There were so many places to see, restaurants to try, malls to visit, that we never ran our of entertaining possibilities. After about a month, I knew my way around well enough to venture out on my own, and so when Ace went out of town for a couple of weeks, I felt perfectly able to get around. I was lonely though, and amazed to discover deep inside me was the wish for a lover. It had been a long time since I wanted a man, and even in past relationships, I usually ended up comparing the guy to Kevin or just losing interest. Los Angeles is another climate, and the guys look great, even the guys pumping gas look great. The cops look like movie star cops. And I wanted a guy of my own. It was about time. So while Ace was away I decided to explore the city and see if someone interesting and attractive came along.
It took one day. Maybe that’s what happens when you decide you want it. Maybe it’s something they put in the water. Maybe it’s just the aphrodisiac nature of life in this paradise. I was waiting for a table at Nicky Blair’s on Sunset when the guy next to me began a conversation. It was a feeble conversation, and we had to work to keep it going, like two geriatric ping pong players struggling to return the ball across the net. In New York, such a conversation would have led to an immediate disconnect, but here there was something I couldn’t fail to acknowledge. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to run my finger along the edge of his chest where his shirt was opened. His shoulders were broad and strong and they stretched the limits of his white shirt. His legs were lean and long and they looked so good in jeans that I couldn’t help wondering what they’d look like out of his jeans. This was Evan and it didn’t matter that we had nothing in common beyond a desire for dinner, because Evan did something to me, created in me a condition most accurately diagnosed as the hots, and my desire for dinner was nothing compared to my desire for Evan. All in all it was wonderful. Never before had I experienced a liaison of passion without reason. It made no sense at all. Evan and I had no reason to be together and nothing really to say before or after. But in between it was wonderful and there was always Ace’s movie collection to take our mind off the fact that a meeting of the minds was nothing at all like what we were experiencing. I saw Evan a few times, and it was always thrilling and senseless. It didn’t matter at all that I knew no more about him than the faceless individual who delivered the newspaper, despite the hours that we had shared and the times we had tried to connect on more than a physical level. Even was pleasant and satisfying, and even though being turned on without being tuned in was not my habit, it was worth it, and if he hadn’t lived out of town, we might have continued for a long time. I don’t care what intellectuals say, passion without mental interaction is better than mental interaction without passion. At least it’s better for me.
After Evan left, I continued working to get the shop ready, and eventually we opened to quite a success. It was clear that Beverly Hills was as ready for our gallery as I was for California. We began making a terrific profit, and I had to restock constantly, getting in touch with a number of local artists in order to expand our lines and offer a wider selection of merchandise. I traveled to nearby cities to attend craft shows for the trade and to see if there were any galleries similar to ours. It felt like more than work; it was a grand adventure.
The gallery was incredibly busy, and we required three full time sales people to man the shop while I took care of other tasks. My romantic life was nonexistent until one day when the phone rang and a man said, “I’m going to spank you.”
Feeling flip, I answered, “Why, when I’ve been so good?” He laughed and I laughed, until I said, “Who is this?”
“Lou, who else?” Then he hesitated, and it dawned on him that I was not the intended recipient of his call. We should have hung up but we both were having fun being outrageous, so we began a conversation that ended up with a date for later that evening.
He was seated at the bar when I walked in to Chianti to meet him, so it was easy not to notice immediately how small he was. We sat and talked for a while, and although he wasn’t my type at all, and there were none of the immediate sparks I felt with Evan, he had a certain kind of mesmerizing charm, perhaps because of his intensity, or the way his dark eyes flashed. I like macho men because it’s a relief to be around a guy who isn’t tongue tied and nervous around me, something most of them are, for whatever reason. We talked and laughed, and there was a good intellectual connection. He had speed and dynamism, something most of the men here lack, something I missed about New York, although I hadn’t realized it before meeting him.
Lou and I decided to have dinner there at Chianti, and as we both rose to walk to our table, I realized that he was a tiny little man, barely five feet tall, and although I am not tall myself, for the first time in my life, I understood what it is like to be tall, because as Lou stood up, I stood up and up and up, like some sort of telescoping woman, seemingly extending my length to the very ceiling above his head.
