We both collapsed into a snuggle of warm, sweaty flesh.
“You’re a cute vampire,” he said.
“You’re pretty cute at being an undead monster yourself, mister,” I replied.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tone is the hardest part of saying no.
~ Jonathan Price
I MET HUGH ROBBINS at a Starbucks in Long Beach. It was close to the halfway point between us. He’s from La Mirada, and I certainly didn’t want to meet in Lakewood or Compton. No offense if you live there. He’s a veterinarian—most of this practice is dogs and cats—and I liked him right away.
However, once we got past the mutual love of pets and the fact that he’s a 'nice' guy, I started to doubt my initial assessment.
“So,” I said, “you’ve lived in La Mirada your whole life?”
“Mostly,” he answered. “I lived in Whittier as a child, but I don’t remember it.”
“And you always knew you’d be a vet?”
“From about seven or eight it was my dream.”
We sipped our coffee and made chit-chat. I’m usually pretty sure within ten or fifteen minutes if a guy is going to end up in my bed, and in this case, it took five. His online pictures were slightly off, and he just rubbed me in that ‘something’s off’ sort of way. Nevertheless, we’ve exchanged enough online messages that I felt obligated to be kind and considerate. Besides, getting right back in my car wasn’t appealing.
“Have you had any interesting cases lately?” I asked.
“A Jack Russell that ate a shoe,” he said.
“Jesus.”
He gave me a slightly odd look.
“And?” I asked.
“We observed her before taking any drastic measures. She passed the shoe without any harm. That bred sometimes eats odd things, little birds, small mammals, socks, and ummm, underwear.”
“Yuck,” I said grimacing. “I guess the pheromones of sex? Or is the shit stains?” I laughed.
He seemed embarrassed.
“Is my crass language too much?” I smiled.
“Oh, sorry, I’m just from a more traditional background. I’m not used to women being so…”
“What?” I gave him the side eye. I was hoping he wasn’t going to piss me off.
“So, bold. Don’t get me wrong, I like that about you, but I’m just not used to it, that’s all.”
“I see.”
“When we go to lunch with some of my colleagues—I mean at some point later—if you can just tone it down a bit…”
“I see,” I said suppressing my urge to start a fight. As if I’d date a man who wanted me to watch my language around his friends and ‘colleagues.’ Jesus Christ, he wasn’t paying much attention when we were exchanging online messages. Maybe he thought he’d change me a bit. I've had a few girlfriends over the years who thought they could date assholes and turn them into decent men.
Sorry, ladies. Doesn’t work that way.
And it doesn’t work in reverse either. I’m not fucking changing…
Well, not much.
And here’s the thing: If I’m dating a good man, and he challenges me to change something on my own, say like watching less stupid television, I'm going to at least try. If he's encouraging me to leave the couch and go for a walk, learn a new skill, try something new and kinky in the bedroom...of course, I'm turned on by that.
I'd like to take a sushi rolling class, for instance.
Or learn salsa dancing...
Fuck yeah, I’m in for becoming a better person and self-improvement.
But change my language because the dude has stuck-up friends? Sorry, not happening in this lifetime.
“You were raised religious?” I asked.
“At church every week,” he said. “Usually twice. Sundays and mid-week church, too.”
“And now?”
“Oh, I still go to Easter and Christmas services…my family, you know?”
“Yeah, my sister continues to invite me to Easter, Christmas, Good Friday, Palm Sunday, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Holy Land Day, The Great Pumpkin Day, and God-knows what else. Jesus, you’d think she’d have received the message.”
“You never go?”
“Hell no,” I said. “If I want to be bored and tortured I’ll go to the airport four hours early the next time I fly out of town.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad,” he said.
“I can’t stand it.”
“The Christmas music is okay. It makes my mother happy when I go.”
“Okay, fair enough. If my mom was still alive, I’d go to Christmas Eve service with her.”
“You lost your mom early…”
“Yes, I miss her a lot. She was a good friend and…yeah…I miss her.”
“You’ll like my mother,” he said.
Jesus Christ!
“I’m not going to meet her,” I blurted out. “But, I’m sure she’s nice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—I think you’re a nice guy,” I said diplomatically. I smiled. “But there’s no chemistry here for me. I’m sorry.”
“I think you should give it more of a chance,” he said.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. It never works. Like I told you—several times—I’m dating a few men and I’m open to meeting different guys, but if the sparks aren’t there…well, I have too many things going on to date someone who isn’t…” I struggled for the right word. “For someone who I know won’t be a long-term thing. You understand?”
“I think,” he said. “But, how can you tell so quickly? Maybe you need to consider that you can’t know someone well in ten minutes?”
“You have a point,” I said. “But we make snap judgments all the time—and they are often the correct ones. Have you read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Hugh said in a quiet tone.
“It’s a book about how we perceive things instantly, often sub-consciously, and that these perceptions are very often correct, even if we don’t know why.”
“So…you’re saying you knew right away that I wasn’t your type?”
“I guess, yeah. Sorry.”
