Me: “And you really didn’t think this was strange?”
Hanna: “At first I did, but in the end I just wanted to lose my virginity so that the pressure was off the next time around.”
The scariest part of this was that it actually made sense.
Me: “Fair enough. Do you think this fucked you up? Do you think it’s why you can’t come when you have sex with men?”
Hanna, stoically: “I don’t think so. I just talked about diapers. People do things that are way worse.”
Me: “Can we call Jonathan?”
Hanna: “No!” Pause. “I just found out he’s married.” Pause. “And he has a baby.”
Me: “He has a baby?”
Hanna: “Yes. He has a baby.”
Me: “That is highly disturbing. I can just imagine his wife telling her friends, ‘I really wasn’t expecting it, but Jonathan is so wonderful with the baby, so helpful. He changes her diaper all the time!’ ”
Hanna: “I know, it’s kind of scary.”
Me: “He probably jerks off into the baby’s diaper.”
Hanna: “Peri! That’s disgusting! He does not!”
Me: “These fetishes don’t go away you know. You can’t change what turns you on. This is actually not terribly uncommon.”
Hanna: “How do you know?”
Me: “Because I’ve read about it. There’s a whole community of these people. They are called ABDLs.”
Hanna: “What is an ABDL?”
Me: “Adult baby diaper lover.”
Hanna: “You’re lying.”
Me: “I am not lying. Look it up. I’m surprised that with the amount of time you waste on the Internet trying to find men and all the freaks you talk to that you haven’t encountered one of them. Would you ever date someone now with a diaper fetish?”
Hanna, without missing a beat: “If he was hot.”
This is another reason why I love Hanna. In spite of it all, she has a great sense of humor, which is a lot more than you can say about most people.
Me: “Good answer. You’re pretty open-minded. I admire that about you.”
Hanna: “Not really. I’m not into bondage or anything. That stuff doesn’t really do it for me.”
Me: “I’m not talking about bondage. I mean in general, when it comes to sex, you’re pretty open-minded.”
Hanna: “I don’t know. Jonathan was your all-around nice, normal Jewish guy.”
Yet another reason I enjoy Hanna—because she is completely delusional.
Me: “Uh, no, Hanna, he was not your all-around nice, normal Jewish guy.”
Hanna: “What do you mean?”
Me: “I’m sorry to report that having a diaper fetish is not normal.”
Hanna: “Well, on the surface he was normal.”
Me: “On the surface Ted Bundy was normal.”
Hanna: “He wasn’t hurting anyone.”
Me: “Ted Bundy wasn’t hurting anyone?”
Hanna: “No! Jonathan wasn’t hurting anyone!”
Me: “I’m not saying he was hurting anyone. People who fuck dead bodies aren’t hurting anyone either, but it’s still pretty kinky.”
Hanna: “That’s not kinky. Kinky is fun and exciting. Diapers and dead bodies are just fucked-up.”
Me: “It’s pretty fucked-up. I’ll grant you that.”
Hanna: “What’s fucked-up is that is how I lost my virginity. But, honestly, I don’t care anymore. I made up for it. After Jonathan, I had a one-night stand in Israel with a South African on a kibbutz because I wanted to just get it over with and be free.”
Me: “How did that work out?”
Hanna: “I got a venereal infection and had to come back to the States to go to the doctor.”
Me: “What? Are you serious? That really is fucked-up.”
Hanna: “I know. I think God was punishing me.”
Me: “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. You think God was punishing you? What do you think God was punishing you for, exactly?”
Hanna: “Having a one-night stand? Being free-spirited in the Holy Land?”
Me: “I don’t think God punishes people for that sort of thing, even if it does take place in the Holy Land. Instead of self-flagellating, it’s probably better to focus on how far you’ve come since then.”
Hanna: “How far I have come? I don’t think I’ve come very far. That’s exactly the problem.”
This wasn’t wholly untrue. Her past was littered with wreckage. And it’s not that all our pasts weren’t littered with wreckage, but Hanna’s pile was particularly high.
Hanna: “I’m a loser in love. Oh God. Are you going to make me look like a loser in love in your book? You better not!”
I wasn’t buying this whole “loser in love” thing. Hanna had shitty luck with men because she picked shitty men. Instead of figuring out why she picked shitty men, she just kept making one terrible decision after the next. She was like a fat person who ate doughnuts all day and then complained that they couldn’t lose weight.
She was a member of every single dating website that existed—from Plenty of Fish to Jewish Singles—and she had long, extended conversations and weird intimate online interactions with men she’d never met. She also religiously visited a dating counselor, a therapist, a matchmaker, and a “healer.” She had a “relationship coach” who encouraged her to “look for a boyfriend like it was her job.” Moreover, she implemented every last piece of idiotic advice these people gave her. The only thing she didn’t do was to apply good, practical common sense to her life. She dated guys she met online who had girlfriends; she had Internet sex with strangers; it was never ending. Then she lamented that she was a loser in love. If she was, it was entirely of her own doing, but she couldn’t see that.