My preference is for tall guys. I like their long legs and their big hands. I like the fact that they are bigger than I am. I like sexy, attractive guys, with great faces and
well-fitting clothes. Lou was none of those things. He was small and not much to look at. He was pushy and aggressive, though, and that was a turn on and a plus, even if the editors of Ms. Magazine disagree. It was good to have an intellectual connection with someone, and so I agreed to see Lou again.
We had a few dates that were pleasant and enjoyable. And eventually we went to bed. I figured that what did it matter if he wasn’t my dream man because I liked him and he was sexy in his own way. I never thought it through. I’ve been with macho guys before and they were always fun in bed. Of course they were usually the tall, sexy, physical guys who’d always had so much positive feedback from women that they had nothing to prove.
I saw Lou without his shirt, and flashed to the image of chicken wings. His arms, although not thin or flabby, looked like chicken wings. And from that image I flashed to Marlon, a guy in New York I dated a few times. Like Lou, he was short, macho, dynamic, and aggressive. He was the worst sexual partner I ever had because he was always trying to prove something in bed, something he could never convince me of, at any rate. He was too tough and too lacking in tenderness, and he seemed too distracted to let either of us have a good time. In fact, I felt that his barrage of questions about my likes and dislikes was designed to deny my pleasure rather than enhance it. I hope this wouldn’t mean that all guys with little, chicken win arms were lousy lovers, but it did. With Lou it was like being ravished by Attila the Hun. Everything he did irritated me. His grasping little fingers left bruises on my skin, and his twitching limbs jerked arhythmically to deliver his own release while making me feel like a victim trapped beneath a writhing epileptic. How does a man get to be forty something years old, and a gynecologist yet and still not know a thing about a woman’s body? It baffled me. If this guy could wreak such havoc and displeasure through sex, it was frightening to think what he might do with a speculum.
It seems to me that good manners are in order, even in bed, and even after you realize that you’re with the wrong partner, it seems like the decent thing to finish gracefully, despite the fact that the phrase, what am I doing here, is echoing through your head. I had every intention of doing just that until he tried to sit on my face. I could see the headlines in the Post, Woman smothered by asshole. So finally I got him to move and I apologized, trying to maintain my good graces and any remnants of our friendship, “Lou, I’m sorry. I just don’t think this is going to work out.” And I got out of his bed, smiling feebly, while all the while I wanted to say, “Get off me you troll. Go find a billy goat gruff to fuck.”
You win some and you lose some, I acknowledge that fact, but my batting average for men just seemed to hover at some point in the sub-basement of normal. It was hopeless. I could survive divorce and poverty. I could build a successful business. I could drive a Honda. But I couldn’t find a decent man. I couldn’t be a nun because I didn’t like their habits. What was the solution? Surely there was something wrong with me, something that branded me a loser in the sweepstakes of love. Perhaps I’d never find a man. And if the Lou’s of this world were my destiny and my only possibility, I might as well just give up on human interaction. Even Evan, although sexy, seemed like a poor substitute for real love and lifetime commitment. It was hopeless. I was hopeless and without hope.
Despite having work to keep me busy, my mind kept returning to the dismal encounter with Lou, and it seemed that I should sleep with somebody else, anybody else, right away, like a thrown rider insuring himself against a fear of remounting. Standing in line at the movies, I got my chance. Ace was away again, and I was on my own for a few days, so when one of those movie recruiters approached me on the street in Westwood about a free screening the following night, I decided to go. How could a free movie be bad? And so I met Robert, a building contractor, waiting in the movie line. He was reasonably tall, reasonably attractive, reasonably macho, and sexy enough to interest me for a night. And thank heavens, it went OK. He was fun and exciting in bed and he could carry on a conversation. I liked him, and even if I knew he wasn’t someone I’d want to marry, he seemed like the prince of passion compared to Lou. Of course so would Genghis Khan.
The following day, an artist came into the shop to show some jewelry made not of crystals but rather precious and semi-precious stones. She had all sorts of beautiful items, things far more special and expensive than we usually carried. And for the first time, I looked at the gemstones. By then I was well versed in the energies of crystals and loved their special look and their beauty. I had never been interested in gems, not even diamonds, until then, because they had always seemed like meaningless, extravagant baubles designed to assuage the whims of spoiled women with little of substance to occupy their minds. But Julia had another viewpoint about the stones and she gave me a lesson in the various energies of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. I held them and experienced their energies, and became a convert. I wanted diamonds of my own. They were such cheerful, friendly stones, like rose quartz, but with a giggle. Diamonds seemed to be party stones, and how could you not like that.