He stood and put out his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
I stood and shook his hand. I wasn’t about to plead for him to stay longer. I sat to finish my coffee and watched him walk out the door of the Starbucks and wondered if I couldn’t be more selective when I was going over online profiles?
It’s not that I don’t try, but people can write things in a way that conceals their core personality. And not always for the worse, there have been times in the past when I almost said no to a date because of my online perception and the guy turned out to be funny, smart, and better looking in person than his pictures revealed. People are often difficult to figure out when social media and email hide their true selves.
I dropped my cup in the trash as I headed to my car and reminded myself that this was a numbers game.
Then I questioned my sanity.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If my Valentine you won't be, I'll hang myself on your Christmas tree.
~ Ernest Hemingway
ON SATURDAY, Peter and I went to West Hollywood for an anti-Valentine's Day party at Eugene and Calvin’s place. They have this party every year—as you might have guessed—even though they are a happy couple and—I think—behind closed doors they are a bit romantic and cheesy.
But not in public.
‘Fuck Love’ was written in black paint on a banner hanging from the bar.
“Welcome love,” Eugene said to me. He kissed me twice, French style—except he always leaves a wet mark. “This must be Peter.” He put out his hand and said, “Jess has told me about your talent and fame.”
“She’s too kind,” Peter said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“So,” Eugene said (he was slightly intoxicated already), “which movie stars would I be surprised to know have had work done?”
“I can never say,” he answered. “But, you would be surprised…”
“I bet,” he said. He indicated that we should sit at the bar and he walked behind the counter. “Calvin! Calvin! Get your overused ass out here,” Eugene yelled towards the house. “Jess is here, and she brought a man.”
Calvin walked out and gave me a stink eye. “Hey! You know the rules. You can’t bring a date to the anti-Valentines party!” He smiled, laughed, and took Peter’s hand. “Welcome to our home. Any friend of Jess is always welcome.”
Calvin kissed me—only once on the cheek, and then looked at Eugene. “You’re not fucking up the simple task of making our guest's drinks are you?”
“I’m making a drink,” he said, “guaranteed to get you laid. It’s Fuck Potion Number 69.”
“Nice,” Calvin said. “Peter, ignore him. What can I get you to drink? You look like a Scotch man?”
“Love Scotch, but I’d be happy to start with a beer?”
“Sure, I’ve got…” He opened the mini-frig. “An IPA, Coors Light—yeah, fake beer—but you can drink them in the pool—oh, Corona and Tecate…if you want something heavier I have some Stones in the main refrigerator—um Arrogant Bastard and a few others…”
“Corona is fine. Thank you.”
Calvin set a bottle down and hunted for a bottle opener. He found some pretzels and set them out. “Jess gave you the rules about the pool and spa?”
“Oh, yeah, she did.”
The pool and spa had a strict no clothes policy.
“I don’t think I’ll be swimming,” Peter said.
“If Jess goes into the spa, you’d better,” Eugene said jumping into the conversation. “I think a coworker of Calvin is bringing a few breeders, guys with instant hard-ons around a chick like Jess—hey, where’s my girl by the way?”
“I think she’ s coming later,” I said referring to Audrey—Eugene’s ‘girl’—in a sort-of platonic—flirtation thing.
“I hope so,” Eugene said. “If you come to our party and don’t come, it’s a shame.”
“Hey,” Calvin said, “Jess brought a guest—a professional—you should let him get drunk before you get so vulgar.”
“Fuck,” Eugene said. “I forget myself sometimes.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Peter said. “I’ve been hanging out with her”—he squeezed my shoulder when he said this—“for long enough to know she’s got a taste for non-prude friends…and she warned me. You’re good, honest.”
“Well, fuck then,” Eugene said, “let’s have a few shots and do something stupid.”
“Slow down,” Calvin said. “The party has barely started.”
It was true, I usually come a bit early to their parties to help out and chat a bit before the crowds showed up, but since I brought a newbie, I thought I’d come about the time of the invite, which around here, was still about an hour early.
“Maybe that’s true…but still, where’s the fun in moderation?”
“Jess,” Calvin said, ignoring his partner, “What are you drinking since Eugene forgot his manners?”
“Hey!” Eugene put his hands on his hips and pouted. “I was serving our guest first because he’s a guest. Fucking Jess is family.”
“That’s true,” I said. “I’m not offended, Cal, and I’ll take a red—whatever you have open.”
“Honey,” he said, “I’ll open anything you want—just name it—Malbec, Merlot, Cab, Pinot—”
“We don’t have any fucking Merlot here,” Eugene said pushing Calvin out of his way as he moved to the wine refrigerator. “Let me do it, Cal, I’ll open something I know she’ll love.” He pulled out a bottle and went hunting for a corkscrew.
Calvin finally found a bottle opener and uncapped Peter’s beer. “Sorry about that,” he said. “A designer friend has been re-organizing all our drawers, and it’s been hell. I spent an hour yesterday searching for a goddamn cheese grater.”
“I found it,” Eugene said holding up a corkscrew. “Here, taste this,” he said as he popped out the cork and poured me a taste.