On the upside, she was never short on great stories, which I was constantly fascinated by. For my part, it was much easier to focus on her than to deal with the fact that my own life had completely unraveled. I distracted myself endlessly with tales of her dysfunction. And she always generously obliged.
Hanna: “I had sworn off online dating and it had been a while since I had sex and I didn’t want to have sex with someone I found on Casual Encounters from Craigslist.”
Me: “Holy shit, have you ever done that?”
Hanna: “Yeah, but only once.”
Me: “That’s fucking crazy. That is so fucking crazy. You have to have a death wish to do that. Haven’t you ever head of serial killers?! I really can’t believe people do shit like that.”
Hanna: “As I was saying, I really didn’t want to have sex with someone from Craigslist, so I got the idea of getting an erotic massage.”
Who, in their right mind is just casually like, Hmmmm. I’m kind of horny. Maybe I’ll get an erotic massage from a stranger I meet on the Internet? I don’t consider myself a particularly conservative person but when I’m alone and want to get off, my first instinct is to throw on some porn and grab my vibrator, not hire a male prostitute.
Hanna, continuing: “I started to do a little research online and I came across this guy’s website and he made it sound really professional and he also had all these testimonials from women from all over the city.”
Me: “Testimonials? You actually believed that? He could have written those himself!”
Hanna: “Yeah, but there were some e-mail addresses, too, so you could contact the women in case you wanted to verify.”
Me, in my usual state of extreme paranoia: “He could have created a bunch of fake e-mail accounts and pretended to be other people!”
Hanna: “I suppose so, but it seemed totally legit. I guess I could have done a little more research, but it seemed fine.”
This seemed like an enormous crock of shit to me. I couldn’t believe her stupidity. Her naïveté. At the same time,
I was also sort of impressed by her moxie.
Hanna: “I wanted to be daring and I had nothing to do that night and I was definitely feeling a little . . . What’s the word?”
Me: “Horny.”
Hanna: “Right. So I sent him an e-mail to test the waters. He e-mailed me back in like two minutes and he seemed very professional. I was asking a lot of questions.”
Me: “That was smart. What kinds of questions were you asking?”
Hanna: “I don’t know, stuff like, ‘What do you look like?’ ”
Me: “Are you fucking insane? You should have been asking if he had a criminal record, not what he looked like! What difference does it make what he looked like?”
Hanna: “I wanted to make sure he was attractive, which always helps.”
Me: “I can’t believe this. And?”
Hanna: “I gave him my address and about an hour later I open the door and there is a tall, lean black man standing there! I said, ‘That’s not you on the website, is it!’ And he said that it was! I just assumed he would be a white guy—not that I’m racist.”
Me: “You are racist, actually. You always have been.”
Hanna: “Well, maybe I am, but that’s not the point. The photo of him on his website is black-and-white, so you couldn’t really tell and I didn’t want to argue with him. Then I asked him where his massage table was and he said he doesn’t use a massage table. He said he does the massage on the couch or the bed and that was when I started to hyperventilate.”
Me: “Why did you start to hyperventilate?”
Hanna: “Because I realized what I had done and that I couldn’t get out of it, and that was when I asked him if we could just do a regular massage.”
Me: “And what did he say?”
Hanna: “He said he was there to make me comfortable and I was the one who decides how far he goes.”
Me: “Okay.”
Hanna: “Right then and there I wanted it all. I knew I was going for it.”
Me: “Why? Because you felt like you could trust him?”
Hanna: “No, I just figured if I was going to pay a hundred bucks, I may as well get something out of it.”
She was a cheap racist, to boot.
Me: “This is an amazing story. Go on.”
Hanna: “He wanted me to get naked right away, which made me uncomfortable but then I thought of him as a doctor, so I got on my bed.”
Me: “Were you naked naked?”
Hanna: “Pretty much.”
Me: “What’s pretty much? Yes or no?”
Hanna: “Yes. But I put music on.”
Me: “What the fuck does that have to do with anything! Putting music on makes you not naked?”
This story was getting more outlandish by the minute.
Hanna: “Yes, Peri! I was naked! But I didn’t want to hear my thoughts so I put music on and buried my head under a pillow. He gave me a regular massage for like half an hour so by the time it turned sexual, I was really comfortable.”
Me: “And then? Were you turned on?”
Hanna: “Kind of. He was definitely teasing me, going around all the areas but not going there yet and then, next thing I know, he was going there. I was on my stomach and . . . oh my God . . . maybe I should call him again.”
Me: “Oh my God! Will you please go on!”
Hanna: “What do you want to know?”
Me: “What do you mean, What do I want to know? You get to the best part of the story and you ask me what I want to know? What did he do! What happened next!”
Hanna: “After thirty minutes of regular massage, he just started, you know . . . I can’t say.”
Me: “What do you mean you can’t say! Have you lost your mind? You’re a grown woman talking about sex! Get it together!”
Hanna: “Okay, okay! He started massaging me down there.”
Me: “Down there? What, are you a victim of child abuse? What’s down there?”
Hanna: “In my privates! I think he put condoms on his fingers.”
I started to freak out.
Me: “I’m not going to even address the fact that you just referred to your vagina as your privates. He put condoms on his fingers?”