Julia told me about the wholesale jewelers downtown where they sell the plain diamond studs I wanted, since she didn’t create anything that simple. And she explained the diamond rating system to help me buy stones with good cut, quality, and color. It was complicated, but the chart she drew made it possible to select earrings of good quality for several hundred dollars after walking through the shops and trying some on.
I took my new earrings home and sat on the bed in Ace’s guest room, examining their cheerful twinkle and experiencing their happy personality. Soon I wore only the diamonds. They were perfect everyday earrings and they were dressy and special at night. I grew to love them more and more. Wandering through departments stores during my free time, I’d pass the costume jewelry with little interest even though in the past it was fun to acquire and wear. Why pay seventy-five dollars for something that was base metal and paste? Ruby jackets cost about that and they were real stones and real gold. Why buy imitation gold hoop earrings when the real ones were so much—well—realer? My standards had changed. I could no longer appreciate the glitter without meaning that used to be so much fun. It was just money wasted on nothing, like junk food. So in the end, my diamonds saved me money because I no longer wanted the casual bauble that comes and goes according to the whims of designers. I wanted real gold and real stones.
Many people agreed with me, because Julia’s pieces flew out of the store. I reordered a huge quantity and doubled the price. They sold just as quickly. And we made more money. Success was a turn on. There’s nothing better than being able to walk into a store and buy what you want with your own money that you earned yourself. There’s nothing like the confidence that comes with knowing that your survival is assured and that you did it yourself.
There was no question about it. I felt good about myself and the success I had achieved. All that was lacking was a man with whom to share it. In that regard I was a failure. I had tried true love and had failed at it. In fact, true love had nearly destroyed me. I had tried casual affairs but they never lasted. I had tried sleeping around in the days before and after “safe sex,” and in a way that was the safest of all, despite the fact that it was emotionally draining and mostly unfulfilling. What was the answer? If I could build a robot and call him mine, then perhaps I could have a man in my life. At least I’d know that I could always turn him on—or unplug him.
I’d been on my own for a long time, and for the most part it was a positive experience. It’s nice to be free to follow your own whims. But my dream is the standard American dream. I want the home and family, to wear an apron and bake cookies. I want a man to hold me and keep me warm at night. I want to share my life with someone who matters, so that at the end of it all, we can feel that we’ve done something. That it all meant something. That it wasn’t just blowing in the wind.
What I want is the real thing. I want diamonds. I want the diamond standard to apply to my life, so that what I live is real
and meaningful and will last. I looked at my diamonds, and looked in my heart and decided that my standards needed to be raised. I would have to shop around for something real, something that fit on all levels, something that would be more than cheap sex or a cozy dinner. I would have to look for a man to love the way I had loved Kevin, a man who would satisfy me on all levels, as Kevin had.
I thought about Kevin and a sorrow descended over me like exterminator’s tenting. Kevin’s face floated into my mind to tease and frustrate me. Kevin, Goddamn Kevin. Why had he been such a fool? Why wasn’t he here with me now, where he belonged? Why wasn’t it Kevin next to me in bed, Kevin’s arms around me in the middle of the night, Kevin in line with me at the movies, Kevin across the dinner table?
I thought about Kevin and all resolve to stick to the diamond standard faded. How could I love another man the way I had loved Kevin? How could it be possible, first of all, and secondly, how could I risk it?
I lay in fear and pain and frustration. And then I fell into the dark chasm of dreamless, uncomforted sleep, my diamond earrings lying in shadow on the nightstand beside the bed.
Ace
Home Cooking
After Liana came to L.A., everything seemed to fall into place for me. I stopped fiddling around and decided to consider it home. The first thing I did was buy a Porsche. Hey, this is Los Angeles, and what is a successful personal trainer without a Porsche? I did it partly for that reason and partly so I could give my old car to Liana, who seemed to be pretty successful by then, but I didn’t want her to have to buy a car and it made no sense at all to rent one for a long time, and I was determined to have her stay not just for a long time but forever. Los Angeles was going to be home for her and for me and then for Violet too, and we were going to be a family until we both got married and created a larger family. Being a hound on the prowl has just never appealed to me.
The Sportin' Life Page 12