“Nice, hon,” I said. “Very smooth.”
“Oh, shit,” he said, “I have things in the oven. Cal, take care of our guests!”
Eugene ran off, and Calvin smiled. “It’s going to be a long night,” he said. “You two are welcome to the guest bedroom.”
“Oh, I’m sure…” I started to say, but then…I thought twice. “Peter, you up for spending the night?”
“I’m free all morning tomorrow,” he said. “I’m all yours if you want me.”
“Can he fuck all night like a twenty-year-old?” Calvin whispered to me.
I laughed. “I can’t fuck all night like a twenty-year-old, Calvin…”
“Oh, shit,” he said. “Those were the days. When I was twenty, I could take on three guys in the night and still fuck someone new for breakfast…those were the days…”
“I’m sure they were,” I said. “But I’ve never been as much of a slut as you and Eugene.”
“Well, we’re old school fags,” he said. “Back in the day—before, you know—some of the shit—oh, man. The stories I have. Quaaludes and sex. Holy fuck.”
“I can only imagine,” I said. “I’m glad you’ve settled down.”
“You’ve seen The Wolf of Wall Street, haven’t you doctor?” Eugene asked Peter.
“Of course, great movie,” he answered. He sipped his beer and said, “Yeah, too bad about Quaaludes…I’d have liked to experiment…maybe…before my time.”
“Well, the joys of fucking with good drugs…” He poured himself a drink and lifted his glass. “This is the only drug for me these days…and Eugene is my only lover. My whoring days are over… I leave that shit to the young.”
THE PARTY CONTINUED with the usual gang and a few newbies.
There were loud, obnoxious gay men who got drunk with Eugene and ended up naked in the pool.
Shy lesbians sat in corners and smoked weed.
And, of course, there were lots of singles and couples who were part of Eugene’s and Calvin’s straight friend’s circle. I liked that they were very inclusive, every party always had some new people, often with unique stories of some far off country they’d left behind to seek fame and fortune in Los Angeles. I loved that Calvin and Eugene were open with their generosity. While it wasn’t often, occasionally someone would bring a guest who was new to the West Hollywood party scene and the regulars would do their best (not always successfully) to tone down the most shocking things that were par-for-the-course—at least until they’d been given time to acclimate.
After a few hours, with the party in full swing, Eugene turned off the music.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “And whores, gays, tranny’s, lesbos, faggots, and anyone else I’ve forgotten, pay fucking attention!”
Peter leaned into me and whispered, “Is he always like this?”
“Yeah, don’t pay any attention,” I said. “Everyone’s his friend here. Nobody gets offended by his crass language. Honest.”
Eugene went on, “We’ve got a special contest tonight…everyone is going to suck on my—”
“Hey!” Calvin interrupted. “Nobody is sucking anything on you.”
“You are, bitch!” he shouted.
“Later,” Calvin said. “If you’re lucky. Now go sit down.”
Eugene stepped towards a chair and fell over, spilling his drink, and nearly landing on a cute young blonde. I’d never met her, so she had to be a first-timer. She seemed to be a good sport as she helped Eugene to his feet.
“Jesus!” Calvin said. “Someone cut him off!”
“Fuck you,” his partner said standing upright and steadying himself on the blonde’s shoulder. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Can you point me to the bar?”
The blonde pointed and Eugene stumbled towards the direction of her finger.
“Okay,” Calvin said. “The contest tonight is to write a short verse for your own version of an anti-V
alentine's Day card. The winner can either fuck anyone they want or take home a bottle of my finest liquor. I have American whiskey, Scotch, Bourbon, and also Tequila and Mescal. Oh, and some fine wines, too. You can choose any bottle. Any questions?”
Peter whispered to me, “He’s not serious about the prize, is he?”
“No,” I said. “I mean unless your choice is willing…but it’s mostly a standing joke around here. If you win, pick the Scotch because I’ll fuck you for free.”
“Good to know. If you win, who are you picking?”
I smiled and pointed at the cute blonde.
“Bitch,” he said.
“Teasing,” I acknowledged. “Maybe someday, but I’m still a virgin in that department.”
“Well, if you ever want to try out a…”
“Dog.”
“No, just a man.”
“Touché.”
Calvin passed out pieces of paper and pencils to everyone. Since he was the scriptwriter, a professional with an ear for good prose, he said would pick the top three entries out of the lot. After he’d picked the finalists, the group would vote for the winner. The contests and games played at Calvin and Eugene's parties weren’t mandatory, but if you wanted another invite, it was wise to get into the fun.
Nobody likes a stick-in-the-mud.
Yes, a shitty cliche, but effective. You don’t have to be talented and gifted to play along. You just have to try. Participation is paramount. Good sports are considered good guests.
After twenty minutes of cussing, more drinking, and a few calls for new pieces of paper, we all handed Calvin our entries. He went into the kitchen to read them and select the three finalists.
“I HOPE I WIN,” Peter said.
“I hope I win,” I said.
“My name is Hope,” the cute blonde said.
Fifty-Two Pickup: Threes (Jessica Rogers Book 3) Page 11