Hanna: “I told you he was professional.”
Me: “I cannot believe he put condoms on his fingers! So he was fingering you? Fully fingering you?”
Hanna: “Yes. In both places.”
Me: “In both places? No fucking way! In your butt?”
Hanna: “Yes, Peri, in my butt! That’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it?!”
Me: “Keep going.”
Hanna: “The part that’s most important is that he was desperately trying to give me an orgasm and I wasn’t having one.”
Me: “Let me just get this straight. You are lying on your bed, naked, with an erotic masseur you found online fingering your anus, and you’re thinking what, exactly, at this point?”
Hanna: “I’m thinking that he needs to lay off the butt. And I told him to stop and he never did it again. Which was a real bummer. I’m sorry I ever said anything.”
Me: “So what happened next?”
Hanna: “He kept saying that he wanted to me to come. And of course, I couldn’t. I asked him if all the other women come when he massages them and he said yes. He really wanted me to have an orgasm and I told him it wasn’t him, that I can’t orgasm with any guy and then we started talking about it. He seemed genuinely concerned and then he stayed in my apartment for like four hours trying to get me off and of course, it wasn’t working because I can’t come! After a while, I wasn’t even horny anymore. I told him he should leave and on his way out he told me he could help me with my sexuality!”
Me: “So then what happened?”
Hanna: “The next day I called my relationship coach and signed up for ten sessions.”
I started to wonder if this is what would happen to my life, too. I could deal with getting fingered by a handsome black stranger but I would kill myself if I ever wound up with a relationship coach. What Hanna needed and very likely what I needed was some good old-fashioned introspective therapy—and probably a swift kick in the ass.
3
On My Knees
While Hanna was busy making a mess of her personal life and I was busy judging her, my own life was totally falling apart and I was doing everything humanly possible to ignore it. I missed Noam terribly and it had become eminently clear that we were not getting back together. Instead of getting easier, it was getting more difficult. I felt like a part of me had died and the only thing I could muster the energy to do was light my cigarettes. I felt totally unstable, like I was riding a wild bull. My safety net was gone and I was second-guessing myself in a way I had never second-guessed myself before in my life.
It’s not like Noam was an asshole or had done anything terrible, and this made it harder to reconcile the breakup. Ultimately, he was a wonderful guy who adored me. Most girls would have gotten married and started having kids with him—which is precisely what Noam had wanted. Part of why we had broken up was because I knew I couldn’t commit to it. And after being with him for a decade, I knew that if I still couldn’t make that kind of a commitment, I probably never would.
It wasn’t fair to either of us to stay together but I still felt broken and totally defeated. I started to wonder if I would feel like this forever and if I would ever find anyone who loved me like Noam had. After ten years, I was totally and abruptly unshackled. I had never been a depressed person but suddenly I didn’t want to do anything but lay on the couch.
In the midst of all this, my grandmother, in perhaps the biggest favor she had ever done for me in her entire life, dropped dead. That sounds a little bit more dramatic than it actually was. It’s not like she was fine and suddenly fell off a cliff. Since my grandfather died ten years earlier, h
er health had steadily declined. And even though she was pushing ninety I don’t think anyone expected her to die. She was tough as nails and a real firecracker. Grandma was born in 1918 and she was really kind of a groundbreaker. She went to college in the 1930s when it was unheard of for women to do that sort of thing and she didn’t sew or cook or clean. Nothing ever stopped her from doing anything and in a way I think we all thought she’d be around forever.
Her personality was larger than life and she said what was on her mind, no matter what. Even toward the end, while we were in the hospital, she complained that the doctors weren’t doing anything to help her and that she was being starved to death. When her doctor, a lovely Japanese woman named Dr. Fujita, offered to get my grandmother a sandwich, Grandma said, “Chicken sandwich? Chicken sandwich? How about you get me some chicken chow mein!”
Dr. Fujita giggled in the way that Asian people giggle when they are embarrassed and something really isn’t funny at all and quickly scurried out the room.
I was so mortified I almost crawled underneath her bed. I was like, “Grandma! First of all, that’s horrible! Second of all, Dr. Fujita is Japanese, not Chinese!”
My grandmother, who was essentially on her deathbed, said, “Your grandfather was almost killed in Pearl Harbor.”
Me: “What does that have to do with anything! It’s still a horrible thing to say! And since when did Grandpa serve in Pearl Harbor? I thought he was a traveling salesman!”
Grandma: “He was.”
Me: “So he served in Pearl Harbor before that?”
Grandma: “Peri, don’t drive me crazy with details right now. And you should really do something about your hair. I could turn you over and mop the floor with your head.”
It was impossible to tell if my grandmother was just being racist as usual or if she was suffering from dementia. When Jyllian, a cousin we hadn’t seen in years, stopped by, my grandmother didn’t recognize her at first. After she left, Grandma spat, “Who could be surprised I didn’t recognize her? She’s so swollen she looks pregnant!”
While Jyllian was telling Grandma about her new boyfriend, Grandma said, “Well, he’s got to be better than the last one. The last one looked like you dragged him out of the gutter.”
On My Knees Page 3